Saturday, 1 December 2012

Self Love

Self love.  Not always easy.  Let’s walk through it together.

Tonight, your eyes lock with a handsome stranger at the bar.  He is the kind of guy you don’t just want to fuck, but to make love to.  You smile, and he smiles back. You know you knew him in a past life, you just know it.  You know what he would look like in bed as you bring him coffee in the morning.  You know that you could weather anything in life with a man like that by your side.   But the dance between you is interrupted by a seemingly lesser mortal who moves in on your prey for the kill.  And your handsome stranger responds to this intruder, rendering you all of a sudden seemingly invisible.  You know you’re supposed to take it like a man and move on, but this time, you can’t.  Your want for that handsome stranger was so profound, like a kick to the stomach.  Any other man tonight would be a meagre substitute.  The only thing to do is go home.

And so now, your horniness is mixed with loneliness, and you curse your luck.  You’re going to reclaim your sexuality tonight if it kills you.  You grab a pill bottle from the fridge that is filled with saved cum.  Playing with your saved loads never fails to get you off and tonight, you need to pull out the big guns.  You know it’s an extreme fetish, but after watching enough of, you realize that you’re not the first one to come up with the idea of saving his own loads to play with later.  In fact, now when you see home porn that is vanilla, you wonder what repression the performers might be suffering from.

You turn on some music to get you in the mood, set the lighting, and pour yourself a whiskey.   Are you drinking that whiskey because you’re sexually numb without it?  Or perhaps you feel too much without it.  You want to masturbate, to take back your power, but you take a look in the mirror and all you see are flaws.  These are the flaws that make you look down in shame when a cute guy on the subway looks your way.  These are the parts of your face and body that make you pull back from men out of fear.  Is he looking at me because he’s interested, or because he thinks I’m hideous?  If you think like that, I’d like to tell you a secret.  Keep reading.

Back when I lived near the Rockies, I knew a gay guy with the most perfectly imperfect nose.  Think Barbra Streisand’s nose on a regular looking dude.  I was acutely aware that some men might find his nose a flaw. I, on the otherhand, fetishized his nose.  If his nose had been “perfect”, I don’t think I would have looked twice.  So the guy on the subway might just be fetishizing your so-called imperfections.  I know this for a fact, since I do it all the time.  It bears repeating: Your “imperfection” might be another’s fetish.  Think about this when you beat yourself up for your seeming imperfections.  Think about this.

You leave the mirror behind and turn on some porn – that’ll help get you there, you think.  You know you’re not alone, jerking off at 2:30 in the morning.  You know this because often, when you click on a porn link, you get an error message saying that the website is too busy at the moment.  So you’re alone, but not alone.

And who are you?  Are you just a regular Joe whom you think no one notices?  Tonight, in your reverie, you can be a stripper, adored by legions of men.  Are you, in your real life, a stripper?  Tonight you had to dance for men who categorized you and bartered for your attention.  Now, back at home, your sexuality is yours and only yours again.

The porn you are watching taunts you, reminding you that you are alone at 2:30 in the morning, feeling rejected.  You tell yourself “you cannot, will not reject yourself”.  You touch your cock, hold the shaft tight while cupping your balls, and you immediately release them.  The power of your sexuality feels too strong.  You fear that it could overwhelm you.  Are you walking the dog, or is the dog walking you?  But your sense of self-preservation kicks in and you promise yourself to try to masturbate to completion.  You cannot, will not, go to bed defeated and curl up into a little ball and give up on yourself.  You take that pill bottle of saved cum and pour it in your beard, on your hairy chest, watching it drip and slide down your torso towards your bush.  You fight to enjoy it, when a little thought, a worry, a fear, threatens to derail you.  For some reason you can’t give in to the pleasure.  Thoughts as small as a pebble on the beach can grow to the size of boulders in your head, and you begin to wonder if you don’t on some level believe you deserve pleasure.

And so you look at the pill bottle, empty now except for the residue of cum inside of it.  What kind of pills did that pill bottle originally hold?  Anti-depressants because the world is sometimes fucking too much?  Were they life-saving pills to protect you from an illness that threatens to take away more than just your sexuality?

You jack your cock, and amazingly it starts to respond and harden.  You eventually do cum.  It’s not the best orgasm, but you celebrate it nevertheless, because tonight, you really had to fight for that orgasm, fight to reclaim your sexuality.  And tomorrow, you will fight for world peace, fight to get on a crowded subway, fight to be heard in a world so loud your ears ring.  You will celebrate the times that your sexuality isn’t a fight, when grace enters and you cum effortlessly without your head getting in the way. 

Self love: worth fighting for.



1 comment:

  1. As I read this, I realized that his hasn't happened to me. The beginnings are the same, but the ends are the opposite. Sure, I've been in a bar or some other place where hooking up with another guy is possible, and I've watched myself lose out to somebody else. My problem is that I have never been comfortable in places where first impressions are about the only type of impressions you get. Being uncomfortable with myself causes me to look uncomfortable, unfriendly, unapproachable, and probably a lot more 'uns' than I can think of. So...I'd go home, not to bate, but to be down on myself for letting that happen. Sometimes I wouldn't jerk off for two or three days. I never looked at it as being depressed, but more like having the sexual energy zapped out of me.

    Now it's different. While I'm still not totally comfortable by myself in situations of that type, I don't go with the do-or-die expectation of picking somebody up. The expectation I have now is that I will see some bate fuel; somebody who will have an attractive part or two that will catch my eye and allow me to fantasize later about them possibly doing the same thing to themselves at the same time that I'm thinking about them.

    So it comes down to this: the chances of going to a bar, a store, a party, a concert, a sidewalk, or even church and finding someone whose main sexual interest is masturating and pissing are very, very slim. You might as well take home the good parts these guys have to offer, and do whatever you want with them.