So, I ran across this question in the forums;
"When did you come to the realization of your submission or Dominance?"
This is an interesting (as well as complicated) question for me. And I started typing.
And kept typing.
And kept typing.
Nothing really unusual about that as any that know me also know that I'm a long-winded old gasbag who doesn't know a damn thing about "concise" beyond the dictionary definition.
But, reading over this one gave even me pause once done. And rather than fill up several screens worth of chatter the uninterested would have to scroll past, I decided to move it over to my blog instead and just post a link in the forum thread so that anyone not interested in spending several hours listening to Grumps reminisce meanderingly about the old days "when we had dirt and were glad of it" can just give it a pass.
*****
Pretty much right from when I was still in Pampers, there was little to absolutely no submit to me. I was very much a brat, and not the good kind that just does it for attention. No, I wanted to be in control of my own destiny, thank you very much. If I didn't see the purpose behind me doing such and so, I wasn't gonna. And even when I did (under threat of a heavy hand applied to my buttocks), I would do it my way.
Which didn't sit very well with a heavy-handed father and Head of Household who very much believed in the scripture about "sparing the rod and spoiling the child."
As fortune would have it, there were seven other children on the block that were close enough in age that our mothers would let us play together to give each, in turn, a break. I was the only male. And in that time and place, there were sociological factors that came into play that made "house" the favored game of the females of the species.
And in those pre-enlightened times, it just made sense to everybody involved that as the only male, I should be "Daddy" despite being the youngest of all.
I was three and the oldest was seven, so naturally, we didn't know anything about sex. At least I didn't. Yet. And it was never part of the "game." Although, coming home from "work" and being called on to administer punishments was.
(And, yes, I'm very well aware now that is A Bad Thing, "wait 'til your father gets home," but cut me some slack. I was three and being guided by a composite of my own experiences and my playmates.)
Then the King and Queen brought home a little fairytale princess as a sister for me. And Camelot was moved eight blocks to a new house large enough to hold the new addition.
And a neighborhood that our little family lowered the average age to somewhere around fifty. Even counting the teenaged brother and sister next door.
After years of "help" figuring stuff out, I was no closer to figuring out if their introducing me to sex (before suddenly moving away in the night after a visit from Mom) might have played a part in the eventual outcome or not before I just quit caring about ancient history and started worrying about "what next."
I am pretty sure, however, that the bullying I was subjected to once I began school did play a rather large part. As I say, I wanted to be the Master of my own destiny. And I was very, very tired of, no matter how I stood up to bullies, still ending up crammed into lockers or head down in trash cans, toilets, or whatever else was close to hand while no adults were around. And of being too small and sickly to do much else about it.
I didn't realize at the time that surviving their bullying was bringing a bully to life within me.
Years later, once I was out of the maladies that haunted my early years, and I was able to get outside and actually explore the kinesthetic intelligence I'd lagged behind in, an even stronger motivating factor than "chicks dig jocks" was that tiredness of being a target of convenience. Which I suppose might be somewhat forgivable.
However, I felt it was decidedly unfair that once I got fast and strong enough to make a fight of it, they tired of the game too quickly. I swear, you spin around and grab one guy's foot while he's doing a flying kick at your back, swing him all the way around, and then release him like an Olympic hammer throw, causing him to fly fifteen feet, headfirst into a swamp cooler hard enough to dent said swamp cooler, and suddenly no one wants to play anymore! So not fair!
I had years of rage bottled up and waiting to explode at the prick of a dropped pin. But, everybody got really careful not to drop pins my direction.
So, I started taking others under my protection. Which might have been somewhat laudable if I'd done so out of any regard for them. But wasn't since they were nothing more than an excuse. So, I can't really feel any credit for those years being the quietest as far as bullying and fighting only exceedingly rare since it was due to me being the bigger bully. Or at least faster, stronger, and meaner.
(And you really, really don't want to ask any questions about the one and only time a date rape allegation made it's way to my ears. You really, really don't.)
