The Rainbow Elevator, the main post

 OK. 

I've substantially edited, and I'm going to ask for approval of it as a new draft and trash the old one.

A long series of chats with Patty, the hottie in the videos in this. I'm going to edit some for clarity and to 'splain - but I'm going to keep it mostly just chats. Patty is the kinky Sister I mentioned in [see also: Jimmy's Alpha Read] She's a sexy kinky submissive fuck. I'm going to drop in chunks of the video at a time - which is usually how I have this conversation with a guy, explaining the video of how I've fucked him. Is that meta enough for you? So, literally, as he's finishing up at his cleanout, I'm sitting at the bath house, texting him about how I like to play, how I intend to work him over, and sending him video of me showing my implements in my room. Get it? They mix between, but in the version I sent to him, there's some side conversation that you're not privileged to, and there's often multiple angles of the same clip. But I'm dropping snippets of video to him, as I chat with him. Him, being spanked in slow motion. Him, barfing into my dog bowl. Then both of those in slow-mo. Like I've said, I'm a KINKY fucker. Anyway. Y'all enjoy. 

Umm... I'm never sure when it gets a "this post violates Blogger guidelines," which particular bit of video is at fault. I don't think that obviously pleasurable biting isn't considered cannibalism or anything... is it the slapping? Is slapping while explaining while it feels cool, against the rules? I'm not sure which part is obscene per standard. It may well be that the phrase where I said that some noted pussy-grabber was doing so without the consent of the grabbed. I'll go through and pull out the three or so that I think are most likely tripping the censor, and we'll see if someone just has it in for me. 

I know that there's someone who reports my posts for violations in a video a lot, and the video will be unpublished, and I'll look at it and sometimes I'll repost it and it sticks, and sometimes I edit out an obvious possible problem. It is what it is. It's free, they do the adult content protection, and it's got some neighbors in a weird neighborhood. 

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Refresh my memory... how much spanked do you want?

5 Nov 2025, 23:57

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Because... I'm in a mood, where I want to hurt some people in ways that will last a couple of weeks. 

I want to fuck with guys who get into that headspace. Knowing the amount of pain someone has taken at my request, and the amount of endorphins and endocannabinoids and epinephrine and acetylcholine, oh, my.... that is running through his system. Because I said so, with my strap on his ass. It kind of makes me feel like I'm playing his nervous system like a complicated instrument designed to slowly and systemically blow his head off, and ideally, mine along with it. Well, I guess, that's kind of my thing. 

That's the way I fuck, most of the time, if I'm driving. I want him to make me cum. I want to make him cum. I want to make several minutes of me doing hot things to him that are either sexual circus tricks, or ways to give the body intense sensation... sometimes it's things like tickling and brushing all over with the hairbrush. More often, it's the back of the brush, or the paddle, or just my hands. I like using my hands; I can deliver a surprising amount of sensation with them, and after I've hit a guy, we both feel it. My fingers are tingling in exactly the way his ass is. Sometimes there's a broken blood vessel on either me or him, and that will swell and sting. 

I hate when I do it; my mom used to have trouble with it when she'd spank us, mostly the quick, don't-you-sass-me smack on the ass... but she stopped doing it, partly because she was breaking blood vessels in her hand and they made her fingers hurt. So I know I come by this PERFECTLY honestly. But, I've actually done some time slapping a burlap bag of rice (need to go back to that again.... that was, perhaps not fun, but it built a strength in a skill I very much enjoy) to build up my callusing and toughen the tissues to impact. But it really does hurt my hand quite a bit, leaving it ringing and practically vibrating with heat energy and nervous activation. 

There's a guy I spanked as he was standing up rigged to the St. Andrew's Cross at the Eagle [see also: It Figures]  - he had a plug in his butt, and I spanked him ALL over his hot sexy muscular body, and especially his back and his ass and his thighs... and then I started grinding my crotch, and maybe I opened my jeans up some... but grinding against his ass, and using one hand to rock his prostate with that plug, and the other to slap my way up his chakras, explaining to him how to draw the fire up, and I would dig my fingers into him like claws, or slap him hard, or punch, depending on where we were. There are spots that need certain sensations. The heart, from the back, rings like a bell in the resonance chambers of the lungs. Get both sides, like a pair of wings, because it feels better balanced. Then light pattering slapping across the top of his shoulders, and I'm mimicking knocking a ping-pong ball between my two hands - one still grinding his plug into his prostate with the fingers, while the thumb pins the prostate against the pubis... so I'm literally milking his prostate, and knocking that power up to my other hand, and then knocking it back. Playing him like a pinball machine. 

