Pornographic confessional

by Stirling

Today, I am going to talk about porn.  You know what porn is for? It’s for wanking.  It serves as an aid to masturbation.  Of course,  you can masturbate with with nothing but spit and a free hand, but it’s not as enjoyable.  It’s sort of like the difference between a nice meal in front of the TV and the same meal on a well laid table.  Either gets the job done, but K-Y and porn are the tablecloth and candles of the masturbation experience.

I remember when I started jerking off to porn because I still remember the cover of the 1992 Sears Catalog.  Being  11 and all, I go straight to the training bra section (fantasizing about 20 somethings seemed perverse, when they were a decade older then me),  but if few short years I would graduate to the woman’s section, and my personal favorite, the maternity section…because the front of the cups could be popped off! That was hot. Then we got a 33K modem, and it was game on.  I spent any reasonable chance I could spanking my monkey. Through all of it though, I looked at porn to help me fantasize about relationships the church told me I could not have.

I looked at porn because I liked to see women intimately, but I was too afraid to talk with them. Porn gave me a chance to do things in my head I was too scared to do in real life.  I looked at every legal genre of porn available.  In rough alphabetically order, I looked at amatuer, anal, Asian, Babysitter, Bath/Shower, BBW, BDSM, biker, blond, blow job, black, bondage, Brazilian, bride, British, brunette, bukkake, business woman, candid, celebrity, cheer leader, cigarette, deep throat, drunk, dutch, facial, fake, farm, female ejaculation, fist, flashing, food, freckled, gagging, glamor, glasses, glory hole, goth, granny, hairless, hairy, hand-job, hidden cam, housewife, Indian, insertion, jail, Japanese, lactating, lingerie, latex, lesbian, long hair, mom, midget, muscle girl, nurse, natural, nudist, office, piercing, petite, pregnant, puffy nipples, redhead, retro, schoolgirl, skinny, spanking, stewardess, stockings,  stripping, tan-lines, tattoo, uniform, and wet T-shirt.

People say porn messes you up inside because it makes you think that woman really want to do the things like that.  Well, two thoughts.  Some women do like to do the crazy, kinky things that you see in porn.  Also, things like what? Dressing up in titillating clothes?  Enjoying a man’s full attention? Smoking cigarettes? Being a redhead/brunette/blonde etc?  Anytime I have ever wanted to do something sexual with a woman, I politely ask. If the answer is no, I accept it as a no.  I don’t look at bukkake porn because I think degrading a woman is hot.  I think degrading woman is, well, degrading.  I look at it because the fantasy of having a woman ask me to do it is hot.  It’s only degrading if it coerced.  If everybody is having fun, its not degrading.

I like women.  I am always most comfortable in a small group of women.  I like the way they think, I like the way they are aware of their emotions and aren’t afraid to express them.  I like the way they smell, I like the way they look.  I could look at a single naked woman for hours and never get bored of her.  I look at porn because I love women and I am a little afraid of rejection.  And to me (sadly) I’ve found over viewing thousands of hours of porn…that I don’t like 99% of it anymore.

When I was kid, my fear of rejection manifested itself as anger.  I was pissed at women because their approval meant so much to me and mine didn’t mean a damn thing to them. Now, I’m an adult and I’m OK with the fact that starting a sexual relationship is one of the most terrifying things in the world for me. I take my relationships profoundly seriously, my my losses hurt me profoundly deeply.  Being OK with that, all that hate at women just sort of melts away.  That being the case, I can’t get down with most pornography anymore

The things the guys (and women) say are just so grotesque.  I’ll be sitting there, my pants down, greased up, and really getting into it when the dude says something like “YEAH, TAKE IT DIRTY BITCH! ” while he’s fucking some chick in the ass, and it’s like eating something and chomping down on a piece of broken glass.  Everything just stops. I sit there feeling my dick pulse get softer as it deflates.

Last time I checked the stats about between 1 in 10 and 1 in 20 women really like anal sex.  So I am in this fantasy where I am with one of those 5% of women who really, really like a dick in the ass.  And I am going crazy and pounding it and really enjoying myself.  You know what I would say?  “OMG, OMG, OMG, thank you so much! This is everything I hopped it would be!  You are so hot, so amazing, so special!  I am so lucky to be with you.  Is everything OK down there?  Better faster or slower? Harder or softer?  Need more lube? Can I do anything to make this as good for you as it for me?”

Same thing with bukkake.  So, let’s say I find a woman who wants me and my 9 closest friends to cum on her face.  If ANYBODY so much as thinks something negative about her, I’m kicking him in his exposed balls.  I have no idea what the percentage of women out there who like a group of guys to come on her face is, I’m thinking around one in a million…so I would make sure she was treated like one in million.   “May I cum on your face now, ma’am?”  “Thank you so much for this.” “Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?”   Those are good things to say.

