Somewhere along the way, I lost the track of the real reason for masturbation. I got so caught up in having a quick tug before a shower or a quick wank before bed -- I just needed a few minutes to get that build-up and release. But, really, masturbation should be about feeling good and about making me feel as sexual as possible -- and not the "quick, get it done!" attitude I seem to have.
I think the source of this is obvious and I think almost anyone can relate. When I first discovered masturbation, I had to be secretive about it -- and quick. I had to get it done and clean up before any of my family would know I was up to something. Those early beginnings seem to have stuck with me; though I know masturbation can be much longer and much more enjoyable, I still pretty much only masturbate in quick moments.
The other aspect that I think is missing in my masturbation is a focus on my own body. Instead, I'm usually watching porn or scrolling through a dirty Tumblr blog or perhaps reading a filthy book, and my masturbation becomes a reaction to what I'm seeing and reading. This is, of course, totally fine and I certainly don't discourage it. But masturbation should (at least sometimes) be about focussing on my own body, on exciting my nerve endings, on exploring the pleasure I can give myself. In short, the focus should be on me, not what's on my computer screen.
So this past weekend, I set out to challenge my masturbation behaviours. I planned to take the time I needed, leave my computer, phone, and books aside, and just see where my hands take me.
I got on the bed (and put a towel under me so I wouldn't have to worry if I made a mess) and got naked. I was already hard -- my lust was anticipating this act, perhaps I was excited to focus on myself for a change. I started stroking. Being a bit more of a bottom, I soon found my fingers exploring south of my balls and poking at my hole. I squirted some lube on my fingers and pressed against my opening, sliding my finger in deep.
Hmm... I'm in a coffee shop as I write this and getting a hard-on from the memory... I better calm down a bit.
I had a good time pleasuring myself. It was a much different experience from that quick tug before I hop in the shower or the before bed jerk-off session while watching a video online. This was much more focussed on the pleasure coursing through my body -- my entire body -- rather than just pleasing my dick.
Those quick wanks are often entirely dick-focussed. Stroke and tug and stroke and tug until I come and I get that quick rush of pleasure through my body. But the slower me-focussed masturbation included pleasuring my whole body -- my dick, my balls, my hole, my prostate, my nipples, and even the irregular breathing as I gasped in pleasure as my finger brushed against my prostate.
This, of course, isn't something I can do all the time -- I can't always spare a half hour or more to jack off and my ass isn't always ready to have fingers shoved deep inside. Besides, sometimes I really do want that quick release in the morning and I often really do want to look at porn and stroke as I admire the raunchy scenes playing out on my screen.
But what this exploration in masturbation has shown me is that I should be treating myself and my body to this pleasure every now and then. It's about being good to myself. And it's about embracing masturbation as a healthy part of my sexuality; it's no longer that quick and dirty deed I did as a teenager. Masturbation is about treating myself to pleasure and touching myself in ways that no one else can.
Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Go-Go Boys of Club 21: The Complete Series. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.
Showing posts with label self-love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-love. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Friday, September 25, 2009
I Have No Shame
I've done it on a train.
I've done it on a plain.
I've done it on a boat.
I did it once near a goat.
I've done it in the pool,
And once upon a stool.
I've done it in the bathroom,
I've done it in the kitchen,
And yes, I've done it out in public,
Now will you please quit yer bitchin'?
I've done it with my husband
And I've done it all alone;
While working on the computer,
While talking on the phone.
I've done it at my parents,
I've done it in my car.
I've done it here, I've done it there,
I've done it near and far.
I really have no shame, see?
And can you really blame me?
For doing what's so natural,
It's really matter-of-factual.
We all know deep in our hearts
That everybody...
Farts.
What? What did you think I was talking about?
Oooooooooh, that!
Yeah, I do that to.
;)
I've done it on a plain.
I've done it on a boat.
I did it once near a goat.
I've done it in the pool,
And once upon a stool.
I've done it in the bathroom,
I've done it in the kitchen,
And yes, I've done it out in public,
Now will you please quit yer bitchin'?
I've done it with my husband
And I've done it all alone;
While working on the computer,
While talking on the phone.
