the boy, rook

Guy Fawkes Day – Do Something Subversive

Remember remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot…

Happy Guy Fawkes Day! Traditionally a holiday in England to remember the failed plot to blow up parliament. The original intent was probably more along the lines of cautioning the populace against foolhardy attempts at rebellion, sedition, and treason; today it’s mostly an excuse to get drunk in a field with a great big bonfire.

On this side of the pond, though, I like to think of Guy Fawkes Day differently: Do Something Subversive.  No treason or attempts at overthrowing the government, please, and don’t do anything stupid. But do stand up for something important, do go against societal norms, do something that makes people think or feel slightly uncomfortable, or do something that makes you uncomfortable.

Take a naughty photo of yourself or write down a crazy fantasy (and send it my way, I’ll put it up). Go to your local Occupy ____ movement and bring them food, or pick up a sign and protest greed. Leave your big-name bank and join a credit union or small local friendly bank (it’s not that hard to do). Hell, donate food or volunteer at a soup kitchen, come out of a closet, go get your mail dressed in your finest kinky wares. Whatever it is, do something unusual for you and for those you live amongst. It’s better than just going with whatever daily flow we all get ourselves stuck in.

Shame, Kink, and Privacy

Leatherati has had some interesting articles lately on kink shame; and I’ve seen a (somewhat obnoxious) video floating around espousing the basic tenets of coming out as kinky to friends or family. And then yesterday rauber wrote a personal post about his own tussle with privacy over his kinky interests. So it all got me to thinking about my own perspective on kink, privacy, and shame.

Ever since I accepted that I was gay, I’ve not felt ashamed of myself. That didn’t mean I instantly came out of the closet, though. I have a life-long policy of not debating fundamentalists, or really even listening to them, so I didn’t outright tell my family not for fear or shame, but because I didn’t want to deal with their judgmental ignorance. But that was a mistake, because my being gay isn’t a phase, or a choice, or a passing interest. It’s my identity. Who I love is who I am. And those I loved deserved to know that. Today, I don’t exactly leave a glitter trail wherever I go, but I don’t shy away from describing my husband. This is a part of my identity, and I’m not ashamed of it.

But the fact is, I don’t apply the same standard to my kink. Yes, being a kinkster is a part of who I am, but I don’t feel the same need to announce it to everyone who passes by. Kink, leather, submission or BDSM do not make up the whole of my identity. What I do – in the bedroom, dungeon, conference, hotel — is not who I am. For most people, it’s none of their business. I don’t ask my family how they like to have sex, and I don’t think it’s anyone else’s business how I like to have sex. But if I was ever asked, or if the concept of kink and BDSM came up with friends (because it just never would with family … it just wouldn’t), I would defend it and describe it for those who are uninformed. Because I do believe that the kinky community is misunderstood and often maligned. And I would freely admit my interest, in context, because I’m not ashamed of it, I just enjoy my privacy.

Scene Names

In his article on the topic, Loren Berthelsen brings up a lot of concepts in a very short article. How do we deal with events, say, if going to IML and being asked why you’re traveling to Chicago. Do we just say “a convention” or do we describe exactly what IML is. And for that matter, what is IML? I think for those of us who travel to events like that, we are choosing to shed some of our right to privacy and have that responsibility to educate those who might be interested. But there’s a difference between being open and educational and ramming it down people’s throats. Just as those of us who wrestle with dual gay-Christian identities have to disassociate our love from our sex for the sex-obsessed fundamentalists, we kinksters need to be able to describe the community and enthusiast aspects of our events without leading people to being that kink-cons are just great big orgies (even if they are great big orgies … it’s all about proper messaging).

