A blog I really enjoy is “A Breeder’s Journal.” In many ways, it’s very different from this blog, and from those to which I link, and to which I refer: it’s written by a man who has this to say about himself:
“Some basic facts: I’m married. I’m in my mid-to-late forties. I’m a good-looking, professional, well-adjusted dad who enjoys anonymous encounters, public sex, and pursuing my favorite hobby of fucking. Anything beyond those statements that you don’t find in the pages of this blog is an assumption. You know what they say about assumptions.”
All of the sex about which he writes is gay sex. He clearly thinks of himself as gay, and as a “top.” He writes prolifically about his past and his present, and he does so lucidly and compellingly. Recently, he wrote about an early sexual relationship he had with a sixth-grade teacher that was challenging to anyone to read – and by “challenging,” I mean that in the best possible way. What do you do with a loving account from the perspective of adulthood of a relationship between an 11-year-old and his teacher? To his credit, the Breeder didn’t tackle any of those questions, writing instead about his remembered experience and his relationship to it, leaving the question of judgment to the side.
I like being forced to think about things from a new angle. I know – KNOW – that fucking (with) a student should be a firing (and probably a jailing) offense for a teacher. But I have no idea what to make of this tale, of the fact that while this man clearly abused his power, his “victim’s” adult relationship to what happened features no sense of victimization, and to the contrary, only a sense of joyful discovery, empowerment, fulfillment, validation. I’m not asking you to opine – my blog isn’t about those questions, and I fear the strong feelings of those who have them (and certainly don’t discount them, or even disagree with them). I’m only saying, the Breeder makes me think, and I appreciate that.
The other day, he made me think in an entirely different way.
He posted this “call for butts.” It’s a shameless request that his readers send him pictures – pictures of their butts, their cocks, their chests, their anuses. And I thought to myself, in rapid succession, “I’d love that – if my readers (the female ones, primarily) sent me pictures of their bodies – pictures compliant with my preferences, but pictures.” If every female reader sent me a picture of the curve of her breasts against her blouse, or bra? The curve of her hips, her ass, in her jeans? Her dress? Her skirt? If you sent me pictures of your eyes? Your lips? Your tongues? Your teeth? If I received a steady stream of such images, that would be hot….
And I started thinking.
As I’ve occasionally written before, when writing about women’s orgasms (and it’s been a while since anyone has sent me the audio of her orgasm), an orgasm on its own actually isn’t that exciting to me. What makes it exciting is when it’s for me…. A picture sent by a woman is 1,000 times sexier to me if it includes a little handwritten note – “Hi, N.!” And if it comes in the context of an actual conversation? If I actually know something about her? Where she lives? How old she is? What her relationship situation is? Her relationship to my blog? Well, now we’re talking.
I think that if I got a stream of photos, I’d just relate to them in the way I relate to images from RSS feeds or hot Tumblrs – they’re fun to look at, but the half-life of the arousal they produce is measured in milliseconds. But as they start to be situated in a context, as they start to provide some of the benefits to which I alluded in my last post, about fantasies, then they start to activate that part of my brain that’s not just about aesthetic appreciation, but about power, and desire, and childhood wounds – the part that can make me really hard.
So, in my meta way, I’m reiterating his call, but tailored. I don’t want your pictures, your videos, your sound files. I mean, I do, but… I don’t want them unless I already know you a little, unless they’re for me. Don’t send me a picture that you’re also posting on Twitter, or on Sinful Sunday, or wherever. But if they’re for me?
Man, do I want them. Please?