Steellover

This will, I promise, NOT be just another generic New Years Resolution posts.  Not that I don't HAVE New Years Resolutions but.... those are boring, and you've probably heard it all before anyway.

I was out in California for New Years, visiting family. New Year's Eve routine:  Drink Champagne, watch the proceedings on TV to see how drunk Anderson Cooper gets (and place bets on whether he is actually still able to stand by midnight. This year he was, so I won.) Listen to boring washed up pop stars try to re-kindle their careers.  And so on.  Meanwhile it was pouring rain in California, much like it had been every day for the whole week I was there.

So the next day, New Years Day, I decided to take a walk in the redwoods.  If you've never taken a walk in a redwood forest after days and days of rain and fog, it's a surreal experience.  As I walked, the sky was dark and it alternated between fog and drizzle.  The forest, which even in the summer is generally fairly dark under impossibly tall trees, began to resemble how I picture Tolkien's Mirkwood.  It was almost eerie; you really could imagine Bigfoogs (or Bigfeet if you prefer), giant spiders, and all sorts of mythical and somewhat hostile monsters running around.  There were a few squirrels and presumably deer, though I didn't see the deer this time.  Nor did I see very many people.  Maybe they were either as hung over as Anderson Cooper, or maybe the prospect of hiking through a dark, gloomy forest wasn't their favorite idea of how to spend New Years Day, but it was mine. 

Even without bigfeet and other such creatures, the forest seemed to have a mystic power that was indescribable.  I felt more alive, more aroused somehow, hiking through it.  Streams flowed fast and full at nearly every bend in the trail. Mushrooms of all descriptions (with the exception of "Edible") popped up everywhere, bracketing the trees, popping up through the leaf-covered forest floor. The fog created an almost spectral gloom, and water dripped off the tree branches and leaves. Here and there, downed trees across the trail provided new obstacles to overcome.  It was primal, eternal, life giving and beautifully compelling.  I've been in that forest in the summer, when it's cool and refreshing but it's not even close to the same. It just feels so much more alive in the rainy, damp winters.

Anyway, now I'm out of the woods and back to reality.  Happy New Year to all you kinksters!

Obligatory Christmas post.  Made it through a dreary November, had a great Thanksgiving break, and now it's on to the holiday fun and getting into the Christmas spirit!

So with that... A lot of kids at one point, see some scary movie that traumatizes them in some way.  Usually it's some kind of slasher film or monster flick, but those never had that effect on me really; they just seemed cartoonish and predictable to me.  The one movie that did it for me, traumatized me and sent me spiraling into an existential crisis at the age of 7 was... the 1970 movie version of Dickens' classic "A Christmas Carol."  So, what was so scary about that?

Up till then, most of the Christmas shows I had seen had been happy, cartoony, fun shows like "A Charlie Brown Christmas," of "Frosty the Snowman" or that old classic: Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, with such memorable characters as Yukon Cornelius, the Misfit Toys, and the Snow Bumble.  Most of you guys probably saw these when you were little, and I think they still show that old "Rudolph" one now and again, for a nostalgia trip.  At this time, I was really into "Star Wars" and got my monster fix from English-dubbed broadcasts of the Japanese classic "Ultra Man." 

But here was a film about a bitter, greedy old man, featuring his ghostly dead partner, two more Christmas ghosts, two starveling kids ("Want and Ignorance") and finally... The Grim Reaper.  No happy clay-mation reindeer, dancing snowmen, or Santa Claus here.  This was some seriously dark stuff to an 7 year old waiting for, and perhaps quickly outgrowing, Santa.  I'm assuming most of you are familiar with the basic story line.  Anyway, most stage adaptations end with the scene in the cemetery, with the Grim Reaper, representing the "Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come" pointing to an open grave with Scrooge's name inscribed on the headstone. At which time, he wakes up, mends his ways, and becomes a changed man.  However, in the film version I saw, it goes further than that. In this version, the Grim Reaper actually shoves Scrooge into the open grave, and you get to watch him descend into Hell.  Once in Hell, these demonic skeleton looking things seize him, and chain him to a post in an ice-cold cell for all eternity.  (After which, he wakes up, mends his ways, etc.)

