Archive for April, 2010

It’s taken me about five days back in the cricket to feel the way I should.  That seems reason enough to justify being in the cricket for longer stretches of time.  The irony of this is not lost on me.  However, the fact remains that there’s absolutely no reason for any comme ci, comme ça period.  I need to be thinking with the clarity of a submissive husband in chastity all the time.  J deserves nothing less.

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An orgasm after 35 days of chastity transforms your penis into a semen piñata.

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In a couple of weeks I’ll have been in the cricket for a year — not continually of course, but as a general matter.  It’s safe to say that neither of us have ever been happier, both from a sexual and non-sexual point of view. Our marriage is stronger and more honest, and the love we share has never been more powerful, consuming, even.  This summer we’ll have been together 23 years.  I could expend precious mental energy regretting not having acted on what I now realize is my true self 22 years earlier, but what would be the point of that?  I’m grateful to have the rest of my life to make up for it, not only to myself but primarily to J.

Elements of my cricketed life have become routine.  I put it on and take it off at her direction as a matter of course now.  At the beginning, the thought of putting it on filled me with arousal, and I would sometimes have to wrestle with it and my penis quite a bit to get it on.  Now it’s like putting on my socks.

There have been days in the recent past when for various reasons, including my own laziness, that I’ve gone through the day without it on — always with J’s permission of course.  Without exception, there came a point during those days when I realized that I didn’t feel right without it on, and that when I did eventually re-cricket myself, the primary sensation I experienced was relief.  I feel better about myself when it’s on.  I’m more honest when it’s on.

The other day, J came into the kitchen and saw me with a pickle sticking out of my mouth.  “You really do have a phallic obsession, don’t you?”  I got the impression she was only half kidding.  Although I wasn’t thinking about it at that particular time, after a month in chastity, naked men look as good to me as naked women.  In my early twenties — before I fell in love with J — I had secret, sexual relationships with two men, and the truth is I really enjoyed them.  But I’m primarily heterosexual, and the phase just kind of ran its course.  Being kept submissive and in chastity by J has awakened my ability to confront and appreciate my sexual attraction to men, and that makes me feel good too.  Life is beautiful.  I’m completely devoted to J.  I belong to her, body and soul.

There’s as much an intellectual aspect to being locked in a male chastity device this as there is a sexual one.  It reminds me at random moments of ordinary days of the simplicity and truthfulness of the superiority of women from a scientific as well as common sense viewpoint, and of the natural necessity of me, and by extension, all men, to not only recognize it in the secret recesses of our hearts, but to act upon it.

I’ve come out of the closet about my feelings to J, and I dream about coming out to the world.  This blog is an attempt to do that very thing.  I’d love to remarry J, in a ceremony attended by twenty or so couples, all of whom are living this same reality of male chastity and female control.  J would be in a beautiful dress, looking as radiant and beautiful as she always does, and I would be by her side, naked but for the cricket.  I would incorporate the truths we’ve discovered into my vows, and pledge undying love, fidelity and submission.  Afterwards, at the reception, all of the cricketed men would be naked and attendant upon their wives.  On a less grand scale, I also fantasize about J revealing to several trusted friends and relatives about our new perspective, and having a small party where I would be naked and in the cricket.  Sort of like a tupperware party, we would display and discuss how wonderful it is to live this way.  I know their far-fetched, but I’m nevertheless drawn to ideas like these.

I’m better off in every way being in the cricket more rather than less, longer rather than shorter.  I regularly renew my request to be kept in the cricket for the entire summer.  The longer J keeps my penis small, and puny, and useless, until she wants it to be otherwise, the more manly and self-confident I feel.  The knowledge that J loves keeping me this way fills me with a joy of being alive.

Today is the 32nd day of the cycle.  I’m in uncharted waters — this is the longest I’ve gone so far.  I get to come on Saturday.  We’re going away for a long weekend tonight.  My goal is to make her feel as loved and beautiful as she actually is.

