Musings of a party worm

Ten years. A decade of tearing through the scrolls, the illuminated manuscripts, the half-rotted codices—not for tenure, but for technology. The old kind.

Crystal deep dark light

Benedict sings in the rafters

Tailspin, refracted

Such was the days of VHS, when DVD players were the mythic possessions of the pseudo-rich, and not so plentiful were compact discs. I miss the ways that we would gather together for our special Sunday evenings, and how much I feared the Monday roundabout turnaround.

Somewhere over the rainbow it lies

and lying over there, it lays,

and it lays down where it lies, but all alone is where it wanders

and every night and every day

in every single way

it's silently obsessed with me;

and now I think you see why

all my hairs are turning gray, a little grayer day by day

so we can feel pressure pressurize our brains

Every day when he returned home, the creeping specter of anxiety and stress that followed him through the day would be warded off by the front steps. An equally unwelcome smile crept over his countenance as he remembered the one reliable constant in his life. He would find her exactly where he’d left her, curled in the armchair by the window, a book forgotten in her lap as she waited for the sound of his key in the lock.

Some part of him wanted to hate her for waiting there for him. Because her quiet devotion was a mirror that reflected his own failings, and the peace he’d bought for her was a cage he had built for himself. He liked life that way. He’d been caged since the day he was born, born into a confinement not of his own making. But at least here at home, this was his. His design, his rules. Things would make sense for once, and that too he wanted to be his gift to her. The concept of an equivalent exchange had always been important to him.

And so he would cross the room, his footsteps heavy with the weight of the world, and place a hand on her shoulder—a gesture that was both a claim of ownership and a silent plea for the solace only she could provide. "Daddy missed you," he said in a voice so soft as his fingers played with the strap of her tank top.

Her breath hitched, a tiny, yielding sound as she leaned back into his touch. "I was counting the minutes," she whispered, her own hand coming up to cover his. He let her touch him, let her feel his hand and his wrist, making sure he was real and not another one of her lazy daydreams brought on from waiting. He brought his hand up to wrap around her throat like a collar, filling her up with whatever poured from his eyes into hers when she was transfixed in his gaze. "Have you been a good girl while I was away?"

"Yes, Daddy," she breathed, her body going pliant under the gentle pressure of his grip, her eyes wide and fixed on his. "I tried."

His thumb stroked the life-flow underneath her skin, pressing gently so she’d feel the momentary pressure of restriction build in her head. "Did I tell you to try, or did I tell you to do something?"

"No, Daddy," she whispered, a shiver running through her as her gaze dropped in submission. "You told me to be good."

He snapped his fingers; the soft touch was gone, replaced by sharp annoyance. Snap. It was a command to get up and present herself before he forced her.

She flinched at the sound, scrambling from the chair with practiced haste to stand before him, head bowed and hands clasped tightly behind her back. He gripped her shoulder and spun her around, pushing her forward to splay her hands out for support against the arm of the loveseat as he kneed her legs apart. Suddenly, she felt his familiar warmth wrapping around her back, his big, strong arm and familiar smell enveloping her as he curled his limb around her torso for control.

"Please, Daddy," she gasped, her fingers digging into the fabric as his dominance enveloped her completely, a mix of fear and thrilling anticipation coursing through her.

"No 'please'," he snapped, pulling her hips to bring her onto her toes, grunting as he roughly ground himself against her. A sharp, helpless cry escaped her as the rough denim of his jeans scraped against the thin fabric of her shorts, the friction sending a jolt through her entire body. It was all she could do to grip tighter and force her knees to lock so she would stay in place as her daddy used her. He pushed himself against her body, trying to achieve that same melding of flesh that united them over and over, yet each grinding thrust was restrained by the barriers of their clothing. Even as his body pressed desperately against her and she could feel every intimate inch of his desire, there was no relief or apparent destination. He was teaching her the only way she would learn—by showing her body why trying wasn't acceptable. If he tried to use her like he was now but never let her make her daddy feel good and take away his stress, it wouldn't be enough to simply say he’d tried or she’d tried. Not at all.

Her knees weren't strong enough; they couldn't resist him or the pressure put upon her weight as he climbed over her backside, using the runway of her crack to guide and stimulate his flesh. Her legs buckled, a sob catching in her throat as her body folded under his weight, her cheek pressed against the cool leather of the loveseat.

"Ass up," he barked, lifting her effortlessly by the hips and slamming her backward against him to remind her where she was supposed to be. The air rushed from her lungs as she was slammed back into place, a sharp cry torn from her throat as the impact jarred her entire frame.

"Thank you, Daddy!" she whimpered meekly as he helped her do even a basic task like standing. As his hands tightened on her hips, finally granting her the stability she craved, he pushed his needs upon her again, and she sank under the weight of all of him.

