Archive for March, 2010

Last weekend was my “orgasm permitted” period, and it was, as usual, a test of my ability to experience off the chart pleasure without suffering a stroke.  An orgasm after a month of chastity has to be lived through to be believed.

J refers to the aftermath of my orgasm as the “comme ci, comme ça” period,  since for the four weeks prior to any scheduled orgasm I’m, to put it mildly, super-attentive and super-affectionate.  The truth is, I agree there’s a marked hormonal change in my mindset for the 48 hours or so after being permitted to come.  I don’t like it.  The feeling of being submissive and orgasm-deprived allows me see myself, and J, and the world, as they really are.  The answers to all of your questions are right in front of you, all you have to do is allow yourself to see them.

A man’s orgasm sets back the couple embarked on the journey of exploring a loving embrace of female superiority.  The truth is I love J with all my heart, and need to express that love to a depth and breadth we’ve yet to discover.  Her denial of my orgasm for longer and longer periods is our vessel for that journey.  Our sails are trim, and the sky is clear above us.  Our goal is to maroon ourselves wherever we land, and to live as long as possible.

A common point for discussions about our new dynamic is the fact that, in this age of media saturation, all it would take is one rational, romantic, humorous, “normal” book about the benefits and beauty of a wife keeping her husband in chastity to ignite the spark of cultural revolution, from which our society will at last embrace the truth about women and men without shame or fear.  TAKE THIS CUP AWAY FROM ME, OH LORD.


I’m trying to write a song, but the song is writing me.

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Since we’ve openly admitted to ourselves that the proper place for a man is to be cricketed to his wife, both J and I feel so much better about ourselves and our relationship.  What’s good and beautiful and true can’t be denied.  If I die tomorrow, it won’t be with what I feel in my heart having gone unspoken.

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Day 25 of the cycle. J is home and we’re happy.   Last night when I walked into the house she pulled my pants down, hugged me, cradled the cricket in her hand, and sighed deeply deeply deeply into my shoulder. The earth spins like a toy top, and every day is an opportunity to flex new muscles.

Our lives together are hot on the trail of definition, and there’s no end in sight.  We hold each other close under brash kitchen light, with the smell of simple dinner burning, and discuss the merits of going to bed early.  We bring books to bed for appearance’s sake.

The duty to explore my place in the world:  let love rule, let the scales fall from my eyes, let me speak the truth, let the bell never be unrung.

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J gets home tonight after nineteen days away.  The cricket isn’t a gesture, or a symbol, or a toy, it’s simply one definition of many that prove my heart: what’s good is good.  Love conjures the miracles needed for the expression of that good. I thank whatever god you’ve got that I’m learning how to express the goodness of the world.

only love is all maroon

(there is no spoon)

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[teym] adjective, tam·er, tam·est, verb, tamed, tam·ing.

1.  changed from the wild or savage state; domesticated: a tame bear.

2.  without the savageness or fear of humans normal in wild animals; gentle, fearless, or without shyness, as if domesticated: That lion acts as tame as a house cat.

3.  brought into service; rendered useful and manageable; under control, as natural resources or a source of power.

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Day 20 of the current cycle, and as always, the truth seems to ring as clear as a church bell the deeper I’m taken into periods of chastity.  I’ve raised the question before, and the answer to it is either chicken or egg:  are my increasingly submissive feelings created by wearing the cricket for extended periods, or are they pre-existing and simply unearthed and set free by the cricket?  I’m experiencing a rush of feelings the likes of which I’ve never felt before.  Whatever:  life is beautiful but very short; allow me to tell you exactly how I love, and how I love you.  If we should ever need a detective story in the days to come, we have one.

I’ve been locked up since she left more than two weeks ago.  My penis has been kept small, soft and completely untouched for all that time.  And that’s as it should be: the truest love a man can show a woman is to become her eunuch.  A man of the standard sort has a penis that is unfettered, and becomes hard at his own disposal all of the time.  The standard sort of man is also generally a fool, and I speak with experience.  By keeping me in chastity, J allows me that “standard” approximation of manhood only in her presence, and only for her pleasure.  And that’s also the way it should be; that’s the only way to dig the natural beauty of intimacy between women and men.

I haven’t had a penis that comports with the commonly accepted sense of manliness sense since J left, and it’s obvious to me from this vantage point that the commonly accepted sense of masculinity is complete bullshit.  Beauty and truth require men to submit to the desires and control of women.  The more my penis is kept irrelevant, the more comfortable I become in adoring J from this wonderful place.

In addition to experiencing a beautiful emasculation, I’m feeling an almost overwhelming need to exalt, to adore, to worship J.  Allow me to, my love.  I’ll answer the question I posed above.  These feelings have always been there, they just needed an avenue of expression.  Thank God we found the cricket.

All this is as infused with irony as anything else involving male chastity.  By keeping my penis small, soft and untouched for these weeks, my beautiful J has  opened my eyes to what being a true, real man really means.  I’m a eunuch, with an on switch only she controls, I’m the man I always wanted to be, and I love her.

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cello staccato-style

Impulses form in the brain in the absence of words.  The manner in which those impulses become animated, or not, is called personality.  I’m anxious about animating impulses here in a way that calls them into too stark a relief against a blank canvas. The painter’s vision is not a lens / It trembles to caress the light.

There’s nothing to be afraid of.  You’re the sun.  You run through me like a comb. I can remember that first moment in all the time that ever was the time I first set eyes on you.

It’s spring and summer every day.

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