Jacking-Off Log
- Thread starter rosco rathbone
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tortoise
roosevelt dime
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- Feb 20, 2002
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Hester said:a specific someone.
i don't want your to kick his ass, but i'm turned on that you offered.
*grin*
So, we don't wish him ill, but he's blocking your jacking mojo.
I don't like things that block your mojo.
*scratches head as well*
Olivianna said:
Hah!
*unbrotherly thoughts*
Hester said:
:throb:VermilionSkye said:
Six! Outstanding!
Olivianna
pee aitch dee
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- Dec 21, 2001
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i don't have a jack to log, per se, but rather just a thought to express.
my most potent sexual fantasies involve peoples unknown to me. sure, i've 'gotten off' thinking about lovers and friends, acquaintances and literary characters, but the most scintillating imaginative exercises for me invariably implicate strangers--something like a cross between catherine deneuve in belle du jour and, say, some scenario involving a human reproduction experiment performed in an operating theater before a dozen disinterested residents holding writing tablets and styli (i don't know of a feature film that quite fits this description).
now, i don't feel pressed to uncover the psychological impetus that drives these urges of mine. i really doubt it's all that complex: i imagine it has to do with a need/drive to compartmentalize multiple selves. my sexual self, you see, was planted quite a distance from my emotional/intellectual selves. i imagine if i elected to undergo surgery this problem could be corrected (by removing some portion of my frontal lobe, for example, the plastic brain would fuse these isolated sexual and other selves, resulting in a more wholistic, all-around super-unit of fun, personable intimacy)--but i'm wary of undergoing such procedures. this is my theory, though: that my particular taxonomic pathology is actually neuroscientific in origins.
in any case--and nevertheless--i relish this purported distance between kink and love. to have the two meet, face to face, bothers me at some core level. it's not out of shame, no. it's not out of an unwillingness to be open with my emotional lovers. but rather this sense that this territory is the last terra incognita on my ontological horizons. it's my shangri-la, my 'marvels of the east', my formless deity in the dark womb-chamber of a hindu temple. in the same way that i disrelish a global culture characterized by one continuous, air-conditioned comfort zone stretching from indianapolis to hong kong, i am repelled by the notion of fully integrating my fantasy and 'real' life. honestly, i really wish my predicament were merely cartesian; i'm afraid, though, that the territories of my brain are marked by multiple grids, by barriers crossing in a haphazard fashion. it's a messy thing.
i'm not sure what to make of all this except to offer this short vignette: a scene of a middle-class housewife living in __________; bored, she offers her body to men for money. often these men are obese and/or physically repellent. things happen behind closed doors, which we, the 'audience', are not privy to. but we see, in the aftermath of this coital trespassing, in the inches of room revealed by a door left ajar, the housewife zipping up her dress, smoothing down her coiffure. she exits the building and walks purposefully towards her home, a route she knows so well she is at liberty to at last savor the humiliating episode she has just endured. her face is a veritable blank slate, her body a mechanical dolly powered by the droning whir of touch, unconscious vision--the scent of shit itself--being processed in some basement service section of the brain. which is why it is all the more tantalizing to us, for her form--that is, the mundacity of her gait, her gestures, the way she calculatedly grazes her eyes upon the urbanscape, a habit so well honed she has even convinced herself she is truly 'deep in thought'--betrays nary a touch of the perversity she harbors within.
my most potent sexual fantasies involve peoples unknown to me. sure, i've 'gotten off' thinking about lovers and friends, acquaintances and literary characters, but the most scintillating imaginative exercises for me invariably implicate strangers--something like a cross between catherine deneuve in belle du jour and, say, some scenario involving a human reproduction experiment performed in an operating theater before a dozen disinterested residents holding writing tablets and styli (i don't know of a feature film that quite fits this description).
