Binders of women

As I contemplate writing this, I have the distinct sense I might get myself in trouble with a reader or two. No worries – that’s par for the course, for me.

First, an axiom: we all want what we want. All of us, when we desire something, or someone – well, we want that something or someone. Some of us are sociopaths, and, when we desire someone their desire for us is irrelevant. (See Jeffrey Epstein.) Others of us are not sociopaths: when we desire someone, we also desire their desire for us. And some of us are sufficiently narcissistic that, when we desire someone, what we really desire is for them to desire us. (That would be me.) And some of us are sufficiently narcissistic that we don’t even really desire the desire of the other; rather, we want to believe that the other desires us, regardless of the presence or absence of desire. (See Harvey Weinstein.)

I’ve written before that I can see past the sociopathy and hebephilia of Epstein and the narcissism and misogyny of Weinstein to the hotness of each of their fantasies: Epstein had a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman (Ghislaine Maxwell) procuring for him. This is sort of adjacent to a modification of my core masturbatory fantasy that I’ve explored a little before, and that I want to explore a lot more now.

If I were a gazillionaire, with all the money in the world, and a staff dedicated to doing as I wished, I might well hire me a Ghislaine Maxwell – a beautiful, talented, intelligent companion – to help me fulfill my fantasies – but with consenting adults. Fuck, I’ve often wished that one or another of the women in my paltry life might help me with that, pandering to me, procuring for me. I’ve explored that, gently, gingerly, never successfully, with a few of the women you’ve read about here. Marina. Charlotte. Hera. It’s never been even remotely successful, for a wide variety of reasons – not least, because I/we haven’t been looking either for women to coerce or for women to pay.

The other day, as I sank into my marijuana-fueled meanderings, I explored the sort of fractal nature of this particular fantasy of mine. The essence of the fantasy? An army (could be three, five, or a hundred) of women devoted to the task of doing as I say but, primarily, sucking my cock, allowing me to lick their clits, and perhaps masturbating and fooling around with one another at such moments as I couldn’t attend to them. That’s the essence of the fantasy: an oral smorgasbord with me at the center.

It turns out, though – and this shouldn’t be surprising to anyone who’s read more than a post or two on this blog about dates I’ve had – the real juice in this fantasy lies in the antecedent aspects – the question of who the women are, and how they got to be there – all that transpired before the cock-sucking and clit-licking began. And here’s where the fractal-ness of the fantasy erupts.

For example: down one path, I found myself imagining Mitt Romney’s binders full of women – an odious concept as conjured by the dog-murdering Trump-loving Utahn. A binder full of women for me, assembled by a woman, might well be a delicious fantasy. In this fantasy, a woman devoted to helping me fulfill my desires might assemble a binder full of women for me – a binder full of women who are vying to participate, who have been vetted, and are being proposed to me for me to say “yay” or “nay” to. Ideally, of course, I’d say “yay” to all of them; I would take zero pleasure in saying “nay.”

So here’s what the binder would include: three, five, fifty, five hundred women, all vetted by my procuress. She would have introduced me to them conceptually, would have familiarized them with my wants, my needs, my blog. She’d have talked with them, ascertained that she thinks I would, genuinely, both like and be attracted to them – and vice versa. And, she’d be a perfectly knowledgeable judge, so she wouldn’t make any mistakes. This binder would feature, for each woman, the following:

  • A face photo
  • A full-body photo
  • A brief recording (audio? video? both?) of her introducing herself to me – name, a little self-description, and an expression of enthusiasm, curiosity, anxiety, or whatever feelings this whole process might elicit – but ending with a commitment to giving me what I wish
  • A brief audio recording of her voice, reading a post of mine that turned her on, as she got herself off
  • And, a paragraph or two, written by my procuress, giving me her impressions of the particular applicant

There could be more to this binder – there could be multiple photos, multiple recordings. Questionnaires. Surveys. Notes. All sorts of things. The main thing, though, is it would be a binder of enthusiastic willingness, complied with devotion.

THAT would be fucking HOT.

And to go back to the Epstein thing…. My tastes don’t run particularly young. Yes, I’ve dated more than my share of women below the bro code floor (which currently, for me, resides at 33.5). But I’m honestly happiest with grown-ups, with women in their forties and fifties. I like me, though, the idea of a Ghislaine, procuring away for me, presenting me with an endless stream of candidates. Not candidates leveraged by my power or wealth, who don’t have the freedom to say “no” to me; instead, candidates who possess enthusiasm and relish, act of their own free will, and see me as a means of their gratification as much as the other way around. (This is a fantasy, of course, so I’m free to construct it as I wish.)

But that fantasy is a fucking hot one.

Be my (non-sociopathic, adult-consent-procuring) Ghislaine?

I hope to continue exploring the various fractals of this fractal in the coming days….

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