Well, all this was pretty freaky to my kid brain.  I don't know why, but that had a huge effect on the little kid version of me.  Obviously I'm sure that was the intent; don't grow up to be that cranky, bitter callous old guy, and what not, but it had me really thinking about life, death, hell, eternity, and other things most 7 year olds don't really think about.  I did resolve though, to try to be a gracious and giving person and NOT fall into the trap of becoming old, amoral, cranky, bitter and callous, and hopefully I've succeeded.  On that note,this past weekend I managed to finish up my Christmas shopping early.  I've found as an adult, it's actually more fun to give people cool stuff, and hook them up with things that really make them happy, than it is to receive things, because the things that I want, are not the material things that you can buy.

"You're going to be late for school..." Mom says.  It's a quarter till 8.  I'm frantically getting dressed, and we head out the door.  Sometimes I'm driving my own car, but often Mom or Dad is driving us.  And on the way there, I'm thinking to myself, why do I have to do this all over again?  How long has it been now, 20 years, 30?  Do I really WANT to do this over again?  NO! What were the chain of misfortunes that led me to this?  They screwed up and lost the records, lost the transcripts, and/or my diploma was invalidated. It turns out I needed more credits after all. Or, I need more vocational training but need to go back and re-enroll to get it.  Or, some clerical error.  Or, who knows; Mom and Dad are making me do this just to get me out of the house. 

But it's always the same.  Go back...and repeat...my senior year... of high school.  

Sometimes, if I'm driving myself, I'll get part way there and realize, hey, it WAS 20,30 years ago, I've been done with that place for the last 30 years, there is no reason to go back, and so no; I really DONT need to do this.  I'll just head to the beach, head to the mountains, go shopping, maybe look for a real job. But other times, I make it there, get my class schedule, sit through first period, second period, third... and sometimes it's the current crop of kids, the kids of the 90's, 2000s, or whatever the current year is.  A true fresh start.  But sometimes it's the same snooty, mean-spirited and unlikeable assholes I remember back then.  The belligerent, racist kid who always picked fights with everyone.  That snarky lil' napolian type guy who always talked smack and ran away (or hid behind his bigger, tougher buddies) when confronted. The snooty kids with their fake, condescending, poke-a-stick-at-the-monkey, pretending to be nice while still mocking you, kind of interactions.  These were kids whose parents bought them cars for their 16th birthdays- girls usually got a VW convertible, guys got a sporty car- and who would go off on weekends up to their family ski cabin in Tahoe to party.  I was, needless to say, never invited to those Tahoe ski cabin parties, (My parents certainly did not own any such property) and I eventually bought my own car with my own money- which I had earned after a summer of working at my first job.

These were not good times.  I never really felt like I found my tribe there. I was young, maybe a bit socially awkward and isolated, until I ended up bonding with this group of alternative school kids I had met from my first job. These were the down-to-earth, genuine, interesting people I had never managed to find at the regular school. I was envious of them, I wanted to drop out and go to the alternative school, but my parents wouldn't let me. "They don't have good college prep or AP (advanced placement)  courses there," they said. But at least, meeting those guys was my saving grace.  And of course, afterwards, college was all the fun, socializing, personal growth, and friendships that I had missed out on in high school.

So then why don't I have more dreams about the FUN times in college? Maybe a part of me thinks, that somehow if I COULD do those high school years over, having the insights, wisdom, and experience that I have now, it would turn out better. I would be the cool, confident guy instead of the clueless socially awkward one.  But not only does it "not work that way" but even if I could- even if I was different- there would be no guarantee that  the same snooty, condescending people would not have changed, and that I still would have to deal with the same BS.  I might be better at coping with the BS, but that wouldn't guarantee it wouldn't still be there.

In any case, I don't want to go back. The past is dead and buried, I'm happy with my life now, and hopefully I'll dream something more pleasant tonight.  Anyway, thanks for reading. 

Oh. and PS:  The bot who was messaging me the other day, "Mistress Blout...." Well, as of yesterday evening, "Profile Does Not Exist."  I am frankly not surprised.  I do want to take the time here, to thank Villanelle and the staff for doing all they can at keeping these bots from cluttering up the site.

Unlike some of you who get inundated with messages in their inbox, I don't get that many messages, and I will usually happily respond to people who take the time to contact me.  I love chatting with people, both in the forums, in blog posts, and in direct messages as there are a lot of wonderful people on this site.