There’s more! Read the rest of this entry

blablabla work blablabla lion king blablabla halloween

I have nothing particularly interesting to say. Sorry. The weekend was … fine. I didn’t work. I should have, but was tired most of it. My dog hasn’t been sleeping well and so I haven’t been sleeping well. Though Sunday was nice – did some volunteering painting the lobby of a local food bank. Last night the husband and I tried to watch a scary movie – Priest – which sucked. Halloween has never really been my thing. By the time I think “we should carve pumpkins,” it’s too late in the season. I don’t really dress up, and haven’t been to a Halloween party in a long time. Maybe next year I’ll go as a gimp … and just keep going as a gimp for the rest of the year.Thanksgiving and Christmas was always more my thing. I love Christmastime. Commercialism and over-hyping, not so much, but in general, I love going all out for the next couple of holidays.

This is going to be a busy week. Nothing really going on today. Tomorrow is dinner with the in-laws (now that’s a scary halloween event).  Wednesday we’re going to see a musical – our first in Denver. Thursday is my husband’s art class. Friday evening is some more volunteering. So, busier than usual kind of week. On top of it I have a ton of work to do with two major projects, both of which need a lot of time this week, plus the innumerable annoying small tasks that will inevitably creep up and demand to be taken care of right now because it’s an emergency and everyone’s going to die if we don’t have this paragraph changed on our website oh my god you suck at life, rook. 

If only they made gags for emails.

I slept wrong last night, and so can barely turn my head today. I don’t feel sexy or kinky. So I don’t really have anything tantalizing to say. This is kind of a nothing most. Sorry.

I did start thinking up an idea for submitted, though. Something big and awesome, but a lot of work to bring to life. I think I’m going to do it … it will just take a while to finish.

Okay, I should stop blogging and go back to work. Those frantic emails aren’t going to ignore themselves.

Chapter 6: Welcome to Your New Life, (Shit Head) [Part 2]

This is part 2, following up from this entry. Read that first!

The next morning I woke to light thwacks of the riding crop through the bars. I opened my eyes to see Ethan in boxers and a wife-beater (boy-beater?). “Get up, boy.”  He unlocked the cage and I crawled out; my limbs were stiff and my cock half-hard. He sat on the edge of the bed, “Position three, right here,” indicating the spot in front of him. I had to think for a second, which one was that? “Now, boy,” Right, attention. Damn, was I groggy.

He slapped my cool skin with the crop – not much more than a tickle, really, paying special attention to my cock and balls. It didn’t take long for them to wake up to full strength – the sight of Ethan’s well-build arms outlined in that tight shirt would have done it alone. “Put this on, you know the drill.” He handed me a condom, and like last night, I put it on and turned my head to the wall, careful not to close my eyes. My mind was still blank. Like before, I could sense him watching him, like a piece of meat, though this time he took greater liberty with the riding crop.

I jacked off, came into the condom, and took it off. I followed him into the bathroom where he stripped and stepped into the shower. “You have two minutes to do whatever you need to,” I relieved myself and brushed my teeth with the provided toiletries. He turned off the water and stood, dripping wet, looking incredibly hot. I’d seen him shirtless on his Recon photo, but everything was ten times more magnificent in person. I’d never seen someone so well built, so handsome, this close. “Wait any longer to dry me off and I’m going to beat you bloody, shit head.” I snapped out of my reverie and grabbed a towel.

When he was sufficiently dry, I was told to grab my scrubs and go make breakfast. Eggs and toast. He came down in gym clothes, I served him. “Position one.” I returned to a corner while he ate and read the paper. I heard him get up and leave the room, calling behind him “eat the leftovers, clean up, then come into the office.”

A few minutes later I appeared at the door and waited while he tapped at his computer. “You talk in your sleep. You’re not supposed to speak, even when unconscious. Clearly I have to reinforce the issue.”

He stood up and came over to me; in his hands was some sort of leather strap contraption, a head harness. He placed it over my head, the straps securing in two places behind my head. A muzzle-like gag could be unbuckled from the harness, and it was fitted with a small pecker-like protrusion, big enough to occupy my mouth but not cause a lot of discomfort from forcing my mouth open too long. He placed it in my mouth and secured it in place.

“I’m going out. While I’m gone, you will clean my house – every room, including downstairs. You’ll find supplies in the laundry room for up here. The dungeon has its own supplies in the front closet.”