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the road to redemption

I have the perfect spokesperson for a cricket advertising campaign.

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The first thing to do is to clarify the I. The I saying I love you is me, the real me.  The me I’ve never told anyone else about.  I love you so much I’ll tell you, I’ll show you.  I’ll be the me necessary to make the I in I love you part of a completely honest and true statement.

There’s a seminal theory of literary criticism propounded by Harold Bloom in his book The Anxiety of Influence, which holds that every poet struggles with and eventually against the influence of the greater poets who preceded him, and that that anxiety either makes or breaks him.

I’ve been fascinated with that theory for almost 30 years, and in my opinion it has applicability to artists and non-artists alike.  There’s an anxiety inherent in every person’s realization that they think differently from accepted societal norms.  (In the final accounting, my money is on nobody in the deep recesses of their hearts truly accepting “accepted societal norms.”   Accepted societal norms generally suck.)  The anxiety of living up to what’s expected in terms of sexual identity creates the need for stuff that destroys relationships, like secret, shameful masturbation.  That anxiety forms the chains that keep you from being happy.  One day I’ll actually flesh this point out and write about it.  In the meantime, there is no meantime.

It’s a trip, let me tell you.

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now playing:  the band: music from the big pink (tee hee)

J has been away on business this whole week, and today I had a work obligation in an environment that has a very strict metal detection process at the entrance of the building.  These days the cricket is a steel tickleberry spiral (well worth it, by the way, and far superior to the CB line of products).  So I called her early this morning and asked if I could access to her hidden spare key.  I waited until after I’d showered to make the call.  J understood my predicament and quickly agreed.  She told me where the key was hidden, but told me I had to lock myself up right after the meeting was over.  I told her I loved her, and we hung up.

It’s been more than three weeks since my last orgasm.  When I unlocked myself, my cock immediately sprang to a trembling engorged experiment in inflation.  I touched myself, and stroked myself several times.  But I reminded myself of certain immutable precepts of happiness, and retook control of myself.  I got dressed and went to my meeting.

Upon my return to the empty house.  I was extremely horny and tempted, but I resisted.  I put the cricket back on, and returned the key to it’s hiding place.  Why?

This isn’t just about sex.  It isn’t even just about love, although both sex and love are certainly components of what the cricket is.  This is about a journey toward an honest expression of identity. In other words, it’s important to J, and it’s important to our marriage, but it’s also important to me.  My life without J’s orgasm control and my acknowledgment of her superiority was an unnatural mess.

Once cricketed, my penis quickly became small and docile.  In J’s absence, that’s the way it should be, and that’s the way I like it.  The world spins smoothly and according to plan with her sexual pleasure being my only concern.  As a matter of principle and purpose, my penis should only stand up directly in front of her, and only exists to pleasure her.  I’m her lover when she wants, and a eunuch as far as the rest the world is concerned.  When the time comes, I’ll jump at the chance to go longer than a month between orgasms.  The looking glass beckons!

Have you noticed there’s something about pearls?

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magic > science

The human genome, stem cell technology, the hubble telescope, oh, goodness gracious, the achievements of humanity:  Science is awesome, and you can quote me on that, dewd.  But in the realm of the senses, with the door safely closed, by the glow of soft incandescent 40 watt light, where language knows only whisper, Magic is responsible for the recognitions that haunt every next day in the real world who am I internal monologue.

I’ve lived, and breathed, and struggled against utterly irrelevant obstacles for more than fifty years.  Fuck you and your definitions, and every side of your thousand sided coin; keep it in your pocket.  I scar myself with glyphs that only she and I can read, in celebration and remembrance, and to mark where we’ve been.  I’m decoding myself at my peril: I know there’s no going back.

It’s cockamamie to describe what I’m experiencing as chastity, despite the fact that I haven’t come in more than three weeks.  I’m not smart enough to comprehend it, let alone explain it,  but I’m teaching myself to describe it, one recognition at a time.

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