I really need to write a blog, but the muse isn’t biting. This was my third attempt tonight after “My parents, the pod people” and “Grazed Anatomy” about writing conventions that make humans do things they never would, and inspired by an episode on Grey’s Anatomy. Both good blogs, but I couldn’t get past half a page of each. So, stuck as I am, I shall do what I always do, I’ll give you something out my archive of unpublished work. Inspired by Karl’s comment on my bugbear, “bad porn”. I thought I’d find something to celebrate the theme.
Now here is a REALLY BIG WARNING. Especially for those delicate, delicate fangirls that can’t seem to stay away from me and mine, the following story fragment was written for an extreme fetishist publisher. It was going to be a novel (novella really, as porn doesn’t come in big sizes) called “Diaries of an Extremist”, about a ‘real’ dominatrix – i.e. someone who actually dominates rather than a whore who charges men to dominate them exactly the way they like. This was going to be a story where the men actually got treated like trash. I started it on the date you see here (it was going to be date-headed – hence the “Diaries”) and I got exactly two pages done before I decided I really did not want to go here. It still felt too much like serving up man-pleasing porn to me. I wrote another version of it that I might let you see next blog, if I’m still stuck then. At least that one got finished into a short story.
However, THAT REALLY BIG WARNING AGAIN – THIS STORY IS VERY SEXUALLY EXPLICIT. By which I mean explicit with the “very” part being as in not ‘nice’. You have been warned. DO NOT READ THIS IF PORN OFFENDS YOU, YOU DUMB BASTARD.
I’d be more than happy to see someone finish it, but only if you publish it through here. No putting it elsewhere on the net. This fragment is still copyright, such as it is, and so it stays here, okay? But please, any would-be porn writers out there who fancy finishing it, feel free. Maybe if you’re really good I’ll give you a contract – we’ve got two new books in the pipeline, you know; you could be number three. Short story works for me; it doesn’t have to be a novel/la.
Regardless, enjoy………
23rd June 1997
Went to the Unemployment Benefit Office today. What used to be the DHSS. They want me to go back to work. I don’t. Little shit behind the desk thought he was something. About the same height as me, dark hair, back in a pony-tail, ear pierced. I can just see him after work, with his black jeans and his Motley Crue T shirt, pissed off that he doesn’t get to live the Rock ‘n Roll lifestyle and determined to take it out on everyone else. Namely me. Probably thinks piercing his ear is the height of Bourgeois rebellion.
Went back at ten to four, just before it closes, and sat outside in Daisy Street in the van. He came out at three minutes past four, practically on the button. I bet you could time how long the little shit took to get out of there each day to the second.
Started the van up and followed him down the road that goes past the Glenrothes Hotel – this is even better than I imagined. He’s going to take the path that runs round the back of the St Vincent de Paul High School.
I park the van quick, don’t bother to lock it, and am down there after him.
It was too easy. He was too fucking macho to turn round to see who was behind him. Just slid the pad over his mouth and nose, couple of struggles and he’s out. He feels good too.
Back at the house, I reverse up to the door and drag him out and into the house. I enjoy bumping the little cunt down the stairs to the basement.
I get his clothes off and get him on the potty stool. Once he’s secured I’ve got time to admire my catch.
Hardly a scrap of hair on him, dead white skin, nipples that look like cigarette burns and a little silky nest at his groin that looks like the scrap of fur you might find on a kitten. Really cute. His dick’s brown and looks hardly developed yet. Undressed he’s even more of an upstart kid than his cheap grey suit and white shirt would let on.
I slap his face a couple of times. He groans. I catch hold of his cock and pull it up slowly until the skin is stretched taut and pulling away from his body – just enough to make him uncomfortable. He groans again and I pull it some more. His eyelids flicker.
“Come on,” I say. “All good boys find favour… providing they wake up pronto.” And I give his dick an uncomfortable tug.
He groans again but does not surface any further. More drastic action is called for.
I straddle the stool and stand above his face. I pull my knickers to one side. “Come on,” I say, looking down at him. “You don’t want me to throw you in the shower, do you?”
