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Saturday, December 4, 2010

In the Dark

I can hardly grasp the speed that time passes me by.

Life isn't easy from the singular side
Down in the hole some emotions are hard to hide
It's your decision it's a chance that you take
It's on your head it's a habit that's hard to break
Do you need a friend would you tell no lies
Would you take me in are you lonely in the dark...

You never listen to the voices inside
They fill your ears as you run to a place to hide
You're never sure if the illusion is real
You pinch yourself but the mem'ries are all you feel
Can you break away from your alibis
Can you make a play will you meet me in the dark...

Don'tcha need me...hey, hey
Don'tcha need me...oh yea

You take no int'rest no opinion's too dear
You make the rounds and you try to be so sincere
You guard your hopes and you pocket your dreams
You'd trade it all to avoid an unpleasant scene
Can you face the fire when you see me there
Can you feel the fire will you love me in the dark...

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


This from the blog, "Jill's World":

Cinderella’s Prince savoring the feel and scent of a sweaty pointe shoe in situ

Cinderella a version lost to history: One of the most popular versions of Cinderella was written by Charles Perrault in 1697. However, a mid 19th century version now lost in the mists of time was apparently the first to include the evolving blocked ballet shoe that was morphing into the modern pointe as an important element in the story.

This version of the fairy tale Cinderella, now lost except for the choreographers notebook in La Bibliothèque nationale de France in Paris, deviates considerably from Perrault’s story and is set in late 19th century Germany and tells of a young German Nobleman just reaching his majority as hereditary heir of a Principality in what is now southern Germany. He was too far from the twin centers of ballet shoe fetishism; Paris and St. Petersburg, to travel there frequently so he vowed to feed and cultivate his growing toe-shoe fetish by establishing a local ballet school with retired dancers from the Paris Opera Ballet whose roots go back to the Court of Louis the XIV in 1661 and the Mariinsky Ballet founded in the 1740s, as teachers for his students.

The student selection process was rigorous, but he managed to recruit a small group of established ballet students from the daughters of the local aristocracy as well as set up beginners dance classes for girls 5 y/o and older until in a few years of unrelenting training and discipline he had a small but accomplished ballet school in which the oldest girls in their mid to late teens were wearing toe-shoes of the most advanced design. And, he had a cobbler shop set up for the sole purpose of providing satin and leather ballet shoes for the students and dancers of his company.

One day on his solitary morning walk to inspect the students at his ballet school the Prince came upon a single ballet shoe lying in the dust of the road. He picked it up and inspected it closely marveling at the tiny, tight, neat rows of stitching the held the ribbons on the shoe thinking the needlework was that of a nimble orderly mind dedicated to her art. Slipping his nose into the heavily stitched block of the shoe he took a deep breath and was entranced by the bouquet of the woman’s scent. It was a mixture of estrogenic sweat, damp leather, paste and fabric and he fancied the shoe still warm with her body heat that had made the block so soft and pliable that he wondered how a woman could dance on her toes in such soft shoes. He immediately became amorously aroused and determined to find the owner and return her shoe.

He hurried on to the school and had all the students and female staff appear before him one at a time trying to find the shoe’s owner, but to no avail and so he asked the Ballet Master to call the roll to see who was missing. The only absent dancer was one of the young French ballerinas, a beloved teacher at the school and who that morning had rushed home suddenly shortly after arriving. And so it was that the Prince appeared at the door of dancer’s thatched cottage at the end of the village. He asked to see the dancer, but her maid said she was indisposed. He insisted and was admitted by her maid who again said her mistress was unwell and wasn’t receiving visitors and he again insisted that she appear before him. So after some time she appeared before him with ashes on her clothes looking pale and unwell and when he asked after her health she blushed and bowed her head and didn’t reply.

