Monday, March 26, 2012

Summer Before Spring

(a prose-poem regarding unseasonably warm weather, a complaint against superficiality, and a lengthy exegesis regarding self-pleasuring, with examples)

These strange hot days in March before equinox, the temps have been in the 80s during the day and the 60s at night.
The hot weather makes my own sap rise. I’m horny all the time.
I think about posting a personal ad, asking to meet men for naked sex outdoors in the sun and heat, or in the gentle warm rain, or on my back porch, but then I don’t bother. I know what the outcome will be.
Unfortunately, since the first surgery, I have this ostomy shitbag attached to my belly, and a big scar.
I’ve had nothing but rejection from fickle men since then.
No one wants to play with me. They can’t see past the bag to the sensual lover.
Because now I have this scar, this disability. For now, till the next surgery, I wear my shit on the outside.
They can’t see the person who can show them how to have more pleasure than they’ve ever had before.
I am an artist of touch. I have musician’s skilled hands for erotic massage.
Most men think only of their own needs, their own pleasures, their own narcissism, their own cock. I think of your cock with joy.
But rejection and dislike are all I receive anymore, which can make me frustrated and cynical.
Since the life-saving surgery, my strength and health both returning, my libido is stronger than it’s been in years.
I want be naked all the time. I want to be sexy all the time.
Sometimes I despair, sometimes I just get pissed off.
The only difference between you and me is that for now I’m open and honest about my shit, while you keep yours hidden.
Fortunately I know how to give myself intense pleasure.
I stay naked at home most of the time, until I have a reason to get dressed.
I sleep naked, cocooned in blankets, a pillow bolstered against my belly because of the bag.
In the morning, I stay naked, going out to sit on the back porch, reading, writing, sipping my orange juice.
In this hot weather, the windows are open, and the breeze tickles me all day.
I sit out on the porch naked in the morning light and cool breeze.
I’m a very sensual person, and I can pleasure myself for an hour before I finally give myself an orgasm.
In this summer-like heat, I’ve been pleasuring myself from one to three times a day.
Maybe later in the day I’ll come back out to the porch and pleasure myself in the afternoon sunlight.
Maybe at night, cool humid breeze brushing my skin, I’ll play with myself again before bedtime.
I never rush, I always take my time. I do that when I’m with another man as well.
I don’t rush to stroke my erection, first I tease it with two fingers, a feather touch.
Your whole naked skin is a sexual organ. Touch yourself everywhere, gently.
I touch my belly scar, and the region next to it that’s a little numb since the surgery.
To get ready for the reconstructive surgery, and to make the shitbag go away, I have to continue to lose weight. I’ve lost a lot already.
My fingers are skinny piano-playing fingers again, and my face is thinner.
My belly is looser, smaller. Of course as I lose more weight the belly will be the last to go.
I can button shirts I haven’t before. T-shirts are looser on me.
There’s a little bump where the ostomy bag is, though.
My pants are too loose now. I’ve had to punch new holes in my belt.
When I come home from being out, I go into my bedroom, undo my belt and let my pants fall to the floor.
When I pleasure myself, I take a long slow time to begin.
I might play with just my cock head a long time, before I stroke the length to its base.
I might cup my balls with my hand while I squeeze the base of my cock, turning it in circles.
I might stroke once, twice, squeezing hard, then let go as my cock twitches.
I might hold my cock with one hand while I rub my cock head in circles with the open palm of my other hand. That friction alone can send you over the edge.
One of the most erotic places is that spot underneath, just below the glans.
Rubbing just there sends waves of pleasure throughout my body.
When I play with the head of my cock, stroking just that spot underneath, and up the piss slit, precum starts to flow, making everything wet.
I lift my fingers and smell and taste my own precum.
Last night it was still warm at midnight. I threw on shorts and t-shirt and went for a late night walk around the neighborhood.
Wishing I could walk naked in the warm night. Once when I was a boy, I rode my bike naked in the night rain.
I used to climb out my bedroom window onto the garage roof and play with my cock while looking at the stars. The cool night air gave me tingly goosebumps.
When I was young, I spent one whole summer playing naked games with the neighbor boy.
We played in the fields behind our houses, at the edge of town. He was never soft.
The first time I ever ejaculated was between his thighs. He was lying on top of me, face up, we were looking at the stars.
Much later that night, back in my bedroom, I jerked off again to be sure it wasn’t a fluke.
Ropes of cum soaked my screen window, surprising me all over again.
These memories arouse me all the more this morning.
I tease my cock, touching lightly and slowly.
I brush it from base to tip with feather-light fingers. I play with my pubic hair.
The insides of my thighs are incredibly sensitive.
There’s a place on your ribs, under your arms, that when pressed can send you into ecstasy.
My cock is getting harder and longer now.
