I keep all her kisses with me, tucked inside my racing heart.

He recently wrote about a friend picking a book about male chastity out of our bookcase. To date this aspect of our life has been private, except for this blog, which is obviously anonymous.

I’ve never mentioned the cricket to anyone, not even my shrink, who happens to keep a large replica of a cricket (the insect) in his office.  Even though my cricket completely transformed my life during the time I ‘ve been talking with him, I’ve always kept it out of our conversation.  I didn’t want to share this  information with him.  I couldn’t bear to hear him chuckle dismissively.  For all I knew, there was a chapter somewhere on the false and superficial relationship created by the cricket.  He might have suggested it was a crutch or a mere a sex toy.

I never wanted anyone to call the cricket into question.  It’s been too magical, too dirty, too definitive of true love to ever risk redefining it as a weakness, or a substitution, or a psychosis.

So the cricket stays with me.  At least for now, it’s going to remain a secret.

– J

The cricket reveals its mysteries to me especially now, while she’s away for a few weeks on business. There’s an emergency key and I know where it is, but I don’t use it, other than when a random day will lead me through a metal detector.  Those days, I take it off in the morning — after I’ve showered and shaved and put on my suit, through the fly — and I go about my day until I can put it on again, usually as soon as I get home, before the day’s unwinding has any effect on me.  I’m no fool: in a battle of wills between me and the night, the night will always win.  But it’s  funny, the longer I’m in chastity, the more I hurry on those occasions to get the cricket back on.

Sexual frustration evolves into sexual clarity.  My orgasm deprives me of the ability to maintain concentration and focus where it belongs: on J, and her orgasm, and her happiness.  What appears at first glance to be denial and deprivation is an illusion, created by eons of a cultural indoctrination rooted in brute force, insecurity and ignorance.  The truth is right there waiting to be seen.  The truth is I’ve never been more sexually satisfied in my life.  Everything is nothing; nothing is everything.  Each night as I lay my head between her beautiful legs and lick her off to sleep, I swoon far more than I ache; her smooth, silky sweetness on my lips, her fingers through my hair, the grunts of her crescendo, all shoot jagged bolts of lightning through my veins and brain and soul that meth can only aspire to.

I haven’t masturbated out of her presence in years. I can’t tell you when the last time I came was.  What I can tell you is how beautiful my penis looks in its cricket, and how almost indescribably happy the two of us are.