Thank you to everyone who asked my boy a question in last week’s Sunday Curiosity… it was much fun and we had some interesting discussions about some of it. I struggled with giving up editorial control (a control freak, me?!) – it was quite difficult for me to be comfortable with having another voice here and letting it speak (about me and us) without influence. I did manage to get over it, so his voice, invited by me and expected by you, is here unedited.

So, here we go… my boy’s Q&A:

Note: The views outlined below are not necessarily those of management, all care but no responsibility taken, and in the case of disputes, no correspondence will be entered into.

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Thank you for your questions, and I wonder if you are a Paul Newman fan because of your nick, or just a hockey fan in general, and I’ll take the first question second, and the second question first:

Second question first:

No I don’t think I need to have an emotional connection with a dominant partner necessarily. Just like, you know, you don’t need to have an emotional connection with any vanilla boy/girl you sleep with for fun or exercise or to make sure you are still alive or because of vodka. A one off night is a one off night and is good and athletic joy and makes you feel like a superstar in the short term. So get some. But the emotional, hard-boiled, ego-shattering stuff, that stuff that makes you want to break your own heart over your knee like a stick, only comes when you do have a deep emotional connection. So an emotional connection, I think, is better.

First question second:

You asked me what about being a sub gives me the most satisfaction. I flat out hate the abbreviation “sub” (not your fault Slapshot, just an idiosyncratic—and idiotic—thing of mine) and I am not even that fond of the full-on word “submissive”. But what I most like about being who I am is when Ferns fucks me. And when Ferns fucks me what I like most is that she makes me look into her eyes. And it’s not just that I like that she likes to make me look at her. And it’s not just that I like to see her looking at the thing that she is fucking like it is a thing to fuck, and it’s not just because she wants me to look at her looking at me in order to know that I am being fucked, and it’s not just that she wants me to know that she and no one else is fucking me or is allowed to fuck me (though lord knows it is all of these things that I like) but what I really, really love is that she seems to be trying to look into my head, like through the holes in my eyes, to see what I am thinking about as she puts her cock into me, like her cock and her vision, her cock and her scrutiny, are somehow a truth serum. With her cock in me, and while she looks at me, I would confess to everything, I would give up my best friend, I would swear to burn the flag, I would tell the whales to go fuck themselves.

Average day: wake up tied up and locked up in the pee-bucket room. Believed I was alone but Ma’am is there, comes in from her bedroom wide awake, naked, and in business mode (she will dress and go to work and I will stay here, in her collar) and is slapping my face, and when she slaps my face it is like an alarm clock going off. My cock is hard but I don’t know if I woke up that way, hard, or if it is hard because my cock is hard now, this instant, as I am remembering this and writing about it, which makes my cock hard, or if my cock is hard because of the memory of Ma’am waking up all business-like and slapping my face while I am tied up in the pee bucket room, or if my cock is hard because it is not my cock at all, because it is her cock, but I know that I wake up being slapped around and my cock is hard (which is her cock) and because she is there, it nearly seems impolite to say “she,” and she is there and she is who she is, long and tall and thin and so kind in her violence and so far away and slapping my face like an alarm clock, left side and then right side so there is no cheek to turn, and I can’t focus and can’t see her face which I wish I could see, her face, so I could tell if she was kidding me or not, but she’s not kidding me, I know she’s not kidding me, she needs me to be nothing right now, nothing and a little bitch and that is good because she has made me into one, a little bitch, and maybe I need to be a little bitch right now even more than she needs me to be a little bitch, and I wish she would be saying awful things to me about how I am awful, and a nothing, a nothing at all, about how I am just the breathing machine that keeps her cock alive, but she doesn’t talk at all, she doesn’t say a word to me, like I am nothing to be talked to—and this makes me feel sweet because later in the day I know we will talk very much, eat fried shrimp and touch hands under the table and look at sunlight and talk about how she is better than all sisters, and that we will be close, so close, and so close because of this moment, right here, when she slaps my face and where she will not talk to me, because I am nothing to talk to—and she slaps my face right side and then left side like an alarm clock and I am starting to wake up now, for real, I have had this dream before but the way that it is different this time is that she is real and I am nothing and she hits me like I am already a dead thing, and then she pins my shoulders down with her knees (not that I can move to get away anyway, because I am shackled in the shackles she bought for me and I am collared in the collar she bought for me, and I am locked up in a room in her apartment that she assigned to me: this is my room: the room where I am shackled and sleep alone with her cock and piss into a bucket that she bought for me to piss in) and she straddles my face so her cunt is right above my face, like my face isn’t my face or me but like some sort of device, my face, which she bought from a catalogue, like my face is a toy to be bought and tried out and maybe kept if it works for her or thrown away if it does not, and she pushes her cunt into my face, which is her store-bought toy, and moves her cunt back and forth against me—but I am not really me anymore and at this point I am thankful to her for that, I like to have her sweetness and violence against me be my escape hatch—and I can’t breathe for myself, I can’t use any air, but I can breathe into her and I do, and I push my tongue out for her, and I forget that I have to breathe like a normal human, and I stay there in a way, motionless, that seems to me to please her, and as soon as I get comfortable with what is going on, as soon as I feel like I am doing what she wants me to do, and as soon as I know who I am when she fucks my face, she leaves the room and slams the door shut and locked, and I am left with myself tied up, alone, and my cock hard, which is her cock. And I think how nice it would be to be able, if I wasn’t tied up and my cock was my cock, to reach down and make myself come, and I think about how nice my come would feel, hot and lashing out onto my stomach in whips, and that makes me feel almost like crying, and I would cry except I am still a little sleepy and I don’t really want my cock to be my cock, and I don’t really want to make myself come, even if I could, which I can’t. And I listen through the door of the pee bucket room, hoping to hear the sound of her out there, all business-like in the daylight of her apartment, hoping to hear her brush her teeth, hoping to hear the water hit her body in the shower, hoping that she will come back, and then she does come back, fast and unexpected through the door even though I was expecting her, and she pins me to her cunt again and fucks my face like it is a thing she bought to fuck herself with and she bangs my head into the wall of the pee bucket room until she comes, rocking into me hard and thoughtlessly, like I am inanimate, which I am, and then she leaves me there, my face wet with her, she leaves me there and slams the door all business-like, goes out into the daylight by herself. And that’s like an average half hour in an average day, any more and I write two hundred pages, and I like your question very much, and thank you, Brids.

