memento

It is easy, very easy.
I will never find you,
I will never be yours.

There is not such a thing as an happy ending, as I won’t be able to hope anymore.
Soon my heart will be a wasteland, I will dry all my tears and beyond that point there is no return.
My heart will wither and die.

But don’t we all wither? Don’t we all die? The signs I see on my skin, on my face, the wrinkles I am starting to gather aren’t those simple the epitome of a process that cannot be stop?
Not time, too simple, but instead the process of not being found, of not belonging, the process of an absence, the absence of love.

Who am I to say what’s love and what’s not?
Me that never gathered the strength to pierce my own armor?
I come here to tell myself what I cannot tell myself or anybody else and today is simply the fact I am alone and I will always be.

You don’t exhist. I don’t follow the normal protocols either.
Maybe my own exhistence doesn’t have enough firmness to be defined real.
I don’t exhist either.
I am the measure of a dream,
waning toward dusk.

the realisation it
astonishing

being alone
is all i have
is all i will ever have

is all i am
now

the courtesy of being truthful to oneself

Where is my place, if not at Master’s feet?
Where is my pleasure if not in his hands, in the pain that He will gift me.
Where is the path I must travel to be born again, to fullfill my destiny, to find the place that is truly mine?

I have been silent for so much time, for so many weeks and months. for all this time I was lost and alone and with no purpose. I knew what I was missing, every single minute of those days I knew that the time that was passing by would only mean one thing: to get lost even more in the forest of myself.
It is a calm forest the one that surrounds you when you’re lost. The smell is pleasant and the air is fresh, and one have the sensation of light and sun on the skin… a sensation of being maybe not in the right place but that at least the season is right. Such was the illusion of myself, a brothel of beautiful trees, none of them something I would have planted but they seemed there for a reason. They ought to be… for the forest is vast and silent and beaituful and everything is at its place.

But every single branch is a lie. Something inside of you is not right and you know it and time goes by and you kinda understand that the sun is good but not excellent, that the tree are nice but not suitable for this climate, that the path you are walking is not signed on a map.
And as you reach for your compass
You awake.

I am that lost soul in a forest. I am now awake.

The process that awakes you it’s difficult and painful somehow. You must make choices and you’re not made to make choices yet you must choose a course of action to take you out of the cavern. Because now you can see the limit of your life, the limits you imposed on yourself with the stern capability of a masochist, pushing yourself far far away from your own duties, your own pleasure.
Is there something worst than negleting yourself everything? is that something more painful that leaving yourself alone at the mercy of your Super Ego, enslaved by your own Internal Judge?
Suddenly you see the things for what they are: your masochims playing with you for the last time, the last time of a long list – I must admit that to myself.

Why on hell did I come here?
Why did I put myself again in this situation where I am blocked, stucked by beauty and simplicity and a good level of borgeouis life?
What am I scared of?

This last question is the one. While asking myself this question someone contact me on Recon and asks me what am I doing so late in the night.
I state I am trying to understand the reasons of my masochism.

Because I have beaten myself another time, without realizing.
As usual.
I’ve failed myself so many time.

So
This is me tring to get on my feet again.
Slowly.

Please help me.

Without you I can be something I am not intented to be.
With you I am nothing. As it should be.

Sunrise of an atomic failure

Here we are. Me and you. Eyes into eyes.
I speak, my mouth moves, my fingers typing this words.
The urge to pee is an un-poetical expression of my desire of submission. I put myself here and now in this situation, holding it behind what is needed, to feel the pressure building as a mythological version of my boiling soul, the everlasting desire of a release which never comes.
For there is power in words, those words I can’t find nor anywhere nor on anyone, those words that would dare to set me apart from everybody else, the words “You’re mine” to whom I would abide.
I am free only the moment I have to ask everything, even such a trivial thing as the permission to use a toilet, and I am bound to your answer as deeply as I am by your hands.
These are the places where a “No” is as much erotic and liberating as a “Yes”. Ther is no difference. Or maybe the “No” would make more sense. Somehow.
Don’t let me choose, don’t let me free. Don’t let myself sink into myself, keep me outside on the verge of a constant restless torture of the soul, of the mind, of what’s left of my body.

