Pavlovian Preemptive Wanking

My kinky fantasies, as I’ve shared, have been with me since I was a little boy. Later when the hormones kicked in so did the - more or less - conventional lustful wishes.

When sex and love came to become actual pursuits I made no effort to engage in what would come to be called BDSM. I was after the frail and fair who wanted to rest their head on my hairy chest.

While the sadomasochistic thoughts might pass through my mind I never looked for a sadist. Three reasons:

• Discomfort with masculine men
• I was the only fulltime staff member of an early gay newspaper. Delivery the paper required that I visit what was then Atlanta’s only leather bar. As much as I loved mincing boys - this will sound mean - mincing men in police caps and chaps only exited my contempt.
• The most important reason: the idea of allowing some stranger to tie me up was too frightening.

Besides give me someone nice to hold and nothing seemed lacking.

In San Francisco seeing an ad for a professional dungeon I did once think about visiting. I even tried responding to a couple of personal ads by sadists: they didn’t advertise they wanted money. I even visited a Folsom Street leather bar once. But I didn’t like bars.

Had I made friends with someone in the leather community this all could’ve easy changed. But there was this insanely pretty boy. And the woman with whom I discovered unsuspected sexuality.

After the most devastating breakup of my life I did start thinking about S&M far more. But that was because I - I apologize to you gentle reader - could masturbate to scenes of being hurt without any connection to romance. And during that period I didn’t want to think about love. My goal was to stay safe and sheilded in my private world.

After huge changes in my life sexual and emotional appetites returned. A massive effort to find someone or some people - Both kinky and not - followed. I found Charles.

My life still reels from the effect of Charles.

In the darkest latter days I from sexual frustration of terrifying depths. My imaginary sex life became wholly sadomasochistic. Violently so. This was when I started fantasizing about CBT. And had to keep upping the amperage until my poor penis was simultaneously subjected to alligator clips, capsaicin, electric shocks and probably things I’ve forgotten.

And I masturbated often. Sometimes just to make block any sexual desire in advance. Five times a day was typical.

Images of extreme cruelty plus orgasm (endogenous opiates) had a conditioning effect. It became the only kind of sexual experience to which I could orgasm.

In relationship that has just ended all that had adjusted radically. The mere image of kneeling would make me hard. What stringent fantasies I had left were more psychological than physical. (Not that I lost a keen enthusiams for novel forms of pain.)

Having passed though the demented phase leaves me not unsympathetic to those guys who write those nutty responses to profiles and personals. Which I guess is why I’m sometimes part of the war for sadomasochistic, ah, sanity for want of a better term