I've done it at my parents,
I've done it in my car.
I've done it here, I've done it there,
I've done it near and far.
I really have no shame, see?
And can you really blame me?
For doing what's so natural,
It's really matter-of-factual.
We all know deep in our hearts
That everybody...
Farts.
What? What did you think I was talking about?
Oooooooooh, that!
Yeah, I do that to.
;)
Monday, September 21, 2009
Love the One You're With
By Jenna Byrnes
One negative aspect of writing erotic short stories can be the lack of time for a relationship to blossom. When an author is working within word limit constrictions, it's harder to get to the steamy stuff fast. Readers (and publishers) want sex in their erotic romances. If the characters don't know each other, they come across looking like horndogs when they hop into bed on page three.
Jude Mason and I have addressed this in many of our co-authored works by having the characters in already established relationships. But sometimes, the story calls for a new romance. And it's not always feasible for the sex to happen right off the bat.
One way to get the spice in there early is to throw in a little self-loving. This adds heat, and at the same time, gives the hero/heroine a chance to fantasize about someone they've just met or perhaps only caught a glimpse of.
~~~~~~~~~~
Denise lay back on the bed and pulled her thick plastic vibrator from the nightstand. She turned it on and the soft hum made her smile. It had been just the two of them for so long now, the next time she was with a man he might have to hum like a vibrator to get her off. She chuckled and spread her legs, slowly inserting her plastic friend as deeply as possible. “Oh yeah,” she moaned, using one hand to thrust the fake cock in and out, and the other hand to massage her breasts and pinch her nipples. She thought once again of the man outside, and envisioned him rising over her.
His cock filled her completely, deliciously, and he pounded her until she couldn't take any more.
“Now!” he grunted out the command and she came explosively, feeling his heat pour into her in waves.
“Yes.” She held on until their simultaneous shuddering had stopped.
“Rest now.” He kissed the side of her face gently. “There are so many more things I’m going to do to you. Relax, and get your energy built back up…”
Denise withdrew the vibrator and turned it off. Her pussy had that pleasant “used and abused” feeling to it, but she still wasn’t satisfied. She wanted more, and she knew who she wanted to give it to her.
~~~~~~~~~~
When I was looking for excerpts for this blog post, I discovered something interesting. Every masturbation scene I've written has the main character fantasizing about being with someone else. Not one of them was happy to be in the moment, loving the one they were with, so to speak.
I guess this makes sense given the genre. Perhaps an erotica anthology about 'self-love' might celebrate the act, but in erotic romance, apparently it takes two...or more...to tango. Enlightening!
Sunday, September 20, 2009
A Conversation with Polonius
By Lisabet Sarai
“This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”
The old man shook a gnarled finger at me. His snowy beard wagged as he gulped for air, somewhat overcome by his own animation.
“Good Polonius,” I say, helping him to a velvet-upholstered armchair. “I thank you for your advice. But if we all followed such precepts, what kind of world would we have? A me-first sort of place, full of ego and ambition. No one would hesitate to take advantage of his fellows in order to further his own goals. Violence, cruelty, indifference—to an even greater extent than we already have.”
“Nay, child, 'tis not so. Although I am known as a taciturn and reticent individual, a man of few words who would never vaunt his wisdom or pretend to superior understanding, I cannot refrain from enlightening you and demonstrating the validity of my counsel.”
“Indeed, sir, I wait upon your explanation.” It occurs to me to wonder why I've adopted such antiquated speech patterns, but then, I'm easily influenced. When I visit my relatives in South Carolina, I find myself unconsciously adopting a southern accent. When I'm in New York City, I'm often mistaken for a native.
“As you have truly observed, the world is a sorry place, rife with horrific crimes against God and society that sadden and sicken the hearts of virtuous men such as I. The hard-won wealth of industrious men is squandered and pilfered by perfidious financiers. Did I not say, neither a borrower nor a lender be? Headless bodies are unearthed, the scourge of the undeclared wars between rival purveyors of addictive intoxicants. Every day, it seems, we hear tell of some misguided fanatic hoist with his own petard, taking scores of innocents to hell along with him.