Taking her chin in his hand he gently raised her head and in his most gentle and persuasive voice asked her to sit down and please tell him what was wrong so he could make it right. She immediately smiled and blushing apologized for her appearance and said she had been about to light the fireplace in her room to warm herself when a log fell off the grate and covered her with ashes. She said there was nothing he could do since her time of the month had arrived a day early and she was bleeding. She said she expected to be fine by evening as her cramps normally lasted only a few hours at the beginning of her flow.

He understood immediately and was certain the shoe belonged to her, but it was necessary to test his certainty because he intended to make the owner of the shoe an offer she couldn’t refuse. And so he knelt before her and withdrew the shoe from a pocket of his jacket, unfolded its soft satin back and after asking her to extend her left leg and point her foot he slipped the shoe onto her foot and pulled the back over her heel. It fit perfectly! Not one to waste time, while he was kneeling he asked her to marry him and she immediately agreed since she had been in love with him for months because of his kindness to the students of the school and his skills at hunting and diplomacy which she had learned about from traveling minstrels before she arrived in the village to accept a position as a ballet teacher. She thanked him for returning her shoe as the specially blocked shoes were very expensive and took a lot of time to adapt to fit her feet and she showed him her monogram she had embroidered on the inside of the fabric quarter panel of the shoe just to establish her ownership.

The Nutcracker: Prince Freud wrote the story-lines for a series of other ballets that all had the use of toe-shoes for seduction, defense or as offensive weapons and as objects of veneration on or off the feet of the heroines in his stories. And this was at least ten years ahead of the first use of the pointe shoe as a weapon in a mainstream ballet, The Nutcracker. The Nutcracker, a ballet in two acts, music by Tchaikovsky with choreography by Lev Ivanov was first presented at the Maryinsky in December 1892 and in it the child heroine, Clara, contributes to the defeat of the Mouse King by hitting him in the head with the block of her pointe shoe which saved the life of the Nutcracker Prince and earns her his love and adoration in return.

Prince Freud had three daughters by the French ballerina he married and they were all raised and trained by their mother to use their expertise in musicality, technique and stamina in the art of ballet dancing to cloud the minds of the males pursuing them until they so besotted the men of their choice that they got almost everything they wanted and lived happily ever after. By then the process of vulcanizing rubber had been perfected and cervical caps had become effective and the favorite means of contraception in Europe. If carefully fitted and used consistently the cervical cap was extremely effective in preventing pregnancy so the Princesses could plan their families. The daughters married into the nobility of the surrounding countries and in that manner the fetish of the pointe shoe was spread and nurtured throughout the ruling class of Europe.

Male children were tutored in the ballet shoe fetish as part of their earliest education so almost all would seek out Ballerinas as mistresses, consorts and wives in order to support their pointe shoe fetish which in many cases rose to the level of addiction. Even young European nobles sent to be educated in the monastic universities of Oxford and Cambridge in England which were then infamous as hotbeds of repressed sexuality and homosexual Dons could not be swayed from their quest for ballet girls and insisted on the girls wearing their ballet shoes during sex. However, the pattern was broken during the First World War (1914-1918) as nearly an entire generation of the male European elite was slaughtered on the battlefields of Europe and the pointe shoe fetish as a driving force in the lives of the male nobility almost died out.

Cinderella: And then, at the end of the Second World War (1939-1945) a Russian composer and his choreographer produced their version of the story of Cinderella as a ballet in which the pointe shoe became an object of veneration. Cinderella is a ballet in three acts with music by Sergei Prokofiev and choreography by Rotislav Zakharov and was first performed by the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow in November 1945. This ballet was the first in the 20th century to use the pointe shoe as a public object of veneration by substituting it for the glass slipper in the fairy tale and by doing so they rekindled the flames of the pointe shoe fetish and worship in Europe.

