082518 pulsing array of little hot buttons subby the subconscious would be content to lie in bed all day; like my neighbor’s motorcycle subsonically rumbling thru the walls, it wouldn’t have to GO anywhere directional subby the sub it’s like wearing or becoming aware that i was already wearing or still wearing a chastity belt, every time i think about her longer than a passing fancy how about if i look her up? google and duckduckgo and my own case files. “victim information and notification” -- am i going to try one more time to get a password for that so i can go on the website and update my phone number and stuff? dreamed “about” her again after all that, of course seven years more - she’ll be what 51? and I’ll be 55 - shit by then if something doesn’t change with my prostate and all that stuff i won’t be able to think about anything except urinating. dreamed about her - this one was perhaps the most intimate one in quite a while, since the first couple of years at least. it was slightly more “realistic” because she wasn’t exactly living with me/us. she was being hosted by carol/michelle/sharon somehow, indirectly? but for some reason we were all at the same hotel and it had an enormous swimming pool with a hivelike complex of underground changing rooms and showers and stuff. some of the showers and stuff is bleeding over from an older dream though. but i recall her face, large, lunar, seemingly earnest, in front of mine, talking about the stuff i’ve wondered about as if it were perfectly acceptable to wonder about. saying she’d decided we shouldn’t have sex, at least not right away, not even leaving me semantic breathing space to have made that decision myself; her saying it preemptively like that made it humiliatingly obvious that i would have, that i still would. i still would. I want to. I still want to. And if she gets out and isn’t totally ravaged and leathery and destroyed by being in there -- who knows, maybe she’ll be hard and lean and masculine?? -- and if I’m not totally neutered and neutralized and indifferent from being out here -- who knows, maybe i’ll well we won’t finish that one because i don’t have a lot of confidence in what i’ll be well fuck it maybe i’ll have stayed in pretty good shape and kept my energy and health and vigor levels up, as up as a man in his 50’s who was never that virile in the first place can -- maybe i’ll be just tight and healthy enough to still be a soft cuck submissive -- so if both of those, and if there’s some way for it to happen, then yeah, that’s my latest dirty little secret in a paltry life made of dirty little secrets: i would still want to. to watch my grim resolve drain out of my facial muscles, out of my pretending voice. to feel my true faggot voice suffuse my muscles and make them go soft, go weak, give in. inexorably to sink, without even being asked, to my knees, to the floor, to her cruelly silent undemanding feet; to answer the command their mere presence implies. quietly, desperately, to beg to lick, to suck, to be fucked, to be degraded, to be hurt. Seriously, no fucking question about it, I still would, in a heartbeat. You think it’s easy for me to pick up the pipe instead of doing my work on some random thursday afternoon? Just wait until this specific fantastically charged symbolic Sunday, and see if there’s anything, anything at all I wouldn’t sink so low as to suck, were she so much as to raise one eyebrow. After all these years, that’s the castrating force of it: she’ll be the reason it doesn’t happen; not I. I kind of outgrew alcohol. Pot is ludicrous and I’m getting sick of it as well, not in a big tragic romantic way. Even loneliness has kind of started to lose its gravitas. Self-loathing has been revealed to be a party trick of the mind. So in a way, this is all I have left. This is my last remaining truly untamed dragon. The last of the powerful beasts in my pantheon; the last hard, ridged scaly back for me to grab on and hold on to with my girlish hands, my creamy thighs, as it bucks and writhes and takes to the skies, as I breathe fast, in sucking little gasps, through open rouged lips, knowing that one slip and I’ll fall to my grisly death. And when we land, by the acrid campfire in a hidden clearing, far from any elf music or friendly farms protected by benign sorcery, out here by hell’s marker, i already know my protests will be but make-believe; i’ll already be sticky with heat; my round white ass will come up, my skirts will ruffle down around my ears, my face will taste the dirt and i will wait patiently, and beg and moan and whine, and beg the dragon to fuck me hard, split me like a game hen on a fucking spit, fuck me, fuck me, spit on me and fuck me. Somehow I don’t think that’s what Mark Twain had in mind when he said you should always keep one vice, so you’ll have something to give up when things get really bad. But who knows. Old people can surprise you sometimes. Even old people (and ghosts) you thought were dead or thoroughly gone.