He doesn’t even bother to answer that, so I let him have it. I lift one leg so that I don’t soil my clothes and squat over his face. My urine jets in his face briefly and forcefully, like a squirted Squeezy bottle. He splutters and coughs, trying to jerk his head away. He gets an ear full of piss. “Good boy…” I say, and yank his face back. “Now wake up.” And I slap him hard enough to wake the dead.
His eyes are open now and struggling to focus. I move back off him. He’s blinking up at me. I smile. “Welcome to my Paradise. I’m Belinda and I’m your tour guide for today.” I can see him looking at my blank rubber face and trying to work out where the fuck he is. No go. He hasn’t a clue. “Nice dick,” I say, by way of conversation. And it is, strangely, despite being on the small side. It’s cute, like I said.
I pull his head upright by the pony-tail. He cries out and tries to lift his hands – then discovers he’s tied down, or up, if you prefer.
I smile again. “Oh dear, looks like you’re a little tied up today… Derek.”
I can see how confused he is at me knowing his name. I can see him trying to work out where he is, what’s happening, why he’s covered in piss.
I pull the elastic from his hair nice and roughly, bringing out a few long dark hairs with it and making him grunt with pain. His head drops back as I let go and this long silky black hair fans out over his shoulders. I can visualize him at Jilly’s Rock world every Saturday, damaging his cerebral cortex and whiplashing his neck as he shakes it around to Kiss, or maybe Guns & Roses.
“Nice hair,” I demur. God, I must like this one – two compliments in as many minutes. He says, “Where am I?”
I laugh; I can’t help it.
“I told you, in Paradise. And I’m here to make my every dream come true. You’re here to help.”
I can see him struggling with that one too. Shame. Don’t want him to wrinkle with concentrating too hard. I say, “Don’t faze yourself. You’re here to do what I say and be enjoyed. I’m sure you can manage that. I have faith in you. I knew you were trustworthy the first moment I saw you.”
“Who are you?” he says, as if I would tell him. Does he think I wear this mask for fun? Thinks it’s my kick?
I hunker down and slide one finger up the spread cheeks of his arse. I see his eyes widen in disbelief. It goes up quite easy, I think because he’s still drugged maybe.
He says something like, “Grunk…” and squirms in the awkward potty hole. Of course he can’t lift himself and all it does is tense his muscles round my finger, giving which one of us the extra thrill I’m not sure, so I say, “Is that nice? Does ‘oo like that then?” And wriggle my finger around right up to the knuckle in case he’s enjoying it. More, if he isn’t.
He says again, “Who are you?” still trying to lift his little butt up out of the big nasty hole it’s in while I push my shiny finger in and out, massaging his nice tight little sphincter.
“I told you, Belinda, your guide for today. You know you’ll only hurt yourself doing that. Why don’t you sit still and enjoy it?”
“Let me go,” he says.
I’ve always wondered at that one. I mean, considered it weird. What’s it about? Here they are waking up out of drug heaven, in some alien basement, suspended in a curious coffee table-sized contraption, butt first down a hole, ankles and hands manacled, arse spread to the woman in black, and they say, Let me go.
Of course you’re going to say, ‘Sorry, my mistake,’ unfasten it and help them out.
“No,” I say, curious to see if he attempts to take it further. But he doesn’t. Instead he says, “What am I doing here?”
“Well, let’s say you’re something in the nature of a redcoat, minus the coat. You’re here to provide entertainment.”
“What d’you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?” And I smile again. I’m quite enjoying this.
“Who are you?”
I slap him, because I’m tired of answering that one and I could see this going on all day. He looks at me in angry surprise. I see his mouth snarl, wonder if he’s stupid enough to do it, but he isn’t. He doesn’t say anything.
“Good boy,” I say. “I see you’re learning already.”
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As an excerpt in ‘diary’ form I feel this has great potential – it’s short, sharp and keeps moving, so ‘ticks all the boxes’ for the genre. My concern is I know less about the main character than her ‘victim’. We can but guess that Belinda is her real name (probably not), and that she’s as tall as the ‘little shit’ Derek (which doesn’t mean much as she’s probably talking figuratively). Why is she at the ‘Dole’ office anyway? – she can afford to run a van, so she’s obviously not skint.Derek isn’t her first victim;she knows how to plan these abductions, and has come prepared.It’s not just a ‘revenge’on him – or the State Benefit system, and she’s not completely repulsed by him.
