This is as sinful as today will get. A few minutes a lone with my coffee and a tattered book. Not far from people I miss dearly but will see soon and with friends from other parts of the world near by by pure serendipity.
It’s a cool summer night not far from the ocean and you can still taste the salt from the harbor on the breeze. I am sitting in a room at a private club based on a mix of Asian color scheme meets the the Kama Sutra. My companions are two good friends and a friend of theirs.
It sounds like it should be a paradise and don’t get me wrong I had a great time and got a lot of business done. Still though lurking in the shadows on that dark couch with dim lighting and suggestive eroticism I wished you were there with me.
Tha banter changed from work to what women discuss in detail with their friends. And given the circumstances all I could do was nod and smile. It is funny that when people who are not in an alternative life style (kink, swinger, whatever), aren’t sex writers and are married make me uncomfortable whetheybayart talking about sex.
Odd right? At one point they even asked if the conversation was embarrassing me. So as the group pondered if the TSA always sniffs her panties or uses them to jerk off with. I can honestly say even as a fairly committed kinkster with interesting friend those thoughts never crossed my minds.
Now have an irrational fear about then using my rope for god knows what. Yet I did what i always do I pulled back, said very little. After all what could I offer beyond…there is nothing wrong with sex toys, not all perverts want to sleep with everyone. In fact I am highly selective about whose company we keep sexual and otherwise.
The truth is most dates I go on have far less racy and sexual commentary. And those are with people who I play or sleep with.
People whon have seen naked, done things too and might even have participated in a fantasy or two with. None of which whobhave ever talked about things that made me feel so reserved
Yet at one point a question was put squarely to me. I just shrugged and said “guess it’s only kinky the first time then it’s just fun” They laughed and I was off the .hook.
Though really in would have rather been with kinky folks. There is a lot less pressure to not say something untoward. Well that and none of my kinky friends have a default assumtion that airport security always sniffs their panties.
After several tumultuous months personally and professionally it all came to a head mid last week.
By Wednesday night everything that could be accounted for was and I had agreed to take the next wild ride of my life professionally.
The world I live has always been fluid. A great example was the Sunday before I was in Brooklyn having lunch with Victoria before going to an event when I got word a meeting I had reconfirmed not 18 hours earlier had been moved. This led to a mad scramble to change flights, cancel hotel rooms and car service while rebookibg others. The most frustrating and worst of all breaking a dinner date with a firey 50s style pin up bombshell I was truly looking forward to.
That though is my normal kind of crazy. By Friday the ink was dry on my new deal which meant I would go from traveling the country to the world. I left home monday morning with 4 domestic cities(and 3 major social outings) on the agenda for the week. Before I parked the car there were flights for the following weeks being booked to travel abroad.
I knew it would happen but never suspected it would be so fast. Then reality hit me…I can never leave home without my passport again.
Literally my trips will be changing countries and regions on short notice…not just cities and states. That an extra shirt may not be enough anymore. That 2-3 will be the norm, same day laundry will be a necessity, and that more dates will be made and missed.
It is not all bad though there will be times when I can steal away and explore, that I can visit friends who live abroad. And I can see some great parts of the world in the lap of luxury even if I am being rushed from place to place and hounded by a handler of some sort. This is the life I chose, it is the scene I spent years building up to, and months of detailed negotiating to obtain.
In short I strapped myself to this rocket, know damn well how lucky I am to get to go on this ride and if all works out well will steal a few special moments with friends and loves somewhere along the way.
Welcome to Malflic version 6.66 as always the devil is in the details. This deviant is going global.
Photo courtesy of Ava Grace
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A Guest for Dinner
A Beautiful Need
A Purring Machine
A Hard Man is Good to Find
In a different world
I Crave You!
Lolita Twenty-Twelve, Part Four
My 69th Orgasm
Owned Part 4
Sensual room service
The Space Between
The Wicked Wench of Wupert Stweet
The Desk of Power
What I’m thinking about when I’m…
When Frederick Met Camille
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Living with an Alpha Sub
Make Her Cum
Swinging and safe sex
Talking with the Lights Off
The Promiscuous Bisexual
Why Do I Have More Respect For Men Than MRAs?
