Sex is overrated. By this, I mean to say that the climax of sexual desire – the ‘in-out’ – to adopt Clockwork Orange vernacular – is overrated, and too much importance is ascribed to it.
Much better is foreplay; an (in)discipline of infinite variety. Like a game of chess, no two sessions of foreplay are exactly alike. They vary wildly. It can sometimes be boring, sure, perhaps a little routine. But it can also be heavenly; a banquet for the senses without limit. Via foreplay one can devour a person, not merely use them for pleasure. One can explore everything there is to know about that person. And to this end we can use not only our bodies, but our words and minds, our creativity. Foreplay is to sex what Jazz is to music. It is free-flowing and ecstatic, primitively complex.
And of the kinds of foreplay, the most exquisite activity is surely that which technical types refer to anilingus; the pleasuring of the anus with the mouth. (Colloquially this is known as ‘ass-eating’, and, to be honest, I prefer this more literal term.)
The beauty of ass-eating derives from its perfect degradation of the giving partner. There is no way of dressing up anilingus as something dignified. It isn’t. It is shamelessness and surrender perfected. And that is why I am so utterly, proudly addicted to it.
When I lick my partner’s anus, I am caressing with my tongue the tube down which her excrement and flatulence travels. Without such gruesome aspects in mind, the activity is far less enlivening.
For a person to eat an ass is to surrender utterly to the animal part of his or her being. It is to strip away the veneer of civilisation completely and expose the chimp-like reality that is only ever half-obscured beneath the suits and ties, the sky-scrapers and the banks, the democracies and all other cants with which modernity powders its face in the morning.
Anilingus rolls us back down the evolutionary hill. It is the sport of kings and queens. And no life may be called complete without a taste of its mysteries.
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I read an interesting story this morning. A woman in Michigan, America, has been convicted of raping a man at gunpoint. The photo above is the woman in question.
This story aroused me. I cannot deny that it did. I prefer always to tell the truth.
As I read of the events alleged to have occurred, I developed an erection. As I pictured the scenario in my mind, my moral instincts melted from the heat of my lustfulness. A rape, the sexual assault of an innocent man, aroused me.
Let us be clear – just because, in this case, a woman is said to be responsible and the victim is a man, that does not make what is alleged to have transpired any less of a rape. Rape is rape. It is a gender-neutral crime, equally traumatic to both sexes.
But my arousal is nevertheless surely connected to the special circumstances of this case. I am not aroused by the rape of a woman by a man. As a heterosexual masochist, I have long fantasised specifically about being raped by a woman – about female-on-male rape. That is what I find erotic.
And how should I feel about this? Something in my conscience demands that I feel guilty for these thoughts. Are such fantasies really harmless? Am I not deriving enjoyment and pleasure from someone else’s misfortune and trauma?
It’s hard to deny these charges. And yet I remain excited. I enjoy imagining being put through the same trauma, but with a smile on my face.
Rape fantasies have always been a very difficult moral issue in the sadomasochistic subculture. Traditionally, such fantasises have been the preserve of women and gay men. But, as this story shows, it’s something we all have to think about at some point.
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It was especially hard today, what with my tongue being so horribly dry and my knees so sensitive and sore. But I had no choice. I never have a choice. The drug won’t give me one. And Dr Ramirez won’t, either.
“Keep going,” she said flatly as I ran my sandpaper tongue around the walls of her vagina. “Don’t stop for a second.”
As always, she had the pen in her hand, ready to write my relief. The pad was somewhere else. She must hide it very well. She produces it from a different place every time.
“You’re really going to earn it today,” she said, smiling. I could not see her. But I knew she was smiling. “Keep going.”
When finally she came, I collapsed forward onto my tender palms. Dr Ramirez rolled her skirt down her attractive but rough, middle-aged legs and went over to the drawers near the window.
“I’m going to give you twenty today,” she declared coldly. “I could tell you were putting little effort into it.”
She peeled off the script and threw it down onto the floor near where I was slumped.
“You know where to come for more. I suggest you work on your technique in the meantime.”
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In this erotic novel, Abigail and Susannah are half-sisters. Abigail is white. Susannah is not, being the result of their father’s extra-marital relations with a mixed-race slave at his tobacco plantation in Florida. When their father dies, Abigail inherits not only the estate, but her sister along with it. Their relationship soon changes out of all recognition as Abigail finds a dark part of her own nature that delights in the cruel treatment of her childhood rival.