I want to read some previous entries of her diary! My ‘gut’ feeling tells me women will probably carry this story forward rather than men – but as I’m not into S&M I could be completely wrong! However, I’ll follow it with great interest; hoping the ‘good porn’ continues! ‘Technical’ point. If she’s a ‘real’ dominatrix, would she need to use a pad to subdue him? I felt this was contrived, and might offend some well-built, athletic women (‘Zena’ never had to use anaesthetics to capture any macho types – so a ‘little shit’ should have been a pushover for a ‘real’ dominatrix’!)
From your other post on ‘Twilight’, Karl, “a chip on my shoulder about the male gender”? Not in a million years. I am an equal opportunities writer, I hate both sexes equally. Had my dominatrix been picking on a woman she’d have been just as nasty, possibly more so, as I’m not so sexually attracted to women.
As to your comment on this post – ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGG feedback! So not what I was looking for, Karl. This ‘story’ was stuck on here simply because I had nothing else to say (and some more important stuff to worry about). It’s twelve years old, for Christ’s sake! You have no idea how much you’ve thrown me here, and I thought no commenter could ever throw me a curve ball ever again. I think you are the first person to ever give me (this kind of) feedback on my writing. EVER. Seriously. I’d be lying to say I don’t like getting feedback on writing that’s important to me, but I tend to go for the “I liked it”, “I hated it” kind of thig. If they can tell me why, in detail, that’s great. But the kind of ‘line edit’ thing you’ve offered… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!
But it’s very sweet of you to have done it. I appreciate the thought even if I don’t really give a damn – and you know I mean that kindly, right? I’m as tortured about what people think of me as the next person (well, maybe not quite), but I really do not need, like or want this style of feedback. Especially not on twelve year-old unfinished, not-of-interest writing. I’d be much more thrilled if someone took the story on and finished it. I really would like to publish other people on the Pixie list, especially genre writers, because I’m not interested in doing genre writing myself, and our list might improve with the additon of some first-rate genre writers, so I’m always hoping someone might come along. That’s really the only reason I tacked the ‘call for writers’ on, as an afterthought.
Sorry, you’ve freaked me out here. Nobody has ever done this to me before – comment on my writing, indeed. Really do not see what people see in this. Never will. Deep breath.
But, she says with a smile, I will just comment on Belinda using chloroform on little Derek. Absolutely she would. Unless she’s a lady shotputter she’d be an idiot not to. There isn’t a serial killer alive or dead who didn’t biff, drug or otherwise incapacitate their victims before kidnap. All men, all strong with madness, and all sane enough to know you don’t take risks of escape. And this is why I don’t do genre fiction, I care too much about realism.
Ah well,I guess there’s always gotta be a ‘first’- with everything! I’d already told you S&M isn’t really my genre, but as a budding writer I’m interested in ALL forms of writing, so (as with other work)I analysed it as though I was going to tackle this – so from that point of view it didn’t really matter whether the fragment was twelve – or forty years old (or written last week);nor for that matter, whether it was written by yourself, or any other professional writer. My ‘comments’ therefore were related to the piece itself – and the problems it presented of ‘finishing’ something which had ‘started in the middle’in terms of both the characters and the build up to the plot at that point.Which was why I said I was interested in following the resolution of this storyline. I take your point that by the very nature of this post it will not be yourself.
As for our ‘real’ dominatrix Belinda. Well, if she’s using chloroform, that dates her for starters (and therefore the period?)and she’s lost a lot of street cred in my book! Not so much a shot-putter, but certainly into martial arts (maybe ex army special forces?)Otherwise she might just as well be strutting her stuff in a Soho ‘dungeon’ clad in her fishnets and ‘tickling stick’ whiplash!(I’d still like to read some more women’s comments about this.)
