Edifying Wanking

I wonder how many people are shy of talking about their wanking. Confessing to solo sex may seem a weakness since you are admitting that you aren’t doing it with another warm body. Women, at least among heterosexual people, may have done the most to diminish the inhibition. Solitary sex is the most common kind.

I like the British term better than the word masturbation: it sounds like the short form of some odd process like industrialized mastication.

I spent an hour or more wanking last night. Not in continuous application: I’d need a sadist for that. I got stoned, looked at some photos (why I don’t know: the pretty people almost never star in the following entertainment). Then off to bed.

Flipping through the inner film library it was impossible to settle on gender much less plot line. That isn’t unusual anymore. The stories are stale, all too familiar. I’d give up, then return to my strenuous task.

Normally I’d have given up. Last night I was one determined wanker. Whether will to power or a hope the dopamine release would put me to sleep I can’t say. Eventually ejaculation was achieved, then I nodded off.

As I’ve written my self-told tales have become increasingly circumscribed. Lately, even more so.

• Lots of psychological conditioning. Physical S&M mostly for obedience training. Some of these have been a part of my imaginary masochistic life for a long time. Example: locked away for the night in a space where lights go on and off at random while a recording loops endlessly. It may be short or a virtual manual of slave behavior.
• Protocols so involved they’d probably exasperate even the kinkiest top were they to try to enforce such a vast array of regulatory encumbrance for a considerable length of time. Kneeling whenever the dominant enters a room or I come into the dominant’s presence. Strict vocabulary limitation. Ritual verbalization.
• Isolation, loneliness that leaves me grateful for any attention.
• Drudgery. This is an old one. Even scrubbing floors. Now I cannot eroticize housework anymore than, say, paying my electric bill. But the floor doesn’t need to be clean. The boring task must always be pointless. It is a way of being under control - magnifying the dominant - every waking minute.
• Prolonged hunger and thirst. (Hiya, Bitchy.) Sure this must violate the canons of groovy kinkiness. For me it is one of the sexier parts of my demented dreams.
• Eating food only from a plate or bowl on the floor. What is eaten isn’t enjoyable. Not that it is necessarily repulsive but it doesn’t give pleasure. For me this is insanely hot. Alexandra and I even talked about at least trying something like this for a week before her last time here but didn’t.
• Lack of comfort has come to feature increasingly in my fantasies. This is not necessarily positive discomfort. Rather pleasure is subtracted since my pleasure is to come only in pleasing the top. This includes where I sleep and denial of orgasms.

None of this is unique. At a dime a dozen these sorts of fantasies would be vastly overpriced. But I used to workout elaborate schemes of S&M. The shift indicates a violent hunger for submission, enslavement, choose your favorite term.

Part of me would be more comfortable with staying with figuring out 57 varieties of being beaten. But I’ve yet to try to reroute my wanking life. Should that be possible.

Her

Last night I’d find myself switching to the Alexandra Channel. Only to flinch and abort the scenario. One of the less anticipatable effects of the prospect of seeing other people.

I started to type that I don’t know who she is anymore. False: her desires, nothing that we’ve discussed is new to me. Should I say that I don’t know where I stand with her. If she reads this I’m sure she’ll say at the same spacetime coordinates as always.

It is all in my head. I can no longer ascertain my psychological latitude and longitude. Or what new shape our map will assume if and when she does something with another man. I know how tight her goal is. But our experiences change us, those with other people most of all.

For a person with my affectional orientation uncertainly leaves a blank.

Hence if she does something with another guy I want to know that fact. But not a detail. Even the prospect of being silently compared to someone else shuts me down. Lack of experience, maturity, security.

This morning offered an illustration of my subjective sense of submitting to someone other than Alexandra.

Thinking of kneeling before her my body tingled. Imagining doing the same with some of my virtual friends - well, honestly, I have to spice it up a bit and think of kissing your foot or footwear - actually seems sweet. There’s mutual respect and empathy. Seeing myself licking the boots of some anonymous top. I can feel that the experience might be enjoyable. So would a plate of fried shrimp and hush puppies.

Currently even without enthusiasm it is less confusing to think of the last than the first. So rather than let myself become involved in images of humility I got up and made a pot of coffee.