Typing isn’t fucking.

Tumblr is a powerful addiction. A couple of hours dissappeared while I browsed and posted pictures today.  Not a healthy development.

On the upside I got lots of ideas for rope bondage today.  On the down side I don’t really have anyone to tie up right now.  At one point I was thinking of calling up The Princess to get her to come over and get tied, and then even perhaps Paul Bunyan, but inertia won out, and my rope stayed in its bag.
Speaking of PB, New Years Day was the third anniversary from when I’d first laid eyes, and hands, on her at the annual enhanced year end party.  She didn’t make it this time it all being out of town, but there were still adventures to be had; I wrapped The Husband in my leather straight jacket, laced his favorite hood on to him and sucked his cock while he was blissfully encased. Later on he asked me to top him this weekend.  My time is quickly filling up on this trip, which means that I have to confront one of my major problems:  how do I separate the sex I can have from the sex I want to have?  Opportunity is there, for sure. But how much of it is right for me? One thing I know is that I feel distant from my rough top self.  Every time the confusion dies down I’m feeling the desire to fuck someone hard and direct, to issue orders and damn the consequence. To command.  And then there are skills I want to work on and then there are things I can do.  I bought a new singletail this summer – I’ve barely broken it in.  I walk around the apartment and see every one of my paddles and get a little wistful thinking of the things I want to do with them.

To top it off, I’ve been approached about some heavy play by a very attractive guy who wants to do some very edgy things, things that are undeniably hot, but also things that require quite a bit more intimacy than he and I currently have.  It’s something to work towards, but I have to ask myself: do I have the real time to fairly commit to it?  Not an easy decision.  And damn, There are plenty people who would kill to have these kind of problems. So I feel like a piker kvetching about it.

But deep play is deep play:  If it’s going to mean something it requires commitment.  I used to think that meant an ongoing commitment of time, but it really means a level of emotional and dare I say spiritual availability that I think I may have to finally admit is not an unlimited quantity for me.  I can be someone’s evil Uncle for an evening, beating their ass or paddling their cunt, or I can be the pig in a sling, or the frustrated dupe.  But can I be that for lots of people a few times a week?  I’m a (however belated) child of the Sixties; it galls me to think that I might not have an infinite capacity for pleasure.

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~ by the people's burro on January 10, 2010.

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