"Some would argue that the perpetrators of such evil deeds suffer from an excess of self-love. In pursuing personal goals, be it glory, riches or power, the villains care not whom they deprive of life or livelihood. Their overarching egoism permits any injury to another. The desires and dreams of others matter not a whit should such desires stand in opposition to the criminal's objectives.”
“Exactly my point.” I slip in my comment as the elderly Dane is gathering his breath for another paragraph or two. “Self-love leads to many ills.”
“You are deluded, daughter, if I may be allowed to say so. I believe that every individual is entitled to hold his or her opinion, however ridiculous, and it is not my place to correct him. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice, that is my motto. Nevertheless I cannot allow you to persist in such an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Yes, sir?” I know I will receive enlightenment whether I agree with him or not.
“These vile creatures who are responsible of the crimes of which we speak, do you think they love themselves? I will be brief. These persons are propelled not by self-appreciation but by self-doubt, inadequacy, an insufficient regard for their own worth which drives them to try and prove that they are better than their peers. It matters not how often they triumph, how full their coffers, how many they slay. No deed, however marvelous or vicious, can assuage their deep-buried convictions of their own worthlessness.”
“So you are of the opinion that self-love engenders virtue rather than vice?”
The elder's cheeks were pink with exertion. He gestured with such energy that, had he a sword, he might well have cut me to the quick.
“I would represent my position not as mere opinion, a bauble to be tossed about in the tavern by drunken wastrels, but as manifest truth. Think on it: what said our Lord Jesus Christ? 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'”
“Sir, I do not think it is advisable to descend into religious arguments on this blog...”
“This is not religion, you green girl, 'tis merely common sense. How is it possible to be considerate, compassionate, generous, if one is not at one's own ease? How can I care for my neighbor unless I care for myself? Kindness toward others is the fruit of self-love, as are respect and affection.
"If you suffer from the belief of that you are inferior, others appear only as threats. Their accomplishments and their worldly possessions accuse you. Voracious envy gnaws your heart. Suspicion clouds your eyes. Believing that you have little, you live in fear that it will be taken from you. Suffering from a sense of lack, you attack those who enjoy the blessings of which you feel you have been deprived.”
“Self-love protects a man from this curse. Knowing one's worth, one can appreciate the worthy deeds of one's fellows. A man who is true to himself can afford to be even-tempered, tolerant, charitable. He can follow my oft-repeated maxim: take every man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. He can share his bounty, loving his neighbor as the Scriptures dictate, because he is confident that no one can deprive him of the love he bears himself.”
Despite his volubility, the old man made some sense. “Well...”
“Think on thine own case, wench. You are a scribbler, I believe, penning fantastic tales for the ignorant masses.”
“Well, I'd like to imagine that my readers are not ignorant...”
“No matter, that is not the meat of the matter. I have heard that you are quite willing to help other authors, are you not? You write peer reviews, offer critiques, share information on opportunities for promulgating news of their activities and for disseminating their own scribbles, and so on, do you not?”
“Um—yes, but I don't see...”
“I beg you not to interrupt your elders, girl, when they are attempting to share their hard-won wisdom!”
“Sorry. I offer my apologies, good Polonius.”
“I accept them graciously as is my wont. Beware of entrance to a quarrel, I always say. Where was I? Oh yes. You are moderately generous with your time and your energy. You do not feel that these other authors are your enemies, do you?”
“No, of course not! I am happy to provide assistance where I can. Many people have helped me. It is only just that I reciprocate, maintaining the flow of positive deeds.”
“You do not envy other authors' success?”
“Perhaps a bit, but I know that in most cases they have worked hard to achieve what renown they may claim.”
“And what do you think about your own writing ability?”
“Well, to be honest, I have a fairly high opinion of my work. I know that I am not a great artist – I will never be a William Shakespeare – but when the inspiration hits, I can write a spicy tale that entertains.”
“You see, you love yourself. You believe yourself to be worthy, in the realm of your writing at least. This allows you to share your time with other writers without feeling threatened. You are true to yourself and hence you cannot be false to your fellows.”
