Fantasies ... Fantasies ...

(This was written a week ago. I thought I could make it better but feel detached from it. Not wanting to waste anything I figured I should just go ahead and publish it.)

Some of you may have been surprised that I on and off refer to my BDSM fantasy life while I’m in a relationship.

Partly this is a way of coping while Alexandra is away. That I tend to keep her out of my fantasies is more of a way of not being crushed by longing than anything else. It isn’t as if my imagination doesn’t head her way. There’s another aspect.

I have desires - possibly warped and crazy ones - we aren’t likely to ever explore. With some of them shouldn’t is probably a better word.

So I don’t put her in them. That would be easy. But I don’t want to taint my feelings for her with the unattainable. I hate applying a word like taint to sexuality. But.

Fantasies at times are almost a form of self-hypnosis. I don’t want mine - to use another word with great reluctance - to corrupt my feelings for her. And were I to star her in my private pervert cinema I very well might develop untoward expectations. It would be more exciting than the shadowy strangers. But unwise.

In these spicy and steaming images never allow anything like romance or genital contact to intrude. If I did I would feel that I was engaging in psychological adultery.

Oddly since she’s been gone my fantasy life is much less colorful. Gone are all the old almost fantastic feats of masochism. For many years varieties of pain was my primary wish. But aside from a few things like testicle crushing the physical stuff is largely absent right now.

The images are consistently of being trained: strict protocol, rituals, speech denial, eye contact limitation. Attitude adjustment in a 24/7 context: pushing psychological surrender to its limits. My attempts at analyzing this always hit a blank wall. The self-monitoring part of me worries a bit. Overall I tend to dismiss the vagaries of my kinky imaginings. It could be that my subconscious is almost trying to convey a message. Or just the unceasing search for variation.

The fantasies are always confined to a narrow orbit. Physical labor outside the house, most often on a farm or ranch: some of this is ancient as far as my sexual dream life goes. Really I’ve never been all that keen on labor fantasies. Except:

When the work has been pointless: carrying rocks from one location to another. Then back again.

Or degrading: e.g., pulling a plow.

Farms and ranches are ideal because they are isolated and full of great props.

Within the house I’m forced to focus on service, servitude, maintaining a humble posture. And never forgiven for the slightest hesitation or incompetent moment.

Mostly the focus seems to be reducing myself to nothing. Or nothing more than a tool or utility. That seemingly inescapable hunger to unconditionally servile, instantly responsive. Obeying without hesitation of evaluating my owner’s commands.

Punishment is almost always dealt with in terms of severity of confinement. The more harshly I’m dealt with the less I’m able to move. It ranges from being crumpled in a box to being permitted to live in an outside dog cage. Given that I’m an absolute pig for bondage this isn’t exactly surprising. But as I noted above there’s quite a bit of cbt. But not my favorite dreams of being whipped. Perhaps because I now associate corporal punishment only with her.

I’m equally drawn to, repelled and bored by these fantasies. I try to inject colorful and novel masochistic feats. But my fixation forces the plot back into a narrow groove. Erotic compulsions simply are.

In my private pervert’s cinema I stand up and toss popcorn at the screen and tell the management to put something better on. But am ignored. And I shouldn’t complain. If I were dead to any erotic feeling it would be much worse. One of my weaknesses is to be forever judging the quality of my experiences. Even the imaginary ones. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything. It is who I am.

While indulging my fantasies I wage a war with them that I always lose. Which is how it will always be. On certain levels you can’t deny yourself. As Gore Vidal long ago said: sex is. Nothing more needs be said.

I’m not sure what this says about me.

Probably nothing more than I’m a warm-blooded mammal, with a penchant for self-analysis and a fear that one day I might look in the mirror and see a dishonorable man.