So, I've casually embarked on two separate, often overlapping quests of inquiry: 1) to define my own submission by experimenting with different Doms, and 2) to insinuate myself into-- or at least observe, in some capacity-- the LA kink scene. Last Friday, I decided a jaunt to Threshold in North Hollywood with the clean-cut older Dom from the Gloryhole shindig would afford that sweet avian culinary & spiritual delight, Two Birds with One Stone. But first, we met at a nearby 50's revival tiki bar to talk about the weather.
(((((((Now that I'm a little older I can say that I'm amazed that (some) people's ability to socialize does not necessarily improve with age. I meet and fraternize with so many older (than me) folks (around 30-45) that seem plagued with some kind of interaction anxiety. I see this on the street, when I bike behind someone and whistle at them to get their attention; they tense up, begin to apologize profusely, and shuffle quietly to the side.)))))))
Immediately upon arriving at the location, let's call him Officer Cowboy-- named for the plastic cap gun and badge that he genuinely used to "threaten" me-- began, at 200 words per minute, apologizing for everything and anything and the world and my sweaty brow and so forth, A gentleman is one thing-- I enjoy a gentleman Dom, who takes me out to lavish dinners, presents me with expensive gifts, and treats me (at least outside the bedroom) like a princess; but his niceties became ingratiating. He was so wrought up about me biking a few miles to our rendezvous that I became to feel embarrassed for myself, as if my indifference about making the dimunitive trek made me pathetic or too accommodating. Meanwhile, my German Dom was a little miffed when I told him that biking 14 miles to his place at 8pm might not be feasible for me.. There must be a happy medium..??
Before we even entered the bar, he looked at me, touching my forearm lightly,
"This is great. Yeah, this is great because nothing is going to happen between us because I'm 43, and I'm old enough to be your father and that's a problem and that's great because there's no pressure because you're so young andandandandandyeahyeahyeahuhyeahADINFINITUM."
I think, "That's a problem..?" But I say, "My father is 72." Granted, it wasn't a very witty reply.
His facial expression freezes-- a thought. "Well, (beat), yeah. Yeah, but I could still be your father if I was like 20 when...".
We were carded upon entering the bar. After, Officer Cowboy gave me a serious look, "I'm kinda glad he did that."
"What?"
"Carded you. I mean, just in case you're like 19 or something. I mean, riding your bike. Living at home. It's kinda teenagery, don't you think?"
It was already grossly apparent to me that our sexual interests did not coexist on the same tectonic plate.
****
But he was just such a sweetheart, and so submissive, and doting-- something about his persona was so juvenile, that I found myself deeply mentally enthralled by the possibility of what I could only imagine what an impossibility: that Officer Cowboy, a died-in-the-wool-cuffs sub, called himself a Master.
So, after a lovely conversation about film and kink and writing and crazy ex-wives and past lives, he suggested we play at Threshold and I agreed.
****
Both of us fully clothed, me between his knees, on my knees: I, in jest, told him I was 18. He became very alarmed and asked me in a nervous voice if that was true and that he would need to look at my ID. I confessed that, unfortunately, I was past my tender teenage years. But, if I was 18-- and I might be-- it would still be perfectly legal. He sighed, relieved that I was not that young. "You're right," he exhaled, "it would be legal."
Later, he chained me to something that functioned as a St. Andrew's cross, but looked like a prop from a low budget vampire flick: a big iron "web" of sorts. I guess that made me the helpless moth. While I was subjected to "torture", like swats on the nipple, and violent verbal abuse, like "You're mine!", Officer Cowboy decided he would exploit me not for my young pussy, but for my literary talent.
"The Emperor demands a poem. And it must rhyme. Otherwise you will pay heavy penalties."
Between swats, tweaks, and flicks to my exposed sateen flesh, I babbled about how Officer Cowboy rendered the feats of Augustus, Caesar, Alexander the Great, and Napoleon totally worthless. When I returned home in the wee hours I reworked it a bit...
Shall I compare you to the Parthenon?
Or the endless Aegean sea?
You, my gilded Emperor, my hero--
With all of your tics and trimmings,
Seem as loaded on arsenic as Nero.
Like Orestes to Athena, arms outstretched suppliant
Something soft sleeps between your thighs,
Your will feels just as pliant.
****
Anyways, the evening was efficacious. First off, Officer Cowboy and I remained good friends and writing buddies (besides our parallel kinks, we get along just dandy). Second off, I had a stark moment of revelation where I understood my fantasies are often considered distasteful, extreme, even within the kink community. All throughout my night at Threshold, I kept trying to classify my seemingly disparate, embarrassing fantasies, that have years laid unverbalized in my lizard brain... Somehow the umbrella term "humiliation" just seems lacking, limited...
((((((Officer Cowboy read my last post and immediately texted me, "I read your last post about German kink. NOW I agree with you. I could not do the things he can do to you. I'm not a spit or a fluids guys as you can tell by the large bottle of a sanitizer in my car lol. Honestly, I couldn't even spit on you. I could, but it would not feel good for me."))))))
My revelation drove me to a frenzy--- the minute I got home, I joined the
I Have Sick, Disgusting, Sometimes Violent, Incest, Rape, and Molestation Fantasies
[[I Have Sick, Disgusting, Sometime Violent, Incest, Rape, and Molestation Fantasies]]group on Fetlife.
Thinking, I had finally found my place in the >sun<.
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