“Hmm. I suppose that you may be right, sir.”
“Of course I am right. Videlicet, a sage, well-tempered in the ways of men, bearing the benedictions of age along with its burdens. But the king calls me, no doubt to solicit my counsel. I must hasten to his chamber. Farewell, Lisabet, and remember well what I have said to you.”
“'Tis in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key to it.”
“Good girl.”
“But Polonius, sir, if I might offer you some advice of my own...”
“What is it, child? Be brief.”
“Do not be too curious or eager to spy. And stay away from the arras.”
Felix Aylmer as Polonius in Laurence Olivier's "Hamlet", 1948
“This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”
The old man shook a gnarled finger at me. His snowy beard wagged as he gulped for air, somewhat overcome by his own animation.
“Good Polonius,” I say, helping him to a velvet-upholstered armchair. “I thank you for your advice. But if we all followed such precepts, what kind of world would we have? A me-first sort of place, full of ego and ambition. No one would hesitate to take advantage of his fellows in order to further his own goals. Violence, cruelty, indifference—to an even greater extent than we already have.”
“Nay, child, 'tis not so. Although I am known as a taciturn and reticent individual, a man of few words who would never vaunt his wisdom or pretend to superior understanding, I cannot refrain from enlightening you and demonstrating the validity of my counsel.”
“Indeed, sir, I wait upon your explanation.” It occurs to me to wonder why I've adopted such antiquated speech patterns, but then, I'm easily influenced. When I visit my relatives in South Carolina, I find myself unconsciously adopting a southern accent. When I'm in New York City, I'm often mistaken for a native.
“As you have truly observed, the world is a sorry place, rife with horrific crimes against God and society that sadden and sicken the hearts of virtuous men such as I. The hard-won wealth of industrious men is squandered and pilfered by perfidious financiers. Did I not say, neither a borrower nor a lender be? Headless bodies are unearthed, the scourge of the undeclared wars between rival purveyors of addictive intoxicants. Every day, it seems, we hear tell of some misguided fanatic hoist with his own petard, taking scores of innocents to hell along with him.
"Some would argue that the perpetrators of such evil deeds suffer from an excess of self-love. In pursuing personal goals, be it glory, riches or power, the villains care not whom they deprive of life or livelihood. Their overarching egoism permits any injury to another. The desires and dreams of others matter not a whit should such desires stand in opposition to the criminal's objectives.”
“Exactly my point.” I slip in my comment as the elderly Dane is gathering his breath for another paragraph or two. “Self-love leads to many ills.”
“You are deluded, daughter, if I may be allowed to say so. I believe that every individual is entitled to hold his or her opinion, however ridiculous, and it is not my place to correct him. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice, that is my motto. Nevertheless I cannot allow you to persist in such an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Yes, sir?” I know I will receive enlightenment whether I agree with him or not.
“These vile creatures who are responsible of the crimes of which we speak, do you think they love themselves? I will be brief. These persons are propelled not by self-appreciation but by self-doubt, inadequacy, an insufficient regard for their own worth which drives them to try and prove that they are better than their peers. It matters not how often they triumph, how full their coffers, how many they slay. No deed, however marvelous or vicious, can assuage their deep-buried convictions of their own worthlessness.”
“So you are of the opinion that self-love engenders virtue rather than vice?”
The elder's cheeks were pink with exertion. He gestured with such energy that, had he a sword, he might well have cut me to the quick.
“I would represent my position not as mere opinion, a bauble to be tossed about in the tavern by drunken wastrels, but as manifest truth. Think on it: what said our Lord Jesus Christ? 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'”
“Sir, I do not think it is advisable to descend into religious arguments on this blog...”
“This is not religion, you green girl, 'tis merely common sense. How is it possible to be considerate, compassionate, generous, if one is not at one's own ease? How can I care for my neighbor unless I care for myself? Kindness toward others is the fruit of self-love, as are respect and affection.