Not sure that chloroform does date her. I’ve certainly never heard of any other inhalant ‘narcotic’ (not sure it actually is a narcotic, but you know what I mean). The only alternative would be a date rape drug and that’s unsuitable in this style of kidnap. I think if you intend to take someone off the street the only two options would be bludgeoning over the head (dangerous with a possibility of failure or death) and chloroform. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. Never know when knowing how to kidnap someone in broad daylight might come in handy.
It’s just not manufactured any more! It was only ever produced as a general anaesthetic, and like it’s counterpart (ether)went out of operating theatres in the mid-fifties (or thereabouts)- in favour of cyclopropane (but think that’s also gone now)- at least that was ‘controllable’ (ie a measured gas given via a mask from a cylinder)- whilst t’other two were used ‘openly’ (ie like Belinda was doing.)
How to kidnap someone (in daylight) off the street? Seems the most used both here and Iran is the ‘bogus cop(s)’(preferably in uniform) – because in general people tend to ‘go quietly’ if a polite, but firm technique is used; and bystanders probably will not ‘interfere’ if they see an arrest being made – even if the person struggles/shouts etc. ‘Cover of darkness’makes the whole job a lot easier of course! ‘Strong-arm’ Belinda tho’ may have opted to play the part of the irate wife taking drunken hubby back home – “Don’t take any notice of ‘im, ‘e’s always like this after ‘e’s ‘ad a few, mister. Now come on,yer drunken skunk, let’s get yer ‘ome” etc!Again, most folk will ‘take the woman’s part’. I’ve seen this happen ‘for real’ in Glasgow, and have often thought it would be a brilliant way to kidnap someone (providing of course the female knew what she was doing in terms of restraint etc)
They do indeed still make chloroform. Like most things, once it’s invented it can’t be uninvented. But it is a controlled substance and so wouldn’t be easy to get. It’s apparently still used in agricultural pesticides and so could, in theory, be found in farms or from a farm supplies company. It is also used by taxidermists as it is considered a humane form of euthanasia for specimens. And, of course, it’s available in hospital and educational/research locations.
Again, you could do the faux police routine or the irate wife routine but there are two big plot problems, 1. Simple resistance – why complicate the kidnap? The Hillside Stranglers used faux police to stop their victims, but there was two of them (male) and being policemen was part of the thrill for them, it wasn’t because it was practical. 2. The irate wife. Far too dangerous. Public screaming matches, yelling, witnesses, the danger of a sock to the jaw at least, escaping and blabbing victim at worst. No good dominatrix would risk it. Remember, power’s her thing – why would she want to jeopardise that?
All that said, you could make Belinda a psychopath who liked risk. There’s only two pages here, Karl, it’s barely the start of a short story, never mind a novel. Whoever takes it on could do whatever the hell they liked with it. Make Derek seize power, make Belinda mad, make her a taxidermist on a power kick, make her run a vintage medical supplies firm, make her his long-lost sister humiliating him for revenge, make it a fake murder plot – as in, she isn’t a dominatrix at all and it’s all a cover to get rid of persons unknown (yet) by making it look like a sex crime.
This is the beauty of being a writer, you can do whatever the hell you like, it’s your world, you control it. You say you’re not into S&M, then don’t make it S&M, give us a twist, make it a different story entirely. Make it The Diaries of An Extremist because she’s a political activist – an animal rights person who got the chloroform from a farm she raided, a taxidermist she attacked.
You’re full of advice and opinions, Karl, use some of it and finish the story. Surprise me.
ETA – I’ve just spotted today’s quote from Mark Twain – “Action speaks louder than words but not nearly as often.” Jump to it.
Hey Chance,
You intrigued me with your insistence that you are a literary genius, so i came to check out your blog. Of course, this is the first one i went to, hehe. for all the warning, it is pretty mild. In fact, i would edit it and put in some more details to engage that particular audience. for example, when she pisses on him, you should describe the warmth and the smell and how it feels on his skin. like willa said, good writing is experienced.
also, you should further describe her outfit, it should include leather or latex, and perhaps he should see some instruments in the back, stuff that WE know what it’s for, but he doesn’t.