He then put foam plugs in my ears. As they slowly expanded and muffled the ambient noise, I heard him say, “I’ll leave you alone with your own thoughts. All rules apply.” And then he left.

In my silent mental cage I went about the work, finding the supplies and scrubbing away. The house was already immaculate; he probably had a maid or something, and now that maid was me. I made the bed, did the laundry, changed the sheets, cleaned the mirrors, dusted. It was actually a lot of work – I wasn’t used to cleaning such a large house. I barely ever cleaned by own apartment.

In the dungeon, I found the mop, bucket, and gallons of some sort of specialty cleaner for sex toys and tools. I scrubbed the table and fucking machine that mock-raped the gimp from yesterday, the chains and stool I was tied to, the bathroom I was locked in. In another room I dusted and cleaned a St. Anthony’s cross and some sort of bondage table. I peeked in the closet, and my eyes widened to take in the rows of leather tools, straps, ropes, gags, floggers, whips, and boxes of other things I didn’t dare explore.

Several hours later I was tired, a bit sweaty, and my freshly shaved skin was starting to itch all over. I finished the work, putting everything away and wondered what to do next. It was the middle of the day, so I made Ethan a sandwich and wrapped it, ready for him when he returns. I figured a little initiative wasn’t a bad thing. With nothing else to do, then, I assumed positioned one and stood there with my thoughts.

I closed my eyes and envisioned my place in this story. A new boy, serving, cleaning, and now stowed in the corner like a vacuum or robot unused. I wondered what this would make me – what kind of person I would become. I wasn’t sure that the person – or tool, really – that I was acting as this weekend was the kind of person I wanted to be for the rest of my life. But at the same time, throughout the day, I really only cared about doing a good job, about cleaning the house well, about doing what I thought would make this Master happy. The thought that I was the plaything to the hottest man I’d ever seen played almost no role in my thoughts. Somehow, the service aspect was fulfilling, so whatever I was to become, would probably be profoundly different from my selfish instinct. At least, maybe.

After a while, I was startled to feel his hand on my shoulder. My mind was off in some other land and time, and my heart raced from the surprise. He took the foam out of my ears. He looked sweaty, he must have been working out. A smile graced his lips. “Good boy, there might be hope for you yet.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Follow me and you’ll have a little reward.”

There’s more! Read the rest of this entry

Friday Favorites: Clips & Clothespins

One of my very first bdsm toys were clothespins I pilfered from the laundry room growing up. The thing about clothespins is they look worse than they are, at least until you take them off. They give good leverage for torturing nipples though, and one scene I really want to try some day is the one where you take a bunch of clips, attach them to the sub over a piece of string, and then after he’s acclimated to them, rip the string off and all the clothespins with it.

My nipples were never that erotic for me until that one fateful training in Nashville. Now, I love it when my husband bites them, and often I beg him to bite them harder, deeper, to twist them and leave a mark. One of the next things on my list is getting tied down and clipped as much as my skin will bear. I want to push that feeling to my max, to see where the limit lies, and then push further.

Chapter 6: Welcome to Your New Life, (Shit Head) [Part 1]

Previously: Chapter 5
After a harrowing introduction and demands to commit to real service, Ethan sat me down in a small living room. Weekly he would check in with me, to ensure I was still sane and okay. But at the same time, he demonstrated this was not about sex, not for me anyway, and began the journey of teaching me real service, apart from over-sexualzation. Six rules to follow later, the weekend began.

The six basic rules rattled around in my head. I repeated them over and over so I wouldn’t forget one. Having no idea what punishment would be like, but seeing just how crooked Ethan’s mind could get, I wasn’t eager to find out. When we get upstairs from the dungeon, we enter his living room. I’m guessing we’re in a brownstone – a New York townhouse, though I still have no idea where in the city after driving for what felt like hours, after my “kidnapping.”

I manage a quick glance around the living room before I’m told to go stand in a corner while he makes a phone call. Everything seems normal for a successful sales executive living in (or near) the greatest city in the world. Wood floors, big windows, a comfy-looking leather couch, large TV, and a variety of books, knick knacks, artwork and other decorations neatly ordered. He’s no slob, clearly; and he has good taste, but strikingly, not a single hint of naked man or kink could be seen. No porn, magazines, or Maplethorpe artwork. I don’t know what I expected … matching slings to watch TV from?