Reawakened by the ballet the pointe shoe fetish grew in the mainstream of social life under the noses of one of the most repressive and brutal regimes seen in modern times. Ever since Cinderella was first performed the adoration and seduction of the pointe shoe has simmered and bubbled beneath the surface. Slim girls lovely in satin shoes that make their long gorgeous legs look even more beautiful when balanced on their toes. Over the years Cinderella has contributed to the mystique of all the women who have ever danced in pointe shoes. Of necessity in 1945 the fetish was cloaked in the gauzy mists of feminine beauty, skill and artistic temperament, but the rush to smell and own a dancer’s sweaty pointes was on in earnest in Europe once again.
Posted by Jill at 3:41 PM 10 comments

Attack of the 50' Woman!

Ms. Marie has posted her wish to miniaturize her sissy.  I have long nurtured similar thoughts.  I mentioned in response to one of her posts that I once read an erotic version of a chapter of Gulliver's Travels.  He's in the land of the giants, and oh, the women have fun with him.

Of the pics below, I prefer the Heidi Klum, "I love you little man" giantess to the angry, stomp your ass version.

Remember this song?

Attack Of The Fifty Foot Woman
The Tubes/Snyder

It was a normal date with my girlfriend Sue
Blond hair, blue eyes, and five-foot-two
The night was cold, the stars were bright
From over her shoulder came a strange light

We parked the car down at Three-Mile Point
The top was down, we were really going
I heard her cry, the reactor flared
She grew and grew, I freaked and stared

Attack of the fifty-foot woman
Our love was at an end
All she did to get her kicks
Was step on all the men

I had to run just to save my skin
She scooped me up, I could not win
“My God,” I screamed, to my distress
Got a fifty foot woman in a five-foot dress

Attack of the fifty-foot woman
Our love was at an end
All she did to get her kicks
Was step on all the men

Attack of the fifty-foot woman
Our love was at an end
All she did to get her kicks
Was step on all the men

Look out here she comes
the biggest pair on earth
So scared I gotta go with her

The National Guard couldn’t shoot her down
Before she left she really trashed our town
She left me there, though I tried and tried
A fifty foot woman’s never satisfied

Attack of the fifty-foot woman
Our love was at an end
All she did to get her kicks
Was step on all the men

Thursday, October 21, 2010

I missed it!

Apparently the 20th of October was the 5th annual 'Love Our Lurkers' day started by Bonnie on  The purpose, according to Florid Dom, is to encourage those of you lurking in the shadows to come out and post a comment or two and take part in the blogosphere.  Given the choice, I hope you'll dance!

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Crackerbox Palace

That's the title of a song by the late George Harrison.  What I've read about it is that George used that a a metaphor for the human experience.  Some times are good some times are bad, but in the end it's all a joke, really.  I've always loved the Beatles, and most of their subsequent solo efforts, (excepting of course the Plastic Ono Band, what were you thinking, John?)

I welcome you to Crackerbox Palace!

Tuesday, September 21, 2010


Posts by Lady Grey (see Weekend Ends) and Ms. Marie got me to thinking about the fist time I encountered cross-dressing, and transvestism outside of my own experiences or imagination.

That would have been some time back in the 70's courtesy of Oui magazine.  I was innocently paging through a copy, looking for skin pics, when I came across an article describing a visit to an S and M club in New York City.  Featured therein was a lady going by the name of Belle Du Jour.  The article said she was a beautician by day and a Dominatrix at nite.  (I have long suspected some cosmetologists of leading a double life.)

She presented a slave to the audience, noting that: "When I put a man into female clothing, he becomes exceptionally submissive."  Her creation emerges from behind a screen, a scene out of a fin de siecle novel, a French maid.  The author relates that the details are letter perfect, from the garter belt peeking out of the dress to the lurid polish on the fingers and toes.

Pretty with a smile, n'est-ce pas?

Monday, September 20, 2010

I scare myself....

These are the lyrics to a Tom Hicks tune.  I do indeed scare myself sometimes.  I find comfort and safety sometimes in places that aren't so good for me, like alcohol.  I feel most secure at the feet of a strong woman. Capishe?

I think often about abduction and forced slavery.  I am working on a post recalling the first erotic story I read with this theme.  In reality I think I'd want no part of any such thing, but then, it's all in good fun.  Isn't it?

