A different kind of Sunday curiosity this week. A musing of sorts.
Some things are difficult for me to write about because they feel so personal and I feel a little as if I am exposing too much if I was I to write about them. I know that sounds strange, when I share these intimate details in this blog, when I seem to bare all. These things I speak of, these private, secret things, well, I touch upon them in some posts, speak vaguely about them, but avoid the explicit presentation of them as a kind of protection for both me and my boy.
I have examined why this is, and part of it is that there is a level of disclosure that seems to be too close to the bone, that seems to be about revealing not only me, it is about revealing my boy in a way that feels like it is too too much. I often declare that I don’t identify myself with certain things, but I am belied by my actions.
I am not a sadist, yet I inflict some considerable pain and it makes me wet.
I am not into humiliation, yet I put my boy in embarrassing and belittling situations because I adore how it impacts him.
I am not obsessed with strap on cocks, but I want badly to fuck my boy in different ways because it’s just so damn hot.
I am not a romantic, but I am made giddy with sweetnesses offered up to me.
I choose moments to write about, I choose those isolated experiences that impact me and I hold them up to the light and examine them, I am seeking to reveal an emotional truth and often it is easier to find that in those moments than it is to find them in activities, in ‘scenes’, in narratives, however I have never spoken about many things that are sharp and misshapen and discoloured when I hold them up to the light.
I will try, maybe, to bring those other experiences out, those secret things, the uncomfortable ones, but I expect it will be difficult, inelegant, awkward. We will see how it goes.