The Stone Shelter

(Originally posted on another site in answer to the question about did body image play a role in the development of our kinks.  Pasted here as it seems to fit the "shape of you" challenge.)

For me as someone is Male and became a Dominant, I think maybe body image did play a part.

Not all of it, no, as I never did have a whole lot of submit to my personality even when I was still in diapers. Oh, I might do what the adults said... but, I would do it my way. And don't even get me started on the number of times that my alligator mouth overloaded my canary ass with my peers.

During my early developmental years, I was a short and scrawny little thing due to some health issues. I can actually remember my pediatrician giving Mom some guff about how underfed I was. The thing was, she was feeding me all I would eat. I just couldn't (or wouldn't) eat much.

I don't know how it might have been where you matriculated from, but at only five and a half feet tall, I was the shortest guy in the class. Shorter than most of the females.

Also, in that time and place, height mattered a whole damn lot! No gal wanted to go to the dance with the guy who would be laying his head on her tits when the slow numbers came up.

I also was THE natural prey of the cornfed schoolyard bullies, with an I.Q. equal to their bench press. And, unfortunately, not the common sense to refrain from sharpening my wits on their frail egos when they would begin their verbal sparring. Which would naturally escalate to the physical. Which I couldn't even come near competing in.

I couldn't do anything about my height. But, I could do something about being a "pencil-neck." At least I could once I grew out of the ailments that plagued my childhood. And took to an exercise regimen that was considered insane by all save Olympic hopefuls.

Which was, perhaps, ill advised. Since those layers of muscle on my short frame caused me to look like a fireplug.

Even more unfortunate, when puberty hit, hair began sprouting. The full mustache by age twelve was... ok, pretty cool. Having to shave twice per day (once before I left the house in the morning and once in the Principal's Office at lunch) when I was fourteen... not so much. And then there was the fact that I had more hair on my shoulders than... ***sigh***

This was right about the time those male models segued from open shirts with hairy chests to smooth and hairless. And it didn't help any to have a sister that would scream and run whenever I was unwise enough to come out of my room without a shirt on.

And then, there was the locker room, since I was in the process of transitioning from nerd to jock. At the time, I didn't have the first concept of "grower" versus "shower." And if some of those guys had grown proportionately...

That was exacerbated by being the time frame of Long Dong Silver in porn. 24" of swinging meat that could tie it in a knot for a photo stunt. And, of course, the stories (that I was really probably too young and impressionable to be exposed to) made it very clear that nine inches was the minimum acceptable standard. That anything shorter would never be able to satisfy a woman. Naturally, being the quintessential nerd I was, I sneaked into the hall closet, into Mom's sewing kit, late one night and got her cloth tape measure. And considered suicide seriously for the first time when I fell an inch and a half short of that mark because I knew that I was doomed to lose whatever ephemeral woman I eventually was able to lure into my bed.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, I turned my inquisitive mind to if there was anything I could do to offset my disadvantages. And in the meantime covered up as much of my thick pelt as I could (not to mention hiding my bulge [or lack thereof]). I took the knowledge that I gleaned and came up with an exercise regimen designed around making me a better lover. When, that is, I got around to actually doing anything about it. Since, after all, that would mean getting naked. Exposing my "gorilla body" and "small dick."

However!

However, I didn't delve too deeply into BDSM at that stage. I wasn't very comfortable with... ah... things that were percolating in my brain at that stage. And very firmly steered away from what, on the surface, seemed to me to be more violent than people who were supposed to love each other should be.

I had an eighteen inch neck, forty-two inch chest, a thirty inch waist, and twenty-eight inch thighs, stood five and a half feet tall, covered in thick hair that looked more like an animal pelt and hid the definition in my musculature (our family doc [and our team doc] chewed my ass more than once to put on some fat if I wanted to stay healthy), and the less said about what I was hiding behind my books, the better. (And, no. I didn't 'roid.)

When I did actually have sex (yes, I really was over eighteen), I considered myself lucky that I'd found someone willing to have me! Someone that didn't point and laugh the moment they saw me without my shirt, much less my pants.

It was an unmitigated disaster.

But, not for the reasons that one might think.

I had put in so much time and effort into learning about sex and then developing an exercise regimen to increase my endurance for the aspects, that when I unleashed... er... most of what I knew, and what I'd practiced for, I was way too much. Some shit went on that isn't really germane to the specific topic at hand. But, when she broke up with me for the final time, she told me it was because all I wanted was sex and she didn't feel she could keep up, that she felt inadequate.

I knew... didn't just think, but knew... that she was lying. That she was just trying to spare my feelings so that she wouldn't be the bad guy. I was oh-so-certain that it was really that my dick was too small, that I was too hairy, that I was too short. That my heavy musculature combined with my short stature and simian appearance made me grotesque.