But not... if you're a bot.

Here's an example:

BOT:  "Hi." 

(or) 

"Hi how r you today?"

Me. "Uh, fine. Great. Just.... going online, reading blogs."

BOT: " Am mistress Shelby, you?"

Me:  "I'm Arther Ian Bott."  (as in, they call me A.I. Bot for short.  The actual bots never pick up on that one, though.)

BOT: " Are u ready to submit to a mistress?"

Me:  "Yes, but not one whose profile claims to be from Wake Island, Guam, and/or Midway Atoll."

The thing is, whenever I send a message to someone, it's usually to comment on a blog or forum post of theirs, or at least, something that will lead to a discussion.  If I was actually seeking a connection (and I don't typically do this) I would bring up things about their profile, their blog, or their posts that resonate with me.  You know, something that would at least pique my interest, and give me a reason to reach out to them.   When it's just a "Hi," it's like, "well, hi; but what exactly  do you WANT?   What do you want me to say?"  And with all due respect, if your profile claims you are from some remote distant island, we just aren't gonna ever connect in real life, and I say this with all due respect to the good people of Wake Island, Guam, and Midway.  These are all traits that to me, just scream "Dating Site Bot."  

So if any of you out there have messaged me with that approach and I've come across as, well, disinterested, then I apologize, especially if you really were a real human who was genuinely reaching out.  But if you ARE a bot, then, well, $%&* you, and since bots don't have feelings, I have no regrets about telling you off. 

Giagantic, big big love...

I cannot truly speak as a female to be on the receiving end, because I am not one- I can speak only as a guy... and wow.

I remember sucking on it, and discovering that deep throating something that big isn't as easy as the porno videos make it look.

But letting her fuck me-  well, that was the most humbling and submissive feeling I've ever felt. 

I remember moaning , head in the pillow, as she forced it in deeper, filling and stretching me.  I remember feeling her smack my behind as I moaned loudly, and that sent me right over the edge.

I remember and odd feeling of suddenly having to pee, really bad, as she got the full length in me, and wondered if the tip had brushed against my bladder. 

I remember the overwhelming humiliation and intense feelings of being violated, and being a molten puddle of submission at her feet.  Of basking in her power over me, and the feeling of being taken

And then seeing the full size and girth of it.  Almost 10 inches, probably an inch and three quarters thick, maybe even 2. And being proud of myself for being able to take that much silicone inside of me.

Being in a safe place with someone who understood my deepest needs, and satisfied them.

And gaining new perspective of what it's like to live vicariously through her, as well as through her lovers.

I've always been drawn to the voyeuristic aspects of forced bi and cuckold relationships, both the visual, and the physical sensation. I enjoy seeing my girlfriend/wife experience pleasure, it's like the best porn in the world, only better and more intimate. But I already know what it feels like to experience what her lovers do, being a male myself (albeit not an alpha stud.)  And I learned that day what it feels like to live vicariously through her experiences as well.  

And wow.

I've heard some people in the forums post on how submissive guys are "Cringe."  I don't mean to come across that way and I sometimes wonder how much of that is kink shaming, how much of it is just that they cannot relate to that dynamic, or how much of it is just, some women are seeking a non-sexual/non-kink form of dominance (Domineering vs. dominating, in other words.  I need there to be spice in my life.)  Or how much of it is just guys being obnoxious, pushy or lacking forum ettiquite.  I do apologize if I ever came across that way though.  This is why I save it for the blogs...  

This short is a work of fiction, so if the thought of male submission and cuckolding isn't your thing, well I understand.  It isn't most peoples thing.

I've tried my had at erotic fiction before,  and I've found that, any time you stray from stories of vanilla , generic couples sex, the niche appeal is very hit or miss. (in other words, you either think it's hot, or super cringe.)  So make of it what you will....

__________________________________________________________________________

After one agonizing month, the cage came off. One month of erotic torment, tease and denial.

I never thought I would make it.  So many times, especially the last couple weeks, I had been ready to give in, had even begged her.  However, that mischievous, merciless pretty girl, she who is my wife, dream goddess, and keeper of my sexual desires, would not relent. I made a promise, and God Bless her heart, she held me to it.