What not to do for anal sex
Wants, Needs & Poly
Kink & Fetish
A Boot Scene
Consent as Torture
Mores and Behavior
Pursuit of Squirting
Playing With Lightning
Submissive men: A celebration of beauty
strapping on…my first time
Submission for a Femdom Facesitting Film
I suppose if you are a literal type being a sadist has a fairly constricted set of guidelines and actions. Sure depraved cruel creativity can be admired but the intended outcome is usually pretty much the same; unless of course it’s not and the sick fuck is me. Welcome to my own version of torment and hell.
Over a month ago I started planning a date night for me and the Chesty Blonde. A week later I told her we’d have a special night coming up soon. You could see a hint of what the hell is he up to this time in her eyes.
A week later I gave her the date of the planned evening. After a long inquisitive look she shrugged indicating “well ok since I don’t really have a choice”
Last weekend I told TCB what time we’d have to leave. Monday I sent her a calendar invite which I had never done for anything before along with an included dress code of Sexy Cocktail Dress and Heels. Specifying a dress code is so not my style but I informed her I’d be wearing a dark suit with no tie (yeah I know shocking).
My bet is she thought she knew the plan figuring I was going to take her out to a favorite restaurant in the city (the one with the dress code I described). Two days later though I sent her a list of names of six other couples. First names only, none of which she knows. I could feel her nerves building as we chatted after I got home from Gotham. She was in that “I think I’m not going to like this and you’re a dick space” so I did what all sadistic jerks would, swatted her on the ass, kissed her, and went off to go to sleep. Well the truth is I asked if she wanted to know at one point n the middle of that night. She opted not to. And to think she claims not to be a masochist. Still seeing her a getting a little more nervous it each passing hour after all these years is still fun, hopefully she’ll have a great time.
So here’s the back story. I don’t know any of the couples either. I don’t know if I’m going to like the night’s activity or not. It will involve uncomfortable acts for both of us but none of which can’t be performed in public or would require a safe word. Someone will have a hard time following directions to let the other person lead. It’s a completely nilla outing but I never indicated that and let her assume the worst. We’re going to dinner and dancing lessons night out. If you see me sometime soon perhaps I’ll be salsa or tangoing by…but most likely not. What’s the worst thing that can happen I prove once again there are things in this world I’m not properly equipped for? So what. I’m just looking forward to having an entire night with the Chesty Blonde all to myself.
She’s been elusive all day, she’s been shopping and trying things on again and again. when I put my boots on to go out a few hours ago I could tell she was semi anxiously watching my every move. My allegedly covert mission was to grab some cash and a few other necessities like a cup of coffee. As I type I can hear her heels clicking above my head as she wonders what shoes to wear. I know she mentioned to Diva she hopes like hell I didn’t sign her up for “some pole dancing class”. So she’ll twitch a little more when we pull up to a dance studio which is something I hadn’t planned for.
Am I a dick enjoying all the worry and prepping? Probably but its part of my charm.
I set this to post after we’ve left the house for the night. If you’re reading it on the day it posted odds are we’re engaged in these very disturbing acts right now. If you’ve never seen me dance you’d know why I say disturbing.
This week I found myself sleeping with a splendid view of Park Ave. Right off the bat there should be something wrong with that sentence. I was in NY and am talking about sleeping? After all I was there and saw some of my closest friends, ate at amazing (and completely over priced restaurants) and ordered a single cocktail that stunned me with a price tag of 37 fucking dollars. None of those reasons are why I actually went to sleep though.
After a good meal and a run in with a coat check Nazi we headed out to Campbell’s Apartment which is a regular about to go out haunt for me. Other than a bias against cashmere head coverings but not Jazz musician and rap mogul style caps the crowd was hip and beautiful even at 9 at night. The staff was stunning with their 20’s style black dresses and pearly necklaces. The diet coke was cold, the cosmo’s I’m told were just right and the tall doubles poured very stiff.