My cock is fairly ordinary, just six inches, although it’s thick and has a flaring mushroom head. My pubic hair is still reddish.
Since I’m losing weight there’s a valley in my belly where the scar is. I can see my pubes.
Sometimes when I masturbate like this in the morning or afternoon sunlight I take photos of my erect cock.
I want to make a good image of a flattering erection, in good lighting.
I like the way the light and shadows from the window frame lie across naked skin.
Maybe I’ll use these masturbation photos for future personal ads, or for making art.
Maybe I’ll make them into a photo collage, a fine art print.
Maybe I’ll do a pastel drawing later of my erection.
I like to photograph men nude, out in nature, or by the sunlit windows, or in my basement studio.
I like to photograph men nude even if it’s not sexual, and even if we don’t play ever with each other.
One time I photographed a nude model at a nude beach by the ocean.
He was surprised when I took my pants off, too, as I was working with my camera.
It wasn’t sexual, I just wanted to be naked in the hot day next to the ocean.
I’m not into doing porn, but I like to make artistic erotica.
My camera loves the beauty of men.
I begin to stroke the length of cock, slowly at first.
I want to take my time, make the pleasure last.
One summer I lived in woods so remote I could stay naked all the time. I went for days without clothes.
One weekend, I had a visitor and he stayed naked all weekend too. It was all light and easy with him.
We moved smoothly and easily between making dinner and making love, for two days and a night.
The best most wonderful sex I’ve ever had has been outdoors, in the sunlight, the free open air, by the lake, in the woods, just beside a hiking trail.
Eventually I slide lower in my chair, raise my hips, and begin stroking in earnest.
I masturbate with my left hand, while my right hand roams everywhere on my naked skin.
My right hand makes love to my belly scar, where it curves around my belly button.
I press on my thigh, and play with my erect nipples.
I pause and run both hands again down from collarbone to shoulder over ribs to thighs.
My hands converge where the V of my hips and groin converge, till I am grasping my root in both hands.
I imagine my lover kneeling before my chair, sucking me off.
I can almost feel his lips on the head of my cock, his hands on my thighs.
I can almost smell his hair.
There is precum everywhere, wetting my cock, my fingers, my thigh.
I stroke the entire length of my cock now, from root to tip. My other hand cups my balls, roams up to my breast and lips.
From the tip of my cock, from the root of my groin, intense waves of electricity flow outwards in circles.
Waves of powerful energy like warm lightning ripple outwards in circles to the ends of my body.
Ripples of current roll towards the ends of my toes, the top of my head.
Once when in college I lived in a house that had a large private back yard surrounded by trees. No one could see in at night.
My bedroom was a basement entrance, with sliding glass patio doors.
I would go out naked into the yard at midnight, and pleasure myself under the stars.
One night I went out in the middle of a thunderstorm, instantly drenched with hard rain.
Lightning flashes strobed the trees. The air was full of electricity and light and roaring sound.
I lay in the soaked grass as the wind surged, covered with leaves and mud, like a caveman.
I felt primitive, atavistic, animal. I shouted with the thunder.
I had one of the most intense orgasms of my entire life.
Waves of electric pleasure are rolling out in circles from the root of my sex.
I stroke my lubricated cock intensely now. Precum flows like rain.
My other hand restlessly tries to touch every part of my body all at once.
My hips are bucking all by themselves. My right hand caresses my nipple.
I look down at my cock, which seems to be holding still while my hand blurs around it.
Finally I cum in my hands, a fountain of semen covering my cock, my balls, my pubes.
Sometimes when I intensely orgasm, a gob of semen lands on my breast, my collarbone, my hair, my belly.
After I cum, my cock is so sensitive it’s almost too much to bear to touch it.
I hold my cock gently as I rest after orgasm, till it softens. It twitches again if I move my hand.
One late night, after giving me a massage and making me cum, a boyfriend kept playing with my cock, till it almost drove me crazy.
I had to reach down and stop his hands.
He laughed, and stayed sitting between my legs, still holding my cock, but not just holding it. I never softened.
Later I gave him the same treatment, and he understood.
We were using cucumber-scented massage oil.
I rest for awhile, hands cupping my wet cock, till my heartbeat slows down.
Eventually I get up, clean myself off, and start my breakfast, start my day, although I stay naked as long as I can.
I stay naked all day, in this heat, if I can.
On these hot days, my strength returning, I might jerk off again in the afternoon, or at night.
I might touch myself from time to time, casually teasing my cock or my nipples or brushing my thighs and ribs.
Just idly giving myself sensual pleasure while I’m reading or working or cooking or making art. Roaming hands.
I wish I had someone I could share my sensual pleasure with.
Till you are naked with me, I pleasure myself.
Till you are here naked with me. Then.
Then we will pleasure each other all day and all night.
Maybe we’ll go for a hike and suck each other off in the woods, in the sunlight. Maybe we’ll stay on the porch and cuddle with roaming hands.
Till you are here with me. Till then.