I saw the change in her. I saw her take command of her hyper-sexuality in ways that I had never dreamed of, basking in her feminine power.  As I had basked in it myself, only from a position of submission.  I don’t think even she, had realized the effect this would have on me.

She saw a change in me.  Because she had even commented on it this morning. Said I had become far more attentive to her, a better listener, a better husband and life partner.  Other couples should try this, she had even said.  I agreed, though I’m not so sure other couples relationship could survive the swinging, cuckolding part of it, though. But yet, every woman has her needs. 

She had put me through a lot. The spankings, that damnable flogger she used on me the times I had left a mess in the bathroom after shaving, or failed to promptly empty the garbage cans, left dirty clothes on the floor, or left the toilet seat up.  I learned not to do these things, and she had appreciated that.

But most of all, her lovers.  The torment of seeing these well-endowed men, balls deep inside her, hearing her cries of pleasure, listening, watching, while I was caged up and denied all the while.  Worse yet, the humiliation of being asked to sexually service them, towards the end. She had reassured me; said “I know you’re not gay. They know it too. But if you help them give me my sexual releases, I promise I’ll let you have yours, at the end of the month… if you are a good boy.”

The end of the month. What had kept me going, driven me to madness and depravity, even kept me awake all night the last two nights.  After an October that had seemed to be a year, November First was here. Finally, we were alone in the bedroom, she kneeling in front of me, unlocking me.   The turn of the key, the device coming unlatched, falling to the floor with a clunk, sent me into a spiraling hormone attack.  Blessed relief at last! My cock instantly sprang to a full throbbing erection.

Her in her knee high leather boots. That tiny pleated skirt.  Me wild with lust, wanting to take her, right there.  Much like Eric, and her other playmate, Jed, from the gym.  I could be Jed or Eric right now, I thought. I know I could. Eric, with his huge, throbbing, meaty, cock which put mine to shame.  The one she had made me take in my mouth, to prime for her while she had cheered me on and laughed, like the little naughty cheerleader she had been dressed as… I could finally be Eric.  After one long month.

Who was I kidding?  Things were different now. We had grown closer than ever, yet our relationship had been profoundly altered.  I knew it; so did she.  And it was good.  More than good. Delicious, even.

“On your knees, slave.” She said simply, flirtatiously, with that smile that sent me over the edge.

“Now recite the Cuckold’s Pledge. You have memorized it, correct?”

“Yes, mistress. You said you wouldn’t allow me an orgasm, EVER, until I did.” I replied.

“Correct. Now prove your devotion to me, and recite it for me.”

Kneeling in front of her leather boots, I began,

“Dear Goddess, Mistress, queen of my heart’s desires, and of my body’s longing.” 

“I solemnly acknowledge that I am not man enough to satisfy your sexual urges.”

“Therefore, I will do all I can to please you.”

“Therefore I will help you find sexual gratification in whatever way you choose.”

“Therefore, I will honor and respect your lovers just as I honor and respect your needs.”

“Therefore, any man you choose, I will live vicariously through him as he pleasures you.”

“Your satisfaction through him is my satisfaction.”

“Your sexual release through him is my release.”

“I will thank him graciously for taking care of you, for seeing you satisfied gives me the same satisfaction.”

“And I will continue to love, worship and cherish you as my companion, mistress and queen.”

“And the timing and means of my own reward are your choosing, and yours alone.”

“Very good.” She said, with a nod.

Oh, but her smile then lit up the room.  And my needs were nearly uncontrollable.  I was ready to explode, right then and there, all over the floor and onto her boots. THAT would not have been acceptable.

She ordered me to crawl into the bathroom, over to that damnable white bucket with the toilet seat, the same in which she often imprisoned my head and face these last few weeks.  For clean-up duty.

“Good Boy. You have fifteen seconds to do your business, slave.” She said with a smile.  "Let's see if you can fill that bucket!"

Not how I would have wanted it, but this is how it was.  I could not satisfy her like Eric and Jed, and we both knew it..

Oh, but I could be Eric and Jed right now.  I WAS them.  In my mind, I felt what they felt, thrusting into her body, the raw, animal sensation long forgotten, remembering the sounds of her pleasure, making her twitch and scream….and ten seconds later, exploding into her tight tan sexy body….