Ferns’ note: You can read my version of this average half hour in an average day here: Wake up

Danger, danger. I am now listening to a Prince song so forgive me if I try to get ridiculously incredible. Okay. When you ask me what kind of scene I would most like to do with Ferns (“scene” is a funny word, right? How am I in a movie all of a sudden?) it almost sounds like—since this is Ferns’ blog—you are asking me to dictate, to her, what I want her to do. I know you didn’t mean to, but that would certainly change the way things work under the sun and under the moon and within the purple rain. You know? As if in her own blog, and publicly therefore, I announce to her which way to treat me, and how to poke me, just right, and thoughtfully, with sticks. And what kind of sticks, or other implements, too. As if I should make a list of demands—I would like a helicopter, unmarked billions, and cock electrification—like I was the kidnapper of my own body.

So I will answer your question twice, but from different and safer angles.

First, as a fantasist: I would like her to fuck my ass with her huge cock while she strangles me to death and when I die she spits in my face and calls me her darling.

Second: I would like her to do to me the thing she has most wanted to do but has never ever—maybe because it is too impossible, maybe because it is too comical, or maybe because it is too illegal altogether world-wide—done before.

You asked me what I saw in Ferns that made me believe that she is “the one.”

Ferns likes puns. Puns are awful. I hate puns. I have never liked puns. Like Dr Johnson said, “He who would pun would pick a pocket.” And Ferns would pick a pocket. But the thing is you would never know that your pocket had been picked if she picked your pocket to pick. James Joyce was like that, and so was Samuel Beckett, and so would Shakespeare pick your pocket. And you would walk away smiling from all of them, and even later when your wallet was missing you would count yourself happy for the difference. It’s that kind of masterpiece level intelligence, and playful-ness, and hot little con-artistry that made me go all in for her.

I am glad you asked me that question about the slap. Usually, of course, when I say “I am glad you asked me that question” what I really mean is that I have a good answer for that question, and that I am glad you gave me the chance to say the thing I already wanted to say. I do not, however, have a good answer in this case, but I am glad you asked because it makes me try to come up with an answer, and I feel if I could come up with an answer, a good answer, it would make me know myself better, or it would make me know Ferns better.

So here we go, and thank you again: about the slap, that time, that time, when she slapped me. If you look at Ferns’ comments in response to the comments she got on that posting, about the slap, about when she slapped me and I fell out of the atmosphere and felt like she’d cut my umbilical to the earth somehow and put me in a funny little hat and set me spinning, you’ll see the truth: I don’t really know what was going on in my head at that moment, just as Ferns predicted. My head emptied out. I have only a tiny memory of it because I went la-la and super-galatial.