"If you suffer from the belief of that you are inferior, others appear only as threats. Their accomplishments and their worldly possessions accuse you. Voracious envy gnaws your heart. Suspicion clouds your eyes. Believing that you have little, you live in fear that it will be taken from you. Suffering from a sense of lack, you attack those who enjoy the blessings of which you feel you have been deprived.”
“Self-love protects a man from this curse. Knowing one's worth, one can appreciate the worthy deeds of one's fellows. A man who is true to himself can afford to be even-tempered, tolerant, charitable. He can follow my oft-repeated maxim: take every man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. He can share his bounty, loving his neighbor as the Scriptures dictate, because he is confident that no one can deprive him of the love he bears himself.”
Despite his volubility, the old man made some sense. “Well...”
“Think on thine own case, wench. You are a scribbler, I believe, penning fantastic tales for the ignorant masses.”
“Well, I'd like to imagine that my readers are not ignorant...”
“No matter, that is not the meat of the matter. I have heard that you are quite willing to help other authors, are you not? You write peer reviews, offer critiques, share information on opportunities for promulgating news of their activities and for disseminating their own scribbles, and so on, do you not?”
“Um—yes, but I don't see...”
“I beg you not to interrupt your elders, girl, when they are attempting to share their hard-won wisdom!”
“Sorry. I offer my apologies, good Polonius.”
“I accept them graciously as is my wont. Beware of entrance to a quarrel, I always say. Where was I? Oh yes. You are moderately generous with your time and your energy. You do not feel that these other authors are your enemies, do you?”
“No, of course not! I am happy to provide assistance where I can. Many people have helped me. It is only just that I reciprocate, maintaining the flow of positive deeds.”
“You do not envy other authors' success?”
“Perhaps a bit, but I know that in most cases they have worked hard to achieve what renown they may claim.”
“And what do you think about your own writing ability?”
“Well, to be honest, I have a fairly high opinion of my work. I know that I am not a great artist – I will never be a William Shakespeare – but when the inspiration hits, I can write a spicy tale that entertains.”
“You see, you love yourself. You believe yourself to be worthy, in the realm of your writing at least. This allows you to share your time with other writers without feeling threatened. You are true to yourself and hence you cannot be false to your fellows.”
“Hmm. I suppose that you may be right, sir.”
“Of course I am right. Videlicet, a sage, well-tempered in the ways of men, bearing the benedictions of age along with its burdens. But the king calls me, no doubt to solicit my counsel. I must hasten to his chamber. Farewell, Lisabet, and remember well what I have said to you.”
“'Tis in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key to it.”
“Good girl.”
“But Polonius, sir, if I might offer you some advice of my own...”
“What is it, child? Be brief.”
“Do not be too curious or eager to spy. And stay away from the arras.”
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Confessions of an Erotica Master
By M. Christian
Okay, “love and lust” ... well, let’s take the last one first.
I’m lucky, I guess, that I don’t have a lot of sexual baggage. My parents had more than their fair share of faults … okay, a LOT more than their fair share of faults … but at least they spared me from the sexual guilt and religious shame a lot of other folks seem to have been saddled with.
Because of that lack of sexual Samsonite, I’ve always been very much in touch with my erotic identity: in short I know what I like and that’s okay with me. In many ways, especially considering the tiny corner of literature I’ve found myself working in, I’m a very simple sexual critter. Sure, I might write about queer bondage, lesbian domination, and all kinds of outrageous and outré fetishes and kinks for the straight folks, but when I turn off my versificator (look it up, it’s from Orwell’s 1984), switch off the lights, and head home, it’s to simple and sweet sexual fun.
Not that I’m dull, you understand. It’s just that compared to my writing life, my nighttime antics might disappoint the two people who read my erotic stories. No whips, no chains, no safe words, no leather, no latex, no appliances, no lingerie (at least not for me), no feathers, no personas, no spikes, no pudding … no kidding.
Sure, I have a few interesting quirks. Part of the reason I think I sympathize so much with queer life is that while I’m comfortably heterosexual, the object of my desire is not exactly common.
In short, I like chubby girls. Not that they’re the only kind of women I like, the only kind of girl who can get me excited, but I do have a preference for a zaftig partner. Okay, that’s not the same as being gay or lesbian but when steaming-with-testosterone-straight-guys happen to walk into my life, and sex comes up, I feel very much like I might as well be gay.