I think I've told you already, I'm really skeptical about the energy that we are shooting around like billiards on a good slate table... but SOMETHING is working, and visualizing it as energy in colored lights and imagined sensory textures, gives me a place to put it, in my head. At some point, I read a non-woo description of the physiology of why tantric orgasm works, and it talked about the tensing of the muscles, squeezes neurochemicals into other parts of the system, and so all that juice that's building up around your crotch, gets to circulate elsewhere, so that when the fuse finally DOES go off, your whole body is laced with gunpowder. I kid you not, it's a different thing. I honestly don't know how much of that conversation we've had. But then.... after I've done all this, and his head has kind of exploded, even though he's caged and not allowed to ejaculate, so there were things I was asked not to do, because I COULD have made him cum... but I made his skull melt... and then, standing right behind him.... my spanked-up hands and his spanked-up body could FEEL one another from a distance of about five inches; I sat there and played with it, and had him turn his head and not look, and he could tell me where my hands were. They're immensely thermally active when I've been doing that, and again, I doubt the existence of prana, or that Scrabble favorite, Qi, or Xi, either of which can take a plural S, and if you drop it just right, you suddenly have two two-letter words and sixty six points, and that just seems weird to think of having a bunch of qis (which sounds like cheese) because it seems kind of like a force, like wind. Anyway. About four to five inches out from his skin, he could tell me where my hand was coming down. He was glowing, because I'd just reddened him a little all over, not brutal slaps (well, OK, so a few were) but mostly just a four-to-five, wake-your-skin-up kind of slap. The ones to make his lungs ring were hard.

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And, one of these days, that's a thing I'll get on video with some other pig who's into it. But a lot of times when I hit somebody, it's partly for the pleasure of watching him dance, and the thrill of knowing that this AMAZING beautiful boy is submitting himself to me, suffering for me just because I asked him to, and because we both know it's good with us. That boy in Trophy Boy? I really hadn't touched him except for a walk around the block with a choke and a slap and some fingering... and then all that happened. I love seeing me actually kind of navigate him, because he's the one who really wants to be my n-word slave, and we have a VERY intense psychological chemistry... but that has to be infused and translated into the in-person experience.

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PAY ATTENTION TO MEE!!!!!

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I am horny and telling you nasty stories.

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While trying to draw out a more thorough understanding of how you are familiar with being hit, and what limits you'd like me to adhere to, and what tapping out means. I know you've probably read enough of my bullshit by now, to know that I will often deliberately take a guy to where he taps out, partly to build that instant trust, the [See also: Dominant's Pendulum]

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[note: I want to be really clear, here. I'm not hypnotizing anybody, and I'm not doing anything against somebody's will. I'm talking about negotiating consent in a non-verbal way that works uniquely well for me, and it's important to realize that I'm also still using my mouth and checking in a lot. Weird shit happens. He's fully on board with all of it, and agrees we had an awesome time. Got it?]

going to be here in half an hour, I will make a lamp and set up some growling (this means, in dictation-speak; "I'm going to take a lap, and do some prowling." Sometimes, I puzzle at words myself. I'll make y'all puzzle with me sometimes.)

22:06

I’m just about to leave my house

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ETA? 

7:28

Sweet. I'm going to take a lap. I'm in 252. I will usually keep the door open but if I have the door shut, knock

Heard that

If you're not in an Uber or something don't look at that yet. It would not be safe driving I don't think.

so, here's the actual consent conversation and the setup: I've never met this guy. I wait for him up at the desk, and he checks in, comes over and gives me a hug, I get extra towels and explain to the boy that he can always get extra towels, and I try to always tip because they are sweet and do disgusting laundry. Y'all, if I ball up a towel, put it into the washer that way. It'll be fine, and I have him undress and put his clothes into his bag standing in the hallway, and then I make him kneel and suck my dick a little to give the counter boys a show, because I think all of them are cute and hot, and they take care of my bullshit, but I never see them playing on, duh, the nights they work, and I don't want to get anybody in trouble... and then we go to my room.