From there we descended into the night into a few other establishments that looked like they were straight out of the movies. Ironically I was rocking a colorful shit and exotic leather shoes. The place was littered with an amazing assortment of tall, exceedingly thin beautiful women. It should have been my kind of party. After all a 7-1 women to men type ratio should have put me into a feeding frenzy…but it didn’t. Perhaps I had gone fagola (yes that is an offensive Mel Brooks “Men in Tights” reference so what). Not the case, it was simply we ran in different circles.
I work hard not to stereotype but sometimes fashion model types really are dumb as a bag of hammers. I suppose it’s wrong of me to say but if the chic clothes fit your size 00 ass then wear them. Granted at times I just don’t play the game well. I didn’t want to play who has spent more lavishly on stupid things game, I could care less about your 23 year old Swedish Au Pair problems, or the possible violation of international law and using the term Swedish and the French word Au Pair in the sentence. You get my drift I was just not in the mood.
On this particular night I was not meeting any women of substance…at least not on the surface. Perhaps I wasn’t in party mode but it proves even in my shallow world that pure bliss does not come by merely being surrounded by very well heeled people, over priced luxury everything, and far more beautiful women than is fair for any one man. Then again after all I wasn’t looking for a tryst, my next Ex Wife, or to “discover” anyone. All I wanted was a decent conversation about books, theater, wine, family, friends, religion, politics, or sovereign debt. In the event I couldn’t have that eye candy wasn’t merely enough. So I took my dark and twisted little soul back into the street, contemplated my options, hailed a cab and head back to my hotel where I opened the drapes, peered out at Park Ave, cracked my window to let the sounds of the city in and slept for 8 hours straight which for me is a rare treat.
I learned in the morning my friends returned to the hotel bar shortly after me, equipped with libations and a few books took up shop and talked well into the night. I’m sorry I missed that part .
So a lot of people make new year resolutions. I thought I’d start off the new year by sharing some of mine. Not so much resolutions after all most folks don’t write down things like “I want to be in more extremely lurid situations with women of questionable morals” as a goal they’d publicize. The problem with that is that is exactly the type of thing I’d want to not only write down but achieve. Despite that here goes nothing.
1) Actually write funny stuff on occasion (stick with me on this one, seriously I use to have a sense of humor about a lot of things)
2) Post at least once a week. Let’s face it I sucked last year at doing anything related to writing. I wasn’t living the wild life and just not writing about it so time to change both things really.
3) Make it to 2 local social outings a quarter (It’s a disease but like greedy corporate monoliths I measure my life in 3 month increments) Here’s where I need some help both cosmically speaking and from the cruel goddess of social calendars. Note I did not define these as pure kink events since that limits my options and have been trying to see a local burlesque show for months now. A swinger mixer would count, anything slightly dirty would be an improvement.
4) Have the Chesty Blonde attend a local function with me. For such a social girl I have a bitch of a time getting her to go out to the same things I do.
5) Get dirty in 4 new places. Granted this one is running related but hey dirty is dirty. If anyone who reads this is running mud runs this year let me know and I’ll tell you which one’s I’ll be at.
6) The all encompassing, Tie More often, more people, etc type thing. It comes with getting a balance in my life back.
7) Drink More (no not while tying) & worry and work less (doubtful but a nice goal)
8) Tweet, take, and share more lurid pictures. Wow have my pics for the last 6 months been pretty fucking lame. I doubt there is anything pg 13 or above. What a drag I definitely need to fix that. When the hell did my life turn into prime time & pg rated content?
9) Get professional help. Not for my neurosis, other maladies, or caffeine addiction but sign up and take some rope classes. Yeah I’ve been to things before but at this point I’m seriously considering either one of the rope intensive weekend type things but ideally I just need to get off my ass and get some one on one instruction to round out my skills. Groups are great for some things and socially it would be better but…the reality is I’m a fairly guarded person.
10) Stop making fucking lists and start living….
This morning I wake up, I’m sick, miserable, and not in the mood to be awake. Which is rare since I usually am the type of guy non morning people hate. I slip into my jeans, black boots and long sleeved black shirt, make tea with a touch too much local honey, and drag my gas guzzling SUV through town to drop Lil off at school.