We’d been through a lot together by that time. She’d stuck needles through my nipples, and needles into my cock, and she’d fucked my ass, and she’d told me and made me believe that my cock was her cock, which it is, and she’d given me a contract and I’d given her a signature which proved that my body was her property, and she’d put a collar around my neck which proved that when she fucked my mouth I was talking metaphysics to her dick and my mouth was her playground, and that when she made me come it was her come coming out of her cock, and when she made me eat that come it was that I was eating her come, that she was putting her come in my mouth, and when she made me come onto my stomach it was her, exactly her, pulling out of me and coming onto my stomach, and she’d beaten me, she’d caned me, and flogged me, and electrocuted me, and she’d sent me off to two different sadists (are you catching the drift of this generosity? It still amazes me about her) to get a sense of how it feels to be beaten by other women, and the sense of how it is to get beaten by other women did not make me happy, and I only wanted her to beat me, and to bite me also, which is a thing so intimate and terrible that I don’t know how to stand it, and she’d bitten her autograph into my neck, lips, chest, torso, thighs, and cock until I couldn’t take anymore autographing and nearly had to safe-word, the biting is the thing that always makes me nearly have to stop everything and safe word. So what I think happened with that lone and single slap, Kitchen Goddess, is that I finally relented to her, gave up the castle, jumped from the battlements and drowned in the moat.

What’s weird though is that if you had asked me, a day before that slap, “Hey, boy, did you give it all up to her?” I would have said, “Hell yes. I did. I gave to her whatever there was to give.” But I hadn’t. And something inside of me had still kept guard, against my will, and that slap finally brought it down and left me defenceless.

Before Ferns found me, when I was a willy-nilly know-nothing nobody entering Fetlife and Collarme, I wrote a little profile advertisement for myself that said I wanted a woman who would kiss me like a shark hitting a diving cage. So where the anonymous woman I was looking for would be the shark, you know, and the cage was my skull, it would be my mind that was the little diver with flippers inside of the cage, freaking out and photographing the potential carnage of the teeth. This metaphor works if you have seen such footage on the Discovery channel, or if you have watched the movie Jaws. Ferns kisses like that, the Great White rampant, but then though (and this is the metamorphical beauty of this person whose blog you are reading) she kisses all soft and gentle like suddenly she is a little girl in bobby sox doing first kisses behind the planetarium. Soft, soft, and then the Great White again, entering submarine into the water park, maybe her dorsal fin like a flirtation slicing the surface, unsuspecting bathers and a spread of victimology, and she never leaves a clue behind. And I guess that anyone who tells you kissing shall be outlawed for reasons of bdsm politics should be pointed at, giggled near, and then walked away from.

Those boys might sometimes call you Whee Mistress but if they do they should not be tolerated. I am going to answer your very good questions sort of scatter-shot and essayistic in style, if that is okay, because they are making me think of a lot of things in a lot of ways and simultaneously.

We like movies. Ferns makes me come out of the closet so I can watch her rig up her strap-on. Which is like a movie I would have made for myself and starring myself but directed by Ferns, who I am lucky enough to have found as a director. We both think she should have a bigger dick but can’t reconcile this with my ass which was most recently unfucked and kind of tiny for an ass. So we will talk about this ass thing of mine which is a plus and a minus, a plus because it makes me shout and cry some when she sticks the tiny cocks we’ve picked to put in me, but a minus because I think she sees herself with a big, round, swingy cock that she’ll wreck the place with. I am the place she has in mind to wreck, the place is me so I worry about me but I know she worries about me too.

We go to the beach, which she likes. I see a snake first or she sees a snake first, hard to remember. I remember thinking that she is giving so much to me that it makes me feel like charity is a bird machine. I remember thinking that my garden is envious of her personality. This makes me decide, since I don’t like the beach as much as she does, that some day we should drive up into the mountains and she should wear her cock and slip it out of the fly of her blue jeans so I can suck it while we climb into the altitudes, so I can drool down the length of her cock and my spit will wet her pussy. I remind myself to tell her this later, that I would like to suck her cock while she is driving because she is an excellent driver. She says back to the Oui Mistress question, boy.

And then together we look up the word “friends” in the dictionary and I see a picture of books that I have read and Ferns sees pictures of books she has read and then we trade pictures of books that we saw in a dictionary. I like how she writes very much: it makes me feel like I might be in a swamp, and will I be punctured in that swamp, and where am I in that swamp, and the mosses look beautiful but might poison me if I were to eat them, but I am hungry, plus where is Ferns, and are ferns edible and then suddenly civilization, towers, booths, noodles to be had and massage parlors. Then we look up the phrase “kink play” in the dictionary and it tells us of goddesses and worms. We both look at each other. It is late. I am never going to tell my family how I wait and wait to suck her dick. Spiritually we are both convinced of our bodies as little goddesses, but only princesses once they are dead and not our bodies, and then just for the mistresses and worms everyone talks about, and they should go ahead and do whatever with us.

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I think this might be the longest post EVER! I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed reading his responses, and yes, the inside of him looks just like this – complex and funny and smart and idiotic and hot and beautiful. I have to add that his thoughts at this point are clearly influenced by his 39 days of chastity (the counter at the right tracks this in case you haven’t noticed it…), which adds a delicious layer of wanton desperation over the top, like icing… My boy is a slut for comments, so if you want to tell him he’s cute (he is!), feel free to do so…

If you have any more questions of either of us (two for the price of one), we will gladly answer them in next week’s Sunday Curiosity.