Note: This is out of order. This was just the first thing I needed to edit down and show to him, because I thought it was fucking HOT. This is the end bit, but it's what I sent him first.

TRIGGER WARNING: He pukes. I feel that oughtta be said. Not a lot, no major upset... but yeah.

So, here's him getting his first smack from me, and then some more spanking.

HOLY FUCK, GUYS, LOOK AT THE FUCKING ANGEL WINGS.

Now.... this is a thing I haven't seen pictured. If you know of it, y'all.... tell a faggot. I'm very particularly interested in the marks that one man's finger-bones make on another man's body. I'm literally imprinting an x-ray of my hand, delivered courtesy of the greater inertial velocity. Um, paging that structural engineer hottie with the bicycle... I need you, dude. Please write me the mechanics of this stuff; I feel certain that you'll be able to explain the physics and the motion dynamics and the difference involved in this particular collision... the issue is that the bones have more density and they push through the flesh of my hand; I can fucking feel THAT going on, but they brand my Xray onto his ass to the degree that you can see the dance injury from thirty something years ago that fucked up my right hand and I had to do physical therapy to do things like handle a keyboard or write with a pencil. It SUUUUCKED. Anyway. This damage... I am imprinting a print of my body's wound onto his body, wounding him. It's very meta. He and I have had that kind of conversation. You bear wounds from anyone you've spent real time with. You'll see later - he sends follow-up shots.

Sorry about that. When you were messaging me, that big blonde guy with the pale skin in the really curly hair was unloading down my throat.

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That is fucking beautiful

And then, because it's fucking beautiful, I sent him a four-minute slo-mo of me caning first his hole, and then lining his back like fucking NOTEBOOK PAPER. FUCK, where's a calligraphy brush when you need one. FUCK, I want to put some manuscript shit on him now. Like with a grease pencil, written in the lines. Like do something fucking symbolic... SUBMISSION IS STRENGTH, or something like that. LOL. I get in over my artsy creative fucking head. Shoot it both in normal speed, and in fast speed, like one of those they do for craft projects that take a week condensed into a two minute video. Action Time Lapse, or something. But the thing is, it would have to be laid out pretty... I mean, I'm gonna lay it out in advance on something... I don't really want to do anything like a tattoo transfer, but a quick layout guide might be in order. There's some fucking hot Breederfuckers videos 

So, hold on, y'all. The parts coming up, I haven't sent him yet, I don't think. So I'm just going to drop the full scenario in, in order, in chunks. I'm not going to transcribe all this... but this one is an autistic stim-fest about body hair and cocksucking. I love smooth guys. I love hairy guys. I don't love guys whose stubbly crotches make me feel like I'm fellating a bench grinder wheel. My one request - guys, if you're heading out to meet me, and you shave, please shave. Like, not day before yesterday's crotch. Please. Once my lips get to where they feel tingly and weird, I'm no longer in sexyspace. ANYWAY. These are in order, the ones coming up are just dropped amongst paragraphs of our further text conversation. Sorry if this is confusing. I think it's hot to have it in the raw structure occasionally. Ignore me and skip to the porny parts if you wanna - the thing I love about the way I #fucksplain things in them, is that you get the weird bio tidbit or the consent model or whatever, if you're watching the hot part. 

I have had guys tell me that all the talking ruins the video for them. I'm sorry - all the talking is how I relate to sex a lot of the time. LOL. I guess that's why I have a small readership, the weirdness, I get it. I know, personally, guys I can't talk to about this stuff because they'd bark their breakfast right there standing in the bar. Urp. I get you, dude. Sorry about that. Anyway.... shit that I do that turns me the fuck on, is kinky BECAUSE it turns most people off. That's the definition I love the most. Kinky is something that turns YOU on, but turns most people off. You don't have a "kink" for sexy Daddies, sweetheart, you have a type. It's OK to like Daddy dick, a firm hand on the back of your head, a comforting voice telling you what to do. And yeah... I'm really having the time of my sexual life doing it, and I think it's hot as fuck. 

This rambles. A LOT. 

We talk (well, I talk) about pulling the energy up. He's beautiful in the lights. 