.....Or rather, that sterile plastic bucket.  Yet, the shuddering, powerful explosion in my loins was 31 times more intense, more powerful, and more infinitely and indescribably erotic than anything her boy toys could ever imagine.  31 days, it had been … Spurt after glorious spurt, filling the bucket, feeling a mix of intensely powerful erotic joy, humiliation, and indescribably perverse pleasure and lust. At the end I was so drained I nearly collapsed. I lay there for several minutes, gasping, a pool of submissive goo, gazing up at her leather boots, tan legs, and that tiny pleated skirt that left little to the imagination. Was it my imagination or was she moist under there?  She was not wearing panties…

“Wow!  Ten seconds!  This is why I have Eric and Jed. This is why you cannot satisfy me." She explained. 

“Thank you, THANK YOU!  Thank you sweet, sweet, beautiful... goddess….” I gasped.

“This is how it will be from now on.”

Yes, this is good. This was all right.

“Oh, one more thing… “  As she said this I felt her boot turn my head round, then press down on the back of my head, forcefully shoving my face into the bucket.

“New rule, whenever I allow you to cum, you still have to clean up your mess…. And I know you’ve gotten so good at it.  By now, you’ve acquired the taste I assume?  Oooh, tsk tsk…  Little boy made a big mess!  Now lick it up for me…  And then go wash your cage, so I can get it ready for you to wear for this month!”

Last night, after plans to go to the corn maze with a really cute redhead friend fell through, I decided to make the most of my free evening and go mountain biking, one last time.

It may not be the last time for the year, though that will inevitably come soon.  Maybe if it's nice this weekend or next, I'll be able to delay mothballing the bike for a bit.  But it was certainly the last time I will be able to do so in the evenings after work, until next Spring. 

After tomorrow, The time change happens (in North America) and winter time will begin.  There will be no evenings.  You go to work in the dark, come home in the dark, and the rest of the time, you wait till the weekend for any kind of outdoor activity.  It's still too early for snowboarding though.  I may have said it before, but November is my least favorite month.  All the activities of the summer and fall wind down, and everyone just kind of hunkers down indoors and waits for the holiday season to begin. I usually turn inward myself, focusing on my "indoor" hobbies.

So it was a fun ride. Once I left the pavement, I started pumping uphill, then rode along the bluffs, enjoying the fall colors, and the first decent into a narrow, creek-fed valley.  Crossed the creek, then there was a long, winding uphill grind to the top of another ridge line, followed by a nice, fast, fun downhill blast down the ridge trail.  The fall colors are still vivid and bright here, but by now the sun was setting. I had time for the last extension, up to a short ridge, followed by one more downhill section on a tight, twisty fun little single track, that dumped me out onto the streets near the co-op grocery store. The chill was in the air by now, and twilight was setting in. It would be completely dark when I got home.  Last after-work ride till Spring, and I was happy that was a good one. 

For those of you in penis captivity, this is your last day of Locktober.  May your blessed release be a good one. And may it hopefully brighten your dark, dreary November days.  I was reading someone else's blog, and the gist of it was how he realized that chastity basically made him more attentive and a better partner, while emphasizing the power and sexuality of his wife.  It's the kind of thing more couples should be open to trying.  But at the same time, it's clearly not for everyone.  And perhaps I am in wishful thinking mode here, wishing I had a cute redhead friend who was willing to give it a try with me.  That does not mean that I shouldn't still try to be more attentive and a better friend (and hopefully, future long-term partner) to her.

(Cringe post warning... This is a Locktober fantasy. )

"A man is easily led by his balls..." How many times have I heard that one. 

I was desperate for a release. For some reason, she had agreed to remove my cock cage, for the first time in weeks, just for this.  

Just so I could be tormented by her cries of sexual release in the next room.  

My hands shackled, my huge, throbbing, aching cock just out of fingertips' reach.  Having a full staff erection for the first time in weeks, my need was desperate, but I dare not cum... and risk her punishment.  This was all part of her fiendish, sadistic plan, of course.

She had shown me the spiked cage she had planned to force me to wear for the remainder of the month, if I were to suffer a little "Accident.". Just looking at it, heck just THINKING about it had been enough to keep me in check.

Immobilized, hands and feet spread, tied,  and shackled, and my face wedged in the white plastic bucket, staring at the seat above me.  The seat and lid were lowered, so I could see nothing.  But I could hear the sounds of her sexual release in the other room.  Her cries of pleasure tormented me as I heard the rhytmic panting and grunting of her lover.  Alas, my cock, "That tiny limp pathetic little thing" as she mockingly called it, was the only thing that was NOT restrained.