I hear him end his call and come back into the room. “Your in position number one. When I tell you to assume this position, you return to this corner with your hands folded behind your back, staring straight ahead like you were looking through the wall.

“Over this weekend you’ll be taught new positions. Do not screw them up.”

“Yes, sir.”

THWACK! went his hand upside my head. “Did I ask you a question?”

I realized that no, he didn’t. Somehow I’d assumed I was supposed to confirm that I understood the instruction, figured a “yes, sir” was respectful, appropriate. I paused too long.

THWACK! went his hand again. “That time I did ask you a question. Do you understand what being seen and not heard means, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

I did not reply. Instead I followed him, as directed, to the main part of the living room, standing between the couch and the television. “Put your feet about shoulder-width apart and bend over to grab your ankles.” I did the best I could, wishing I was a little more flexible. Ethan thought the same, apparently, and placed his hand on my upper back and pushed me down further. I grabbed as tightly to my ankles as I could, trying to stay in the position he wanted. “This is position two. It may be for punishment, it may be for fucking you. It might just be to turn you into furniture. But when I call for it, you assume this position and do not move.”

He left me there a minute, then, “Stand at attention.”

There’s more! Read the rest of this entry

When Your Ex Starts Doing Porn

You know what’s weird?

When you’re clicking through your daily porn feed and see a picture, thinking to yourself, “Huh, that guy looks like my ex-boyfriend D—,” and on closer inspection, realize that it is, in fact, your ex-boyfriend tied to that table and getting poked, prodded and fucked.

You know what’s even weirder?

When your ex has chosen your real life, unusually-spelled first name as his porn pseudonym. If you Google my first name you aren’t going to find that many people. An artist here, a eastern European airplane engine manufacturer there, a nonprofit doing good things over yonder. You find me, and now if you click a page or two deeper, you find my ex tied up and hanging from the rafters.

Supposedly, D— and I were each other’s first boyfriends. We met on a website for gay Christians. We lived about 11 hours apart by car. I was in college, he working in a shop owned by his aunt and uncle. We hit it off. I drove out to see him, he came and visited once, it all went well. I may have even tried a little bit of kinky play with him at the time – a little candle wax, if anything – but my memory is fuzzy. By all accounts we were a good match. About 6-8 months into it, he broke up. And to this day, I don’t exactly know why.

I got some half-hearted reason why it wasn’t working for him. We talked on and off after that, until he ultimately disappeared altogether. When I moved cross-country I had to drive through his town, so I dropped in on his office to try and get some truth out of him, a little bit of closure. It was fruitless, but it was closure. The next time I heard from him was about 10 months later, when he called to say he tested HIV+ and everyone else he’d been with said they didn’t and so that just left me to tell and ask, thus implying I’d been the source. A test later that day proved I clearly wasn’t.

Over the years, I pieced stuff together and in fact, I’m still piecing bits of the truth together. Today, I have absolutely no idea what, if anything, he ever told me was the truth. I may have been his first boyfriend but not his first playmate (I discovered recently on his blog he’d had a kinky encounter 2-3 years before we met). After I dropped in on his office, most of what he said was derailed by friends who called me to see if I knew where he was, because he’d stopped talking to them months prior. Updates to social networking profiles, pictures on forums, posts here and there, boyfriends’ blogs … the reality is I don’t think I have any idea who I was dating. But at the same time, I don’t think he knew either. It’s one thing to be finding yourself, another to weave a web of lies and half-truths. Maybe he dumped me because he ran out of stories to tell, or maybe it was just because I was fat, or maybe it’s because he felt he couldn’t admit what he was into because of our gay Christian backgrounds.

So here we are. Both kinky. Both into largely the same stuff. Me writing erotica and deep thoughts about my kinky self, him on the road to a porn career. I don’t wish him any ill will, no more than I would a stranger since that’s all he really ever was. Whether anything he ever was or said was true, he seems to be finding himself now and enjoying life, so good on ya, D—. Best of luck.