There is a sort of undertone of abuse in all porn out there, and it ruins the fantasy for me. Because I love myself, and have no desire to hurt myself, I don’t project my self hatred onto women anymore.  I wish there were more people like me, and I wish I could see them naked.

Abortions for EVERYBODY!

by Stirling

I turn 30 next month.  I still don’t want to deal with my family.  They know I am an atheist. They know some stuff, but I keep the stuff that is really crazy to them, safely anonymous on this blog.  It’s not that I am afraid of them, they can’t hurt me physically anymore, and they mean so little to me these days they can’t hurt me emotionally much anymore.  I just don’t want to deal with the bullshit, fucking hassle.   So let me say this:  I support abortion, but I hate it.  I’m not sure if my hatred is simply a residual stain of my pathetic early Christian life, or part of my atheists ethics, but I hate it.

I’ve thought about this as well as I am able.  First off, life with a lower case “l” begins at conception.  There cannot be any argument on that. When a single cell consumes nutrients and begins a process of mitosis, thats life.  Biologically speaking, that life is human, because the cells have human DNA.  It’s not cancer (which would also have human DNA) because the cells are not replicating out of spec, but replicating properly.  If you cause the cells to stop metabolizing permanently, you’ve killed them.  That’s not a value judgment, it’s the facts whether the cells in question are fungal or human.

But it’s not a person yet, it’s potential person.  Identity is carried by software of the mind in the hardware of the brain.   No identity means no capital “L” life.  A human body with no brain in it is not a person.  A human body with zero brain function is not a person.   Personhood is not a destination, it’s a direction.  As the fetus matures it comes closer to personhood.  I’m not sure when it becomes a person, but homicide is the death of a person.  So, seconds after conception, death is not homicide because a mass of cells with human DNA is not a person.   However, as each moment passes, as the potential personhood looms nearer, killing the fetus is an increasing a homicidal act.

Using the term homicide does not imply a value judgment, homicide can be justified.  Regardless,  killing a fetus which could survive outside the uterus in an ICU, and with that medical care could become a person is undoubtedly homicide, or something just like it.  For such an act to be ethical would require good justification.

These facts are not changed by “a woman’s choice”.  The fetus is not her body.  No person has two DNA’s.  Nor, baring rare disorders, is it parasitic.  By definition, parasites cannot be the same species as their host.  Nor, as mentioned above is it cancer, as cancer cells are replicating abnormally, while fetal cells are replicating normally.  The fetus may be an interloper, unwanted in the uterus, but homicide for tresspassing is not generally justifiable.

The only thing that can make homicide moral is justification based upon circumstance.  So how  could I possibly support abortion on demand?  Since life begans at conception, so does motherhood.  The decisions a woman makes begin to affect the fetus the moment it is concieved.  If she drinks, does drugs, takes the wrong prescription medice, the fetus is effected.

I think the homicide of a person, or the termination of a potential person is a terrible thing.  But I think forcing a child to be raised by a mother who wished she could have killed him is worse.  Further,  to borrow an old 2n Amendment quip, if abortions are outlawed only outlaws will provide abortions.  The death of potential person is bad. The death of a potential person and the mother is worse.   Again, is the kind of mother who either by circumstances or choices, prefers to risk her own life with a back street butcher just to not take pregnancy to term, the kind of woman we want raising children?

Adoption is not a complete answer.  Unless we are willing to put pregnant women (who doesn’t want to be pregnant) under 24 hour surveillance and full restraint, drugs and alcohol can still harm the fetus.  Forcing a woman to carry a child to term she does not want is recipe for harmed fetus, even if the 9 months of the total loss of civil rights for a person could be justified by the future rights of a potential person.  And of course, there would still need to be an adoptive family.

So we have three evils: the death of a potential person or forcing a child to be raised (for the first 9 months) by someone who didn’t want them or totally removing a unwilling pregnant woman’s civil rights until the child is born.   Of the thee three the first is the least evil, because it is the only one which effects a potential person and not a full person.

To me it is pretty obvious, that abortion should be cheap, safe, legal, accessible, and infrequent.  Though I support abortion, I hate it.  It may no be murder, but it is something damn close, at least in the later stages of the pregnancy.  I hate it so much, I am all in for spending quite a lot to avoid it.

My plan would look like this.  One, social  education that teaches skills age appropriate relationship skills, including how to chose a sex partner for high school age kids .  Two, as part of that social ed, sex ed that teaches the risks and rewards of sex, the proper place for abstinence, use of contraceptives, and a positive presentation of sexuality. Three, free condemns available and readily accessible. Four, free universal health-care. Five, space given to high-school age kids to have safe sex. Six, social welfare to pregnant women (to encourage adoption).Seven, total rewrite of foster and adoption care and services.  Finally, abortion when needed, encouraged at the earliest time, but alway there, legal, safe, and free.