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The title of this post is imperfect. It should rightly be worded ‘How I became aware of my masochism’, but that’s not as snappy or satisfying, is it? I cannot really be expected to explain fully where my masochism comes from, or how and why it first developed. To do so would require taking myself apart and studying my components with an impossible detachment from my personal biases. Realistically, I can only hypothesise on these matters by tracing its emergence over my years of sexual awakening and estimating, in that light, what appeal it holds for me. And that is what I shall try to do in this post.
My masochistic tendencies, as distinguished from my sexual desires in general, were first excited in the classroom of my high school, and more specifically by a girl we will call “Mandy”.
Mandy was something of a bully. Not a terrible one, you understand. Not the kind we read of in disgust in the newspapers following some poor adolescent’s suicide. No, Mandy was merely a rather typical teenage bitch, a ‘mean girl’, with a sarcasm/intelligence ratio of around 10:1.
At certain times in science class, Mandy, bored of talking to her plentiful friends, would swan over to the table at where I sat, and, crouching beside me, commence to taunting me with a kind of softly-spoken mock-friendliness. She would enquire after my mood and my health, how my day was going, etc. All of these questions were dripping quite obviously with insincerity. Mandy didn’t want me to believe she was actually being friendly. She just wanted to see me uncomfortable. And she achieved this.
After this introductory charade Mandy would then begin to ask explicitly nasty questions; things like, “Does it bother you that people don’t like you?” and “Why don’t you make an effort at anything? Do you not care about failing?”.
It was always this second wave of taunts that stirred something awake inside my imagination. I would quickly feel my discomfort melt away, replaced with a queer sense of exhilaration and excitement. I would unfailingly develop an erection, one so obvious and full-blooded that I was often forced to adjust my posture to obscure it. And the more she degraded me, the deeper the pleasure seem to penetrate. Mandy was, the reader should be aware, a very attractive girl. She had (and to my knowledge still has) skin as pale as chalk and thick full lips. Her backside was very large in proportion to her waist and, along with her trunky thighs, would wobble and ripple the fabric of her skin-tight black leggings whenever she took a step forward or back.
The combination of opposite factors involved in this routine – beauty with cruelty, feline grace with canine spitefulness, stupidity (she wasn’t the brightest button in the drawer) with the confident expression of superiority – was the purest opium to my senses. I wanted to encourage her, to tempt her into becoming still crueller, still happier in her cruelty.
But it rarely lasted long. Mandy quickly grew tired of me, just as she had long ago grown tired of her friends and of everything else in her life. She was like that; a very teenage teenager. But I never could forget the feelings she aroused in me. And soon enough I began to notice these same sensations in other situations and environments. I noticed them when my English teacher (we’ll call her Ms Williams) kept me behind for talking in class. I noticed them when a thuggish girl from an upper year gave me a dead leg outside the English mobiles. And after a while I saw fit to construct a philosophical context for these feelings. Women were not like men, I decided. Women were holy beings, imbued with infinite power and splendidly unjustified (I will explain this) authority.
In my mathematics class I was particularly interested in a girl named ‘Linda’. Linda was fairly unattractive, all things considered; chubby and short and unintelligent. But in my mind I made her into a goddess, one to whom bizarre tributes and sacrifices were regularly due. Whenever Linda rose from her seat in class, for example, I decided I was obligated to hold my breath until she sat down again. If she took a full minute to sharpen her pencil over at the waste paper bin, then for a full minute I was not allowed (by her divine law) to inhale or exhale oxygen; a sacrificial gesture, I imagined, that was a natural and appropriate acknowledgement of the glory of her chubby, youth-blushed thighs, which I would gawp at intensely, excitedly, as my face grew redder and redder.
Outside of school, and in all areas of my teenage life, these thoughts became ever more common and expected and understood. I was no longer shocked or mystified by them. They were an accepted, even integral, part of my personality. I was a masochist. I wanted women to abuse and control and degrade me. I wanted them to do unhygienic things to me, to relieve themselves on me, spit on me, etc. This grew steadily into an obsession.
But why? Why do such feelings develop in a rational – or any rate non-psychotic – individual? I began this post by conceding that I could not hope to supply a definite answer to this question. I will now try instead to do what may be the next best thing; to explain just what these feelings are; what they consist of; what it is exactly I am so excited by. That is a question I do feel I am qualified to answer.
What I am most attracted to and excited by is injustice.
