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     As the years have rolled by my kinkiness has deepened like a river full of sexual sludge. Or perhaps it flows like the rush of eros-addled BDSM Bass heading upstream to spawn in a placid pool of perversion…

     Bottom line, the acts I would reallllllllly like to indulge in involve those things that I think might no. 1, kill you or no. 2, lead to an open and forthwright conversation with your wife about this new STD you’ve contracted and perhaps given her. Immediately after which, she cradles you in her arms and jams a fork in the back of your neck and starts vigorously trying to sever your spine or at least make putting on a dress shirt chafe.

     I remember the first time I looked through a microscope in 8th or 9th grade. I saw those squirming entities and I immediately developed low grade OCD on cleanliness. Later on, as I read about Howard Hughes and his mania vis a vis germs, my first thought was…dude…how sensible! So, combine the two and as my sexual addiction took full flower, I was hobbled. (not in the bdsm sense, which might actually be cool but in the metaphysical and logistical sense…)

     If I stick this there and let it become exposed to that….the being that is moi may die a hideous and prolonged cessation of life dance. I’m still appalled that I’m not immortal. Althought I think my dog and I might actually live forever. We’re neater than most folks. Then the actual acts themselves, that in my head stirred my other head, left me going…my tongue is actually going to be placed in that particular orifice….ewwww.

     So, it leaves my fascination with cuckoldry on the mental meltdown shelf. It gets me thrashing when I am taunted with it…..but in terms of clean-up detail after the fact, I’m back looking in that microscope going, damn…if it would all just stop wiggling. And as a fluffer…there again…pretty hot in my ricocheting thoughts….but let me get lab results first, second and perhaps every minute and a half to put my mind at ease.

     And finally, the Olympus of woo hoo tease and denial scenarios…ass worship. In grand concept, parting those lovely cheeks and diving in to clean up my leavings or those of someone else or just rimming for the grand giggles of it…oh my god! I’m wide-eyed and smiling just doing the pondering. But offered the posterior of a number of nubile lasses that are tripping through my brain right now…I’m looking at my WWHD bracelet. Mr. Hughes would back peddle, grab a kleenex and dab at imaginary microscopic globules of demon somethings.

     So to my science teacher, Mr. V and to the man who brought us the Spruce Goose, a big thank you. I may have been robbed of some actual experiences….but I’m not hauling around any virulent hangnail from hell “thangs” in my little ol’ Llano Estacado personal eco-system.

     She called earlier today and it made me smile. I have done many, many twisted, fucked up sleazy, hot little scenarios with this lady. She got out of rehab a few months back and felt it was best to get away from the Llano Estacado and go elsewhere to get healthy. She’s back and wants to lead me into some sort of bondage, cbt, breathplay bout of head spinning release.

     She’s just under 6 feet tall, usually has a punked out hairstyle and in her prime a few years back, she had a body that was truly Xena warrior princess taut and tantalizing. As the booze and other substances took their toll before she hit rehab, she got a little chunky but she is still a dear, sweet nasty bit of business.

     She was raised by a family of bikers and has retained that rough-hewn quality. When she manhandles you, you keep your safeword handy or she would seriously inflict ouchy harm from hell.

     And she is comfortable with deviancy. Years ago I was fussing about my sexual predilections trying to stir up a good ol’ case of down home guilt. She said in a no-nonsense and (for her) nurturing manner, “you’re just a freak.” Bless her heart, she meant it as a benediction, a moment of acceptance between damaged, lost souls and then returned to trussing up my privates with some cord of some sort.

     She’s a sweet kid and I may buckle now that she’s back in town. My good old girl biker punk stripper chick with a flair for the ol’ bdsm.

     I’m writing this paen to fetish model Isobel Wren while I’m listening to Christian artist Audrey Assad, who I adore. Jesus and hot bdsm thoughts flow together in my world rather handily. It may be a Red State thing. We get our freak on but we can also waltz with the ultimate crazed Jewish rabbi at the same time. We call it depth but it sounds kinda surreal, doesn’t it?

     Part of my need to lose myself in long distance lust and admiration for Isobel is due to the retirement of Melissa Troutt, the previous hottest model in the world you might not be totally familiar with. Oh well, Melissa wrote something about wanting to use her talents for things she believed in. I wish her luck and will disengage from my low grade obsession.

     Now to Isobel Wren. Long, leggy and simply scrumptious. In several photos she wears glasses which feeds into some sort of being bent over the desk and violated by the hot young substitute teacher. Oh my…let me take a moment….thank you.

     Isobel does mostly fetish modeling and she has a wonderful, open and somewhat wholesome gee whiz quality in the midst of all this kinky, spreader bar, ball gag business that occurs in her portfolio. She has one of those 18th or 19th century faces, so that also enhances the contrast of that angelic face and those other mesmerizing aspects of her photos.

     Let me say my stalking is non-existent. Going back to my old newspaper days when I was in the Navy, you gots to have a catchy headline, that’s all. I did ask Isobel’s permission to make reference to her in my blog and she kindly agreed. I will make her the third link I’ve ever done, joining the august personages of Angela St. Lawrence and my patron saint of nasty, Tatum Reed, Pop Whore. All fab ladies.

