Author: Polthus

18+ NSFW (Not Safe for Work) -- I write about BDSM, Female Led Relationships, D/s dynamics, sex, submission, and related topics. You can expect to find smut, rants, and fantasies, along with some introspective moments regarding my experiences as a male submissive.

The Frozen Sea

“A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.” ~ Franz Kafka

Too much ink has been spilled on the following topic: why do I write?  Yet having been silent in this space for some time, I find myself asking, why do I not?

Actually, I’ve been writing a great deal, just not here. I have a job that requires me to write at least forty hours a week.  (Should I taxonimize technical documentation as ‘writing?”…Certainly not with a straight face.) While work has knocked some of the intellectual and creative stuffing out of your humble narrator, it’s hardly an excuse to go quiet for months on end.

Maybe I had nothing to say…

Frankly, I feel as though my inner landscape’s frozen; too numb to spare a thought for an axe. Of course, Mr. K has a lot more to say on the subject than the fragment I just abused, and anyone who’s read a bit of Herr Kafka would have just cause to roll their eyes at my half-assed invocation.

They would, anyway, if I ignored his larger point, which is this – literary events should stun us like a disaster or death. For Kafka, anything less than a liminal experience was not only a waste of time and intellectually dishonest.

Of course, this particular point of view came from a writer determined to destroy most of his work before it ever saw the light of day; a tough bar to meet. Yet the spirit of this nearly unattainable ethos is admirable.

A tad dramatic, but it resonates with me. If what you consume or create isn’t dangerous and raw, than how can you possibly expect to crack those dark depths?

Let me go wandering in search of those narratives which make me grieve. It is time to threaten my comfortable isolation.

Let the waters run black until, once again, they pulse red.

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Fuck Yourself

It begins over a friendly disagreement, during which you smile, roll your eyes, and say, “Go fuck yourself.”

“But, Ma’am, that’s physically impossible.”

You smirk and ask how certain I am. On a roll, I launch into a  smug and tangential rant about the anatomical impossibility of an individual’s being capable of fucking oneself. Your response is to merely shrug, smile, and make a cryptic statement:

“Don’t be so sure…”

Later that evening, you tell me bedtime will be early, an hour early to be exact. The amused look on your face says it would be in my best interests not to argue. (more…)

Revving In Neutral

Sometimes I fall into a vicious cycle where I’m mentally and emotionally frustrated and cannot manage to channel that energy into productive avenues. In the old days, this would lead to drinking or drugs, but I don’t do that anymore. Instead, I try to go about my day, generally fail to complete mundane tasks, and end up feeling ‘stuck.’ This progresses into a cycle of mild depression, feelings of inertia, guilt over said inertia, and on and on it goes until something snaps me out of it.

It feels like I’m seated in a car stuck in neutral yet compelled to rev the engine until it screams.

I’ve talked about effects of this before, as it’s almost always linked to sexual frustration. Circumstances do not excuse avoidable behavior, so I really do need to figure out strategies for snapping out of the cycle. And what makes the need for such strategies more pressing is this: without the masking effect of booze or some kind of euphoria binge, this cycle and the resulting spiral seem to become more acute with each occurrence.

I’m going to do some reading on the subject and think it through. However, if any of you have experienced similar patterns and come up with effective ways to avoid them, please share.

Not Tonight

When did I last curl up in her lap? It’s been so long, I cannot recall. Despite numbered boxcars on the calendar and the disinterested faces of clocks, a concrete memory eludes me. Time, location, and date, they’re merely three dimensions after all.

That number, it could be a trinity – secure, owned, loved.

Instead, it feels abstract.

As a probability, It should be some comfort to expect these feelings again “someday.” I should be cheered by the likelihood of laying my head on her thigh, the gentle yet possessive finger hooked through my collar. Her lips inches from my ear reminding me what I already know: “You are owned. You are loved. You are mine.”

Three phrases I have heard, all of them as sincere, concrete, and real as the walls around me. By that logic, these dimensions I can measure, pace, curse, and strike – they should be some comfort.

They are not, tonight anyway.