On the way back home I decide to grab a Venti no fat mocha for the Chesty Blonde, in essence saving her the stop about 45 minutes later. I order at the drive through and when I pull up to the window the barista says “No whipped. I thought you liked it better whipped.” Keep in mind I was having tea since in felt like death, my ears are congested, and to say I was in a bit of a haze might be an understatement. Just then a look of panic stuck her face “I’m sorry….aren’t you the guy with the T shirts?”
Just then what she said had finally actually registered in my dense head. A few weeks back I had wondered in twice in three days wearing kink based shirts that normally I wouldn’t wear around town. Something came up and I headed out from my home office without a second thought. She had commented on the first on since it was for the now defunct Wicked Grounds asking if it was a real place. We talked for about 10 minutes about both my shirt, its meaning (at a high level) and my coffee addiction. A few days later again I wondered out of the house forgetting which of the 4 million black Tee’s in my collection I was wearing. This time the picture was a bit more lurid. Again she made my coffee and we chatted for a few minutes.
So there I was with a nervous girl who went out on a limb. How does one recover? In my case with the honest approach. “I’m sorry I’m a little slow on the up take today. You’re absolutely right I do like it whipped but every so often non whipped is just fine too.” She smiled looking relieved. I grinned like the devil…not that that’s anything new.
Last week I found myself in a place I should have known well and been comfortable in. A small bar, off the beaten path in a city where the only people I knew were the friends and co workers who were with me. I am a picture of reserved professionalism at most functions even ones like this night out. Granted earlier in the day I snapped into a tirade that would make a veteran sailor and 12 truckers blush but that was business. I work hard to separate who I am from what I do with most folks; often even close friends.
As I sat there watching a lithe 20 something named Jaime belt out song after song with a deep and soulful voice that betrayed the 5 foot frame and diminutive stature I found a few minutes of peace. In a lot of ways it was refreshing to see artists who still had dreams, who had no idea what forces in the world were stacked up against them, who thought the only thing that mattered was what they were doing then and there. In their case it was playing for tips in order to get money to finish their CD. We all tipped very generously. That made me even prouder to call the people I spend so much time with my friends. After all I’ve played to empty rooms and people who were just there and music was merely window dressing.
As one of my favorite women sat next to me looking imploringly and distractingly sexy she asked how I could be so subdued watching a band when music was what I loved more than anything? It was a fair question and I told her I worked hard to hide my demons and that façade was how I did it around most people. The night before I had a few Espresso martini’s in me and might have been tempted but would have still declined. In fairness it’s not that there was anyone there I didn’t know or trust but just like I wouldn’t start explaining my sexual exploits to them I kept the defenses up and politely declined to join the band for a few songs. In a way music is the substitute for my soul. As the night wore on and the girls shook their asses, other patrons came and went and I just enjoyed the whole vibe remembering what it was like to be young and play out, to think that there still might be a chance I pondered what would happen if I did play a song or two.
When the band took breaks I had meaningful discussions, not as a fan or a bar goer but as a musician, we discussed recording techniques and theories on key changes to accommodate vocal ranges. I sat by like the wily old grandfather just enjoying their youthful exuberance as they talked. Not offering anything unless asked.
Earlier in the day I showed a piece of my soul to my friend, she became only the 4th person to hear some of my new songs. She had never heard me play or sing before, had no capacity to understand what I was capable of, both sonically and topically. She wanted me to play for the others. Later as our merry band headed for the door I looked at the guitar and Mic. I thought of standing in. After all what could an old Alice Cooper or Neil Young Tune hurt. They were more or less “business outing appropriate” at this point. I toyed with the idea of doing a Manson or NiN song with the group just to scratch the itch she had started, to allow the slightest glimpse of my rage out. However it would be easier to strip naked than bare my soul with song for friends who knew me as something else. Instead I wished the band luck and faded into the darkness with a different woman on my arm under a starry night; my cool passionless façade still intact, that cruel mistress that is music well hidden from their sight, my demons at bay for just a little longer; all the while they were hiding in plain sight inside a man in dark jeans and black shoes with a soul to match.