     From what I’ve been able to ascertain so far, she just models and doesn’t do any session work in the joyous world of bdsm. But if she ever does, I will happily belly up to the spreader bar to be in her presence.

     The photos are sexy as hell and they give me fodder for flights of fanciful frenzy. Isobel, you are magnificent!

     I probably need to write a separate substance abuse blog but to have two blogs that virtually nobody sees would be too inimical to my European principality-sized ego, so I’ll stick with this little off and on again screed from my id.

     I drink a mere soupcon as compared to the old days, going about a week between drinks. When I go beyond that my beloved Llano Estacado load my Winchester and squint across the landscape rage emerges. Since I can’t just go shoot people who piss me off (a part of our Western heritage I think we’re the poorer for not retaining) I sometimes wake up early. Today, 4:30ish and through my daily New York Times e-mail push I discovered the Second Life virtual community. I was sipping my freshly brewed coffee and getting ready to build my avatar when my lovely bride slid into our computer room and suggested I come back to bed for some early morning lovemaking.

     Let me say my wife gives the best fellatio I’ve ever had. It fits with my theory that the polished, somewhat discreet little souls of the world are sometimes the Raptors of the bedroom. My bride, a former “Sweetheart” of one of the frats at the university we attended back in the 70s, fits that role. One would assume a sweet, cuddly fuck (you do get that) but there’s a whole let me whisper sick, twisted shit in your ear thang as we come to our shattering conclusion. God bless her. My Norwegian angel is a complex little pirate as I’m fond of saying. I think I stole that line from “Frasier.”

     I’m ready to rock this early summer morn in the great American Southwest, where yes, we do feel superior to the rest of you. Other members of my redneck by way of moonshine brewing hillbilly clan would say something like fuck all y’all but I’m an enlightened little 21st century being that merely says (and means) peace and love…..to all y’all.

     The jury is still out on that one. However, this little funkified whatever we’re going to weekly is a breath of fresh ontological air. It at least gives me an hour a week to put my dick in my back pocket and mull over the options.

     There’s something going on with this new wave of less structured worship whether it’s the small house congregations or this doo dah thing we’re doing every Thursday. It’s casual and refreshingly free of finger wagging social values bullshit that seems to have circumcised Christianity down to a proverbial nubbin. In fact as I tried to develop my best Paul Tillich furrowed brow of lofty pretension with a fellow attendee when I broached the subject of doctrine, she dropped me like Smokin’ Joe Frazier hookin’ in for the kill. She simply said, “It’s about love.” As I told my wife as we left that evening, ‘ I’m not going to overthink this thing, I’m just going to flow with it.’

     I’ll probably have to drag out a greatest hit of my sex life to jazz this poor blog back to its saucy ways. I toiled in the yard today and played in my first ever American Tennis Assoc. sanctioned event! And got my ass semi-kicked so maybe sliding back into the dark obsessions of my pulsating weenie might be preferable.

    Love and peace to us all, my brothers and sisters.

     Part of sex addiction is sometimes saying no or the fates intervening and keeping you from joyous, body spasming, gushing giving in to your predilections.

     Last night Cheyenne was available and I’d hoped to put together a little bdsm roleplay after church. We attend a funky, emerging church, praise and worship gathering type thang that kind of alludes to Jesus but it could just as easily allude to some guy named Bob. Still, I truly enjoy it. Anyway, I was thinking afterwards to let Cheyenne violate the tip of my dick with a tiny crucifix  which would have been some twisted bit of theological, Thomas Aquinas wearing panties, tease and denial scenario. Didn’t work out, had to pass.

     Then, the main event, as if the Madonna was not wearing underwear. My domme in a thong, goddess from on high Stacy, had agreed to the possibility of sex. I always just do domination orgasmatron activity because my fluids are my fluids, theirs are theirs and never the DNA twain should meet. Anyway I was business bonus flush and feeling frisky, made a madcap offer and damn she said yes. I’d tea bag Prince Charles while he was boinking Camilla horse face woman to have a chance to do Stacy. So this was jaw dropping, frightening and almost sweat down the small of my back inducing. However, my lovely bride decided to come join me in the town I was doing business in the evening the culmination of buckets of cum salvation was due to transpire.

     Stacy had even promised to come up with a richly humiliating scenario for our “first time.” The possibilities of priapus putdown were immense! Okay..no more p’s….

     See, my recovery is intact and wait…I had no fucking fun or release. That’s why recovery is so sweet! Let me fall to my knees and sniff the soiled jockey shorts of my Higher Power in celebration. Ahhhhh……

     Addiction is the gift that keeps on giving. Cheyenne is available this week to party and I am trying to hold myself back from that Llano Estacado succubus. I have to see what the dommes are up to on Max Fisch and the nasty ass action of Best Femdom Video makes me flinch and hunger simultaneously. Our Lady of the Perpetual Cock Sucking, Tatum Reed must be caught up with…..And the young lovely who sits outside my office is one of those  little bit used up, hard living looking rough gals who I want to slam up against the wall of my office and make merry with. Or have her make me cum on the tattoo on her ankle and eagerly slurp it up.