I scare myself
just thinking about you
I scare myself
when I'm without you
I scare myself
the moments that you're gone
I scare myself
when I let my thoughts run

and when they're runnin'
I keep thinking of you
and when they're runnin'
what can I do?

I scare myself
and I don't mean lightly
I scare myself
it can get frightenin'
I scare myself
to think what I could do
I scare myself
it's some kinda voodoo

and with that voodoo
I keep thinking of you
and with that voodoo
what can I do?

but it's oh so, so, so different
when we're together
and I'm oh so so much calmer, I feel better
for the stars have crossed our paths forever
and the sooner that you realize it, the better

then I'll be with you
and I won't scare myself
and I'll know what to do
and I won't scare myself
and then I'll think of you
and I won't scare myself
and then my thoughts'll run
and I won't scare myself

then I'll be with you
and I won't scare myself
and I'll know what to do
and I won't scare myself
and I'll think of you
and I won't scare myself
and my thoughts will run
and I won't scare myself...

Friday, September 3, 2010

Hey Babe, take a walk on the wild side.

Holly came from Miami, F.L.A.

Hitch-hiked her way across the USA

Plucked her eyebrows on the way

Shaved her legs and then he was a she
She says, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild side
Hey honey
Take a walk on the wild side

Lou Reed

I think Dr. Frankenfurter needs to shave her legs!

Some recent correspondence, and reading, got me to thinking about times past......... again.  Giles had asked for some details on relationships for case study confirming his hypotheses. (See my post 'I once had a girl')  See Giles English's post:

As I mention in that post, it was a hard end.  This was a person who turned me on to the greater depth of Lou Reed's music, including a little number called 'Venus in Furs'.  She took me to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show for my first time.  Afterward, we went to her place.

Her idea, she wanted to make me up, so I let her.  Just as she finished, she became disgusted.  Acted as if I'd conceived the whole thing, that it was nasty and how dare I?

She also introduced me to the writing of author John Irving.  His characters always seem to have unusual sexual preferences.

Strange days indeed.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Is this the way life's meant to be?

As I gaze around at this wreck of a town
Where people never speak aloud
I wonder
Oh I wonder
yes I wonder
Is this the way life's meant to be?

Jeff Lynn of E L O

For those who may not know Electric Light Orchestra AKA ELO was a Supergroup ( before supermodels were invented) of the 1970's

I've been a bit frustrated here these last few days.  It happens from time to time.  I suppose I'm just whiny, but I just hate it when things don't work out like you expect.

Your friend marries the wrong person.  You take off your mirror on a post in the car park. Someone you trust lies to you. Brain food gets squat, porno post gets a bizillion. You buy something online and it just doesn't fricking fit.

It's supposed to fit, it ought to fit.  It's  not  like I'm freakishly large or anything (well, I am modest)....BUT IT DOESN'T FIT!!!!!!!

With the ground at my feet
maybe it's just the old street
I wish I was back in 1981

Monday, August 30, 2010

Panther Village

I saved this some time back, when I found the other one posted on "Panther Girl".  Thought you all might find it interesting.  Don't forget to say hi if you stop in.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Lonely, I'm Mr. Lonely....

Well, I'm not really. Sure would be nice if somebody, anybody would post a thought as a comment.  Here are some starters for the last post:  Yes Jack, it IS a woman's world.  Lucky for us they can't drive and/or get lids off jars (or put them back on)! Whew!!

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Little Big Man

This photo was posted on the blog I referenced in my previous post.  Of course, we all lived in the land of giant women at one time, didn't we?  

That's it then, really, isn't it? Where it starts.  That place where some little boys learn to obey.  

What one could help but to be enthralled. There she is, a giantess.  She has the power.  She can pick you up and carry you.  Make you sit, stand, speak, be quiet.  She can pull your pants down right now in front of everyone, spank your behind and make you cry.  Then afterward, she can comfort you, pet your head and tell you it's OK. She may not have dominion over many things, but she has it all over you, her little man.   