The Highway Taken

People always seem shocked that, when they give me a "my way or the highway" ultimatum, I often quite calmly choose the highway. They shouldn't be shocked: there is almost always more than one solution to a problem, more than one path towards reaching a desired result.

It's usually only their egotism that makes them think that their way is the only correct way, and likewise that you'd better agree with them. I've had two or three friends in my life who were like this: sometimes it even descended to the absurd level of being about the Right Way to Load the Dishwasher. Granted, they were often correct about 75 percent of the time in life, because they were smart people; the problem arose during the other 25 percent of the time, when their solutions ran up against their inability to comprehend the phrase, "Well, that's one way to do it, but not the only way to do it." They often could not comprehend that their usual way to accomplish something wasn't the only possible way, or sometimes not even the most efficient way. Looking back, even though I don't harbor any grudges towards any of those people, none of them are friends with me any more. Either they pushed me away, or I chose the highway.

There's a great Romany saying I've always liked: "If the local gaje are giving you trouble, just pick up the caravan and go on down the road. There's always another town, always more gaje."

Another way of saying that is: It's a really big ocean, full of little fish. There are always new reefs to find and explore.

The choice being standing your ground and fighting for your position vs. picking up and moving along the highway isn't always an obvious one. I note that a lot of people choose exactly the wrong response whenever their ego and insecurities are on the line. They stand their ground when it would wiser to not pick a fight, and they flee when no man pursueth.

Genuine self-esteem doesn't require other people to agree with you. Forcing other people to agree with you, or demanding that they do even if you cloak it as a choice, is a rhetorical tactic no-one uses who is actually secure in themselves and their position. The loudest demanders are usually the least secure in their own prejudices: they know on some level that they're full of shit, and they use volume to try to convince themselves as much as you, and they try to run you over using sheer volume because on some level they know their arguments are full of holes. In other words, shouting is bullying. Period.

Insensitivity and intellectual arrogance (I'm right, you're not) are not at all the same thing as objectivity. Objectivity doesn't contain an emotional component—which of course is why it's so rarely encountered. Some of the most objective people I've ever met are those trained in Buddhist forms of meditation, because they're trained to be non-attached to outcomes. Even they get tripped up when it gets personal, sometimes: it's hard to be objective and clinical about a life-threatening illness when it's your own. On the flip side, I've encountered a lot of academic scholars and critics who think that intellectual superiority is a hallmark of objectivity, when in fact it's a hallmark of arrogance rather than objectivity. Arrogance is always rooted in insecurity, just as most anger is at root tangled up with fear.