In some ways I wish I did feel shame or guilt about my sexual side, instead of that touch of isolation. Many of my friends with sexual suitcases seem to use it somehow to spice up their erotic antics.
If there’s a darkness to my erotic self, it’s that it didn’t come to life until very late in my life. I lost my virginity to a prostitute (in London of all places) when I was 23 but didn’t have my first true girlfriend until I was almost 28. Luckily I’ve made up for lost time since then. With my ex-wife, I dipped my toes into all kinds of very kinky pools, which gave me some details to add to my smut writing, and also reinforced that while I’ve tried my hand (and other body parts) at cross- dressing, bondage, piercing, polyamory, S/M, BD, D&S, and all kinds of other pervy acronyms, I’m still basically happy with earnest, passionate, heterosexual sex.
So that’s lust. “What about love?” you may ask. Well, here’s where it’s different for me. I love my mother; love my father’s memory; love my brother; I thought I loved my ex-wife; and I absolutely, positively, totally love Jill -- the lady I’ve waited all my life for. I’ve cried for love, ached for love, done stupid things for love – the usual orchestra of emotion that comes when you care deeply, passionately, about someone.
But then there’s the difference, the thing that’s made pretty much all of my life emotionally painful. See, I love a lot of people – friends, lovers, partners, even fellow writers (if you can believe that) -- but there’s someone I can’t seem to love; someone I’ve known for close to 50 years, someone I blame for everything bad that’s ever happened to me, someone I curse with keeping me from success and true happiness, someone I wish would just go away.
His name is Chris. He’s me.
The clinical term is chronic depression but what it means to me is while I have no problem telling a roomful of people, or a blog full of readers, that I like to fool around with BBWs, that I’ve worn frilly pink dresses, gone to sex parties, had my back cut with a scalpel, performed in porn films, and written a lot of very strange erotic stories; that I love my lady, Jill, with all my heart; that I adore my brother, Sam; cherish my mother; and that I’ll go way out of my way to help people who have been kind to me; I’ve never loved myself.
I have meds, I’ve gone to therapy, I’ve talked it over with doctors and even discussed it with religious folks (I’m an atheist) but so far nothing’s worked. No matter how many times I hear it from other people I still don’t feel anything but pain and sadness when I think about myself.
Maybe because there’s no darkness in my sexual side, there
has to be more than a little shade in love, especially in self-love.
But, as I said, so far nothing’s worked – the emphasis is on “so far.” Despite the pain, the leaden weight of low self-worth, I keep trying to get through the depression. I have wonderful people in my life who are there for me, and who hold my hand and whisper the magic words of “It’ll be okay.” I have a few bright lights that shine through the murk of being a struggling writer – which is (sarcasm) the perfect avocation for a depressive.
Some day, I hope, I’ll be able to put out a hand and have it taken by that person I feel is to blame for everything bad that’s ever happened to me, the person I'm convinced that no one can ever love, the one nobody respects, that one nobody wants. Some day, I hope, I’ll be able to say that I love Chris -- that I love myself.
Some day.
Wish me luck.
M.Christian is an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Licks & Promises, and Filthy; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll.
www.mchristian.com
www.meinekleinefabrik.blogspot.com
www.frequentlyfelt.blogspot.com
Okay, “love and lust” ... well, let’s take the last one first.
I’m lucky, I guess, that I don’t have a lot of sexual baggage. My parents had more than their fair share of faults … okay, a LOT more than their fair share of faults … but at least they spared me from the sexual guilt and religious shame a lot of other folks seem to have been saddled with.
Because of that lack of sexual Samsonite, I’ve always been very much in touch with my erotic identity: in short I know what I like and that’s okay with me. In many ways, especially considering the tiny corner of literature I’ve found myself working in, I’m a very simple sexual critter. Sure, I might write about queer bondage, lesbian domination, and all kinds of outrageous and outré fetishes and kinks for the straight folks, but when I turn off my versificator (look it up, it’s from Orwell’s 1984), switch off the lights, and head home, it’s to simple and sweet sexual fun.