When you're a good boy, and you please her, you are in her favor.   You get to touch, and smell and experience her.  Her love, her compassion, her divine feminine wiles.  Perhaps she'll share, let you wear pretty things, see how it feels to be a girl.  She may delight in tormenting you.  Holding you down, her mule falls from her stocking foot.  "Do you want to smell my feet?" she laughs, smiling as she presses her toes to your face. "Of course you do, that's a good boy."

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Gulliver's Travels

The artwork is a bit primitive, but I like it nonetheless.  There is a post here: referring to having her man in miniature, the size of a doll, so she could 'do' things to him.  In reality, this is about the size difference of my wife and me.  (It's a bit of a stretch, but not much.)

I oftentimes wish that I was little.  When I was a boy I used to fantasize about being in a land of giant women who, though they loved me, used me as a toy.  What fun we would have.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Fish and whistle....

....whistle and a fish, eat everything that  they put on your dish.  When we get through we'll make a big wish that we never have to do this again, again?, again??  Father forgive us, for what we must do.  You forgive us and we'll forgive you.  We'll forgive each other 'till we both turn blue then we'll whistle and go fishin' in the Heavens.

John Prine

I spoke with my sister this evening.

Two years ago last March, our father lay dying.  I had to travel a bit to get to his bedside.  Early the morning I arrived, my sister and I were the only people in a large and well furnished family waiting area in the hospital.  We talked alot about dad, our family and bygone things.  She burst into tears and said "I'm so sorry that I was so mean to you........all those things I did to you.  I know that it's affected you".

I told her that I had forgiven her years ago.  (She had no idea, apparently I forgot to tell her).  She stopped crying.   She was taken aback.   'You did?'  I reminded her that about twenty years prior we were having an argument.  I'd reminded her about how she had treated me.  At the time she'd said to me:  "I told you I was sorry, aren't you ever going to forgive me?'  Right then and there, I did.  I never mentioned the subject again.  She was torturing herself about what she'd done.  I didn't want her to be hurt, I only wanted her to be sorry, and she was.  So that was that.

I had held a grudge for quite some time. Earlier in our lives I'd bring it up. Like a stick, I'd beat her over the head with it.   My pain, her guilt.

On the phone this evening she brought it up again.  Again I told her that I held no grudge. I told her that I was long past that, and she needed to forgive herself.  I am who I am, and what I am.  All in all pretty happy about it too.  I have a great family, beautiful children.  No complaints, no shame.

It hasn't always been that way.  It used to be that I was very much ashamed of myself for my kinks.  I felt unworthy and unloveable.  I was damaged goods, so who would want me.  Indeed, the one woman to whom I had revealed myself told me as much when we finally parted.  (See my post: 'I once had a girl')  I went back into hiding.  That was back in the days before the internet, so I really had little idea that there were indeed good people who were just like me. Case in point: See Ferns post on survey results part IV. One of the respondents on that blog, a young dominant female, struggles with her desires, feeling arousal and guilt simultaneously.  I feel her pain.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Hello in there...

So if you're walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes,
Please don't just pass 'em by and stare
As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello."
 John Prine

Some almost two hundred peeks in my window in the last two days and nobody's bothered to say hi?

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Panther Girls of Gor

I found this picture on another blog.  The related blog post had little to do with the image itself.  The title is, 'Captured by a Panther Girl'.   Panther Girls live on Gor, a mythical place.  This is what Wikipedea says:

Gor (pronounced /ˈɡɔr/), the Counter-Earth, is the alternate-world setting for John Norman's Chronicles of Gor (sometimes called the Gorean Saga), a series of twenty-eight novels that combine philosophyerotica and science fiction.