But it is clear I am losing the battle.
The Man that will speak those words is not going to come. Here I am bound by unsolved desires and undeserving boredom.
Not the kind of domination I was hoping for, but this is all that Italy can give me, that this city gave me so far.

I wanted to go out, to try something new, to feel the vibrant cords in my belly sing the song of pleasure again. I can’t.
There is nowhere to go, only an endless landscape of solitude.
No firm hand will squeeze my balls until I cry, no whip will make my back red with wisdom.

I feel alone.

I write this with sadness. I don’t know what the future will prescribe to me. I sincerely hope it will be something more than this “nothingness” I feel and see around me, but for the time being there is no escape.
I am bound by my own idiocy – year after year. At a certain point will I be too old to play?
And that is a day I don’t want to see.
For I will be stuck inside myself. Forever.

This blog is a rant. A rant of a lost soul.
I cannot speak any other language now, but the one of my own desperation.

Degrees of divine intervention

So here I am. Again and again and again. I keep promising myself I will write more, but then things happens and I can’t and I hide inside myself to hibernate all my feeling of servitude and slavery.
But then I come back, again and again, for what I am – a slave, a faggot, a painslut – emerges out of me with inherent timing, exactly when it shouldn’t happen, exactly when I am almost able to sedate myself.
Now though I am a bitch in heat. And you all know what that means.

But let’s not take it right to the point, let’s make a step behind and let’s say how and why I have been away… it is somehow of an epiphany itself what happened to me two months ago and it needs to be recorded.
I had a minor surgery – circumcision. Having a small case of phimosis I thought it would make me better, a better cock for a Master namely and also a better possible cock for a Prince Albert – again perfect for a chastity device or for any other use one would like to make of me and of my cock.
But things went wrong. I went from a little almost not noticeable phimosis to a major one because of the total incompetence of the surgeon. So I went through excruciating pains – one kind I found out difficult to like – and days of horrible thoughts and fears of losing the possibility of being whole. The scar eventually healed but it’s still there, preventing me to do anything with the cock, namely only pissing – obviously only sitting – while masturbating is a kind of a problem. A new surgery will be needed to fix the problem and this time they will remove all the foreskin, meaning I will have a completely circumcised cock, exposed all the time.

I found myself with a permanent and unmovable chastity device basically, since November. I counted the day I didn’t cum and they were 50. I say “were” because yesterday I had a spontaneous ejaculation while dreaming of horny stuff but I still have to manage to be able to have a self inducted orgasm.

This is the situation. Weird things are happening though. Yesterday, while I was showering, suddenly only touching my nipple was a kind of heaven… I was in a strange, enticed erotic state, where touching my body was per see a source of pleasure. A few day before I found myself dripping precum like a bitch in heat, only because a man watched me in a certain way and somehow my whole body reacted and I couldn’t control myself anymore.
The whole of my actual situation is not nice I must admit… the scar is not that nice and the prospect of having another ordeal like that is really really bad… but still I found again myself in that state of mind I like, that thought process in which I want to be only pleasure for a man, only an instrument of pure and sublime ecstasy.
It happened through pain once, it’s happening again through chastity now – even if it’s a different kind of sensation, it leads to similar states of mind.

Through an operation that went wrong I could see more of my soul, I could uncover another piece of my submissive side, that side that want to be controlled on everything, anything, that side childish and wild that needs to be told what to do all the time.
And you know what?
It’s beautiful. It’s fucking difficult and frustrating but I like it so much because it feels so damn right.

Through chastity I am what I am supposed to be, wild and crazy and in heat but still subdued.

I still have to come to a realisation of these desiders though, because again here in Italy is difficult to find people interested in a more deep and profound aspect of a sub/Dom – slave/Master relationship. Almost everyone here wants a quick fuck and this doesn’t click with my inner levers because I need trust and a strong connection to let myself go.

I’m working on it. To celebrate this 50 days of not cumming I updated to my tumblr a hopefully cute post of me in underwear. 
To remind myself what a little horny bitch I am.
To remind myself my place.

On the floor.
Always.