Perhaps even a better description of a contraption he is bound to, something that would indicate that she’s done this a lot, a specialized piece of equipment with various straps and perhaps like a split bottom so she can spread his legs.
anyway, you see what i mean.
and yeah, you write pretty good. kudos, chance.
btw, you’ve never met a real dominatrix, have you?
Hi Zebrasnake. Your list of things this story snippet “should” have are like a list of bondage cliches for beginners. Please don’t ever take up writing.
As for “you’ve never met a real dominatrix, have you?” Absolutely not. I’m a virgin.
chance, if you are writing for a fetish market, you have to flesh out the fetish, no? these are not my fetishes, but the writing lays flat without the visceral earthy aspects of the experience.
sorry to hear you are a virgin. more sorry to hear you are female. that explains why we’re not rolling around in a literary wrestling match. however, you fall into another category of peoples i love, scots. my object of obsession is scottish, and i have a fetish for kilts…worn by hot young shirtless guys in heavy combat boots with the laces left messily untied, white socks showing, the firm tender furry muscular legs leading up to free swinging treasure (including jewels). oh yeah, and pierced nipples and natural tans from hanging out on summer days (s)in the castro.
yum-my!
btw, i am a published writer. both in english and spanish (my first language). suspect you would not be in my target audience though, hehe
xo
priscilla
ZS, it was going to be a novella. First rule of good writing is you don’t throw everything on the first page. Aside from this, it’s a 3 page fragment, not a short story, and it failed to engage me sufficiently as an idea that it was never developed. I decided genre writing was not for me. Again.
Why are you sorry I’m female? And how would that stop us from having a wrestling match, literary or otherwise? I’ll have you know I fight with women on a regular basis. Don’t be sexist. For a start, I detest kilts; a piece of affectatious English nonsense adopted by Scots with no brains. There you go, we’re disagreeing violently already.
And why wouldn’t I be in your target audience? Do you write for kids or YA? Or fantasy novels maybe? Can’t stand those either…
alright, i understand even you didn’t like it much, so i shouldn’t take this as the best example of what you can do. understood.
i’m sorry you’re female because *I* don’t get along with females, but i love men and men tend to love me, resulting in a frisky badinage, a saucy repartee, hot and heavy intercourse culminating in intense satisfaction.
i commend you for being able to tolerate women. they are mostly bitches and whores. yeah, me too.
as for the kilt thing, i suppose they are exotic to me, but to you they are just a symbol of oppression. for me they represent accessible yummy parts, and i love the way men look in them. mmmhmmmm.
what i would like to write more of is sci-fi, what i write most of is porn.
who knew? *grin*
oh, i do have a bunch of poetry on my myspace. i pretty much hate poetry, but i use it to keep my words lubricated. i bet you’d find something there you might like. mmmhmmm
you should comment me on facebook, now that we’re “friends” HAHA
xoxoxo
p
impromptu poem for you:
porn, piss, & pieces
uncles doing their nieces
two girls and a cup of feces
that could be my master thesis
about just how sick people are
let them, they’ll go too far
putting strange things up their arse
bigger until their hole collapses
humanity is not pretty
in the country or the city
you’ll find people fucking cows
and other things that aren’t allowed
but hey, you can make money
and i think it’s kinda funny
just what people will pay to see
even what they’ll watch for free
it’s disgusting!
I don’t know whether I admire or am contemptuous of anyone who can sweepingly assert that they love or hate an entire sex. Truthfully, it says more about you than the sex you love/despise. What did mummy do to you to make you hate her sex so much?
Kilts aren’t a form of opression for me; they’re an example of Scottish gullibility and maudlin sentimentality – two of our less adorable traits.
I don’t use Facebook currently, but if I go back to it I shall be sure to say hello.
The poem’s great – with the proviso that “it’s disgusting” is a comment ON it and not part of it.