Barbara Carellas' site

You can link my x @PRyanXXX

and.... I go and check that out, and now I want to fuck him with the big sloshy balls... because they're kind of the kink version, of what I have naturally. I'd love to have that talk with it illuminated held in his open sucking mouth. And then, we could do his, and see what the differences and similarities are. Gosh, I'm just all FULL of ideas. But, because I was SO weird at the wrong time, I hit 10K on there, and then got banned. It was when a LOT of weird shit was getting banned, because Nazism. And I'm not saying my stuff wasn't taboo and inappropriate in some forums, but in the forum of people who were reading my shit... it was on a level. BUT. I think it was probably either a race play moment or a spanking that got me banned, just from the timing, and I was pushing some rules. :shrug: But no, you can find me on BlueSky, but not on X. 

Some quick notes, so I'll have the bones to write from later: 

After Patty went to shower and re-regulate, I wasn't sure if he was coming back... I waited a bit, but then, in walks Real Daddy Steve. :sigh: Ah, Real Daddy Steve. His sweet energy, his confident but comfortable dad body, his massive unyielding cock. We play for a while; he tells me he's delighted to see me here, he hadn't expected to come out tonight, but just happened to have a late meeting that kept him in town, so he thought he'd stop by and see what was up. I stroke his body with my hands, recapitulating in less aggressive form a lot of the marks I put on Patty. I situate him on the bed and take his cock in my throat; once I get some slime worked up, I ease a finger, and then a second, into his meaty butthole and start massaging his prostate. 

He's already jerked off earlier in the day, so although he's less urgent about his thrusting and writhing, he has more stamina and gets to enjoy it longer. 

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Eventually, Steve has to go. I get another turn with a guy who asked not to be written about, which is awesome and fun, but I'm not writing about it, so that's all you get to know. It was good. 

Or, like it gets noted somewhere in a not-porn space as a sex ed resource. Because some of this shit... guys should KNOW. It has ABSOLUTELY revolutionized my sex life, and I know that there are a lot of neurodivergent weirdos like me, who struggle with the same stuff, but also have the same superpower version of it. I had a beautiful conversation (and might actually post portions, if I get permission... ) with this guy in the community I'm FB friends with, and he wanted to focus only on autism as the disorder, a very clinical approach, and I argued that the things that make the the most prone to, for example, forgetting the trash bin, are the SAME things that let me write a lucid and educated detailed explanation of what's happening in my process. And I know that I'm not blowing away any of the autism thinkers, just yet at least, but I feel like being able to lean hard into the autism, and still be sexy and have fun, is the win. I get to stim the fuck out, for example by hitting somebody rhythmically and repeatedly, while, say, having a detailed conversation about how it feels to hit him... and I haven't seen that particular sexual aspect in erotica... although I admit, I've really been reading mostly blogs, a few audiobooks, but I haven't been doing things like hunting down periodicals and following lots of authors. Well, a few authors. [see also: Kinky Book Club] I need to do that again. Part of the problem is, that so few of the books are available in audiobook form because they're niche publishing, and I know that it's fucking ironic, because what I LOVE doing, is writing - but I've gotten so spoiled for beautiful narration combined with amazing voice acting, plus being able to do shit while going through the story, riding the language like you're dancing to music - it's a thing. Unfortunately, it has taken over the niche in my brain for "sit for hours with book," and that becomes "sit for hours on computer," and I chat sex with guys I know, and in a way, writing the blog becomes having sex with an audience - knowing that guys will beat off to watching me fingering your ass, beating your sides, gagging you until you puke. FUCK that was hot.

