Astrology

Sometimes the Moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars.  Other times, I can’t see the stars for Uranus.  Or Myanus.

A few weeks ago, I had a couple of days in a row when I botched friendships in bunches like bananas.  Things I wrote or said didn’t come out right and ended up being offensive or just not right, sending people scurrying away from the crazy old fart.

This week things are much better, I’ve gotten closer to an old friend, there acquaintances are closer and becoming friends, one close friend who hasn’t been so close is returning to closeness and I have a brand new close friendship developing.

Yay, verily I say unto all y’all, my cup do runneth over and spillth all over me and maketh me glad.

Tits is Tits, or is they?

Recently I received a couple of things, a photo and a video, that lead me to comment on the nature of what they mean to me.

I guess the question that started it off was “Why do you want to view me, you’ve seen lots of others?”

I’ve said, explained, pointed out, and mentioned more than a few times my preference for photos of women rather than something that looks like it came from a gynecologist’s text book.  Or an infants eye view of the lunch counter.  I’ve seen enough so I know what a vagina looks like, and even in their nearly infinite variety and beauty, they’re still quite recognizable for what they are and predictable as to what they will look like except for hair or no hair and does the carpet match the drapes.  So, I know what a vagina looks like,  I know what breasts look like,  I want to know what the woman looks like.

There has to be some man somewhere else on the planet that feels this way.  Hello?? Are you out there???

Anyway, back to the cases in point.  The photo was from a newer acquaintance of mine who I enticed into sending me a photo.  She asked the question.  Yeah, I’ve seen plenty, I could run and download dozens of those from the internet.  But the fact that she had taken that photo for me, no one else, and shown me a part of her that she didn’t show to just anyone.  That made it very personal and important to me.

The video was from someone I’ve been friends with for quite a while.  It was an older video that she’d no doubt kept hidden away in some electronic vault for a few years.  It was special to me, not because it would incite me to some masturbatory frenzy, but because she’d decided to share a part of her life, a little something about her that I hadn’t known before.  No doubt, its something few others know, either.  Don’t bother asking.

The whole thing is part of a long process of getting to know someone and learning about them.  Both of these incidents leave me feeling much closer to my friends and a happier man.

Now, back to xhamster...

Looking for a Dominant on a White Horse: Looking for the Dominant on a White Horse

Looking for a Dominant on a White Horse: Looking for the Dominant on a White Horse: So you wake in the morning fix a cup of coffee. sit down turn the computer on. You are hitting all the social sites blogs. searching for t...

A Rambing Rant: repost

My mother in law used to send my son handwritten cards and letters, nothing long or elaborate. He always got a kick out of them and we saved them.  Recently we found the bundle and gave it to him to look at.  He was tickled, but then said, “I can’t read cursive.”  Perhaps he could if he had a bit of time to puzzle it out, but at first glance it may as well have been Arabic to him.  It’s true, they no longer teach cursive writing as a skill any more.  Gone are the days when I grew up and learned block printing in the First Grade and cursive in the Second, and then endless excercise books for practice.  Somewhere in the third grade I started writing with the locker style, against the grain of what I was taught in school.

Starting in the upper grades of high school, I began to experiment with calligraphy.  I loved the different ways a nib would leave it’s mark on the paper.  I dabbled with this for years, finally giving my pens to my son.  He loved doing it.  A little bit, but other things took over and the books and practice papers are now in my desk, unused.  The shame of it all, my career where I lettered drawings neatly for years, left me without the motor memory to write in cursive anymore.

I still write in my notebooks.  These will outlast me, and I considered relearning the skills of writing in cursive just for this purpose.  I thought better of it, since those who will come across them aren’t likely to be able to  read them easily if I did so.

I had difficulty reading the Declaration of Independence, but only because of the lower case second s in a word that looks like an f that someone got the bottom backwards.  But that only took a few seconds to adjust my mind.  What flabbergasts me, is the future generations that will not be able to read historical documents, whether of national significance or the love letters sent from their grandparents to each other.

I dabble a bit in making fountain pens. Other kinds, also.  I give these away to special friends.  The most frequent question I get back is “How do I put ink in it?”  Some simply are more honest and thank me profusely for the beautiful object and admit they have never written with one, nor will they attempt it.  Its a collectors item.  But then, I have pens from three generations back, so I’m a collector also.