For me, a masochistic fantasy will not typically involve a scenario in which a naturally stronger, superior being dominates and controls a naturally weaker, inferior being. This is not an exciting scenario to me because it is not unjust. It is natural; as natural and boring as rainwater. A six foot tall, musclebound neuroscientist dominating and controlling a weak, spindly imbecile is not arousing to me because it seems right. It seems justifiable. And it is in the injustice of a situation that the salt and citrus of my masochism, the thrill of it, is to be found.
One of the pleasures I feel in being dominated by a woman is rooted in the ineradicable attitude all men have of gender superiority. In the natural scheme of things, men dominate and control women because we are physiologically designed to be (on average) stronger than they are. A woman holding power over a man is thus, to the male imagination, thrillingly perverse in itself.
Intelligence is another important factor in forming an injustice of rank. (I am not insinuating, incidentally, that there are gender differences in this. And if there are, it is surely to the female advantage).
One of my most favourite fantasies has me as the intelligent well-spoken houseboy of some drawling, idiotic English heiress. It is vital to the fantasy that the heiress is idiotic. It is vital that the natural hierarchy of humanity is violated in some way by our relationship. I must be made to submit to something ugly and unfair. And the pleasures of submission become all the more intense the more I reflect on the flaws (physical and intellectual) of my dominator.
Of course, this is not to say that my masochism only operates in this way. I have been often attracted to the idea of being abused and controlled by a woman who is my equal or superior. It is just that these fantasies are more difficult to intensify in the imagination, due to the absence of obvious flaws, bruises, scars, tattoos, inferiorities, etc.
Where uncommon flaws do not exist in the bearer of authority or object of worship, one is naturally compelled to seek out those imperfections which are universal parts of the human condition. Even beautiful and intelligent women have unpleasant body odours from time to time. Even the most impressive and glamourous women have dirt on the bottom of their shoes. And it is sometimes enough to simply reflect on these aspects, even if one cannot deliberately expose oneself to them, to make the worship of our Goddess seem more unjustified than it is.
All that matters ultimately is that I am compelled to submit to or worship someone or something objectively unworthy of my obedience or praise. Objectively good qualities (hygiene, prettiness, kindness, humility, sophistication) are never desired, only tolerated. I can get over them only if I can find (or imagine) something to cancel them out. I don’t want to revere a beautiful woman’s beauty. I want to revere or submit to something about her than is unworthy of my allegiance; her flaws, bruises, idiocies, unjustified arrogance or authority.
So there is a brief and no doubt thoroughly inadequate introduction to my private perversion. I hope the reader did not find it too boring.
Let me close this post by saying that I have never once regretted or bemoaned my condition. On the contrary, I enjoy being a masochist. Truly. It is a big part of who I am. And I would not want to be any other way.
John could hardly believe what he was hearing. “But she’s so refined!” he gasped at his friend across the shining wood table at which they sat in the Bull and Arms public house, rural Devon.
“I know,” Michael returned seriously. “I know. It makes no sense to me, either. I dread to think how her father would react if he knew. He’s got a reputation to protect.”
“She just wants you to watch, right? She doesn’t want you to do anything while she goes?”
“No, fortunately, watching is enough to satisfy her. She just sits there and does whatever she has to do. She looks right into my eyes as she’s going. She smiles at me. Seems completely relaxed about it.”
“She’s so prim. So posh,” John sighed in disbelief. “I felt quite nervous around her. Not just because she’s pretty. She’s made me feel common. I suppose I am common compared with her.”
“We all are. Her family goes back centuries in this village. She’s practically aristocracy.”
The woman under discussion was Brenda Gordon-Phillips, the 38 year old daughter of a local landowner. In appearance, Ms Phillips was everything one would expect for one of such noble English stock; tall and slender, as white as paper, a blushing, regal face, fiery red hair; the rosiest of English roses.
“Still,” John exhaled, “I did warn you when you left London. Devon is a very strange region. These people aren’t like us. I’ll be glad to get back tomorrow.”
“You’ll visit again, though?” Michael asked desperately.
“I guess so.”
“You must. You said you would.”
But before John could say anything further, a pale hand was placed on Michael’s shoulder, Brenda’s.
“What are you city lads talking about?” she asked in her broad accent.
“Nothing,” Michael answered with a start. John shrugged, as if to agree.
Brenda nodded thoughtfully. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind me interrupting nothing, there’s something I’d like you to come and help me with, dear.”
Michael glanced nervously at his friend and then stood up.
“We won’t be long,” Brenda assured John with a smile.
And then the two of them wandered off, calmly, in the direction of the pub bathrooms.