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So, anyway. If there's autistic gay erotica, I have looked for but rarely found it. Definitely a few BlueSky guys, and I keep finding sexual family with that creative connection... but I don't know any of them who write, or blog, or create the kind of thing where "content" involves anything other than hot guys having fun. I've found a few storytelling accounts, and I enjoyed following [big dick book club] for a while... but I don't think that the kind of shit I'm writing, really has a lot of writing, if that makes sense. Like, you see some of the Just for Fans guys like ******  - HOLY FUCK, he writes hot shit around his posts. And I've cum to his stuff so many times. He fucks the juicy right out of the tight place, and he does it again and again and wipes it all over the bottoms with his horse cock. He's amazing; you should jerk your dick to him. I hope he doesn't mind being mentioned; I will ask for consent. I have found guys who've gotten into very creative porn, and I've had AMAZING conversations with guys like Seamus O'Reilly  about things like drool and second hole. He made a video just for me - I creamed so hard. [see also: Inspiration and Opportunity.] ANYWAY. These are guys who know things. There are things that help; there are things that make sex better and more intense and more awesome, and a lot of the pros know them, but they don't have anything like a teaching tradition. I've found some straight porn that aims at sexual explanation (like, fucksplaining, which I use as a hashtag a LOT) where they're telling someone how to suck a dick, while demonstrating it... and you find it with Tantric Fitness and JFF accounts like his. They're thoughtful and horny. I just ate the most SUBLIME grape; it made me sad that I had two other mouthfuls of cut up fruit to follow it. And where was I? but the gay tantra teaching videos I've found in a porn style... I want more of that. Grr.  

You know, it's kind of funny/nofunny... looking back at this, I see me describing a hot blonde guy with curly hair that I can't currently picture. 

Yeah that’s fine too lol 

Yes he was the one who came back after I left?

Patty

He visited while we were playing and videoed a little for you

I can remember the big guy I had the tantra ride with at the end. He was HUGE. Like not size fifteen feet, but probably size thirteen or fourteen, and just every bone in his body was an XL. Beautifully muscled but with his curves softened enough that he's not ripped. 

OH, thank you, Almost twinkish, yeah? Like halo of tight ringleted hair?

Yes I believe so! Gosh it’s been about a month now lol

like a Boticelli angel.

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Actually, what I WANT, is "like a Pinturicchio angel," because that's what I mean. The tight ringlet curls. Although his was more almost like a blonde Jew-fro, like you don't run your fingers through his hair because you'd make a mess. 

You sent [[ and, I'll admit, guys.... this is a bit of a train wreck. The beautiful through line of our fuck scene, right up to the point where he pukes... it's hot, to me. And I'm interspersing it here with the chat conversation, in which we'd literally had the fuck. It's like a platinum wire capsule.  A tuned crystal, the kind of bowl that rings like a bell. It makes it a thing whole and compleat, if that makes sense? For me, something that I have packaged in itself like that, I'm carrying the magic lamp inside of which all of us, including the lamp, is zooming across the Circle Sea. IYKYK. Pratchett. But it gives me a little ZING in my brain, to picture, the ribbon of that time. And how a person is engaged with the chat conversation, and then there's a LOT of chat you don't see, but this is most of the conversation. 

Sometimes, just the quick jotted notes are enough to rebuild the situation with - but other times my brain just can't hold on. 

That's actually part of why I write the stuff I do - it gives me much better control of the memories. I have a problem with memory, especially in places where it can be overwhelmed by the autism. And HOLEY FUCK, I just had a comes-all-the-way-round moment, because I just had a HUGE fight with my husband - at least, it was a huge fight on my side, because he rolled his eye and said something mean, and I didn't talk to him for two days and considered ditching his family's Christmas. I was PISSED. 

Anyway - it was a thing I had failed to do... I see the recycle bin is FULL. I have just put the last couple of things in it, that will fit without shit falling out. And I literally thought, "Oh... I should go take that out, we're going to have more by recycling day, and I don't want Husband to have to deal with this in the morning while he's getting ready for work. He's working a hell schedule right now; it's 10:30 AM to 9 PM, so he gets home at a quarter of ten and hungry. So I'm doing a lot more of the cooking, dishes, laundry, dog feeding and walking stuff, because he's just unable. And then he catches up on stuff on his three-day weekend. Anyway. I go out with the recycling bin. I have a flashlight; I also need to check on the fish, we've been having raccoon trouble. And I had set up a trap to capture said raccoon, which likewise needs checking. If you catch one at night, you can release it at night, and they're  a lot less stressed. So. I hear the waterfall (I'm not shitting you, all this happens in my yard) - and I remember, oh, go look at the fish. I set the recycling bin down, but I don't get the recycling dumped, because the waterfall catches my attention. Now, at this point, if I had looked over there and seen that the waterfall is fine but I don't decide to walk over to the pond, I would have turned back around and picked up the bin and gone back in with it. 