How had I agreed to this?  "One month.  It will be fun!  You can do it for a month!" she had explained.  "And remember our deal; you want to be with me, but you cannot satisfy me with that tiny limp little thing.  So, it will be twenty orgasms of mine are worth one of yours.  Deal?"

If you had seen her on that late September day, still in the warmth of the late Indian summer, her in her tiny, pleated little skirt, they way her hot, sexy body had almost glistened- her long tan legs and bikini top, you would not have questioned the arrangement either. It was the last time I'd been allowed to release. 

"Deal" I had said after that last, delicious moment of pleasure, enjoying the feel and taste of her hot, delicious tan body one last time.

It has been a lot more than twenty for her though.  Trust me. I know, it wasn't fair, but she who has the key makes the rules.  If I still had hope of her removing that wretched cage next week, I dare not question it.  

Why did I do it?  Out of love for her. Out of devotion. Because she is beautiful and amazing, and when we are together she makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the universe.  And maybe, just maybe, out of a bit of masochistic, perverse inexplicable pleasure of my own.

One day, soon, I would be allowed to cum again. One more week. I could do one more week.

In the other room, the sounds of her and her lover grew to a climax and I heard her shriek, as orgasm after orgasm ripped through her.  He gasped loudly, and shouted as he exploded into her.  I could live vicariously, through her lover, I thought.  I remember what that's like I can make her scream like that, I KNOW I can, if only....

Who am I kidding.  I had seen him close up.  He had a good, at least three inches on me, plus he was thicker.  I could never satisfy her like that, and we both new it. 

But right now, I almost could. I could imagine myself in his place. Oh know... it's too much; got to focus.  Just the thought was making me drip pre-cum.  If I dared let go right now... Can't do it!!  Must concentrate, must not cum... I clenched my stomach.  Thought about that steel spiked cage.  That got me shriveled back down in a hurry, thankfully.

The sounds from the bedroom died down.  I heard footsteps, heels clicking, approaching me where I lay prone and helpless in the bathroom.  I WAS the bathroom.

She lifted the lid, and sat down on the seat.  Her ass only an inch from my face, dripping from his load.  I could see her tight body, the tight curve of her naked buttocks, still wearing that pleated skirt, but with nothing on underneath. I could smell her, relishing the smell of her violated and bespunked body.  I remembered this, too.  My cock sprang to attention once again, despite my best concentration.

"Slave." She ordered, simply.

I dared no more than grunt in reply.  

"Clean me. Now." 

One more week, I tell myself.  One more week....

_________________________________________

I am going to regret posting this, I just know it.  But it is cathartic at least.  Until next Saturday, at least...

So I've stated before that while the modern, millennial-generation hard rock/metal scene is flourishing, a lot of the bands just sound rather same-y to me. One post-2000 band that always stood out to me, however, is VolBeat.  These guys's sound is more rooted in traditional 80's heavy metal, but they aren't afraid to occasionally mix in some (REALLY old school) rockabilly/country into the mix.  So I've always liked them.

One night, I had a dream.  I was at my parents house, and there were a ton of people over; neighbors, people from church, friends of the family who were my parents' age.  They were hanging out on the back deck, in the yard and in the house, mingling. But for some reason, it was like I was an angry, sullen, angsty teenager again.  I couldn't figure out why I was in this mood, or what was wrong, but all I knew was I did not want to deal with ANY of these people, no matter how rude that sounded.  I tried my best to make pleasantries, and did so, but all I could think was, "I don't want to talk to you.  I don't want to DEAL with you right now.  I just want...to...be left...ALONE!"  And all I could think of, is wanting to go up to my room and blast tunes, in private. One song in particular stuck in my head:  Volbeat's "Fallen."  I just wanted nothing more than to crank that song.