P.S. The writing porn explains your determination to get every genre cliche into your revisions of my piece. You’ll go far…
go far? do i need to?
it is entirely mama’s (i’m mesican not british) fault, the bitch. she poured all her dysfunction onto me, oppressing me with her loud and violent pain. sure she didn’t burn me or let me get repeatedly beaten and raped like her mom did to her, but how could you be a healthy, happy role model with that kind of background? my de-faults tend to upset women greatly after they realize i don’t play nice, and i honestly don’t care if they don’t like it.
unless they grow a penis. or ever had one. that works, too.
well, it’s a shame you can’t apreciate kilts, because they are a lovely lovely male garment. even when i didn’t know their origin, i loved them. they make me swoon. it was a long time before i even knew it was a scottish thing, i just thought it was a gay thing, lol.
i like to end my poems with a statement, that’s just how my mind pours it out. almost like a bow. or maybe it’s like subtitles for the stupid. i dunno. it just does that.
and the challenge of making porn cum alive is not about cliches, but about tapping into the subconscious primal urges that we all have. it doesn’t have to be stupid and predictable.
i will let you know when i win my first adult video award, perhaps you can meet me in vegas for some fun times, eh?
bring some of your scottish male friends, in kilts of course.
xoxo
p
So why does mum get all the blame then? Was there no dad around? You do realise if he dumped you all that he’s even more to blame than mum? Also, if mum was raped, that (I’m assuming) means there was a man involved there, so you can argue that every fuck-up in your life stemmed from men’s bad behaviour, not women’s. So why are men wonderful and women bad? Is it really that hard to take yourself out of your background and see men’s part in it?
You go so far as to say a woman becomes okay if she’s ever had a penis. So what you’re really saying is that having a penis makes you OK. No penis = “bitch and whore”. Penis = adorable and sexy. I can see there’s a great deal of thinking gone into that ideology…
If porn “doesn’t have to be stupid and predictable” then why were you so fast to insist on latex, bondage gear, straps and equipment? All of these things are cliches of the genre, which I was trying to avoid, but you insisted were necessary for it to work. I think you’ll find that when it comes to being “primal”, not many cavemen would think up elaborate equipment and latex.
And why would you win an adult video award? To my knowledge no-one wins anything for writing in porn, mostly because they don’t use writers. Unles, of course, you intend to star in some porn?
P.S. Very interesting that after a long catalogue of cheeky sex in your poem you choose to summarise it (or excuse it) with “It’s disgusting”. You are one conflicted hombre…
conflicted hombre? are you trying to be funny?
my pops was around. he was a reliable, stable, hardworking man. funny you think he left. *shrug* my contention that penis = good is a simplification, of course, a bones bare summary of an operational bias.
The reason i suggested that some (not all) of those things might be helpful to your story is that you claimed you were trying to write it for a fetish market. maybe i misunderstood. in that case, nevermind.
you know, someone has to write/direct porn. it doesn’t do it by itself.
disgusting is also interesting, like a train wreck. i remember a story about porn director gregory dark, and how he asked a naked girl, who had just been gang banged on top of a pile of fish to talk about how her stepfather raped her. It really made me wonder what happened to mr dark.
but really, you think i’m male?
interesting.
No, I don’t think you’re male. I assume this is because I used the word hombre? I was using it in a colloquial ‘Hey, man, how you doin’ kind of way i.e. genderless. And a father doesn’t have to be physically absent to be absent. If your father was so adorable he wouldn’t have married your mother, nor would he have permitted her to exorcise her demons on you. Bad parents don’t happen on their own, and the detached one doesn’t get to wriggle out of responsibility just because they’re playing Nice Cop.
As far as I know no-one ever wirtes porn (movies). They usually improvise them as they go along. They may have a shooting script of the ‘Repair man enters, bends Fifi over the photocopier and bangs her to rights’ kind of thing, but, to my knowledge, no script, ipso facto, no writers.
As for Gregory Dark, what makes you think he was asking the gang-banged girl about her raping stepfather because he cared? How do you know he wasn’t just turned on – or knew his audience would be?
oh hey, i never got to respond to this earlier because my comments wouldn’t go through, but it’s fixed now, yay!
first, never said my dad was adorable. i don’t know if anyone would ever call him that. what they said at the funeral was mostly “very hard working”. he was, he rarely took time off work, never called in sick in all his years of work. he would just go in anyways. work was his identity. he knew nothing outside of it. after he retired, he started a second career, and worked there 17 years until he dropped dead.
as for gregory dark, i certainly wouldn’t think he was asking that girl about her step-father because he cared. my take on it was he did it simply to amuse himself. that’s what whores are for, right? turned on or not, he got his money’s worth, and that’s the point.