I was done with college before I was brave enough to let another in that deep.

Oh, I did have sexual encounters. But, none of them saw me with my shirt off, much less my dick out.

The thing is... after that second fiancee dumped me, I moved my major from the engineering key to the "softer sciences" and studied sex.

Okay, technically, I was studying towards being a Marriage and Family Therapist specializing in Sex Therapy. But, still. I studied sex the way most college students study English or Math or Economics or whatever they majored (and minored) in.

However, I still wasn't ready to... be fully myself. I still shied away from the majority of what is covered under the BDSM umbrella. I look like an animal. I actually bore the nickname "animal" for awhile. I couldn't... let myself act like an animal. Couldn't let them be right about me.

Meanwhile, intellectually I learned that my dick wasn't actually small, but slightly more than average. That did not, however, get understood in my heart, in my gut, in my soul.

Intellectually, I learned that being hirsute is actually a mark of higher testosterone production which is tied to libido. However, learning something in the conscious brain has very little impact on the subconscious body image developed as the brunt of what passes for schoolyard wit.

And none of it mattered when right there in the pornography of the time, the well-endowed, hairless, cocksmiths towered over the women that were opening themselves to them.

***sigh*** And, yeah. I learned that there actually are people (both men and women) shorter than my five and a half feet in the world. But, that didn't really help any as the women (sorry, guys, but only women) who were actually shorter than me... I was afraid I going to fucking break them! Literally!

Seriously, the last time I was tested, I'd been able to apply enough psi with my grip that I could crack bones. And delivered seven hundred and twenty pounds of explosive thrust. (I don't know how much of that would have been lost just thrusting with my hips rather than from a three-point stance to my full body extension measured at my shoulders, but it still scared me.)

My third ex-fiancee didn't get all of me either. That took the woman I would eventually marry. And it took her rather a lot to convince me that it was alright. That she wasn't made of crystal. That she actually like it rough. No, rougher than that. No. Rougher still. Ok, that might be just a little too much. Perfect.

However, she never did convince me that she really did like my body hair, despite gentle pressure for me not to depilate it. It's not that I didn't... that I don't... believe her, really. It's just that... well, how often do women accept something that really isn't all that great because they love the person?

I didn't actually believe that my dick was big enough until a couple of decades later during a follow-up appointment for her full hysterectomy, a very attractive (and prim) doctor peered over her glasses right at me as she talked about uterine bruising they had found. I made a comment about "it must have been her ex-husband" and she just about fell off her chair laughing.

I know that the disparity in our heights bothered her as she could look down at the top of my head and was always telling me to "stand up straight!" Usually hissed under her breath when she couldn't avoid being seen standing at the same time as me. (Perhaps naturally causing me to bend my knees and slouch more so that the top of my head only reached her shoulder.)

But, hey! I could reach all sorts of interesting things all at the same time while we were in bed. So, there was that.

On the flip side of the coin, I'm forced to concede that I am a shallow son-of-a-bitch. I categorically require that my partner be sexually attractive to me.

The thing is, I could give a shit whether anyone else (themselves included) see it or not. There is not a specific weight limit, height requirement, breast size requirement, face shape, or anything else. But, when I look at her, I have to be turned on. And, more, I have to be proud to be seen out and about on the town with her. And anyone (herself included) would be decidedly unwise to disagree with my assessment of her attractiveness in my hearing.

But, it's my understanding that the question was about my own perceptions of my body and how they color my sexuality.

Up to this point, I was talking about my early years and how they colored my perceptions.

Enter aging.

For a long time, I was physically active. And in my thirties maintained nearly the same dimensions that I listed from earlier. Just a little... softer as I finally started putting on some of that fat doctors had been trying to get me to.

However, in addition to still having the hairy, short body (and "little" dick), I started losing my hair and my teeth. "Shocked and amazed" is a good descriptor for the sensations when an eighteen-year-old beauty queen (ok, technically runner up) expressed an interest in me. I don't know how true it might be, but I've always felt more than a little like I was a check-box she ticked off during her college experimentation.

Then my (often misspent) checkered past caught up with me in the form of Parkinson's that they believe was the result from too many closed head injuries. Some jackass threw the emergency brake as I was doing top speed along the highway and I went from seventy to flat zero in a hurry.

Couch potato? I was a couch worm for a time as they tried (and failed) to figure out what was wrong with me, and then (once they did grasp a clue) tried to figure out a drug regimen that would get me back to some semblance of life.

The thing is... I'd always had a problem putting fat on. But, not because I didn't eat. No, I ate enough for three men. I just burned it off as fast as I could shovel the reactor mass in.

