Drawing The Line

So, I already know what you’re thinking. Did he buy the whizz or not? I’ll leave it for you to decide by the quality and content of my words. I shouldn’t give it acknowledgement by penning all about it really. What a loser I sound like. The idea would never even occur to a successful person. Whose first thought is I know, I’ll bomb a wrap of poison and watch adult performers employ hardcore sexual activity all day long? That’s easy – me! It’s a kop out from life, it passes the time, it’s deeply satisfying on a fleshly plane, you can indulge in all kinds of fantasies which don’t usually get a look in during the run-of-the-mill prosaic and almost suicidal 9 – 5 routine (the young energiser bunny boy with two older women, the elder gent with a teen, the threesome of mother and daughter, or two sisters, banging your average looking neighbour, or the boss…Christ, where does it end?). I find that the more awkward the fictional role play, the better the engrossing visualisation of it in illusion land. I’ve just seen a severely deformed woman in public, on my way here, no amount of makeover could make her sexy. Shame. No doubt, with some more extreme deviants, she’d get a look in somewhere.

I’ve been thinking about it. It’s dead simple. We crave harder and harder content. When I was a little boy though, I didn’t. Real contact with real girls was enough. ‘Titting up’ Kelly Swindley behind the church had me in a bouncy mood for days on end. ‘Snogging’ Emma Barr when she left lipstick all over my face was the same. Porn ruins all of this, until real contact becomes a poor copy of those studs and harlots going at it like athletes on the silver screen. It takes away all the butterfingers. There’s no dodgy chat-up lines needed, or expensive dinners, or appreciable social etiquette, like there is with veridical touch. Porn stars don’t have smelly breath, or sticky patches, or hard to undo bra straps, or problems keeping their booze down, and they don’t talk back about what can or can’t be done. Plus they always say yes. To everything. Including exploding juices all over the face.

For a short window though, with corporeal contact, the hormone exchange was magic. Just been close to a girl, never mind kissing her and fondling her, made the body respond. Sweethearts tenderly and shyly exploring each other on Wendy Jarman’s sofa became a brutal whipping video behind closed doors in a darkened room on your own.

I once downloaded a whipping video. I don’t know what the holy crap on a cracker I was thinking at the time. That was just cruel that one. You guessed correctly, she had make up on. I remember falling in love instantly with the submissive. That’s my weakness and relationship with suffering. Bit too empathic, if you know what I mean. I hated the dominatrix, armed with the bullwhip. And that was what it did to me, without me knowing it at the time…it offered me two intense contrasting emotions which I wouldn’t normally feel from Monday to Friday’s horseshit rat race conventionalities. Plus it gave me a stonker to play with. Sorry for being crass. I might have discussed this before. I was well ashamed of my behaviour later on, but at the time I had to have it, there was no conscience or guilt or anything. When it came to sex, I was a proper addict, but the only sexual connotation on that diabolical whipping fiasco was the nakedness. And that’s where I was tricked. If one woman is performing a transorbital labotomy on another, but they are both stripped bare, is it okay to jack off to? Where is the line drawn, and who draws it. What if you are incapable of delineating any such boundary, because its just simply the best pair of breasts you have ever seen, and you need to ogle more of them before you’re done. 

xxx_____👄👅_____xxx

I had a real issue of the content in my library descending into pain stuff. I hated that. We’re not talking about novel material here, but about the flicks I knew were perfectly legal, trustworthy, and consensual. My psychosis had a hefty part to play in my perception though. When torture from gang-stalkers entered my life, from adjacent residences to scare me, it entered my viewing habits too. The content was never the same. He was always stabbing her off camera or something, in my mind, and I couldn’t believe what I was getting swallowed into.

Let’s be clear. I’ve never knowingly watched a torture video in my life, and I never would. But SOMETHING TOLD ME that I was watching them, via deception. It was done very discreetly, however, so, to the unobservant eye, it would not come across that way. The audio was insidious, when I dared listen. I don’t know who hacked it, but I could definitely hear torment. Or was it in my head? Then again, when the f**k don’t I hear torment? 

I’d focus on the boobs and block all the other uncomfortable notions I was experiencing out.

Even Songs Of Praise can seem like a pain video when deep in psychotica. It just can.

I’ve come across some very unnerving footage online, when mentally unwell. People who I knew from real life would pop up in it, and worse. That’s why, after one and a half years away from this medium, we can both rejoice at my spiritual gains which have arisen from protecting my psyche against such devilish nonsense. Babylon Zoo said it themselves: Electronic information tampers with your soul.

>>> I would HATE to go back.

>>> I would LOVE to go back.

It’s one of them, isn’t it. Six of the first and half a dozen of the other. I probably will do one day, sooner than I would like to think. Not online, but boutique shop bought. The Restricted 18 stuff. You’ve heard me chat about the loop shop in the past. When you hear about guys who are 18 years clean topping themselves, you understand that this never goes away. It's lovely to say never again, but how many times have we spouted that untruth. That's why I was torn just on my very last blog spot, because it creeps up out of the blue and declares war on The Holy Spirit.