There is something magic in a handwritten letter or note.  It captures the bit that the modern methods of communicating lack.  I fear we’ll soon lose that, also.  The immediacy of email quickly worked its way into our lives, and I doubt if I would communicate one tenth the amount I do if I didn’t use it.  I do, however cajole a few of my friends to send me handwritten notes which I save and treasure.  Why?  One of them said it best I think.  “There’s a little bit of my soul hidden away in your desk.”

That's what's missing.

Set a Course and Go

Sometimes you come to a fork in the road.  You have to take a chance. 

A younger friend of mine just quit a job she didn’t really like, put most of her belongings in storage and set off to sail around for a while with her boyfriend.  He was a new boyfriend, not some long term significant other.  It reminded me a lot of the book and movie, Castaway, or Lin and Larry Purdy.  A couple off for adventure together, and they’d get to know each other in the process, rather than the other way around, spending years to get to know each other, then going off on an adventure, or even a long vacation.  Somehow, it seems a better way to do things. She went “All in”, risked what she had in order to search for what she might find.  She might find herself, or lose herself, or lose herself to find herself.  But sometimes, it seems to get you where you should be in life much quicker and doesn’t leave you with years and years behind you wondering why not?

I recently had a situation of my own that required me to go all in.  A long term relationship had changed.  Friends for a year, recently we deepened that relationship and added an intimate D/s element to it. But something changed between us, tempers flared, nasty words were exchanged.  In three weeks it was over.  We tried to patch things back to being “just friends”.  That lead to cycles of closeness, then withdrawal.  Our friendship was stuck on an endless air fluff tumble dry cycle, not heat, not going anywhere, but constant agitation. Perhaps it might be that we, meaning I, didn’t give it time to develop, to morph, to change back or forward.  I can lack patience with things that stalemate in an unpleasant cycle, and I wasn’t able to see any difference, any change in anything in a couple of months.  Endless near arguments and apologies.

Finally, after a day of quiet and no contact I decided that, for me at least, no contact at all was better than the bickering.  So I went all in.  Bet the farm. All or nothing.  I expected nothing, I got nothing.  No blame to be assigned. Am I happier?  I don’t know.  I am more at peace, but still wondering, as I guess I will always wonder.

Update:  I wonder less now.  As a peace settles without the threat of temper tantrums, I find I'm happier.

Good Morning

"Good Morning"

Two words that can be meaningless and tossed out without thought or meaning anytime  , although they are most effectively said before Noon, to anyone, anywhere.  You may actually wish the person a good morning, it may just be a greeting, or a substitute for “Hi.”  Not much more than the greeting on being introduced “How do you do?”.  You don’t care, it’s just something you say to be polite.

But what of it’s omission?  What happens when we fail to say “good morning” or some other simple phrase to greet or acknowledge the other person? It’s omission can mean far more in context than it’s inclusion. 

For instance, I was recently having a conversation with a friend that spanned two days. The previous day had been about that person and another.  When the morning arrived, my friend started in with rapid abandon with the news that they had been contacted by the friend they thought was mad at them and some emails had been delayed, blah blah blah, rolling on through email and text messages about the friend. 

Somewhere during that whole thing I wondered: Do they give a rats ass about me?

As simple good morning somewhere in there could have signified they did, as meaningless as those words really are.  Such a simple greeting can change the entire cadence feel of a conversation. Take the time to use one.

The Senses

I’m not sure exactly where this places me.  It somewhat makes me think of Al Pacino in “Scent of a Woman”, breathing deep and experiencing the senses he has left and the intoxicating complex smells of women he encounters.  The other side of the coin makes me think of Burt Reynolds sniffing Demi Moore’s dryer lint in “Striptease”. I’ll leave it to the reader to decide the camp in which I belong.

I have many “friends” on the internet.  I feel fortunate in that respect.  Some remain fairly anonymous, and I know nothing of their identity beyond their screen name.  Many of the anonymous friends have shared some fairly deep secrets and feelings with me and for that, I’m lucky to know parts of them that may be hidden for others.  More of them branch into the catagory where I know little bits of their identity.  A first name, and perhaps an occupation or hobby.  These friends engage only my mind through text on a computer screen.  Very one dimensional, though enjoyable.

More friends have sent pictures of what they look like.  This adds sight to their persona.  More than doubling my concept of who they are.  Yes, sometimes I get pictures of parts of them without the face.  When this happens I try to explain, I know what a vagina looks like, I want to know what YOU look like.  Most get it.  A very few don’t.