The customs, terminology and imagery depicted in these books inspired a related subculture. On- and off-line followers of this lifestyle are called Goreans

The artist here has taken a few liberties with the character.  This rendition appears to be a modern day Earth version of a Panther Girl and her slave. (note the charcoal grill and the aluminum chaise).  Still, I cannot help but be aroused by the image.  His nipples, ears, naval and cock have been pierced.  He's been shaven, head to toe. He appears to be sporting lipstick on his lips and his johnson.  His eyebrows have been waxed and it looks like he's wearing eyeliner and mascara. In some of this artists other renderings, the slave has polished toenails and fingernails.  Sadly not this time.

The post he's cuffed to is, according to the story, a place where the enslavement ritual takes place.  If he's not her slave yet, I think that threshold is one soon to be crossed.  What does the picture portend?  I think presently he'll be serving her fruit and wine and licking her feet while she relaxes on the chaise. (Later maybe brats on the grill;-)

Tuesday, June 8, 2010


So, I awoke a bit too early Saturday morning and, as I didn't feel like getting out of bed I tried to go back to sleep.  Usually I'll tell myself a story.  I've been putting myself to sleep with bedtime stories as long as I can remember.

That morning I was thinking about bondage, a cropping and, for the first time, electric shock.  My thoughts were no doubt influenced by a post that I can't find now but it linked to this: 0:59 Add to queueAdded to queueDown in the dungeon with Mistress Denna16,112 viewsseekermanning

I finally got out of bed and went to the kitchen to fix breakfast.  Made from scratch pancakes with real maple syrup are standard Saturday fare in our house.  My wife came in and started poking, tickling and pinching me.  She seems to like to wait for the most inappropriate times, like when I have a hot griddle in front of me, or a big glass bowl full of batter in my hands.  When she was pinching me she said: "Maybe I should have something to shock you with, like a cattle prod".  Sometimes wives say the darndest things.... apparently she can read my mind.

So, I was thinking about what might work.  Something that could be used in close proximity, and no actual tissue damage.  I thought maybe a cattle prod. They're a bit expensive and unwieldy looking, so I googled electric play and some stuff about the violet wand came up.   I did not see anything about where to get one, but one comment was that they are very expensive.  Anyone have experience with such things? Perhaps a less costly alternative?

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Lost in the translation...

In looking for the words to a poem by my favorite 19th century poet in regard to another post I'm working on,  I came across this little gem.  I could not resist sharing it.

Wenn ich in deine Augen seh,
So schwindet all mein Leid und Weh;
Doch wenn ich küsse deinen Mund,
So werd ich ganz und gar gesund.
Wenn ich mich lehn an deine Brust,
Kommt's über mich wie Himmelslust;
Doch wenn du sprichst: "Ich liebe dich!"
So muß ich weinen bitterlich.

Heinrich Heine 1797-1856

I think some poetry can be translated and retain the intent of the writer's message, but then again things are oftentimes best expressed in the language that they were originally written.  So it is with most of Herr Heine's work.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Too soon gone.

I attended the funeral of the father of one of my friends last week.  I debated going, as I wondered if my friend would want me there.  As it turned out, he did.

It was emotional for both of us, a great deal more so than I imagined.   As I mention in previous posts, I was very much attached to my dad.  Still not a day goes by that I don't think about calling him to tell him this or that.  There are many things my father told me in the course of our lives.  He and I spent a great deal of time together, and yet, it was still not enough.

Folks have been slipping away from me, I guess it's always been that way.  My father's cousins. One was a priest.  He was a scholar and my ideal minister.  Dad used to say to me.  'Stop by and visit Father Ralph', on my way to and from wherever I was going.  I was young then, and life seemed eternal.  Ralph had always been there.  Perhaps in not being cognizant of my own mortality I did not see his either.  Then one day he was gone.

Uncle Lee.  We never really got to sit down and talk about some things that I'd wanted to ask him about.  He was killed by a cracker.  The guy was speeding, suspended license, no insurance on a borrowed truck.  Blew through an intersection and then Uncle Lee was gone.  I always say that there's no such thing as a worthless human being, but then some white trash asshole kills my uncle and I have to think, well, maybe there are one or two....  Lee was a kind, loving man for whom there was nothing more important than family.  Taken too soon.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Dear Abby....