So from me don’t expect anything more than this
complete truth
complete servitude
for I am looking only for one thing
to reach that state
of pure
crazy
beauty

 

 

Number 0: the fool

So this is the new beginning, this is me starting to try to go somewhere, somewhere I don’t know, somewhere I have never been Somewhere where I will be free.

Will I succeed? Will I fail?
I don’t know either, but I know I will.

I can’t see the path lied ahead of me but you can see fear on my face, because fear it is that keeps me away from myself, fear of showing to everyone the beast.

I talk to you know, my dark seed, I talk to you now that we can see each other in the eyes for what we are… it is me, your capturer and you, my beast.
Listen to the song, how it stays with you, how it sits in you with comfort. Let it sink in your fangs, let it drown in your heart.
Open your eyes, watch me
I promise I will take care of you
You won’t be alone anymore
these are the words you want
and you have them now
come with me
take my hand
bring me to the place
we’ve never been

I am two now
and I start my new walk
into the sands of time
step by step
breath after breath

His golden hair are over us
as we struggle
he tells us what to do
get on your knees with me
you’re strong
help me to be strong like you
and more

for we are here and the hair of the Fool is falling on us like stars.
this is the new beginning of something
i don’t have a name
i know i will be with you

because it’s who i am

im in love

with you

iminlove

withmyself

and the music will go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go and go

On Virtues and limits – vivisection of an epiphany

I lack the virtue of moderation. This is all and everything about me. You don’t need to know more.
The truth, pure and simple: in my core I am boundless, I cannot be contained. Like a wild animal, like a river, I am bold and exaggerated in everything I do.

This whole is the point from where everything originated, especially my way to deal with what needs to be done and what shouldn’t be done.
Having no moderation means that sometimes I do silly things because my drive is to go above and behind, I am a traveler of deep space where the goal is the unknown, I like to break rules maybe – especially if nobody punishes me.
So, again, this is the core of my behavior being boundless, unconsidered. If I eat I will eat all, if I read I read it all, if I fuck I want to fuck it all, if I buy I buy everything if I spend I spend. Nothing else has interest for me.
I cannot understand or cope with mediocrity. Every single thing I see and feel is so special and weird that I cannot understand how people can be mediocre or mean. Everything could be so beautiful.
But this comes with a price and that price is harsh to pay… therefore I learnt in the past to be sensible, to don’t do silly things, to stop myself.
But this is all wrong.
I shouldn’t stop myself, I should be “stopped” by someone, like a wild animal in a cage somehow – the beauty I have is all in my intensity and if I try alone to castrate my intensity, I will become something sad and dry… but if someone cultivates this intensity – making it blossom, suddenly it makes sense.
I could go deeper in me, release my true self, because I would know I would always have someone who is capable of stopping me when I would go too far. This is the reason I am a slave, I want to be free.

 

 

But freedom is extreme.

A dull week for a surprising Saturday.

Last week was indeed surprisingly simple. I visited my parents and stayed there, tipical holiday for someone pretty unable to save money like me.
The thoughts of my childhood are long gone, the motherly house is changed so many times that now I can’t see anything I relate to, so any flashback is highly unlikely. We have now a nice balcony from when I see an abandoned building and a lovely view of the mountains. I found myself thinking how it would be to cross that fence and delve deep into that building to be wonderfully abused while there is silence in the valley.
I found myself reading Wittgenstein a lot, his strict and demanding prose pushes my mind toward a semantic dissonance which mirrors in negative the confusion I have in my mind.
Because again is a matter of choices and decisions, two things I never was really happy to find on my way. Let’s take a step back and fly over my neural synapses, those thin contacts between neurosis and libido, where pleasure lies like an abandoned whore… it’s there that I intimately feel that taking decisions it’s not something I should be entitled to do. I see choices like a burden of many kinds, like a rock I must lift but I am unable to. Why it is so? Why to decide it’s such a tremendous task? I suspect it’s because somehow fix things in place, while I prefer motion and chaos. It’s also the fact that with decisions comes inevitably the necessity to leave a path for another and somehow this sounds weird.
I am paralized by choices, they represent something I am deeply unfamiliar with and they always trouble me behind measure.
When someone takes a decision for me, I feel the burden leaving. I feel someone must choose something for me because they know me better, they know what is best for me while I might not be so adamantly good with myself.
It’s like when you’re a child and you simply obey and you have a wonderful spinning inner life because all the burdens are taken away from you.
As a slave you are free to be free, whilst you are actually following a series of strict protocols it is clear to you that that miraculous childish joy has its roots in your giving up everything for you owner.