     I bring all that up so you can see the sexual static that continually buzzes through the brain and being of the addict. So, when we find an opening that enables us to fly away from it and just be…it may not be orgasmic but it’s awfully sweet.

     Caught “Wicked” this weekend and the green girl made me smile, cheer and get a little moist in the eye. Like most Broadway these days, way too over the top and all points are telegraphed but damnit, I loved it. We had box seats poised seemingly directly above the stage and it was just gossamer. I was set adrift and I liked. As a sometime theater director, it was cool to be up high to see the blocking and get a sneak peak at some theater “magic.”

     Next day, saw the Boulder Acoustic Society, a group of musicians who blend genres like the dude from “Fargo” stuffing bodies in the wood chipper. It was all ground together and dee-lightful.

     Not much fucking or awkwardness today. Sorry. The green chick got to me. I’m full of miles of smiles..

     It’s interesting the conversations one has while a charmingly sluttish lady is slipping one or two lubed fingers into your posterior.

     You become Hemingway to a certain extent. Your words get chiseled down to hard-boiled (or is that hard-fucked?) essentials. Okay, if Papa was on his back, knees progressively falling apart while you pant like a dog being boinked, the verbal pearls kind of emerge between animalistic groans…

     Perhaps it’s the budding cuckold in me but it turns me the poop on if the lady in question will tell me about other men she’s been with. My thrashing about factor increases exponentially based on the explicitness of said lady’s “other men” scenarios.

    Okay back to lubed fingers heading up my ass, I asked how many men she’d fucked in the particular bed we were in. Got that number. Then, asked how many men enjoyed ass play. She said none as they always considered that “too gay.”

     I sighed. Boys, boys, boys….if you only knew. My Hemingway factor from that point slowly de-evolved to dialogue from “Quest for Fire” but it was way cool and so nasty.

     And yes my recovery has been set back. Day one began all over again the next day.

     In the wake of my father’s death last fall, I recall a conversation I had with my nephew, who I hadn’t seen in 10 years or so. He talked about how he was hurt how my mother distanced herself from his mother after her divorce from my late brother. Mom said simply, “we take care of our own.”

     The ‘own’ we take care of varies from family unit to family unit in our clan. We are descended from violent, manipulative and intensely charming mountain people from both West Virginia and eastern Tennessee by way of Texas cattle country.  It makes for an odd 19th century distance from others, if they aren’t kin or part of what you perceive as your magic circle, your ’own’ once again. I’m metaphysically up the holler, squatting with my squirrel gun and I will blow your shit away if need be. Not literally, but yeah pretty much close to that.

     What the flaming Gatling gun fuck does this have to do with sexual addiction and where the hell is any partial-boner or dampness material? I’m roundabout waying it today.

     Well, I got to see her for the first time in quite some time last night. Punked out knobby pig-tailed hair, clunky black nerd glasses like I wear..the schoolgirl plaid skirt(which I don’t), partially open white blouse revealing magnificent cleavage and knee-high bondage boots…my Cheyenne. She writes poetry and song lyrics and is a gifted, provocative text messager that always works in the endearing phrase, “my kinky little fuck.” She’s back stripping while starting cosmetology school. A couple of kids…and emerging from pretty serious meth or something addiction. She’d put on some weight(very becoming by the by) and the eyes were clear.

     And she’s almost in that “one of our own” magic circle where my Scots-Irish ancestors would call on me to gut you with the nearest available sharp weapon if you threatened her. I make a living on empathetic connection with my clients, vendors, colleagues and the like but I’m still up that holler in the shadows..they’re not kin. But for her, I care just a tad….it troubles me and I wish she would have stayed away…”The Belle of the Strip Club”…

     We should all make love more. My wife and I had a spirited bout of it last night and damn…everything falls away. Addictive obsessions, work related silliness, how I so suck in my city tennis league when I actually want to be crushing my opposition with overpowering slams and dizzying slices….you know, that stuff.

     What happens in a marriage that you hold back from doing the very thing that gives you the cement of smiles and solidarity. Okay that sounded like Freud meets Zig Ziglar with a light dusting of Lenin….Still, it’s early morning and the sun is coming up over my particular slice of the fruited plain and I’m grateful. I so overthink this little span of existence we’re given.

     I’ve just been linked by the exquisitely wicked Angela St. Lawrence at Zen Fetish. It’s a lady I’ve verbally played with and bonded with over a number of years. To have her like my little bit of blog enough to do that means a lot. At some point you’ll see a link back to her. However as a figurehead sales and management guy, I don’t know how. I’d be reluctant to ask one of my people to walk me through this on my site and then have them realize what a twisted little fuck they work for. Tee hee…..

     Anyway, not much wit and sparkle today but there is an overall grin of the body and the spirit. My old hippie ethos was on target after all…just make love brothers and sisters, just make love.