....dear Abby, You won't believe this: My stomach makes noises whenever I kiss.   John Prine 

So, I was reading the news the other day and I came across the advice column.  A woman had written in to complain that her marriage was sexless.  She said was not attracted to her husband, never had been.   She explained the reason she married him the  first place was sort of because everyone else liked him and it seemed like a good idea at the time.  Now she's wondering if perhaps there's something more that she's missing.  Well, DUH!

Stuff like this just blows me away when I read it or hear about it.  

I have a friend who dated a very attractive young lady many moons ago.  He was a dashing fellow himself.  Blue eyes, curly brown hair, natural athlete with a perfectly proportioned physique.  Personality abundant, he's the type of person that I would be pleased to have my daughters bring home.  He confided in me that this particular young lady would never let him touch her.  Apparently her mother had her convinced that sex was disgusting and painful.  "When your time comes, you'll have to lay there and take it.  It's your duty."    

Flash forward a decade, another friend, this one a female. Petite, blonde, cute as can be.  She told me that her marriage had been without physical affection for almost the entire length of it's nine years.  I told her that, if I were I a single man, I'd be wanting to lick her all over like a postage stamp and paste her on my forehead.  

I may be peculiar, but a loveless marriage is downright perversion.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Uber den Traum

The subconscious mind is a most intriguing thing to me.  (See my earlier post nosce te ipsum.) My first love   in education was psychology.  Biology, genetics and psycho-chemistry also fascinated.

Saturday night I had a dream.  In that dream appeared a girl I knew some twenty plus year ago. We lived overseas and traveled together as a group in college for a foreign language and cultural history program.  I'd not thought of her consciously for some time.

In the dream we were going to have conjugal relations.  It never happened in the dream nor in in the gegenwalt.  In reality, I was somewhat repulsed by her as I perceived her to be not a nice person.  She was sadistic, and a mean sort of a sadist.  Of course sadists are mean, Jack, you say.  I think one can be a tormentor and still have sympathy and love for the tormented.  (See 'Rosemary'. We were buds, she just liked to whup me every now and again. Playing with one another as it were.)  The girl from the dream in reality was more like a cat that played with the kill before eating it, NOT my kinda gal.

Then again, in the dream, she wasn't the intentionally evil person I knew her to be.  She was sweet, like Tupelo honey, another paradox.  This leaves me wondering why, of all people, my little brain would que HER up, and make her sweet?

Friday, January 29, 2010


David Crosby

        Almost cut my hair
        It happened just the other day
        It was getting kind of long
        I could have said it was in my way

        But I didn't and I wonder why
        I feel like letting my freak flag fly
        And I feel like I owe it to someone

        Must be because I had the flu for Christmas
        And I'm not feeling up to par
        It increases my paranoia
        Like looking into a mirror and seeing a police car

        But I'm not giving in an inch to fear
        Cos I promised myself this year
        I feel like I owe it to someone

        When I finally get myself together
        I'm gonna get down in some of that sweet summer weather
        I'm going to find a space inside to laugh
        Separate the wheat from the chaff

        Cos I feel like I owe it, yeah
        Said I feel like I owe it, yeah
        You know I feel---- like I owe it yeah to someone

        This ditty, another penned by Jimi Hendrix "If 6 was 9" and Joe Walsh's "Life of Illusion" make me sometimes wonder what I might be like if I did not have somewhat unusual proclivities.  In the past I have decided that I would be 'normal'.  Cast aside certain aspects of myself.  Usually end up felling depressed.   I wonder though, would I be as funny?  As compassionate?

        When I was in college, right after the breakup with the love I thought would save me, I went through an extended period of self denial.  Strictly vanilla, dated girls and told them nothing of my secret self.  I wonder if others have had similar experiences with their kinks?