Sometimes men will surprise you. Now, there are many people out there, I think, who don't particularly want their sex lives to be surprising. They want the solace of familiarity, safety. They get married, shack up monogamously, become Mormons, whatever.
For some folks, the farthest reaches of their kinkiness are Victoria's Secret undies and burning scented candles when they screw.
More power to 'em as long as they're content-and as long as they keep their noses out of my fucking business. After all, I figure some of them use porn stories as their way of adding a little spice to their blandish lives, and if the risk-averse are buying my books, then I just love them.
Let's face it: despite the trendiness of kink, despite the rise of SM chic, becoming a kinky bastard is a Faustian bargain: knowledge at the cost of one's soul.
Like with Ian.
I've been playing with him for a few years now off and on, through a number of dramas and a boyfriend of his or two. When we first met, on the street as it happens ("Jesus, that guy is cuuute," I thought), he was a rather vanilla sort of fella. That was fine with me; I don't require floggers and fandangos to be satisfied. But somewhere along the line, Ian got twisted.
It started harmlessly enough, a bit of gentle spanking before I fucked him. And then all hell broke loose. He began, like some deranged Oliver Twist, wanting more. And, like any top worth his salt, I knew enough to give it to him.
Things began to get darker and darker, hotter and more extreme and sweaty. The gentle spankings became butt-reddeners. Tugs on his balls became hard squeezings, then slaps, then slaps with his package all tied up in rope, gift-wrapped just for me. And with every escalation, he went further out, floating eventually back down in a bruise-colored cloud of postorgasmic bliss.
Ian is not precisely butch. He looks kind of tall and imposing, but once he opens his mouth to speak, you think "Fag." And that's perfectly fine with me. It's just that...well, I'm not stupid enough to think that only the straight-acting enjoy a dose of pain. But he always seems so sweet and gentle that when he strips down, lies in my arms, and murmurs, "I want you to leave marks," the melting of my heart is tinged with unearned surprise.
Sometimes when I meet guys I desire, guys who aren't out-front kinky, I keep my more vicious side in check; don't want to scare them off, after all. But it's only after I started really whaling away on Ian that he began to call often, wanting to see me again, and wanting to get worked over.
He surprised me-and, evidently himself too-with how much he could take. Clearly, getting tied up and tortured, be it ever so nicely, was fulfilling some deep need for him. Emotional? Well, we all need, I think, a certain amount of expiation just for the sin of taking up space: If it weren't for guilt, religion would only have fear of death to exploit.
Ian had, in fact, grown up Mormon, had even been a priest at the SLC temple, a past that left me with a certain amount of too-late transgressive joy.
But his family life, from what he told me, had been nothing extraordinary, and he didn't seem any more fucked up than the rest of us (which may not, of course, be saying too much). Mostly, I think, Ian likes the scene for the sheer physical sensation, the heady brew of pain, pleasure, and endorphins which drive him to a state of giddy gratitude.
I'd already been using the riding crop on him, not just the leather slapper at its business end, but swinging the whole crop as a cane, working on his ass, then the more tender parts...the backs of his legs, his inner thighs. He wanted welts and I, ever the nice sadist, gave him welts. And there was also the leather paddle, which, he gleefully reported, "hurt like a motherfucker."
Then, this week, he begged me to bite him. That was a new one for us but, having been a bottom in an intense biting scene or two, I knew just how to go about it, starting on his ass, then ramping up, zeroing in on the tender flesh in his armpits and behind his knees, leaving a pleasing array of toothmarks which, I hoped, would turn into ugly-yellow souvenirs.
I love playing with Ian, though after he's out the door, I sometimes feel a little funny. Tops can feel guilt, too, which is to say I can feel guilt. After all, slapping guys around, no matter how much they might beg for it, is distinctly not nice. And not nice, be it ever so hot, is still not nice.
But often in a scene, something clicks and my inner sadist goes on autopilot, leaving my nice Jewish boy self far below on the ground, gesticulating futilely. So when I really got into the biting scene, getting in touch with the cannibal within, I was distinctly relieved, feeling high with sheer, animal joy.
Getting up to take a pee midscene, Ian looked in the full-length mirror, twirling like a fashion model as he inspected the bite marks, and smiled. "I'd like to have a red ass, too, something I can still feel hours from now...please." He looked so adorable; who the fuck wouldn't give him what he wanted?
Back in bed, Ian sucked on my still-stiff cock while I administered a medium-strength flogging to his upthrust ass. I stuck poppers under his nose, then my nose, he sucked harder, and I came. After he'd swallowed, he looked up at me and said something he'd never said before, at least not that I remember: "I love you."
The L-word. There it was.
He jacked himself off for a minute before shooting off, copiously and far. As I lay there getting my breath back, with him in my arms, I felt, for one extremely Buddhist moment, or maybe an existentialist second, the shining emptiness of all things. And that included, maybe above all else, desire.
Sometimes men will indeed surprise you. Ian-tall, cute, femmy, charming, pain-pig Ian-tells me I'm his guide to the world of darkness, the only man he does such things with, and it is of course flattering to believe that, so I do. For some unknown, delightful reason, he's coming into own as a masochist pigboy, my masochist pigboy. I am, I hasten to assure you, far from the hardest core sadist out there, so what I've done with Ian might seem to you to be child's play. I can live with that.
Each journal will be updated weekly.
Have a journal you want to share? Email all original, true stories to [email protected]
Simon Sheppard is the author of Hotter Than Hell and Other Stories and the forthcoming Kinkorama: Dispatches From the Frontlines of Perversion. He's also the coeditor, with M. Christian, of Rough Stuff and Roughed Up: More Tales of Gay Men, Sex, and Power. He loiters shamelessly at www.simonsheppard.com.
|