I allow myself to like what I like; when will I allow myself to change those likes, to become activated by new stimuli, something without the baggage and history I carry with me now? This baggage, after all, is not just a collection of memories but a curator, one that has learned to favor the muted tones of the familiar over the dazzling, disorienting glare of the new. I can't stand the new. I miss the dull luster of something that's been worn in to the point of becoming so familiar, I take it for granted with every breath.

The first collar I ever gave out didn't mean as much as I had wanted it to, but it was a fun game. It was a symbol played at being a symbol, lightweight because we had not yet accumulated the shared gravity, the dents and scratches that would later make such an object feel less like an accessory and more like an anchor. When it was thrown away, I wanted to be mad, but couldn't. It wasn't a token of anything, just a toy. Just like we were toys for each other, and for the time, that was fine.

I am broken in ways I cannot describe, but I do not feel broken at all. It is a knowledge I possess but have no proof for, and need no proof to show. I rather enjoy my brokenness because it means I have sculpted myself successfully and can only blame myself as the artist. This is the power I've been looking for all this time, that I was far too afraid to even pretend to exercise on others. Even when I felt it would be for their own good; always, I restrained my mind and hand, and I believe still it was the right choice. Better not to have their regrets weighed down by my name.

What is all this to say? The lesson that I've taken away is detachment. Not from the present, but from memories and old desires. The less I expected, the more I've gotten - more than I felt worthy to ask for. It is oh so hard to restrain my expectations, most all of others especially, but still, we struggle, do we not?

Yes, we struggle. We struggle because to expect nothing feels like a betrayal of human nature. But it is in that empty-handed space that I finally stop trying to collect the future like tithe, and let it arrive at its own pace.

The first time is supposed to be special, a memory that remains in memoriam to a more innocent and naive version of oneself before the world expanded and you became aware that the slow expansion was the heat death of all that is. First times have never stood out to me though. My first kiss was unremarkable, memorable only by how little I felt affected or engaged. My first alcoholic drink a nothing blip in my mental landscape. Should the first time that I felt arousal by some outside stimulus have been a moment that I categorized and filed away in my mind Palace? Apparently I didn't think so at the time.

I don't remember the first time someone gave me power over them and I realized how addicting it was. I can vaguely remember the excitement of making the agreement to dominate, of accepting submission. The feeling is raw like it's in my bones, and it's vibrating away making all of my marrow hum at a resident frequency my ears can't begin to imagine, and my tongue could never imitate.

It’s not the clean outline of a single memory but a smear across time, a stain that spread until I realized I couldn’t scrub it out—because I didn’t want to.

I've spent so many nights analyzing and pondering and trying to determine or decide whether or not the want, the craving, the desire that could become obsession if I let it... Whether it was a part of me, or something left over from whatever I was made of.

And somewhere in that questioning I learned that it didn’t matter which—what mattered was how alive I felt when I stopped resisting and simply leaned into it.

What really mattered was living for myself, and serving something greater than I myself alone. Not to believe that this was some pattern assigned to me at birth by the unique composition of chromosomes figured into the recipe that made me. I don't have any fantastic beliefs insofar as the predisposition of sex to a dominant or submissive personality. If such a thing were true, I don't know how I could explain my aversion to the TPE lifestyle that just sounds like a long-term recipe for stress to my mind. But that's a me-thing. You have you things. They have their own things too.

And it’s in that space between—where wants diverge and overlap, clash and complement—that the real beauty of it lives: not in fate or fixed roles, but in the deliberate choosing, the sharp thrill of saying yes, here, now, with you.

I don't fret too much that I don't remember the first time I told my first partner to do something, to sit some more specific, to speak to me a certain way. The first time was the best time at that time, but the next time will be so much better. Of that I can be certain, because I only grow wiser and more sure of what I want as time goes on. And next time I won't need to speak, just a point and give a look.

---

I only like to write in the quiet, lonely hours of the night, when all the other lights are put out. I sit, and the imagery comes to me more swiftly than before, when the sun was high. I was thinking today about virtue and desire— when does appetite become a tumor upon the moral conscience. If you know your own heart, does that purify the act, or merely decorate the decay?

And then, out of the blue, I remembered the song 'Smell Yo Dick' by Riskay... thoughts at this hour travel in strange areas of the unseen world. But it brought me back to a thought I've held mulling for a long time. something raw and real beneath all our perfumed performances: the intimacy of scent. Not just recognizing how someone smells, but wanting it. Being settled by it. Isn’t that romance in its most honest, animal form? To be drawn not by words or gestures, but by some deep, cellular call? a genetic whisper that says here, this one, here is home.

why not so romantic - to have your pairing fated by some twist of genetics and the development of an individuals olfactory senses and preferences?! too weird? maybe so. we ain't nothing but mammals, says the rapper. all of us animals, whether we want to believe so or pretend not. dressing ourselves in fancy words and postures, pretending we’ve evolved beyond the truth of what draws us. are two legs better than four? my spider friends don't think so. I like to remind myself that I'm just a critter too, no better or worse than they are, and we live together in harmony. nature's mosquitto repellent when the dragonflies won't come by.