Note: by some trick of monitor lighting, I can’t read the typos on this in the edit screen, only on the blog.  So if you divorce my whole argument because I am dyslexic, go fuck yourself.

Freshman sex/Ex girlfriend

by Stirling

I broke up with her on the phone because I wasn’t man enough to do it in person or I was too much of man.  She’d hug me the way she did, face pressed to my chest, the nails of one hand digging into my shoulder blade, the other into the small of my back.  She’d press her crotch against my leg until I could feel both labias pressing through two layers of denim and the blood pulsing through the arteries of her thigh.  Then she’d cry, and as mascara and foundation ran down my shirt she would whisper..

“Please don’t go.”  And I wouldn’t.

So, she got a phone call from 142 miles away, to the day-room phone.  I confessed my love but said I just wasn’t ready to get married yet, I had to go, please don’t call, don’t write, please just let me be, let me figure out who I am before I marry you, , please, my love, just give me time.    She cried, and begged, and pleaded, but I was strong.  For once, I had to be stronger then the bounce of her breasts, the curve of her ass, and the smell of her hair.  I had to want what was best for me more then I wanted in her pants, because I knew if I didn’t something in me would die.

“FUCK YOU!” were her last words.  I hung up the phone.  Three months later the wedding invitation arrived by email.   Written the bottom  was “Just wanted you to know that I am totally over you now.”   I cried as I held it, and as I burned it.  I moved on.  I got in another relationship. I settled down.  But when my marriage was on the rocks, I thought of my little blond haired fire cracker, far away in the Big City.  I emailed.  She wrote back.  We talked and then…she was gone.

Years later, having failed out of school, I was preparing to move across the country.  Staring at the surf rolling in, I decided I wanted everything to be right between us, and I called.  We spoke. Tears.  Growth. Smiles.  and then, she was gone.

Her second marriage fails.  I get an email.  She wants to be part of my life.  She wants me, alone in a hotel room in the Big City.  I tell her that sounds wonderful, but it’s not what I do.  My wife and I are open, but I don’t fuck strangers.  If she wants to be friends again, get to know each other, and then try to work out sex as a loved equal and not a stranger wearing the memories of my fiancée…then perhaps.

She says she doesn’t believe in sex with people she cares about, and that she doesn’t make her self vulnerable enough to be the kind of deep friends I am talking about.  She tells me it is sad and lame that I still think there are real feelings, and that it’s too bad I haven’t gotten over her like she’s gotten over me, and then, she was gone.

New email.  She wants to know how things are going… so here in my blessed anonymousness let me say how things are going.

Fuck you, you stupid, fucking uppity bitch.  I tried to give you everything when I was freshman in college.  I tried to give you everything when I had a family that depended on me, I tried to give you everything thing when my life was changing, and most recently when I offered you everything I have to offer as the family-man I am, you said you don’t “do that” anymore.

All I ever wanted to be to you was a loved as an equal.  I didn’t want to be your sex slave, I didn’t want you to be mine.  I wanted us to love and take care of one another. You know what you want? You want my dick.  Not because you love me but because since you were 17 years old I’m the only man who had so much self respect that he turned down sex with you just be in control of his life.  You don’t give a shit about love, or friendship, or even having fun with your body.  You just need men to need you. You don’t deserve me.

Take the fingers you used to hold me with, stick them in the pussy you tried to whip me with and go fuck yourself, because I sure as hell won’t.

Obama and school

by Ivona

I have some Facebook Friends that I can not be honest with. They are family. They are friends I’ve not seen in a decade. They are people I do not have an active relationship with and I am not comfortable popping into their lives to say, “HEY! You are fucking retarded! Why don’t you read a fucking book? Why don’t you turn off your damn TV and stop listening to the radio and stop reading trashy magazines? Why don’t you stop letting FOX fucking News think for you? Grow a pair and think for yourself!”

But I can’t say those things. I’m not ready to burn those bridges.

Hello, from lame-ville

By Stirling

I was suicidal all day today. It’s weird living with depression. I’ve been living with it my whole life, and no one knows. I can go to work, I can chat, I can laugh, I can even smile.  As I turn away from the merriment, the smile muscles going slack, I feel the tendrils of dankness wrap around me.  I feel like something black and sticky is pulling me down a well and I can’t fight.  I don’t even want to fight, I want those little strings of muck to pull me so deep I can hurt myself.

I’ll be standing there, staring at the wall, thinking about how great it would be to not have to feel this tomorrow, to never have to feel this again.  And somebody says something to me, and pop out of it and smile, respond to verbal cues, and in all ways act normal.