But as far as using my name? What the fuck is that about? There is no way in hell that was happenstance, you don’t choose my name out of a hat. Is it him trying stick it to me in some way? Is he trying to get my attention, assuming I’m watching search results? Am I still so always on his mind? Gimme a break.  It wouldn’t be hard to find out I’m a kinkster, one glance at my social profiles would be clear, so maybe he knows too. But why use my name? That’s just … weird. A touch insulting, maybe, a bit off-putting, a little crossing the line. It doesn’t directly affect me, it might just make personal brand management a little bit tougher. It’s mostly just … weird.

First Snowfall

Last night around 9pm our first big snow storm of the season came to Denver! Here it is about 9am, and it’s still going! Last night it was rather fast and wet, blizzard even, but now its just gentle flakes falling. 6 – 10 inches in all, is what we’re expecting, I guess. It’s really quite beautiful … it feels like Christmastime, which I love … except that it’s fucking October. The trees – still with their leaves – outside our apartment are so weighed down with the heavy white stuff they’re bending. It’s kind of insane, really. Snow before Halloween feels like sacrilege to this east coast boy.

From what I understand, it melts really fast in Colorado (closer to the sun, all that jazz). And this is just a weird cold snap of a day – it dropped 25+ degrees from yesterday, and the rest of the week will be in the 50s and low 60s again, so this isn’t going to stick around, at least not in Denver.

I just hope this is a sign of what the next few months will be like – because I love snow … only when combined with fireplaces, cabins, cocoa, snuggling and presents.

Boy Becoming

In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me, shaped and perfect in attitude and action. I have only to hew away at the rough walls that imprison the lovely apparition to reveal it to the other eyes as mine see it. 
– Michelangelo

They say that if a shark stops swimming it’ll die. I say that if a person isn’t constantly improving himself, or working toward the next phase of his becoming (whatever that is), he might as well die.

The problem is, going through transitionary periods, from one chapter in life to another, can really suck. That’s especially true if it’s a long period, or if things happen along the way that throw one off course or are otherwise discouraging. I’m learning that the key is to recognize your transition, embrace it, and continuing to press forward toward the goal.

This past weekend my husband and I hung out with some new friends. It was the first time we’d seen their house … and it was amazing. Big, beautiful, perfectly designed … our friends have life together in a way I didn’t even imagine. They’re successful, they’re established, well off, with good jobs, 2 kids, a dog and a yard. We were impressed, genuinely happy for them, but for the next couple of days we were hit with these feelings of jealousy that we really couldn’t explain. It wasn’t so much that we actually coveted their things (though maybe their house), but that we envision our lives being pulled together in just such a way and we recognized we aren’t there yet.

We have a picture of our life as we want it, and we have a ways to go. Our jealousy was rooted in the desire to make ourselves what we envision – my husband the writer, me the business owner. The experience was a jolt, a kick in the pants, to stay focused and continue our journey of becoming.

The story goes that when Michelangelo completed his David sculpture, he wasn’t asked how he could make something so beautiful out of a slab of simple marble. His response was basically that he studied the slab, saw where the statue would be, and simply chipped away at all that wasn’t David.

These days, this year especially, I feel like a half-exposed David still stuck in a slab of marble. The next me, the new me, the next chapter of my life is taking shape and forming. I’m chipping away at what isn’t me. In some ways literally – through my fitness endeavors – and in other ways I’m forming the life and lifestyle I want in terms of my business, work, sex and social life. It just takes time. David took four years to emerge from his marble.

Yeah I was jealous of my friends’ stability; just as I am often jealous of other kinksters’ ability to own and thrive in their leathers and ropes. But I remind myself, and try to focus on, the fact that I’m a boy becoming, I’m in transition, I’m on the move, and I’m working toward what and who I want to be. And as long as I’m working toward that goal, then I’m not dying.