Not that I’m dull, you understand. It’s just that compared to my writing life, my nighttime antics might disappoint the two people who read my erotic stories. No whips, no chains, no safe words, no leather, no latex, no appliances, no lingerie (at least not for me), no feathers, no personas, no spikes, no pudding … no kidding.
Sure, I have a few interesting quirks. Part of the reason I think I sympathize so much with queer life is that while I’m comfortably heterosexual, the object of my desire is not exactly common.
In short, I like chubby girls. Not that they’re the only kind of women I like, the only kind of girl who can get me excited, but I do have a preference for a zaftig partner. Okay, that’s not the same as being gay or lesbian but when steaming-with-testosterone-straight-guys happen to walk into my life, and sex comes up, I feel very much like I might as well be gay.
In some ways I wish I did feel shame or guilt about my sexual side, instead of that touch of isolation. Many of my friends with sexual suitcases seem to use it somehow to spice up their erotic antics.
If there’s a darkness to my erotic self, it’s that it didn’t come to life until very late in my life. I lost my virginity to a prostitute (in London of all places) when I was 23 but didn’t have my first true girlfriend until I was almost 28. Luckily I’ve made up for lost time since then. With my ex-wife, I dipped my toes into all kinds of very kinky pools, which gave me some details to add to my smut writing, and also reinforced that while I’ve tried my hand (and other body parts) at cross- dressing, bondage, piercing, polyamory, S/M, BD, D&S, and all kinds of other pervy acronyms, I’m still basically happy with earnest, passionate, heterosexual sex.
So that’s lust. “What about love?” you may ask. Well, here’s where it’s different for me. I love my mother; love my father’s memory; love my brother; I thought I loved my ex-wife; and I absolutely, positively, totally love Jill -- the lady I’ve waited all my life for. I’ve cried for love, ached for love, done stupid things for love – the usual orchestra of emotion that comes when you care deeply, passionately, about someone.
But then there’s the difference, the thing that’s made pretty much all of my life emotionally painful. See, I love a lot of people – friends, lovers, partners, even fellow writers (if you can believe that) -- but there’s someone I can’t seem to love; someone I’ve known for close to 50 years, someone I blame for everything bad that’s ever happened to me, someone I curse with keeping me from success and true happiness, someone I wish would just go away.
His name is Chris. He’s me.
The clinical term is chronic depression but what it means to me is while I have no problem telling a roomful of people, or a blog full of readers, that I like to fool around with BBWs, that I’ve worn frilly pink dresses, gone to sex parties, had my back cut with a scalpel, performed in porn films, and written a lot of very strange erotic stories; that I love my lady, Jill, with all my heart; that I adore my brother, Sam; cherish my mother; and that I’ll go way out of my way to help people who have been kind to me; I’ve never loved myself.
I have meds, I’ve gone to therapy, I’ve talked it over with doctors and even discussed it with religious folks (I’m an atheist) but so far nothing’s worked. No matter how many times I hear it from other people I still don’t feel anything but pain and sadness when I think about myself.
Maybe because there’s no darkness in my sexual side, there
has to be more than a little shade in love, especially in self-love.
But, as I said, so far nothing’s worked – the emphasis is on “so far.” Despite the pain, the leaden weight of low self-worth, I keep trying to get through the depression. I have wonderful people in my life who are there for me, and who hold my hand and whisper the magic words of “It’ll be okay.” I have a few bright lights that shine through the murk of being a struggling writer – which is (sarcasm) the perfect avocation for a depressive.
Some day, I hope, I’ll be able to put out a hand and have it taken by that person I feel is to blame for everything bad that’s ever happened to me, the person I'm convinced that no one can ever love, the one nobody respects, that one nobody wants. Some day, I hope, I’ll be able to say that I love Chris -- that I love myself.
Some day.
Wish me luck.
M.Christian is an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Licks & Promises, and Filthy; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll.
www.mchristian.com
www.meinekleinefabrik.blogspot.com
www.frequentlyfelt.blogspot.com
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