What happened instead - I walk over to the pond, and look down, and I see there are two of the big goldfish - probably a six incher and a nine incher, or so - up on the shelf. They don't belong on the shelf in December; that's how you get inside a raccoon. The raccoons eat the little minnow fish, and there are so damn many of them dying this time of year because they just die when they wear out, and it's kind of like mosquitoes themselves (and that's what they do, they eat mosquito larvae; it's why you have them in your pond.) ANYWAY. The raccoons TOTALLY fuck up the pond. They have knocked stones down into the water, they knock over the pot-below-water, leaves-above-water potted plants, although the lily is too deep for them to mess with. But they fuck the pond RIGHT up, and if there's a goldfish on top, it's a goner. SO. I step over close to the edge, and I shine the light at the fishes, thinking, "Shoo, fish, go down in the deep part where you don't get eaten," but the light doesn't do shit... so I have to reach into the forty-degree water and kind of POKE the fish, to make sure it's still OK... and it rolls sideways like how a propellor stunt plane rolls, and the it's this BRILLIANT orange red, I think it's one of the four-year ones, not the biggest female, but one of the next-year's males... anyway. A beautiful big fat healthy fish. Bigger than my fingers-together hand. And as I poke it my with my finger and it does this kind of belly roll, the light from my flashlight catches on the very edge of each scale, and it flashes like orange copper wire, and the pattern moves along its body as it rolls. 

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And I have an Autism Moment. 

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And it's only in the past year or so that I've realized that what is happening here is an autism thing, because I grew up with having this problem but not understanding it from a perspective of Buddhist exploration of the mind and its patterns. I'm not saying that I'm brilliant at meditating, but I've read a lot of books. And one of the things that I've gotten from that is that I have a better understanding of how to look at what's happening in my own behavior and how my own mind is operating.

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So when I have one of these moments it's almost like an absent seizure. I space out a little, but what happens is that the amount of acetylcholine and whatever other brain chemical gets shuttled in there, I lose the previous 30 to 50 seconds of memory. I no longer have it. It is a smooth edit. It is gone. I can quite clearly picture, reiterate in my body's sensations, because that's how I remember a lot of things... it's not just a narrative of "went outside, looked at fishes," it's got a sensory package that I can almost put on like a coat, when I get deep into remembering in my psychedelic work. So, I recall needing to take out the recycling for all those reasons I said. I can clearly replay in my mind the sensation of walking through the net screen on the back door from the house to the garage and feeling it catch on one of the things that was in the recycling bin, the corner of a cardboard box. And that made the screen door stroke my face, and that's not a sensation I pursue with joy, it's a texture thing. So, I remember that. It's vivid enough that I remember looking through the screen door into the lit garate to see which thing is hung up, because it's on the other side of the bin and I can't tell which part is caught. Then I walk outside. That part's all solidly there, but then when I walk across the yard, sit down the bin beside the big bin, turn and walk over to the fish pond, that whole part is sheer conjecture. It is derived from the evidence on the ground and the known facts. I don't have any memory of that minute or so before I touch the fish. I don't own a memory between that, and the BIG PRETTY PART; it isn't part of my recollection. That part of it gets over written because all of a sudden the little gnomes coding my mental recall proteins, pull out the big super-bright capital letters and suddenly we are setting type in these great big blocky letters and it is a cogency effect of acetylcholine, I'm pretty sure. I think that's the whore-mone-al thing that's going on, the body is releasing acetylcholine along with whichever serotonin/dopamine combo comes from that thing happening for me. It's definitely a something. I'm going to have to ask my psychiatrist about this. But I'm almost certain that that is what's going on. He is a highly educated specialist in the treatment of autism and intersecting mental health issues with medication as needed, but my depression did not respond at all to any of the significant medications I was on. I think I had six different head drugs between SSRIs and SNRIs and an atypical and a tricyclic, and then there were benzodiazepines to manage the anxiety. I had what they call treatment resistant depression. And I got to a point with each one of them where he said that the good effects have had time, if this one's going to do the trick... no? Worse than no drug? Ok, let's try.... and all of them sucked more because of the way they dulled that sensory channel, that connection to the sensual world, to a point that everything was... gray. I wasn't in the black any more, but nothing got above pastel. Um, I'll take the occasional night shivering and hugging my knees lying fully clothed and lying in the bathtub, if it means that I can smell which way the wind is blowing because I know which vines and trees are in bloom. I just can't lose my sense like that. I felt so blind without it... or like I was perceiving with smudged greasy glasses. Like, there's no punch, no flutter, no zing. So I raw-dogged the depression for a while, but after more talking, we both came to the conclusion that probably what I needed was psychedelics. We started talking about the things that he could get me and the things that he can't get for me and I said that I've been thinking about growing my own mushrooms for a while now and I think that that's what I want to try to do and he agreed and I agreed and then I spent a long time figuring things out and then I blew my own mind. I started from spores and learned how to do it as I went, and I raised some SERIOUSLY good shit, and I washed my brain with it, and I dumped DECADES of trauma, like my body was just done with it. I basically walked out of a decade of trauma-based treatment resistant depression in the course of two Saturday afternoons. It was astonishing. I still have depressive moments. I still have problems with anxiety; I have bad habits which tend to get me into a negative cycle if I'm not careful, and I've worked on them with my therapist and I've read a lot of books about the stuff and I'm doing the work but the psychedelics were like the difference between a candle and a maglite. The ability to recognize problematic patterns in your own brain during that experience is absolutely phenomenal. It's like you get super-user access to your own subconscious. Sometimes the sensation of polishing wires - cleaning off the gleaming copper tracks that lead to a particular memory, and I visualize them like detailed circuits, but made of bare copper wire, and they have this super-intense visual style, and I can't remember the name, but it had its heyday around the same time as Art Deco, but it's not technically deco. Like William Morris, but there's a school that does these elaborate interlaced line designs. The other visual that it reminds me of when I see them in my mind's eye, is wire wrapping jewelry. And now, looking at some wire wrapped jewelry, I may need to commission a piece because of the visual. Butanyway. I see the memories themselves, the episodes of core memory that form the basis of who I became as a person, as little rooms; some of them no more than a space the size of a chair, but some of them are houses. And some of them, are full of an itchy, stinging stuff like fiberglass insulation or blackberry vines. Like the mental image that I get of going into the trauma memories, is like the feeling in the underside of my upper arms that summer when I had to help with the fiberglass sheeting roof of the patio, and Dad didn't tell me to wear long sleeves, and I got fiberglass rash from my shoulders to my wrists. But that sense of being so intensely irritated, inflamed, and itchy that all I want to do is fly into a million pieces... that's how it feels to think about going into the trauma spaces in my head. 