now, i don't feel pressed to uncover the psychological impetus that drives these urges of mine. i really doubt it's all that complex: i imagine it has to do with a need/drive to compartmentalize multiple selves. my sexual self, you see, was planted quite a distance from my emotional/intellectual selves. i imagine if i elected to undergo surgery this problem could be corrected (by removing some portion of my frontal lobe, for example, the plastic brain would fuse these isolated sexual and other selves, resulting in a more wholistic, all-around super-unit of fun, personable intimacy)--but i'm wary of undergoing such procedures. this is my theory, though: that my particular taxonomic pathology is actually neuroscientific in origins.
in any case--and nevertheless--i relish this purported distance between kink and love. to have the two meet, face to face, bothers me at some core level. it's not out of shame, no. it's not out of an unwillingness to be open with my emotional lovers. but rather this sense that this territory is the last terra incognita on my ontological horizons. it's my shangri-la, my 'marvels of the east', my formless deity in the dark womb-chamber of a hindu temple. in the same way that i disrelish a global culture characterized by one continuous, air-conditioned comfort zone stretching from indianapolis to hong kong, i am repelled by the notion of fully integrating my fantasy and 'real' life. honestly, i really wish my predicament were merely cartesian; i'm afraid, though, that the territories of my brain are marked by multiple grids, by barriers crossing in a haphazard fashion. it's a messy thing.
i'm not sure what to make of all this except to offer this short vignette: a scene of a middle-class housewife living in __________; bored, she offers her body to men for money. often these men are obese and/or physically repellent. things happen behind closed doors, which we, the 'audience', are not privy to. but we see, in the aftermath of this coital trespassing, in the inches of room revealed by a door left ajar, the housewife zipping up her dress, smoothing down her coiffure. she exits the building and walks purposefully towards her home, a route she knows so well she is at liberty to at last savor the humiliating episode she has just endured. her face is a veritable blank slate, her body a mechanical dolly powered by the droning whir of touch, unconscious vision--the scent of shit itself--being processed in some basement service section of the brain. which is why it is all the more tantalizing to us, for her form--that is, the mundacity of her gait, her gestures, the way she calculatedly grazes her eyes upon the urbanscape, a habit so well honed she has even convinced herself she is truly 'deep in thought'--betrays nary a touch of the perversity she harbors within.
tortoise
roosevelt dime
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Olivianna said:
Heterogenous enclaves of self. Hot.
Yes! We expect turmoil, but are presented with evident equanimity. More tantalizing, indeed.
One question springs to mind. Your fantasies don't contain people you know. Are you ever a participant in them? I mean, obviously the housewife is not "you", per se, but do you embody her role in any way for the purposes of the fantasy? Or do you witness the entire scene as an omniscient observer? You present it here as the latter, but that may just be for the purposes of presentation. An artistic choice.
Samael
Returned Kinkster
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2001
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- 6,942
Last night got kidnapped by some friends and we went out to eat and the usual venting of work and relationships. Which is always boring to me. So I suggested we go have some fun. We went to a local strip club and spent some money supporting the local college girls and such that work there. Being local, I know a couple of the ladies there and always trying to get them to come home with me or to they're home. Anyhow, like usual got turned down and headed home.
Was still in a mood so I got online and reviewed a conversation I had earlier in the day and felt the stirring in my loins. The next thing I knew I was pulling my cock out and stroking it once again in regards to this conversation. Then i remembered that it was illustrated to a degree and looked over the pics that I saved and before I knew was erupting like Mt. Vesuvius. All the pent up from the early conversation and teasing from the strip club paid off and my stomach was covered in my own cum.
Was still in a mood so I got online and reviewed a conversation I had earlier in the day and felt the stirring in my loins. The next thing I knew I was pulling my cock out and stroking it once again in regards to this conversation. Then i remembered that it was illustrated to a degree and looked over the pics that I saved and before I knew was erupting like Mt. Vesuvius. All the pent up from the early conversation and teasing from the strip club paid off and my stomach was covered in my own cum.