You’re judging your dad on how he was viewed by others at his funeral? Didn’t you know him personally? He gets off the hook because in Humble City he’s a saint for working so hard? Handy.
And I don’t know what point you’re making with this: “turned on or not, he got his money’s worth, and that’s the point.” Getting his money’s worth is what point, exactly? That the “whores” in porn are only there to provide fun, no matter how that fun is obtained? As that’s pretty much the definition of porn, I’m really not sure what ‘point’ you could be making with this. What exactly is it you think about Gregory Dark and the girl on the fish? That he’s somehow artistically interesting because he wanted to know about her rape?
you are completely missing what i’m saying, chance. my take on it is that gregory dark was NOT interested in her, did NOT care about her, and the only reason to ask his question was to amuse himself. she was an object who had been paid to provide entertainment/amusement. she received payment, and he got what he paid for to the max. i would call that maximizing your dollar. so your idea about him being turned on, it’s sort of irrelevant. i suspect if he was turned on, it wasn’t in a sexual context, but more of a power/degradation context.
i was citing a concensus about my dad, that no one would have described him as adorable. what’s the most interesting about our exchanges here are the parts you throw in, your assumptions, which are often really off the mark. like in this one, i wonder who you were thinking of as an adorable dad? i can think of a few, but definitely not my dad.
If you recall, we were talking about the fact that you’ve let your father off the hook in his parenting of you. Mum did all the evil. Your lack of insight into who he really was suggests I was right, he was indeed an ‘absent’ father. If I was to ask you about your mother you would not give me a consensus of opinion about her from other people. You would be very specific and could detail exactly the instances wherein she was bad to you – of which there would be many, highly-coloured and very painful.
Your father does not have that emotional charge for you. You refer to him through others, he has no real significance, ipso faco, he was/is an absent father. Which is what I said right at the outset.
The fact remains that there were two parents. Just because your father wasn’t actively cruel towards you, and your mother was, does not make your father blameless. It is part of a bigger picture. In order for you to truly understand the dynamics of your own life, and the bigger world around you, you need to step out of your personal pain and examine it from a distance.
However, from what I have seen of you, you are much more comfortable making assumptions about everything, predominantly that you formed in (a dysfunctional) childhood, and continue to sit behind your barricade lobbing out bombs.
Just as an insight, if I was to have done with my life what you have done with yours this is how I would see the world: women are cold bitches with no feelings. None of them want to have children and only do it because men rape them. All men are rapists and paedophiles. They are violent aggressive and stupid. They are narcissitic and selfish. Never ever trust a woman. Dont have sex. Don’t have children. Everybody will hurt you. Trust no-one. Money is the most important thing in the world. Give your money to no-one. Always put yourself first. Children are irrelevant. They are clones. Shape them to get what you want.
I could go on all day, but I trust you get my point.
i see what you mean about my father, and there is truth to what you say. he was one of those fathers who worked and worked and worked and was a good provider, etc. home was where he read the paper, ate and slept. dad had been a marine, war vet, surf board maker, baseball player, auto worker, janitor…his parents died in a car crash when he was in 3rd grade and he was pulled out of school to work. that’s all he ever did, all he ever knew. perhaps that is why he ran off with someone else’s wife, someone who always needed to be center stage. he died without his teeth. he refused to take his medicine. surely there’s a lot there to explore. he died without his teeth.
i don’t see the world like that, chance. my challenge is tolerance, though. maybe that’s what you’re seeing. i also am not going to volunteer, despite my compassion for others, for abuse. in fact, that reminds me of a poem i may share with you, but i’d have to share it privately. you will probably only see it as proof of your view of me, but i would hope you’d also see that it’s not so simple, and maybe even beautiful.
which then reminds me of another scot. you scots are awesome.
For some reason I love the idea that he died without his teeth (or perhaps I love the fact that it obviously means something to you; I can’t resist revealing detail). I have to agree with you, there is a story in there.