As a result, I positively ballooned. From a thirty inch waist as a snot nose to thirty-two inches for most of my adult life, I swelled to a forty-six inch waist. I shot from 120 pounds when I graduated high-school to 150 through my professional years up to 225.

And keep in mind, I am only five and a half feet tall.

It would have been easier to jump over me than walk around me.

"Men age more gracefully" my hairy ass. Maybe some do. My Dad definitely did, still looking good right up until he started going in and out of the hospital after he hit 80.

Then again, he was six-three, weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, had a head full of salt and pepper (and teeth!), no hair where a Homo sapiens shouldn't, and I have it on good authority hated having to sit on the toilet to pee when he got too unsteady because that damn water was cold!

I, on the other hand... forget second childhood. All I would have needed was a pacifier and a pampers and I would have looked like a (only slightly) larger version of myself as an infant.

My wife and I were both disabled and our life expectancies weren't great. I don't know what possessed her... probably that she was over a decade older... but, she wanted to have the conversation that goes "after I'm gone, I don't want you to be alone." I think I probably hurt her feelings a little bit when she wouldn't back off about it, so I pointed out that no one was going to want me. That I knew damn well I'd been playing above my league when I caught her. And that was when I had a modicum of desirability (all I'd ever possessed) in my youthfulness. No one was going to want me now short of paid, and I couldn't afford the prices they would command once they got a load of me.

Even before my wife died, I was on Lit. (As a matter of fact, I was on Lit when she died. But, I've told that story elsewhere.) And I continued to Lit after her death, but I wasn't all that serious about it.

Yes, I was a listless Litster.

Nay. A lackadaisical Litster.

I didn't believe that anyone could want me.

And then I met someone who gave me some small hope.

***sigh***

Actually, she was just an exceptionally kind woman who saw me as something on the order of "a project." It isn't her fault that I blew the little that she gave out of all proportion until, finally, she had to be blunt that she didn't think of me that way. Which shouldn't have been a surprise, I suppose. After all, she was just telling me what I'd known for the entirety of my life. But, her gentle handling, that I now see for the compassion and not wanting to hurt me that it was, confused me enough that...

Well, long story short, there was never a "little one" that I talked of in some of my posts. There was just a kind, considerate, compassionate woman that I built a fantasy around. I would apologize to her if I could. But, the closest I can come is these words here and the hope that she might someday drop by and see them.

I can also see that I didn't handle my disappointment well.

But, again, I've discussed that ad nauseum elsewhere.

What is germane to the discussion at hand... I loathe pictures of myself. My face alone is bad enough. (Yes, in fact, I have scared women and small children.) But, my simian torso, much less my dick? Ugh.

However...

However, I took pictures of myself specifically to send to her. She never so much as thanked me for any of them, much less gave me any compliment. Hard to blame her, really. I don't want to see that myself. Couldn't say just when the last time I looked in a mirror was. And I wouldn't have believed any compliment if she had given them.

What she did do was, in some ways, worse. She encouraged me to post them in the forums.

I was hurt. I had taken them for her. Had reached past my old scars and hurts to expose myself to her, just hoping and praying that I wasn't too distasteful and she would stop speaking to me altogether.

But, I did as she asked and posted a few of the pictures that were meant to be a gift of my soul to her.

I didn't really believe the positive comments that were made. Not in my heart and soul. But, I typed all the correct responses.

After she sat me down and explained that she just didn't think of me that way, that the few times she had indulged my fantasies, she'd been drunk, horny, and desperate or she never would have and regretted it, I... didn't exactly move on. But, I did open myself up to others who approached me.

***sigh***

And once they saw me, once they saw a picture, somehow we almost invariably explored Werewolf fantasies.

Or Gorilla fantasies.

Or Grandfather and baby girl.

I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter. That at least they wanted the Beast I am. Or saw something in my bestial appearance (and animalistic mannerisms) they could work with.

But, almost invariably, when I stepped outside of the narrow scope of the fantasy they concocted, they would object.

Again, a whole bunch of shit went on that I've not only gone over ad nauseum elsewhere, but isn't really germane to the discussion at hand.

What is germane is that at the end of "The Trail of Tears," I challenged a little sub to put her body where her mouth (and fingers) was and deliver her body into my literal, physical hands.

And she took me up on it.

And again, I've said most of it elsewhere. And it isn't really germane to this discussion.

What is germane... and something I haven't mentioned prior... is her verbal response once I broke our first kiss when I molested her mouth with mine (and between her thighs with my hand) before she could so much as get her seatbelt off.

"You're cute!"