Some will elect to talk with me using the phone or some form of VOIP.  The sound of a voice, the accent, the inflections, begin to round out a personality.  Some with talk on video chat with me (there’s a couple of kinds, yeah, but for this discussion, get your mind out of the gutter)  The ability to see facial expressions, here the inflections in the voice, as well as know what is being said and reacted to truly bring this person to the status of a real person and friend.  Just one I haven’t met in person, yet.  Conversly, in some cases, the lack of this level severely limits the development of a friendship of a real level.  They remain as “internet friends”, not quite real people.

Here we escalate the senses.  What’s left? Touch. Taste. Smell.  The easiest to engage next is the sense of smell.  I’ve been fortunate enough to have been gifted a woman’s panties.  Something about an intimate as can be delivered and remain decorous.  So what’s there?  The smell of raw cunt in heat?  Sex dripping from the crotch?  Pharamones to drive a man wild?  No.  Well, depending on how and when they were last worn, perhaps a bit of that.  Overwhelming that is the pure smell of the woman, not her pussy, but her, the shampoo that ran down her body when she washed her hair, the soap that washed her in the last shower, the moisturizer, the lotion, the perfume she applied, the womanly smells of her panty drawer where they lived before beginning their journey to me.  The smells of her body. Intimate smells she shares with only a few.  I breathe deeply and enjoy. 

Al or Burt?

On Jealousy

I once had a sub become amazed that I wasn’t upset over her finding another Dom attractive and that she might be interested in playing with him.  She had expected me to be angry when I made her admit it.  I tried to explain that it wasn’t necessary to hide behind some foolish idea that you might not find other men attractive.   Because that’s exactly what it would be, foolish.   She had always found some other men attractive, before she met me, since she met me, and she will after I’m just a memory.

Instead of this foolish notion, I’d rather have her honesty and openness about what she’s thinking and feeling.  I don’t ever want her to feel the need to hide feelings or thoughts from me.  Many feelings can get better once you let them out.  Sometimes I might even be able to help.  Sometimes just talking about it helps.  I want to be the person she comes to and talks to about anything, anytime, always, without fear of any adverse reaction.

In most instances, I have allowed my subs to experience other Doms, Many of my subs are first timers and I believe this helps them learn and add to their expectations and knowledge, I also have enough ego not to worry about them being stolen away,  to be secure in the bond that we have.  I am also secure in the knowledge that I don’t know it all, and that she can learn from others as well as me.

Now, am I totally unemotional when they go off to have orgasms at the direction of another man?  Well, I am human, and yes there is emotion there.  But it is easily controllable and overcome. I’ve never found one to love me any less because another man directed an orgasm. I lose nothing, and she gains experience.

For now the only ropes I can put on her are on her heart and mind.  I know her body will crave other ropes.  I will let her go and search and experience. If she is mine, she will return, if not I have set free someone who didn’t belong to me. I’ll still have the most wonderful memories of a beautiful woman who was mine for a while.

But.

My agreement with my subs says, “All of these rules apply outside of your marriage, your work and your other real life relationships.”

Spouses are different.  I can’t explain that.   I’ve heard it expressed by subs many times that, “I don’t care if he’s married, but I want to be his only sub.”  I’ve never heard it from a Dom, but its true, nonetheless.

I usually encourage my subs to put their marriage first, to try their best with it.  To grow together and learn together.  I know I come second here, and it doesn’t bother me in the least.

Speak to Me of Love

Hours until dawn, stillness surrounds
The meadow empty and silent.
Unheard, unbidden, and only felt
Silently strumming her cithara
Erato whispers within my heart
                 Háblame de amor


The sun creeps slowly, lingering away
Teasing me until daybreak
I wonder will you be Lenore
Nevermore can I ask of you
               Μίλα μου της αγάπης


When my heart weeps in despair
The darkness creeps over my soul
Erato points to the sky
                 Parlami d'amore


Light and brighter through parting clouds
Waxing from new, only a start
               Parlez-moi d'amour


Cold Moon warms my heart
                    Sprich zu mir von Liebe

The Coat

When I was a rising star, or so I thought, I dressed the part.  I bought most of my clothes at a men’s clothier in downtown Hartford.  They were the equivalent of Brooks Brothers before Brooks Brothers became Mall Brothers.  Buying there was a nice experience, the clothes were very high quailty, the staff all pleasant, several knew my name.