Friday Favorites: Outdoors

I’ve always loved being outside, especially anywhere there’s woods, seclusion, or just a nice place to be, away from all the noise of the world. I lived in a lot of places growing up, the last place on 8+ acres of mostly woods and swamp, and I had my own little clearing nestled away, by a creek and away from anything. I’d go out there, strip down, and just enjoy being exposed to nature. In college I did the same thing camping and hiking – getting out into a secluded spot or even cabin, and just enjoying a slower pace. Now that I’m in Colorado, I’m looking forward to more time outside. First will be skiing, probably, and then as winter thaws it will be back to the trails and camps.

Obviously from a kinky perspective, being outdoors is awesome. Exposure. Vulnerability. So many things to tie a boy down to. I’d love to have a little getaway weekend, in a private cabin, just serving a Dom inside and outside. The possibilities are endless, and kind of obvious, that I probably don’t even need to get into them here. I couldn’t if I tried, my mind is swimming with the notion of it all!

Not an outdoors pic but service in a cabin, so it fits.

Wishlist: The Hobble Belt

I find equipment incredibly hot, but there are only so many variations. Enter this amazing piece of awesome: the Hobble Belt from Mr S Leather. I think this thing is the most ingenious new piece of gear I’ve seen in a long time. Simple, elegant, bondage on demand. And functional to boot! A Master can stand ready to bind his boy anywhere he wants/needs, or a boy can carry the tool of his own servitude with him at all times. Either way, you’ve got a handy strap of leather perfect for putting one in his place.

I know this sounds like an ad, but that is not an affiliate link and I’m not getting any kickback. I’m just honestly impressed with this belt.

Hat tip: Metalbond.

Chapter 5: Well, That Was Different

Previously: Chapter 4
Accepted into service, kindnapped, thrown in the back of a van and driven someplace far away. Dropped in a hot, damp room. Questioned under hot lights, heard some poor slave get raped by a machine, whipped, and abused. Forced to reconcile and defend why I wanted to serve, and ultimately, accepted … but only after choking down an immense cock from my tormentor. Needless to say, it’s been an eventful night. Now I wait in the front room near the dungeon, dressed in scrubs, wondering what comes next. 

Pacing.

All I could was pace the little front room I’d been directed to. Back and forth, all 8 or 10 feet of it. There was a small barred window in the upper portion of the wall. We were in a basement, which made sense in a way. Of course Master’s sex dungeon would be in a basement. Where else would you have one? And apparently I’m already calling him Master, in my head. That’s … new.

Too jazzed up to sit, my mind racing, I continue to pace. In this room there’s a small couch, small TV, a couple of end tables, a bookshelf. All pretty standard affordable Swedish fare. I wasn’t sure what it was I’d just experienced. Who was that slave? Where the hell did this Anthony guy come from? Was this what life was going to be like? Mindfucks and sucking off Ethan’s friends? And what if they got bored with blowjobs, I know his threats about tearing open my ass were at least half true. There’s no way in hell I could have taken that monster.

Ethan entered the room holding two bottles of water. It was the first time I’d really gotten to look at him since this whole day began. He was dressed for casual Friday at the office, buttoned shirt and khakis. It was weird, because he doesn’t do casual Fridays. Even on the road, at that fateful conference in Chicago, it was always a dress shirt and tie.

He handed me one of the bottles. “Have a seat, boy.”

I took the bottle and moved over to the couch, gingerly sitting on the edge of the cushion. I was still nervous and not sure what I should do or say or how I should act, and also my ass hurt from that damnable hybrid pole-bike seat I’d been on. But no sooner had my butt hit the cushion than I felt Ethan’s strong, tight grip on the back of my neck, pushing me off the couch and slamming me down on the floor. “On the floor, shit head. Really?! I have to explain that to you? Jesus fucking Christ.”

I’m suddenly ashamed, I should have known better – I’ve never done this but any moron reading protocol on the Internet should where to sit. This isn’t my colleague, this is my Trainer, Tormentor, Master. He closes his eyes holding the bridge of his nose, composes himself, and then looks at me more calmly.