Roughly nine months later, I am at the reception hall at church.  There were a ton of people here:  Neighbors, people from the church, friends of the family.  They were congregating in small groups, drinking refreshments, and chatting.  Earlier, I had to stand up in front of all these people, and give a tribute to my father, who had passed away just a couple weeks earlier.  And while I was standing there, speaking in front of the congretation, I had a thousand mile stare, looking out and over the crowd, thinking to myself "I am made of ice. I feel nothing.  No emotions. I have ice in my veins... I am made of Ice..."  I had to.  It was my mechanism, the only way I could get through it while remaining stoic, and without losing composure.  But now, the service was over. Family, friends, relatives gathered, and I still had a job to do.  I had to represent. To keep it together for a little while longer. Keep frozen, made of ice.  Exchange pleasantries, share memories, shake hands, exchange hugs.  These people meant well, and I have no problem with that.  They were wonderful!  It was heartening to see so many people turn out who truly loved my father.  But all the while I am thinking, "I don't want to talk to you.  I don't want to DEAL with you.  I.... just.... want to be left...ALONE!"  

As soon as we got back to Mom's, the first thing I did was go upstairs, lock the door, and crank this song.  The dream from nine months previously, a foreshadowing, all made sense now.  Singer Michael Poulson wrote this song as a tribute to his own father after he passed away, and his lyrics affect me so much more deeply now.  To this day, I still have trouble listening to this song. It just affects me too deeply, too close to home.

Dad and I had some communication issues growing up; I might have talked about this before.  I sometimes have regrets, wishing I had been a better son, not been such an underachiever, or a black sheep, when I was young.  I am, however, grateful that I did eventually grow up and get my life together, and that Dad was at least able to see that, to finally tell me he was proud of me.

Anyway, Just wanted to talk about this.  I have liked pretty much everything Volbeat has released, too.  They are mainstream enough to appeal to the millennials and the sleep token/theory/etc. fans but metal enough to appeal to the old-school 80's metal (former) kids like me.

This is sort of a music-corner thing and sort of not. I remember reading interviews with a lot of experimental music artists regarding the nature of their work.  I'm talking the radical extremes of underground music- sonic compositions that transcend the definition of music and qualify more as experimental soundscapes.   Stuff like Merzbow, Boyd Rice and NON, Romain Perrot and Vomir, Stallagh, the Swans, or some of the more radical extremes of experimental black metal and death metal (for example, Emit, Utarm, Mutiilation, Drekavac, Zarach Baal Tharagh- way beyond the "Bigger" black/death metal bands like Obituary and Emperor here.) Most of this stuff is way beyond listenable to most people- in many cases it is literal abrasive noise.  I find such recordings interesting, even though it is, admittedly, hard to listen to most of it.  One thing I hear over and over again from many of these creators is that their recordings are not intended to be "Art," because, as they explain, art is supposed to be constructive, whereas their works are destructive.  They are like scream therapy, like a release of inner dark emotions, emotionally venting their fears, frustrations, and dark feelings through scream therapy, through violent, abrasive anti-music.

I've written and published erotic fiction for another site, and sometimes, created blog posts on this site, where looking back, I may have been guilty of this.  These erotic fiction tales, and some of these blog posts, are like a form of catharsis, of living out my darkest and most masochistic BDSM fantasies vicariously through writing, and through the characters in the fiction I create.  Like the literary equivalent of the anti-musical sound recordings of Merzbow and the Swans.  The problem is, for other people to read this stuff, it can come across as cringy at best, or other times just unreadable.  Because each person's kinks, their darker fantasies, are deeply personal, and won't resonate with most people.  So I cannot expect people to appreciate some of these posts, which I do (in hindsight) kind of regret; they are, unsurprisingly, often not that well received.  But for those who put up with reading them, then, I will thank you for listening.  

So I'll end this with a "Music Corner." And no, I'm not going to post a Merzbow or an Emit track here.  I won't do that to you guys.  That would be sadistic, and I'm too much of a submissive, masochist for that.

Instead I'll give you this:

This is the precursor band that would eventually evolve into Iron Maiden.  Steve Harris and Dave Murray play on this, but the rest of the band is unrecognizable: There's some guy named Dennis Wilcock on vocals, a drummer named Ron Matthews, and some random hack on additional guitar. The thing is, they clearly aren't very good. At this point, this is still a hobby band playing dive bars and tiny hole in the wall clubs, and they are several years away from being the heavy metal gods they would become by the mid-1980s.  Still you got to start somewhere, and even though the quality isn't that happening, this might be a fun listen for all you Iron Maiden fans out there.