080618 the gray knight has no choice but to sit there and watch the mud show—but his reward is a trip through the touch tunnel. That seems fair. That’s one of the things I like about the gray knight. He’s not defined by mere virtuousity. He’s not hemmed in by a dichotomous view of sexuality, neither. He’s honest, but necessarily by brute force. He’s an accidental True Witness, because he doesn’t know any better than to tell the truth about what’s happening at any given moment. God I miss the mud show. Even more than I miss the touch tunnel. I so want to be tortured again, but the neutrality of innocence. I so want to be gently dominated again—not by someone cruel, and not by someone twisted enough to be paying attention only to my immediate ego. Not by someone who’s doing it to get somewhere else. Not by someone who is so god damned clever and cunning, so god damned disingenuous that it’s done *perfectly—* that should be your first clue, young cuck dogs: if she does it all too perfectly well, you should know there’s something fake about it. But of course, because she does it so well, by the time you start to even question it, it will be too late. You’ll be too far in. You’ll be groveling in a pool of your own spit. God I miss any kind of sexuality and sensuality and intimacy and vulnerability and corniness with another naked adult. Or even clothed adult, as long as the clothing is a form of nudity. I miss someone whose arched eyebrows I don’t know the meaning of. The best person to be dominated by is a person who’s at least a little bit clueless, who doesn’t exactly know how to do it right. For whom the spell breaks sometimes, so the two of you can go down broadway and get some potato chips and deli meat. Who has a life separate from you, but not a boring, scary, sinister one. Who smiles easily in the sunshine. Who surprises you when the sun goes down—who’s so sweet that when she suddenly slaps you and spits on your face, you gasp. Whose cruelty isn’t couched in porn jargon. Unless it is, once in a while, for fun. Bottom line: You gotta be dominated by someone who actually has the capacity to come to love you, and whom you already are secretly in love with. You got to feel that resonance, that current. You got to feel that giddiness—the *light* butterflies, not the turgid hippos in your stomach. You got to make each other happy more often than you make each other think heavy thoughts. She’s got to be a keyboard that’s delightful to type on; not one that you could maybe get used to if you had to. She’s got to have some feature that you never would have thought of as your type: mybe her ass is too skinny. Maybe her tits are too big. Maybe she’s a little too severe around the mouth and eyes, because, after all, we’re all grown up now, we’re all kind of just, let’s face it, a little bit old now. And then that disadvantageous feature has got to become, in the first few weeks, something you’re pleasantly guiltily starting to look forward to the most, a kid with a big sucker that he sneaked. Wait til no one’s watching (but her), take it out, unwrap it, lick and suck like a goddamned cocksucker, unabashed, uncivilized, unreserved. Someone you actually want to kiss. Do I have it in me, anymore? Is this even possible at this point? I feel like I’m literally running out of time. I desperately want to find this person—and note that I said “she” because of basically the odds, I guess, but honestly, it could be “he” or “she” or anything in between. I truly don’t care. Gender could be that one weird feature, honestly. I desperately want to find this person while I have at least enough energy and sexuality and mobility and just non-grossness left to really make some good stories and poems out of it. I want to find love again before I get too old. There. I said it. There’s my guilty sucker. There it is, all knobby and red and shining translucently in the sun, waiting for your lips to suck it in and make it wet and sticky. I’m so insecure about certain parts of my body. Somewhat insecure about certain parts of my mind—always the background tingle of “what if I’m a complete idiot compared to what I think I used to be, but I just totally don’t know it because it’s my own brain trying to evaluate itself?” But then I guess it doesn’t matter—unless I’m such a complete moron now that there’s no way I’ll find—but honestly, that seems unlikely. Mostly it’s my extra front fat, my digestive system, and my general lack of sexual prowess. The latter of the three is so old as to not even be that scary anymore; that’s a cliched, garden-variety, stock insecurity I’ve carried around since before I was even fully pubescent, so whatever. I know all the tricks and workarounds for that. That one’s almost funny, almost fun, a game at this point. Can even be used in my advantage (cuckoldry, domination, submission, etc). The first of the three I can still relatively easily do at least a little something about: walk, gym, quit drinking. That should still work. No biggie there (unless my resistance is truly greater than my desire, in which case, welll....) The middle one of the three? I dunno. I guess a lot of people my age probably have little weird bodily deficiencies. I figure if I just don’t worry it, don’t fetishize it, don’t bring it front and center, and be as open/forgiving to someone else’s deficiencies as I need them to be with mine, then I guess we should be able to squeak by. I feel like I just gotta get a toe in the door of someone’s affections soon, though, because like I said, I fear it’s going to be too late (which might be nonsense, but doesn’t feel like it right now), and I’m just getting a little disenchanted with the cynical, wounded, bitter, lonely charade that I’ve been secretly playing when it comes to non-familial adult relationships. I’d say that I know better what I want this time around, but I’m honestly not even sure that’s it. I think it may be more like I just want something better this time. I got what I wanted then, actually. But what I wanted really fucking sucked and really fucking damaged me for a long time.