Please do share the poem. If it is one you wrote personally you need have no worries posting it on here. It’s unlikely many people are reading this conversation, and even if they are, they don’t know who you are.
You know I am a writer; I will never be, or tolerate, unkind/ness to your writing.
it is not that i am worried someone may read it, but that it is not exactly PG rated. however, since you express actual interest, i’ll find and post. brb.
ok. i should say, before you read it, that i wrote it for a specific purpose towards a specific person. it worked..perhaps too well. anyway, feedback is welcome.
—-
Mercy
Is all I ask
You have my pride, my pain, desire
My ache, my craving fire
Deep emotional well
Reined and twisted by your spell
Suffer pleasures for your pain
That you not suffer them again
Give me your pain, master
Though it may be my disaster
I hunger for your absolution
Allow my suffering solution
Let me serve that you may feel
The pleasures of the healed
I am crippled by my need to
Feel you, know you, love you
To taste and savor every bite
Fill my senses to their height
Every moment I miss you
I yearn so much to kiss you
My wanting makes me weep
My well is wet and deep
So I ask please hear my plea
I am begging on my knees
You accept my suffering
As my body burns and stings
May you find your power there
To be healed if you dare
And find love without compare
Use me
Very nice, if worrying. I don’t envy you the sentiment/s, although I understand them. They certainly go a long way to explaining your empathy with Breillat and the annoying Rocco in Romance.
Can I ask the history of the poem? I don’t mean names and who he was – just who the person was in relation to you (the set-up, if you will) and why you felt compelled towards self-degradation. You say it “worked… too well” – do you actually find this negating of yourself rewarding? Do you know why?
i only have a min, but let me start. high school. he was mormon. first person to help me understand my distinguishing difference from others. no romance. found 30 yrs later via internet. still sexually inexperienced, hardcore mormon, but curious, into S&M. me – some exp dominatrix, he likes being dominant. switch perspectives, write poem, give choice, continue or not, warning danger ahead (just being fair). he stayed close. me not feel evil for destroying someones faith. hope that makes sense. later xoxo
that should say he “stayed closed”.
Destroying his faith? You mean he gave up being a Mormon because of your poem? I take it no actual sex ever took place?
no, i mean he DID NOT give up his faith, thus i did not have to feel guilty. That is why i basically called his bluff, so he could go happily back to his sheltered life, or actively make a choice not to. the result was expected, though a bit sad as i missed our talks.
Ah, online flirting as a substitute for dangerous sex. How safe it is, how safe. And Mr Big Chicken ran away on the strength of a POEM? Dear God, he was a waste of space. You never missed anything in High School……..
much more to the story, chancey. i became aware in the middle of it that i was playing with something sacred to him, even if it wasn’t to me. when i was younger, i didn’t care the damage i did to entertain myself, but i’m not younger anymore and i try not to leave a trail of destruction.
would have been interesting if he chose differently, though….
Forgive me, ZS, but horseshit. Any man who is cruising on the internet and having on-line flirtations and discussing his sexuality sufficiently to reveal he has sub/dom cravings, especially to dominate, has no feeling of anything “sacred” about his faith – not unless there is a division of Mormonism that I don’t know about.
Man was a (hypocritical) smut-hound looking for his jollies – all you did was cut too close to the knuckle.
funny how you assume he was trolling the internet,etc. he was not. so far as i know, he never has. like i said, there’s more to the story.
No, you want there to be more to the story. That’s not the same thing.
it’s really interesting to me the assumptions you’ve made.
It’s not an assumption when it’s true.
he was not trolling the internet. you have the roles switched.
i never felt i had to degrade myself as in the poem, i was just writing bait as to what someone like that would want to hear. perhaps what i like to feel like when it’s me, sort of like a saviour.
make sense yet?
He had to be there, ZS, for you to “troll” him. Just because he’s playing Mr Passive-Innocent-You-Have-to-Seduce-Me, doesn’t mean he wasn’t complicit. It just means he has no balls, yet he’s the one craftily playing you, not vice versa.
And I got the bait part early on.
*sigh*