But there's good memories too. And often, whole years got filled up with the fiberglass - and so I couldn't remember a choir stage show where I had to sing an awkward single line into a hushed auditorium, and I felt like a goon. It was the opening number from "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum," and my line was "Something... peculiar." But all of the memories had been covered in the itchy sticky stuff, and when I have the psilocybin on board, I'm able to see the room without the clutter, and I can actually recall the situations with big trauma moments, and each time I go back to the trip world, I fix another couple of memories. I clean out some more trauma fragments. Anyway. That's a LOT of therapy talk. Back to the suckenfuckery.  

He sends me a picture from the next day. 

And then one showing the other visible mark he's still got - a shoulder bite. 

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(Yeah, I know, it was at the top. But this, is where that bit happens, so I'm putting it here, too)

And I have a blog that I write about that but I'm not going to link the two of them together

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Actually, I just might. It is mostly mental health stuff. I like the fact that my voice in the blog post is remarkably frank about mental health care and I talked to my therapist often, pretty much weekly, about the stuff that happens in my amazing, um, writing life. 

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I really do have some sense in my head that this is not just a fun hot thing to do. I don't really picture a future in which people are hiring me to go do workshops or something, but I really have enjoyed a conversation with at least a few pornographic personalities. I would like to write, if not an actual book, something book-like. I've talked with an artist about some possible collaboration in that vein. But I keep hoping that somebody with a big following will repost something that I post. Or something.

22:06

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Anyway. I'm babbling. But... when he woke me up saying, "Why did you leave the recycling in the yard?" I was blindsided. I had absolutely no idea what he meant. The racoons got into it. What, the blue bin? They got into the dumpster? No; the dumpsters are specially raccoon-designed. Unless you get a family working in cahoots (which happens; that's the pond issue) they can't knock over the Dallas dumpsters. I've knocked over some dumpsters. 

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Badum, ching.