Today turned into a rotten weirdos eyesore 

And now I'm ready for more

 walked through the halls of her mind, as I had been invited to do, I found myself lost in fascination and then pity. And I hated to pity a being so beautiful as much as I hated the cage it was in, and I hated myself for loving its cage. How can I take what I was owed from one who was owed so much more, and did not deserve what was got

And I think about those days when I wait upon the lazy stair outside my bedroom hang. It's a comforting balm to these boring, lazy days when all I seem to want to do is escape  inside my little crystalline prison. But I still remember the excitement of printing out her name, and if I had the chance to, I know I'd do the same. So I wonder if when I was lost in the halls, a bit of me got burnt up with a promise not to forget a name. And the name, just like a gas, can reach a critical mass and become superfluid.

To be superfluid is to forget how to be still. It is a state of perpetual, silent motion, a current without a source, and I am certain now that a part of me was altered.

But what is owed to a ghost?

The pity I felt has crystallized into a colder, harder understanding: some cages are not meant to be opened. I understood that when I saw split. I understood that when I realized what it meant to see a human being

Why do you even want that.

and i had to think for a few moments, to really think about it thoroughly and put it into words that expressed my feelings. because it was important and, from the tone of her voice, she was genuinely wanting an answer. her surprise or immediate revulsion, whatever it was that made her shock so, hadnt soured the energy between us. 

and so i explained, as best as i could; that it was like giving in to a thought that was always there in the background of my mind, and i built scaffolding over the top of it so it got buried away and i could smother it out til it was effectively quiet. but now i had heard it again, because she had destroyed all my walls and the foundation was shaking apart,

and i needed to see if answering that call that was always ringing just once might make it go quiet. and what a relief that would be, to hear the silence for awhile.

I found myself pondering the intricacies of human interaction as I sat at my desk, the soft glow of the monitor a stark contrast to the setting sun outside my window.

the delicate dance of anticipation and reaction, seemed to mirror the early moments of new connections attempted at the start of a multiplayer game. How do we choose when to advance, when to retreat? How do we approach; display the right level and kind of confidence to hopefully attract positive reaction? The ebb and flow of positioning, the subtle tells of an opponent's intention - are they not like the first tentative steps of getting to know someone?

I've often wondered about the nature of trust in these digital realms. It's a fragile thing, easily shattered by a misplaced word or an ill-timed and poorly though out action. Yet when it forms, when a team clicks into perfect synchronicity, it's a thing of beauty. Like watching a flock of birds wheeling in the sky, each individual moving in harmony with the whole. for me it always brings the importance of patience and carefully considering your motives as much as the possible or likely motivations of others.

The act of "feeding", intentional or unintentional, in games has always fascinated me. How easily we fall into patterns, repeating the same mistakes despite our best intentions, or how our worst impulses can devolve us for a moment in time. It's not unlike the habits I find I've formed in my personal life. emblematic of the ruts we dig for ourselves without even realizing. Breaking free requires a conscious effort, a willingness to examine our actions with clear eyes.

Communication in team games is its own art form. Sometimes it flows like a mountain stream, clear and purposeful. Other times it's a torrent of frustration, all sound and fury. I've found myself marveling at those rare individuals who can calm a team's frayed nerves with a few well-chosen words. How do they know what to say, when to speak and when to stay silent? How much practice will it take for me to become skilled enough to smile and speak calmly in the face of conflict, or to stand my ground and take my lumps when I find myself momentarily humiliated for being exposed as in the wrong?

The dance of power dynamics in these virtual worlds is surprisingly complex. Roles shift and change, leaders rise and fall based on skill, knowledge, and the ability to inspire others. It's not unlike the delicate balance we strike in our personal relationships, each person bringing their own strengths and weaknesses to the table.

As the night deepens and my thoughts wander, I find myself drawn to the idea of empathy in gaming. It's easy to forget that behind each avatar is a real person, with their own hopes, fears, and struggles. I like to see each teammate and opponent not as pixels on a screen, but as fellow travelers on this strange journey we call life? If someone is rude, perhaps the best thing I can do to improve their day is refuse to engage. Or maybe I should offer a mote of kindness and hope it brings them out of their defensive shell.

As I prepare to log off for the night, these thoughts swirl in my mind like leaves caught in an autumn breeze. There's something profound here, I think, in the way these games mirror our real-world interactions. Something worth exploring further, perhaps, the next time I have a mind to write and ramble and relearn to express the inner workings of my wild mind.

But for now, the night calls, and with it, the promise of new connections to be made, new lessons to be learned in the digital realms.