Archive for February, 2011

Not long ago, J and I invited another couple, who happen to be two of our best friends, to our country home for the weekend.  In the early morning hours of the Sunday, J and the other woman happened to be up before their two sleeping husbands.  As Judy made coffee, the other woman casually perused one of several bookshelves we have throughout the house.  Her eye was apparently caught by one, and she pulled it off the shelf.  “Hey, J?  What’s this?”

The book she’d selected was this one:

J, if you haven’t noticed, is fairly unflappable.  She simply said that it was a book I’d brought home one day, and changed the subject. (It’s the first book I’d ever bought on the subject, and not long after getting it I’d read pertinent parts of it aloud to J, in a night of confessions.)

Later that Sunday afternoon, after they’d left, J related the story to me with a hint of concern.  “What do you suppose she thought?  Do you think she’ll tell him?” (I work with him, and see him every day. J was concerned about potential echoes in my office.)

I smiled.  “I don’t care.”

My thinking was, they’re our friends, they’re a progressive couple, she is a very confident and accomplished woman (as is J), and he is always interested in discussing controversial and even anarchic philosophies.  Additionally, we live in a house filled with literally thousands of books.  She chose that particular, slim paperback book to inquire about.  I’m not a Freudian, but some of his aphorisms have extraordinary applicability to everyday life:

For example: There are no accidents.

Maybe her curiosity about it was coming from a very personal place.

Because:  one of the truths of being kept in the cricket for extended periods of time is that I’m led to a very personal place inside me, where being locked is not only sexy and beautiful and symbolic and necessary, but normal. The concepts and practices we’re discovering via male chastity interest me. Occasionally, they downright preoccupy me.

It’s not something strange or shameful to me at all.  I’d like to be able to talk about it with some people. Obviously, our sex life is private, and I’m not proposing that we sit around a table in a restaurant and talk dirty with people.  But many of the emanations that flow from being cricketed, as well as many of the principles involved, have little to do with the intimacies of our sex life.

Well, the bottom line is that incident happened a couple of months ago, and nothing ever came of it.  I remembered it this morning, and asked J to remind me what exactly was said.  I’m still cricketed, and I love J more than ever.  The way I see it is this:  if I never work up the courage to come out of the closet about being cricketed, and all that being cricketed means, I’m still way ahead of the game.  J and I, after all, came out of our respective closets together and ran right into each other’s arms, after nearly twenty years of marriage.  We grow as we go.  Life is fucking good.

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Click through this gawker blurb to a long article that makes an excellent (implied) argument that we’d all be better off if more men were cricketed by women as soon as possible.



The revolution will be cricketized! Say aye if you’re with me.  Good night, lovers.

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During the past several months of my relatively inactive bloglife, J has occasionally sent me proposed posts relating her point of view.  For a variety of reasons, all unrelated to the nature of our relationship, I never got around to putting them up until now.  Here they are.

from December:

Days Off

They are like days in.   At this point we are mentally cricketed.

I do notice that he sees me as more human when it is off.  I teeter on the edge of annoying.  My mere scent is no longer enough to intoxicate.  I am simply loved, quietly craved and always included.  I am no longer a cat scratch, a goddess, an oracle.  With the cricket off, I can be wrong.  It is very good to pursue chastity uncricketed at times.

The various levels of intensity are all interesting and related.  The common thread is that through all we see ourselves in terms of each other.

He is my mirror, my axis, my smile, my sleep.

from mid January:

Cool as a Cucumber

My husband has been cricketed for quite awhile.   I assume you get the metaphor.  I am cool.  He is the cucumber, rubbing and kissing and humping and licking and begging and loving every moment of his torture.  For the meanwhile, I need him loving me like a mad man, so I see no orgasm in sight.  We did have a lovely milking a few nights ago, but no orgasm.  We are good this way.

from last week:


For the past few months I needed my husband to just be quiet and with me without any orgasm.   Last week I made love to him.  I looked down at his face as I allowed him to come.  He appeared other worldly, uninhibited, convulsive, demented, uncontrollably happy and released.

Last night taking my shower in a hotel room thousands of miles away from him, I thought that he is my husband, but truly my husband.  He is completely connected and enamored and absolutely mine.  There is not a millimeter of wiggle room.  He is mine and it releases me to be a better person, more a part of the world, happy.

I think it does the same for him.

After my shower, I watched the news, the Egyptian people celebrating their freedom, tears streaming down my face.  A man said, “Now I love my country.  I am part of my country.”  A woman said, “This is the first time I am comfortable among the people in my country.”  I think these are all expressions of the same experience:  belonging and release.  The cricket is freedom.

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Happy Valentine’s Day

Happy Valentine’s Day, Beloved.  I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve posted here.

I, like you, have frequent if not constant epiphanies about this process of discovery.  My most recent was this morning, and apropos to the day.  A husband kept in chastity by his wife shares a path with her to a purer, deeper love for each other. It’s really as simple as that.

I decorate this blog with photographs because I believe in the power of illustrative art to convey what words cannot.  In the search for those photographs I can’t escape that vast majority of harsh, vulgar images, garishly lit, costumed and clearly staged, most often associated with this subject.  I suppose those images are created by those who seek to merely exploit the women (and men) depicted in them for the masturbatory relief of those who flirt with the idea of male chastity for entertainment.

That’s not who I am, and that’s not who we are. If you’re jerking off here, god bless you and have fun, but that’s not my intention.

In this new year, the third since our breakthrough, we’ve renounced the calendar.  Neither of us know today when I should come again, if ever.  The idea of set dates for a husband’s orgasm creates an attainable goal, with the period of chastity being something to simply endure, something to be counted down.  The husband who knows when relief is on the way, that relief is in fact on the way, regardless of how far off it seems, simply has to buckle down and get through.  He can “go along to get along.”

The husband kept in the dark about when relief will come, if ever, must necessarily become more submissive, more focused, more desirous of being guided and trained by his wife, which is, after all, what this is all about.

So J, allow me to renew my love for you this St. Valentine’s day to the world, to you, to myself. It doesn’t matter when the last time I came was.  It doesn’t matter when I’ll come again.  I never want to come again.  I want to love you perfectly, like a laser, like a diamond, like the tides.

Please take my submissiveness as a symbol of my undying love and devotion to you, and as a plea for you to train me, to guide me, and to humble me until the truth that runs through my veins tonight can be announced to the world:  that it’s as your submissive, your cuckold, your lover held in perpetual chastity, that I’m the husband I always wanted to be and was always meant to be.

I love you.

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