Musing

I don’t want to bend you to my will. I want your will to curl into mine like shrink-wrap — no distance, no submission, just utter harmony. Maybe that’s not dominance. Maybe it’s just infantile.

I tossed off a quick answer about loneliness, then spent the next few hours realizing I was wrong about myself — and tracing the line from rejection to shame to paying for the very rejection I was trying to escape.

Navigating the minefield of CraigsList couples, where clarifying your sexual preferences can earn you a lecture on hetero-normativity from a former burlesque dancer.

I’m dominant, sure — but I can’t write about it without also writing about my doubts, my moods, my humanness, and I know that’s not always what you came here for.

The blog’s been heavy on navel-gazing and light on fucking lately. There are reasons. I’m working on it.

The anatomy of craving a cigarette — mental, bodily, and the tricks my brain plays to get me to succumb.

I’m drawn to strong women who grant me submission, not to women whose submission I can take from them.

Most of us have secrets — some shameful, some embarrassing, some kept just for the pleasure of keeping them.

Need help with time management? Hire an addict. We juggle more logistics before breakfast than most people do all week.

An Alpine slide, some skinned flesh, and what pain can teach when you stop trying to outrun it.