I hate my life.  I hate walking up in the morning, I hate putting on clothes, I hate getting into my car, I have going to work.  I hate my job, I hate everyone I work with.  I watch the seconds tic by and become minutes, and the minutes become hours until I can go home.  Then I hide from my family.  And I hate my reasons for feeling this way.

You know why I feel this way? Because of my total failure to be who I wanted to be.  Not my total failure as a person.  I have a family. I am an OK parent, and a decent spouse.  I keep my house clean. I drive the speed limit. I like dogs.  I am kind to small animals, old people, etc. I pay taxes and I always recycle.

No, no.  My failure is not to be the normal things that most people are.  That I have done quite well.  My failure is to be who I wanted to be: a superhero, a dictator, a time traveler.   I wanted greatness, not good-enough-ness.  I wanted to change the world…and now, on the threshold of 30, I will be lucky if anyone outside my immediate family can even match my face to my name.

That’s why suicide is so tempting.  I cannot make my life something to be remembered, perhaps my death could be worthy of comment?  Perhaps is death, I could finely be thought about, talked about, important, ultimately special.

I just want to be special.

I tell myself that I can’t harm myself and I won’t.  As pointless and stupid as I think my life is, my family doesn’t deserve that. Maybe my family is meant for something greater then the pathetic “the bills are paid and we have enough money to go out once a week” life that I topped out at.  So, for them, I will wake up again, and do it all again tomorrow.  Keep putting the left foot ahead of the right foot, step at time to comfortable and unimportant natural death.

My, what a thing to look forward to.

Punishing myself (My past in a nutshell)

By Stirling

How do I introduce myself? How do I explain where this rage comes from? This constant frustration with everything that normal people enjoy?  I lived my whole life in fear.

Fear of God mostly.  My number one fear was that he would punish me.  For what? Masturbating, occasional private cross dressing, putting ice cream on my asshole and letting the dog lick it so I could find out what a rimjob was like, but mostly I think my BDSM fantasies.  At the same time, I was afraid of God NOT punishing me.  I mean, my god, what if I was the only person that could stop me? What if God wouldn’t do a damn thing to stop my downward spiral?  What if I ended up in trailer with 16 kids and a grotesquely fat wife, drinking Miller Lite, and watching NASCAR? Or, dying of AIDS, alone and pathetic, abandoned by my gay buddies?  Or locked up in a rubber room, my memories of orgies slowly fading as tertiary syphilis ate my brain neuron at a time.?

And then when I realized how profoundly stupid and pointless Christianity, nay, religion is.  So I became an Atheist.  And I found in place of this constant fear was this constant rage at everyone else for not having the balls to grow up and stop pretending to believe in Jesus, and fairies, and unicorns.   With reflection, I realized this rage was projection of my own self loathing.

For so many years I believed something I knew, deep down, was total bullshit.  I wanted to put on a pair of assless chaps be spanked with a riding crop by giggling, jiggling fat women.  I wanted to pound a woman in the asshole. I wanted to tie some one up and cum on their face.  I wanted to be the dom half the time, and the sub the other half.  I wanted to have sex with thousands of women, in park shelters, airport bathrooms, and movie theaters.

I knew that about myself, and so horrified was I by my own sex drive and sexuality, that I didn’t even do the fairly normal things I wanted to do, like back pack Europe, go camping alone, or even go to college. Had I done anything of those things I might have been a lone at some point with someone reasonable attractive, trust worthy, disease free, and interested…and  if that happened, I would have gone for it…and if that happened…I would have taken my first step down a road to Hell, paved in condom wrappers and merkins.

So, the rage is at myself.  I turn 30 soon.  To old to fuck 18 year olds.  In fact, to old to fuck anyone much under 22.  Even if it is legal, I don’t feel like it is ethical.  I have responsibilities, I have a family.  I have a fucking Volvo.  I don’t know that anything demonstrates to me my total failure to achieve my dreams as the Volvo parked out front.  It’s like shrine to risk-free white breadism.   There’s a stalker outside.  His name is Time.  He’s got a pot belly, a comb-over, man tits, and sad, flaccid, little penis…all for me.  He may not catch me this year, maybe not next year, but he’ll get me.  He gets us all.

I only get a few more years to pour hot wax on a hogtied, naked,writhing woman and have it be right. After that, I become to others, not so much the guy who loves the BSDM scene as “that-creepy-old-guy-who-just-pretends-to-be-part-of-the-scene-to-get-younger-women”.   YES, I do want younger women, but not because they are younger.  I find beauty in woman young and old, fat, skinny, and muscled like Schwarzenegger. I want young women because I was too afraid to be with them when I was young. My youth is slipping away, my chances to experience my sexuality as a young man and not just a man are slipping away.  I am slipping away.

And so the fear…becomes rage.