One of the best lessons, on the level of mindset and attitude, from becoming an Adobe Photoshop expert was that there were almost always multiple ways to get the same end result. I enjoyed going to Photoshop training seminars not because I needed to learn more about how to do my graphic arts work but because I enjoyed seeing how the instructors achieved their results. Sometimes their route to the same end-result image was very different than mine. Sometimes their method was better than mine, sometimes not. I incorporated what was new to me into my own work flow, and often improved my efficiency. Towards the end of my graphics career, I was typically getting projects done in half the time allotted by management; which was great, as then I often had the rest of the day to "play" in Photoshop and do my own artwork.

Photoshop is a very rich environment, full of multiple paths to the same goal. It's practically endless in terms of what you can do with it. I am constantly learning new techniques and tools, even though I haven't upgraded in a few years due to lack of cash.

Photoshop is a lot like life that way: there are always more options and solutions and answers than you've thought of before. There are almost always third options to even the most dualistic and polarized viewpoints. There is almost always more than one way to reach a goal, and more than one way to do a given task, and more than one way to resolve a disagreement.

The people I started out talking about, those who give you the ultimatum to either agree with them or get out, are almost always limited by their own set-in-stone ways of doing things. The limit themselves by thinking their way is the only right way to do something—a viewpoint that remains consistent whether you're talking about loading the dishwasher or economic policy. They're convinced they're right, and you'd better agree with them. Some of them are polite enough to at least consider your differing viewpoint, but in the end they'll dismiss it all the same. The veneer of courtesy is the oil that greases the gears of social interaction—even when insincere, I would argue, because even when you know you haven't convinced them of your viewpoint, you can still have a discussion rather than be stuck with ultimatums.

Ultimatums don't work well with me. People who give them to me always seem surprised when I don't immediately back down and cave in to their viewpoint. They always seem surprised when I just exit rather than continue to let myself be hammered by their repetitive rhetoric. That's because my self-esteem doesn't require me to convince them they're wrong, especially when it's obvious that their self-esteem is so lacking that they'll fight to the death to be In The Right and suffer no contradictions. Neither does my self-esteem require me to force anyone to agree with me—quite the opposite. Genuine self-esteem means that you can be secure in your own convictions without having to force everyone else to share them.

Genuine self-esteem also means you don't feel required to comment on their character, or comment at all, when they don't agree with you. Always having to have the last word in an argument or discussion is just another method of trying to assert that you're right and they're wrong; what that indicates about your self-esteem should be obvious at this point.

Ultimatums are a bullying tactic. Refusing to play by the rules of bullying is what can shock the bullies to their cores, because you're not playing by their rules anymore—and that's when bullies start to portray themselves as the victim, the wounded party. They start complaining that you're not playing fair! Well, to a bully "fairness" only exists when they get to do whatever they want to do, and they will modify their own rules whenever they feel like it, because "fairness" to a bully means one thing and one thing only: "I win again!" Any situation in which the bully doesn't come out on top turns them into the "victim." This is as true in politics as it is in elementary school—but then, lots of people never did grow up anyway.

That's because a bully's ego is fragile. Bullies are emotional and psychological two-year-olds. They can't stand it when things don't go their way, and they throw tantrums and lash out till they get their way again. The psychology of bullying is the psychology of pre-school sandbox fights.

When a bully tells you that you're not playing fair because you refused to fight by their rules, all that means is that they don't like that you didn't submit to their will. That's why they're shocked when you choose the highway over their way. Bullies can't see the highway as an option because that can't see anything but their own way being The One Right Of Way.

Usually there's enough road on either side of a bully to just walk around them. Do that. It saves effort, avoids unnecessary drama, saves time, and allows you to see further down the highway than they ever will.