Could it be that after over 2 million words we are running out of things to say? I guess nobody would be terribly surprised if that were the case. Fortunately, at least for the time being, I don’t think I’m out of things to say. Sometimes it feels that way. Other times, I wonder why I write it all. I understand that quite a few people read our posts every day. So what?
Sure, it’s fun to know that people hear what I have to say. But since I don’t really know any of our readers, or at least I don’t know that anybody I know is a reader, the amount of dialogue I generate is close to nonexistent. Sure, some folks do comment and we sometimes have interesting online conversations. Mostly, though, like other people who write, I send my words out and hope they find a home in someone’s mind.
Before the Internet, people who wrote for strangers generally got paid to do so. In the days of newspapers a lot of writers believed that their words ended up lining the bottom of bird cages. Thanks to the Internet, my words aren’t even useful for bird excrement. They just sit on some giant disk drive and occasionally surface on a monitor somewhere. If my writing is sexually arousing, my words on that screen are in danger of being splattered by some errant semen. Ignominious at best.
The thing about words, even unimportant words like mine, is that they are immortal. Long after I’m gone, somebody will stumble across a post I once made and maybe pick up a little insight. I’m very sure that my last thoughts when I shuffle off this mortal coil will not be about my potential impact on future generations. I’ll probably think about the fact that I left the water running in the bathroom. Or, that that damn dog toy is sitting on top of my slippers again.
The reality for a writer is no different than for anyone else. Life is full of small events, most insignificant in the scope of life, but a few turn out to have a much bigger impact than ever imagined. That impact is not likely to be on anyone but the writer himself. Because my life is so public, pretty much every incident that conforms to the law of unintended consequences is embarrassingly exposed to you at the same time as it is to me.
This all came to mind this morning when I realized that by perfecting what used to be a BDSM activity, I managed to turn it into something I almost never experience. I’ve written a lot about my arousal at the thought of being spanked. Over the years, I have mentioned that even as a little kid the idea of someone smacking my bare bottom turn me on. Of course, when I was little, I didn’t quite understand what was happening. All I knew was that my little penis got stiff and it felt good. I didn’t learn about masturbating until I was 11. Before that, erections were a nice, if somewhat odd, thing my body did.
Anyway, in my BDSM circle, I was always considered a really good top, but pretty wimpy when it came to being spanked. It appeared that spanking was just something that I enjoyed thinking about much more and actually experiencing. It wasn’t until much later, after Mrs. Lion and I started approaching the subject more seriously, that I learned I wasn’t really that wimpy at all.
Guys in the male chastity world love to smile and say, “be careful what you wish for.” Aside from being a sentence, it ends with a preposition, it represents a bit of conventional wisdom. What it really means is that you better be careful about turning over power to someone you don’t trust completely. Of course, the male chastity guys want their keyholders to “abuse” that power and make them wait longer than they would like. Still, it’s fun to point and laugh and say that old “be careful what you wish for” admonition.
Yesterday, I was mourning the loss of my recreational spankings. I was thinking that those spankings, or at least the thought of them, provided me with a regular source of sexual arousal. I was wondering if my current lack of interest could be related.
It could I suppose. But I didn’t want to think about being spanked. It wasn’t that Mrs. Lion would refuse to spank me. She’s never turned down an opportunity to paddle my butt. Whatever’s happening is all inside my head. I’ve always been very good at conjuring up images that turned me on.
I think Mrs. Lion is right. I’ve just been suffering from a low-grade infection that sapped my energy. My penis is definitely a little more active today than it’s been in some time. It’s showing signs of standing at attention given any chance at all. Go ahead, Mr. Weenie, show us what you can do.
Anyway, I’ve discovered that I don’t really have to be careful about what I wish for. It turns out that when the window closes, a door opens. How’s that for a cliché? For example, when spanking stopped being recreational, our disciplinary relationship added new dimensions to our love. Fair trade!
The same is true of orgasm denial. Loss of control of my ejaculations traded up, I may add, for a completely interactive sex life with Mrs. Lion. I think this is true of almost every male who practices orgasm denial and enforced male chastity. I think is a really good deal!
Based on my track record, I’m not going to remain spanking-free. There’s almost no possibility I will continue to behave perfectly. There’s got to be something I’ll forget that Mrs. Lion will need to help me remember with her paddle.
Even if I don’t slip up, Mrs. Lion is almost certain to want to continue toughening my hide. I won’t enjoy the process, but I appreciate why she does it. She needs the exercise. I need to feel her love. I’m very glad I wasn’t careful about what I asked for.