“You belong on the floor, at my feet, always. Unless I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. So for now, you may come sit on the couch.”

I hesitated a bit, because I was nervous this was a trick, but this was something different – this whole situation. Ethan was being friendly, this room was not a place for torture or punishment. I move up to where I’d started.

There’s more! Read the rest of this entry

blablabla ouch blablabla life blablabla sweaty

So in an effort to post more in general, even when I’m not feeling particularly creative, kinky, or otherwise cogent, I’ve decided to post more of the mundane. After all, I can’t be brilliant in every post … in fact, I’m rarely brilliant in any post. I’m just a guy from Colorado moving along in life, occasionally getting tied up, beaten, and otherwise tortured.  But I have a regular life and goals and such. Since I so often say there are many facets to me and kink is just one part of me, I might as well make this blog more about the whole of me, not just the perverted me. Hopefully I don’t get too boring.

My legs fucking hurt right now. Like, really bad. It’s all because on Saturday I started a week of intense training in my fitness regimen … I decided this week I was going to go full tilt in my workouts, pushing hard, fast, and long. I’m calling it a radical transformation week, where I focus intently on my goals and activity and not slack off or wimp out. Saturday was the first day, and it happened to be a day where the only muscles that weren’t already sore from the workouts in the week previous were my legs. So I started with a leg workout.

Quads, Hamstrings (less of those, because apparently I’m a weakling), squats, some sit-ups, but mostly squats, and endurance exercise and leg extensions. I went until I couldn’t stand up. And then I did an hour and a half of cardio, mixed between the elliptical and the treadmill. So, a lot of leg work on Saturday.

Considering these two legs have had to carry my generous self around for a long time, they’re pretty strong as it is. 90+ minutes of cardio isn’t actually a big deal. It’s a little bit of a big deal after doing strength training, but I pushed through. Then on Saturday night we went to the Matthew Shepard Foundation’s Gala (which was really cool), and there was a lot of standing ovations and otherwise, so the workout continued, apparently. By Sunday … good lord, I could barely walk. By the afternoon I could barely get in and out of the car. I had to fall into seats like a pregnant woman.

It’s ridiculous not being able to get up and down stairs without looking like a gimp. I skipped cardio yesterday because I wasn’t sure I could get back up the stairs to my apartment afterward. No such luck today, though. I still hurt, and hobble around like an idiot, but I’m going to have to get a good workout in. No slacking.

At least I enjoy pain I don’t really like being somewhat debilitated in basic movement but generally, I don’t mind the pain itself. It’s a reminder that I’m sculpting a better me. And it increases my testosterone (as does working out in general) so I get a little extra horny too. But I have a distinct feeling the gym is going to suck later today, and I’m going to need to listen to the little Master in my head threatening me to continue on or else. Because if it were only up to me, I wouldn’t leave my desk for the next 8 hours, despite the fact I have to pee really bad right now!

Candles & Wax Redux

So after posting yesterday’s Favorites of candles and wax, I found a few more great shots courtesy the amazing Ruff.

Friday Favorites: Candles & Wax

One of the earliest kinky self-sexplorations I did was with candle wax. I had this little shoebox full of random tools and other household goodies, and chief among them were candles I nicked from the drawer of hot waxy goodness. I loved the anticipation, the heat, singeing my hair and skin, and that sudden sting of hot wax hitting my skin, again and again and again.

I haven’t yet found a limit to my love for wax. I kind of want to be encased in the stuff, or strapped down under 100 dripping candles, or any number of such things. In my first real training, my Dom for the weekend tied me, blindfolded, to the bed, and played a trivia game. For every question I got right, nothing happened. For every question I got wrong, I either had wax dripped on me or ice water. It was a weird sensation, really. After a while both sensations felt virtually the same, and I reacted more to the ice than the wax. I was also prone to flinching long before the substance hit my skin … which was probably more of a reaction to not knowing when or where it was going to hit me. A part of me also seriously considered getting everything wrong, but my Dom was wickedly smart, and asked really tough questions, so I didn’t really need to try to hard to be an idiot.