Hester
hesterosexual
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2004
- Posts
- 21,948
Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
by Pablo Neruda
All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death.
by Pablo Neruda
All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death.
tortoise
roosevelt dime
- Joined
- Feb 20, 2002
- Posts
- 19,336
I've been jacking like a fiend the last few days, but my fantasies have been rather nondescript (since my shower jack the other day). My focus, as happens from time to time, has been more on the physical than the mental. Jacking just feels incredibly good to me right now, probably because I feel better physically than I have in recent memory. I'm in better shape now than I've been since I was in my early twenties, and that's still a work in progress, which is very exciting. My fitter body feels like a brand new toy to me, in many ways, and I'm enjoying playing with it, very much.
Jacking these days feels decadent. Delicious. Heightened. When I start combining this new level of physical sensation with my immersive sexual fantasies... the mind boggles.
Jacking these days feels decadent. Delicious. Heightened. When I start combining this new level of physical sensation with my immersive sexual fantasies... the mind boggles.
Hamletmaschine
This space for rent
- Joined
- Dec 29, 2001
- Posts
- 9,011
Flaubert once said, "The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe." And since a belief is really nothing more than a believed-in fantasy, I've often wondered whether the difference between beliefs and fantasies may hinge on the question of expression--writing, speaking, articulation in some medium.
The fantasy is merely the belief-awaiting-expression.
And so what happens to our belief structure when venues such as the JOL (or Literotica generally) invite us to write out or express our fantasies? Do we discover new beliefs? And do these new beliefs then pass over to action, behavior?
For me, I think that has been the case.
Pardon my wholly unerotic digression here, but reviewing the posts over the last couple of days--"Things Too Dark to Express in the JOL" to Olivianna's entry to Neruda poems--made me a little wonky today.
The fantasy is merely the belief-awaiting-expression.
And so what happens to our belief structure when venues such as the JOL (or Literotica generally) invite us to write out or express our fantasies? Do we discover new beliefs? And do these new beliefs then pass over to action, behavior?
For me, I think that has been the case.
Pardon my wholly unerotic digression here, but reviewing the posts over the last couple of days--"Things Too Dark to Express in the JOL" to Olivianna's entry to Neruda poems--made me a little wonky today.
Hamletmaschine
This space for rent
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- Dec 29, 2001
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Batchoohus said:
Well, thanks, B. It's always a thought-provoking thread with the sterling crew that usually shows up here.
Funny, but some people who post here apparently get aroused reading others' fantasies, and that's cool, I guess.
But I never do.
Sorta like my attitude toward dreams: nothing is more boring than other people's dreams.
It isn't the content of the JOL entry or fantasy that arouses me. Just the fact that it is expressed is what gets me excited...and seeing how it affects them.
tortoise
roosevelt dime
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Hamletmaschine said:
I firmly believe the above to be true, at least for me. It's a co-creative process. The fantasy sparks the expression, which fuels and develops the fantasy. Hones it. My fantasies need to be expressed to feel fully real to me. Doesn't necessarily mean that I need to share them with the world at large, though that can be a thrill all its own. But to fully blossom, they need expression.
Great sex is vocal sex, for me. So many triggers to be found in vocal expression. Telling her exactly what is on my mind, with all the raw primal fucklust I can muster. How you say it becomes as important as what you say. This carries through even to the point when coherent thought becomes impossible. Moving beyond words to growls, gasps, grunts, cries, moans, screams.
Yeah.
tortoise
roosevelt dime
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Hamletmaschine said:
This last sentence is so true for me as well.
Some of the fantasies expressed do affect me personally, but that is the exception. Occasionally I will find one part of the fantasy that does speak to me, and sometimes nothing about it works for me at all, on any level. I don't care. It's still hot, because it works for them. It gets them off.
I get off on the intensity of feeling. Desire. Hunger. Arousal fucking arouses me, however it is achieved.
If their fantasies happen to mesh well with mine, that can be fun, but it's not essential. In fact, it can be more interesting if they don't. Expands the horizons, pushes the envelope.
Thanks for the musings, my fiend. Have a great weekend. I'm off to get some fresh air.
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