Now I must go. Work is calling. I suppose I must finish my thoughts but I needed to write these feeling before they could evaporate in the evening.

I must be captive of someone else desires to feel real?
I must abide to orders for I have no order for myself.
Or I must open up and simply play.

Find me where-ever I hide

Today is a strange day. A very strange day. Today is a day for epiphanies so I guess some writing should be in order. I said I would write more, but I didn’t exactly gave myself a goal. I think that so far two posts a week would be enough, two posts on anything that crosses my mind, not only BDSM but also games and philosophy and other stuff.

Today I speak of myself though, and I speak of a peculiar place where I found myself the other day and I need to explore. This will be a long post, because I have so much in my mind and I need to write it down. I hope my few and patient readers will be forgiving as usual.

Everything started when at a cash desk a sales assistant recognized me as a customer that made some fuss about something a month ago. We work for the same company so when I approached to pay and she made some funny remarks, I thought she was joking.
She wasn’t. She hates me. She hates me because in her memories I made a big mess in her corner of the shop, while in the end I just wanted a bag from a mannequin but we found the bag somewhere else and I bought it.
In her mind, her version of me and of that episode, was of a mad customer – while in my mind I was merely joking about taking it from the mannequin and in the end nothing wrong happened. She told me that I am an egomaniac of some sort – to which I politely stopped talking after I realized to my horror she was NOT joking.
Beside the simple and easy solution that she was not paying attentions to facts but only to her impressions and my erratic behavior  what I found fascinating is something I already tried to learn from: the imagine we have of ourselves vs the imagine others have of ourselves.
A week before, something similar happened at work and I found out that my behavior is interpreted in a very malicious way.
There will always be haters, there will always be backstabbers, I know. I am merely not fitted to cope with them because most of the time I assume that everyone say and does what they like and believe, which is something of such an absurd and naive epicness that I should probably put myself in a mental asylum and threw away the key.
I do though, as much as possible, try to live by a rule of truth and simplicity. I try not to complicate what is already complicated, I try to find a common ground with everybody because I firmly believe we are all human beings and we should behave in a logical and responsible way. I know that my words and my actions have consequences and I expect the same from someone that speaks with me.
Such is not the case. I felt very bad last week because of this, because I could see how much hypocrisy is involved in social interactions, how many lies and how easily the reality of things is distorted.
What eludes me is though the reason why I can’t see this coming, never ever and why I keep trying to find the best in everyone.
For being a depressing and erratic personality, I seem too eager to give the patent of easy-going to everyone, basically doing the same fucking error of applying my way of thinking to everyone. Which is not the case.

I must remember myself I am peculiar. I must remember I am growing to be more and more INTENSE and PASSIONATE about what I like and believe and that my believes and my thoughts are not the ones of the majority. Otherwise the world would be pretty fucked up I guess.
I must constantly remind myself, every time I speak with someone, that they will be prone to misinterpret everything I say, or must I live my life by my rules and don’t give a fuck about people.
How can I make sure that the idea that I have of me – of a smart, easy-going, sometimes depressed, painstakingly ironic geek with intense passions – is reaching out my every day audience?
Am I so different from them?

In all this I still want cock so badly. I want to be punished badly too. I want to be owned. I want to scream to the world I am a fucking faggot and a wannabe slave and I want to live my life as INTENSE as it needs to be. I don’t want anyone to mess with my INTENSITY and my PASSIONS. These are all the beauty I am.

the real question though is:
HOW?

In the meanwhile, porn is the answer. and music too.

