So, Tumblr just told me that today is this blog’s fourth anniversary.

You’re welcome.

The wait isn’t always worth it.

Poor bitch was waiting four fucking years to talk to me, with countless hours of squirming thinking about how it might go. All that desperate longing-at-a-distance, dreaming of what I might be like. Setting herself up for some kind of transcendental experience when she finally had me in her ear.

What she actually got was me laughing at the way she couldn’t make grown-up words when the scary man was listening, the dumb little sounds she was making instead of words, and the frustrated little spark of ‘tude she gave me when I kept interrupting her rising climax with nonsense that made her giggle and lose the moment. But she got there, eventually. Left her kind of freaked out, nervous, and clingy, five minutes before she had to head out for work.

Poor, stupid thing… expecting a sexy bad time, and instead, she gets heckled to orgasm.

I’m into relationships that look like playgrounds; private spaces where it’s safe to be mean to a girl just to show her how much I like her.

What Not To Do: Cult Edition

As I begin to gather unto me those who would give up all they have and follow, I find it instructive to learn from the intrepid souls who have trod this path before me. And this last week has taught me lots of lessons.

R.Kelly

Okay, technically, I haven’t actually learned much from ol’ Bobby; he’s just kind of reinforcing accepted wisdom.

Y’know… don’t sadomasochistically indoctrinate sixteen year old girls, don’t isolate your bitches from their families so completely that the families freak out, and don’t foster an atmosphere of paranoia so thick that the girls can’t pass for normal when the cops or press come around.

Basic stuff, but worth remembering.

Nxivm

I haven’t done a deep-dive on this shit yet, but I’ve talked about it on the blog a couple times over the last year, and I continue to be fascinated.

As much as I recognize that multi-level marketing is a clever way to organize a vast coven of affluent sex slaves -girls just love to get lost in complex relationship heirarchies— it feels pretty tacky. Effective, but aesthetically displeasing. I wonder if it could be prettied up?
Yeah, yeah, I know it’s hot to lure chicks in with promises of sisterhood and then surprise them with a branding iron and a hard dick in the face, but maybe there’s a way to get to the burning flesh and institutionalized cocksucking without all the deceit? It feels like a solvable problem.
Z-list actresses and daughters of famous people… are they worth it? They’re great for seducing new adherents at scale, I’m sure, but they don’t seem necessary if you’re just trying to maintain a comfortable dominion over a few acres of land and the pieces of ass you need to pay for it.

Wild Wild Country

First, loved the show. Even with the gaping hole in the middle of it — Osho’s personal absence from the narrative— it does a better job of maintaining interest and momentum than any Netflix documentary series this side of The Keepers.

Thoughts and observations:

Can I tell you how much I detest the kind of rural, entitled, faux-cowboy rich people who turn their taste for insular homogeneity into violent turf-wars, and then convince themselves they’re victims? ‘Cause it’s a lot. A whole fucking lot. I wanted to punch my TV every time one of those smug scumbags came on screen.
Sheela was an incredible asset, but you can’t leave an asset unattended. She needed to be utilized, yes, but also monitored and maintained. A girl like that can be a tool in your hands, or a weapon in her own… it’s best for everyone if she’s occasionally denied the keys to her autonomy.
Aside from wanting to take electric clippers to every hirsute motherfucker in the room until I could find the humans under all the hair, I watched the secretly-filmed orgy scenes in India thinking, “This just looks like a good time.”
Holy fucking shit. “I never made love to her. Never.” I was watching a thirty year old recording, and I could still feel Sheela’s gut being punched across time and space when he said that. I get why he did it, but goddamn, man… that was so cruel it was almost indecent.
If you find yourself constructing a biological weapons lab down the road from your diamond-studded fuck-mansion, you’ve probably taken a wrong turn somewhere. Just saying.
You don’t need twenty golden cars when you never leave the house. No matter what you think, you don’t.

On Being Gross

Girls often worry about their obvious desperation, their runaway fears, all their pathetic yearning… that sort of thing. And for good reason; it can feel oppressive to people, the constant weight of all their fucking need.

But turns out, neediness and insecurity are only gross when you feel obligated to feed someone’s neediness and assuage her insecurity. When you free yourself from that self-imposed onus, when you simply allow her to feel what she’s going to feel without trying to fix her, her antics stop being troublesome and suddenly blossom into a rather charming display. It’s like watching a nervous animal, presenting herself for mating; she dances a strange, twitchy little dance that she designed but barely understands, praying I’ll eventually put a stop to it by climbing on top of her.

It’s the little things that kill…

I’ll never stop loving the fact that something this trivial absolutely fucking terrifies some otherwise badass bitches. The incongruity is delicious.

“Cut me, Daddy! Throw me down a flight of stairs! Punch me in the face, punch a baby into me, and then punch my code into the ATM so we can buy some Plan B and a cold compress!

“But, uh, y’know… don’t, like, poke me in the ribs with your fingertips, or, I mean, scratch my insole with your fingernail… or whatever. That— that shit’s just not right.”

Girls are nonsense. Pure nonsense.

Compatibility

This deep and abiding need you have to be wanted? Your fear that worshipping me will always leave you sad and slightly unfulfilled? The sinking certainty that you’re going to end up doing whatever I want, no matter what you have to lose? The aching dread that you may never again feel the gentle, nurturing embrace of reciprocal love because someone you barely know has completely shaken your understanding of what is possible between a man and a girl?

It makes me hard.

So your disgusting desperation doesn’t repulse me; it actually makes me desire you.

Isn’t that sweet?

Aww!

Don’t worry your little head about it, dear. I don’t think an untrained monkey could have figured it out either, and y’know, monkeys are pretty smart and cool, so if you think about it that way, there’s really no reason to be upset.

Who’s my little “good try”-er…? That’s right, you are!

Cranky Old Man Shit: Emo-ji

I’m am slowly —slowly— adjusting to emojis. I was slow to embrace emoticons before that. I’m just slow. But I’ll get there, because I try not to cling too tightly to unnecessary conventions.

With that said, I hope we don’t forever lose OTOH, IMHO, AFAIK, and a few other choice bits of early Internet-ese, because they’re more than of-their-time abbreviations. To steal a line from the alt-right fucksticks, I see those terms as virtue signals. The best possible kind.

If I see that someone has peppered qualifiers like “in my humble opinion” and “as far as I know” into their writing, or demonstrated their ability to process opposing ideas with “on the other hand”, it suggests I’m dealing with a reasonable human being who wants to leave room in her thoughts for the possibility that she might be wrong. And we need a lot more reasonable human beings in the world.

Under Construction

Anything could happen, between the two of us. Everything. Nothing. It’s hard to say, and day-to-day. But whatever becomes of us, I want you to go on.

I want you to ache for me throughout a long, long life. I want you to write old-fashioned, pressed-flower-filled letters to me after I’m dead and you still have so many years left. I want you stable enough to land a nice man who will give you a nice son who you’ll give my name, just so you’ll have an excuse to say it every day. You’re one of the vessels I’ve chosen to carry my memory, and I expect you to withstand the test of time.

So what are the pillars upon which you are built? As I break things inside, and remodel you to suit me, which supports are holding you upright? We both know you’d let me wreck them if I wanted, but I don’t… I want to work around them, or perhaps modify them in a pinch. In short, I want the structure to stand even if the architect moves on.

Show me how not to destroy you. So that if I do, it’ll be on purpose.