Uhhhh.... no, I'm not. I'm a whole lot of things. But, cute ain't one. Neither is "sweet."

I was still rather bitter and challenged her on it.

"But, you are!" She insisted. "I was expecting Quasimodo. You aren't near as bad you described yourself. And that one picture you sent me didn't do you justice! I spent the whole drive here convincing myself that it didn't matter what you look like because I love you. And, yeah, I really, really need to get fucked. So, whatever I found, I could put up with. But,... damn. Just damn. You are cute! And fucking sexy as Hell!"

There is, I suppose, no accounting for taste.

I had purposefully gone out to meet her wearing nothing but a pair of cotton shorts, showing my fat, hairy body, figuring that it would be easier (on both of us) for her to leave from there, before she even got out of the car, than for us to be inside and completely naked and then have her change her mind.

No. I didn't believe that she was all that enamored of what she saw. But, she didn't lay rubber backing out. It was enough.

She did not, however, get to see my cock until she had been inside, with the door locked, for five minutes and I'd peeled every stitch of clothing off her, bent over the dishwasher, as I used my hands to drive her through two orgasms and then my mouth for a third.

Then and only then did I take that final step, guide her out of my kitchen and to my dining table, where I pulled off my shorts, allowing her to see all of me.

Allowing her?

Actually, I forced her to her knees in front of my chair as I sank into it, and held her there to take a long look at just what... how little... I had to offer.

One last time, I told that tale elsewhere. And I'm reasonably certain that any who read my post about Forced Orgasms probably decided that the reason my eyes are blue is because I was spewing it all rather than being full of it. I'm reasonably certain that no one that read it believed that I worked her over for over forty hours.

Not really their fault as I'm well aware that I'm far outside anything that might be considered "normal."

And... Well, in all fairness, I didn't fill in all the details.

The overwhelming majority of that time, I was not using my cock on her at all. Wasn't even hard, actually.

I used my hands.

I used my mouth.

I used a wide variety of toys and tools. Sometimes sitting in my chair and burning a smoke as I watched her, bound and blindfolded on my bed, writhing under the tools I'd applied to strategic places and tied into place before retiring to my observations.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I fucked her with my cock plenty enough during that forty-some-odd hours to satisfy even the most ardent Satyr (and I should know). Usually pulling out and letting myself go soft again, eschewing my cock for my hands, mouth, or toys. I only gifted her with my cum five times total that trip, while I reft from her every single one that she could manage, more than she thought she could, and then a few more for good measure.

Enough that I recognized that she was going to need more anal training to stretch her wide enough for me to even attempt to fit there.

Enough that she gagged and retched and I understood that she was going to need more oral training as well to be able to take me in her throat easily.

I took a picture for her that she is absolutely enamored with. I gave up trying to explain that it is a trick of the angle. That my cock isn't really wide enough to stretch from pupil to pupil in her eyes.

But, the truth is nothing measured against perception. She believes that my cock is as wide as she wants to try to take (and "can't believe I took that monster in my mouth, my kitty, and my tight little tushy [on another trip]!") I believe that only slightly larger than two D-Cell batteries is small.

She did, however, (despite claiming to be enamored of my hair) ask me to "trim back the underbrush."

Which I mentally kicked myself for not doing prior to her arrival, and promptly went her one better, peeling everything back down to the skin.

Which she objected to. Until I "teabagged" her, filling her mouth with my balls like a chipmunk storing nuts for the winter as I stroked my cock over her, and reached down her bound body to drive her through another series of orgasms using first my hands and then a Hitachi wand.

***shrug***

I'm sure by this point, those that haven't rolled their eyes and stopped reading are thinking I am just engaging in braggadocio. But, I believe I was answering the question with all the relevant aspects.

I loathe my body. I know... not just "think" or "believe," but know beyond a shadow of a doubt... that there is nothing aesthetically pleasing about it. I've known it for a long, long time. Even prior to becoming sexually active.

But, where did I get that perception? From mass media. From interactions with peers and then lovers (and rejection from those I wanted to be lovers). And, yes, from Porn with their oversized dicks, hairless hard bodies and handsome faces (Ron Jeremy notwithstanding), and towering height.

My inception into the world of kink and fetish was born from that feeling of inadequacy. I can do what I can now, what most believe hyperbole until they experience it first hand, because I was driven by those fears and perceived inadequacies to train for sex like an Olympic Decathalete.

Yes. I am a Dominant.

Yes. I am not confident of my appearance. Of my appeal. Of my ability to lure desired lovers.

However, yes. I am well aware that when little red riding whore enters my den, and the door is locked behind her, that she will most likely find that this Old Wolf's teeth are more than she can endure. That's what we have "safewords" for.