Something is better than nothing, I guess

I have decided to write a bit more. I don’t have always something to write about slavery and S/M but that doesn’t matter I guess… I can talk of what I like and of what I am doing as it is necessary for me to keep track of my thoughts which are, in this very moment, a kaleidoscope of many different colors.
I am resting during holiday at my parent’s house. The mountains here are high and strong, a poetry behind white distand clouds, and I find myself thinking of cock more than usual.
I must say that I really like cock, but it’s more or less seven or eight months that I don’t have sex, so I kinda forget about its smell and its taste.
I find myself curious about why I like cock so much, why I think the best way is to tast it on my knees, on the floor, and what kind of magic it operates on my mind.
What drives me mad is its smell… really. Sometimes it happens in random places I can smell it and I start to think what kind of man could have this smell and what kind of cock could have that man.
I live in a world of smell. I like to sniff and I like perfume and bodily odors, but not of any kind per se. There are special smells, special fragrances the body emanates and it’s those ones that I like and cherish. My memory is involved heavily in smell too, I cant track in my experience that specific smell of that cock or those balls, sometimes more easily than the person’s face per see. I can still remember, for example, that secret moment when I entered in that house, without knowing anything and anyone and a blindfold was placed on my eyes. I never saw him before and suddenly I found myself naked at his feet and I could not see but only sniff his perfume, which was so masculine and hot it gave me an insta-boner.
Then he lifted my blindfold and I saw his balls and they were so beautiful and perfect I feel in love instantly. His cock was majestic too and stuff happened and I was a good boy I remember.
But what I mostly remember is his smell, a deep clean musk that made me drip like a whore, like the whore I am.

Today I am reading Wittgenstein. I found in his words a place where I can rest, where I can understand what are my errors, where the language is lacking the necessary tools to express our thoughts. It reminds me deeply those moments when I cannot explain, I cannot talk, those dark places where I am only sad and nothing can help me – beside maybe a good beating?
In those dark places I find comfort in logic, and the building that Wittgenstein is trying to unravel in me, is a castle not made of certainty or perfection  is a castle made only of consequent thoughts. It’s a sort of mathematical language really.
I wonder what he would think about the fact that his name finished right here, in my blog, after I spoke about cocks.

But this describes me perfectly I think: the love for logic, the love for cock.

I can’t wait to see where all this will bring me.
I want to be born again.

Sorry Ludwig.
You’re a fag hero today. ❤

layer after layer

So here we are, again. I cannot stay away from this place as much as I can’t stay away from my place, that place on the floor, at Master’s feet, that place I long and search but I cannot find anywhere.

I am still here because I want to understand what leads me to those dark places of pleasure and pain, here to understand what is inside me that makes my cock drip so much when I obey, when I ask permission, when I am treated the way I should be treated. I don’t always understand what ticks in me, but like a Swiss clock here I am, with a hard-on, imagining myself begging someone to be ruthless and strict and to put me in my place with his firm hands and a belt maybe. Yes a belt, to bruise my white skin, to hurt me when I am a bad boi and to hurt me when it’s needed.

I remember suddenly the joy of giving up, the harsh and surprising pain of a belt on my hard cock, wanting always more and harder until I reach that please where my head is light and I am only pleasure for the Master, for anyone. What I hide is what I am, constructed of layers and layers, hiding myself under so many masks and depriving myself of my ultimate aim because I don’t trust anyone, never ever.

I am locked away, chased by desires and fantasies which I deny myself in a mock substitute of an owner I still have to find. I don’t trust anyone because I don’t trust myself first, because I know where I can go and those dark places scare me out… a lot.

Yet, the very few times I decide to allow myself an orgasm, it’s always with the company of something hard and humiliating, a slave punished for its Master’s pleasure, a boi flogged and muffled, a mouth that kisses beautiful feet… and it’s always in this position I find myself jerking off, on my knees like a dog, with my legs spread apart, offering my body to absent whips.

And all I would like to say is: Please take me and hurt me and make of me your boi, your slave, your pleasure.

But then reality kicks in and I run from my desires. The journey is not over still. I am scared and lonely and hopeless. But I am here to confront my fear and to become the beautiful animal I want to be.

How and when and for whom is not up to me to decide. Will you help me in this path to my ultimate freedom?