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But, the thing is... no? Like the white one? Wait.... did I take it outside? OH FUCK that's right, I took it out to put in the dumpster, but then I had to check on the fishes, and I had to touch them, and BWLOOOOOM, that whole little snippet, from the part where I set it down and turned around, to the point where I was coming back inside... is entirely over-written with the shining along those scales. It's kind of like a comic book where they take a full page for a particular punch or some explosion, and I never did get into comic books, but I get that. The sense that this moment, this bit of experience, needs to be a centerfold, and it ends up covering over the adjacent pages. Anyway. Must schedule with psychiatrist. I think that's an insight for me, at least.

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But there was raccoon trash all across the yard, and he came in, and he was pissed, and we had a fight that I'm not going to detail out, but my main complaint is that he sometimes uses language that makes me feel stupid and unworthy and really cuts to who I am as a person, and it's the kind of shit that I would NEVER say to him, and we have really different never-say lines. So I posted on an autism group on Facebook, in the process laying it out as a clear narrative so I could see where things went sideways... and the fact pops up in someone's comments, that he's not being understanding about my neurodivergence issues, and I think, "Hmm... yeah. I totally could NOT see my Husband walking out with a bin and not walking back in with it. Unless he was either too drunk to remember (an issue only in the past) or so stoned he was incompetent... he would have done the things and brought the bin back in. He's methodical. I get it. But the thing is... I haven't realized, until the past few months, that this pattern was happening. It's been a fucking insight. I do think that it's getting worse - or at least, more dramatic - because I've been leaning so hard into understanding the autism side of me, and how my own brain works. I feel like exploring how the autism can be the awesomesauce, I lean more fully into that style of experience, and it seems like the autism-ish-ness of it gets more intense for me. And, vice-verse, having learned to do things like say, "I'm sorry, I have to go in the other room, your perfume is REALLY strong" and just "Potato Salad!" (She's WAITING!) it's a Danny Kaye joke from a girl I fucked in college. ANYWAY. I have a lot of the writing kind of pre-done, but I forgot about the angel. And I can't remember much but that he's super cute, slim, fairly smooth, big in the dick, blond hairs around his nutsack like a little nest... and he turns to me when you had to go, and get some alone time after I gagged the puke out of you, he said, "I think I'd like to try getting my dick sucked?" and... we did. Holy fuck, we did. I pretty much recapitulated a gentler version of what I did to you, with more fingertips and less hairbrush, but pulled the fire up, and massaged his body and his taint, because he didn't want fingers in his ass... OK, NOW I'm remembering... and swallowing his hot cock and glorping and splurching on it... but not NEARLY as much as I later did with that big guy. {{this is another of those asides }}Fuck. Man knows how to fuck throat, and how to edge. He's one of those with an automatic ticket any time he sees me. Kind of like Real Daddy Steve. If I see that handsome mug and that big thick meatstick, we're going to be terrorizing the maze for a while, and then I'll take him to my room and blow his mind. Or suck him off in the hallway. But you know what I mean... if I see him, I'm gonna try. But that big dude - FUCK. Yeah. We probably edged his cock in various permutations, and yeah, him I could finger... but holy fuck. I gagged on it; I sprayed slobber when I gasped for breath. It was a THROAT FUCKIN. And if I'd had another half hour, he would have totally exploded into pieces... but starting out knowing I needed to leave when it started - I'm under the gun. So we settled for a sweet climactic energy orgasm, and holy fuck the way his hole squeezed my fingers as his body shuddered. FUCK that was hot {{and, back to the main story conversation}}. It was like how I was doing with you. And I still want to give you a full-body hour-long experience at some point.

I figure one of these days, some conservative fuck is going to get shown my blog, and I'll randomly get picked up on suspicion of unlicensed mouthy homo, because I said all this political shit, but if we still have a court system enough for them to bring me up on charges instead of accidentally mistaking me for a Mexican and deporting me to Somalia, and they end up with this shit entered as court records, they'll have this WHOLE fucking thing to contend with. And if they edit out the part with all the consent, and the ways to make sure you're OK with your partner, and ways to keep relative levels of safety, and all that... then there's a record, at least somebody out there, who saw it. 

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(say hi, y'all, it gets lonely out here in the weird corners of the gaysexkinkyblogosphere)