One fall day, in the window facing Asylum Street was an overcoat.  A stunning overcoat.  Dark blue, neutra collar, decked out with a contrasting scarf.  Just the thing for those winter days waiting for the commuter bus, with the buttons needed to close it up and keep out drafts.  A little sign on the floor next to it said it all: $600.  This was about 1976.  That’s about $2,400 today.  Out of my price range for sure. 

Wasn’t long before I changed jobs, with a substantial raise.  Spring was nearly gone and I needed some slacks and went to the store.  While I was there, I asked Rich if he still had any of those coats.  Rich rotated a couple of rack and found where they were hidden away.  Did I say they?  I mean IT was hidden away.  They had one left, and it was my size and on sale for $450.  I couldn’t resist. I bought it. 

I still have it, or actually, my son has it.  I don’t wear it very often in Atlanta, we’re not that formal and it’s not that cold here, and I guess overcoats and top coats are as out of style as ties.

I also bought a fur cosack type hat made from natural beaver.  Can you think of anything warmer than putting your head inside a natural beaver?

My sub, my muse

Second in a series about what I get from being an online Dom.

I’m putting together a volume of my writing from and about different times in my life, mostly vignettes, short pieces,  to give a bit of a flavor of what my life was like.  Why?  Because I so wish I had something like that from more of my ancestors.  I do have one poem written by my great grandfather to my great grandmother by way of an apology.  I have no idea what he did, what month or year it was, but it was written on Wednesday night.  I also have a memoir written by my Aunt about her younger years.  Fascinating to me, if no one else.  In this volume I’m including the poetry I’ve written at different times in my life.  The writing coincides with the times in my life when I was most in love; when I had a muse.  Some of it is really awful, but I’m including it anyway.

That’s another reward to having a sub that’s dedicated to me.  She inspires feelings deep within me that bubble up in creative passions.  I feel better then, colors are brighter, skies clearer, skin softer, eyes sparkle more.  I have to write and make other small efforts at creativity.

Naked in a Special Way

First in a series about what I get from being an online Dom.

Having a beautiful woman who will get naked for you, not just nude, but willing to expose all of herself, thoughts, desires, and fears to you is perhaps the greatest reward  I get. For me, it not so sexual, it’s intimate.  It requires a degree of trust rarely found between two people, although, in the best of all worlds, you’d find it in all marriages.

What makes them naked?  Standing before me and removing their clothes slowly one item at a time, being scrutinized, admired, carefully evaluated creates a vulnerability in the sub that can be countered with a comforting intimacy and security.  In our society, most are brought up to hide the body and it’s natural functions so exposing those opens the door to deeper feelings.  For most subs there is a sexual component that becomes attached to the nudity.

What do I get from this is intimacy with my sub?  At my age, I've seen enough vaginas and nipples to last quite a while.  I don't want to see parts because I know what a vagina looks like, I know what breasts look like, now I want to know what the person looks like, inside and out. 

If you don't trust me (or anyone) enough for that then we are not ready to move forward in this relationship.  If you just want to be friends, this is not a problem, Still I want to know you, not your pussy.

Sometimes people show me none of themselves and receive the like in return.  But the baring of souls is always reciprocated, although I don't take all that are offered.  Some feel that are ready, but peddle backward from the abyss as fast as they can when they face the final leap.  It's quite amusing, actually, these are often the one's who have talked and written the most about how submissive they are, but in the end, it's only to their keyboard that is submissive.

Liz Trotta "How Much Rape is Enough?"

Our women are being raped "too much"?  Really?  Too much.  Interesting concept that is, being raped too much.  How much is too little?  How much is just right?  How many times a month would Liz feel is just the right amount of being raped? 

I have no answer for that.  Anyone have a quantifiable esitmate as to how much is not enough? just right?  too much?

Now, if fairness, this clip has been edited down to sound bites and there may be, in the cut out parts, things that make this a very different story.  But still, the phrase, "raped too much"??

Why

Several times the question when discussing online Domination and submission the question has come up, “What’s in it for you?”  Sometimes it’s phrased differently, sometimes it’s only a topic broached on a glancing blow from another topic of discussion, like “what are your needs?” These questions have actually made me pause and stop and try and figure this out on more than a superficial level; to look deeply into myself and ask why I do this, why am I here?  So, you, dear reader will be subjected to my various ramblings on this and other things.