On the "gurls" front, however... that was a very confusing time. A lot of confusion. A whole lot of confusion as a lifetime (however short at that point) of experience said that some... a lot... of the things that held my quivering attention were way more violent than what I was supposed to be with someone I loved.
And even being uncompromising in my goals was a sign that I didn't love her as much as I ought to.
So, as it turned out there was one specific girl that I still consider my first ex-fiancee that we were really little more than an on-again/off-again platonic puppy thing. And more off than on. With her, I didn't compromise so much as I sublimated every aspect of my personality in favor of her whims, thinking that was what I was supposed to do. And in retrospect, it is absolutely no surprise that she spent those five years bouncing like a pinball between me and another guy that wasn't sublimating a damn thing.
She wasn't the only one during that stretch. Not by a long shot. There were a whole lot of others during our "off" times that I played around with. And with them, **I** didn't sublimate a damn thing. Or... well, okay, so I still sublimated "the worst." But, I was still very much the driving force in those... "relationships."
Thank God, for all our sakes, that little five-foot nothin' sixty-three-pound green-eyed strawberry blonde finally threw both me and the other guy aside in favor of a third we hadn't even known was a factor. And which she eventually married. Looking back, I did love her. And I am happy for her. But, I wasn't happy with her and wouldn't have ever been. Any more than she could have ever been happy with me.
Not long enough later, I fell under almost the same spell with the gal that I still consider my second ex-fiancee. With almost the same results. I was sublimating my entire personality to her whims. And she broke up with me eight times, only to come "allow me back" three days later.
And that same bottled rage from facing down bullies came boiling up.
No, I didn't beat the crap out of her. There are some things you just don't do. And for me, hitting a woman (or a child) in anger heads that list.
Although, there is a rather sizeable dent in a steel door of one of the dorms on Tech campus that I really would prefer not to explain.
Instead, I just refused to allow her back.
Or tried.
Until she showed up at my mother's house trying to play her games.
I won't go into details about what went on two miles out in the country on a deserted back road, or the next year, beyond to say that I did let her back in with the understanding that it was her last chance, and it was very much my way or the highway from that point on.
Again, I thank God that she retained enough of her soul to give me the ninth and final heave-ho. And that I was stubborn enough that I didn't allow her another chance when she tracked me down two years later. There was an element of anger and bitterness, of rage, that would never have allowed us to be happy with each other.
I'm a big believer in Consent. And for a long, long time I assuaged my conscience that she consented to everything done. But, how much did she really if her initial response was no and only changed to yes once I said, "so, we're done then?"
Not even weeks but just a matter of days after she walked away for the last time, I met a girl that I was absolutely smitten with.
And then was smitten by her lesbian partner when I met her.
Hey, they were both very smite worthy.
I know, I know. It almost seems like a collegiate rite of passage for a guy to meet a lesbian and hang around trying to convince her to stop batting south-paw. But, it honestly wasn't like that for me. For us. For me and that pair of lesbians. Or the eventual two other couples I fell under the influence of during that time.
I really, honestly admired and valued them as people and friends. (Well, except for misanthropic Holly who seemed determined to hate me on the principle that there was a dick between my legs.)
In a lot of ways I give credit (and blame) to those six lesbians for bringing me back from the brink of madness to a far, far simpler time when I was "Daddy" in an asexual game of "house."
And for bringing some love into my protective streak where before had just been an excuse.
Not that I didn't still enjoy the chance to let out some of that old bottled up rage, maybe even more than misanthropic Holly, when we ventured out and the inevitable Frat Rat decided that he was the proud possessor of penile pulchritude to change a lesbian's outlook forever... and couldn't accept, "no." Or even "fuck off, dimwit." Oh, no. I very, very much enjoyed the night we closed The Planet down, despite grumbles that Holly and I between us had cost the football team a bowl appearance with seven of their starting lineup being unavailable against our arch-rival.
***shrug*** No means no, motherfucker. Push her consent, and you gave me yours for whatever I decide to do to you and all your friends who decide "she wuz askin' fer it, dressed lack a slut."
But, as much as I enjoyed that night (and some others), even bonding with Holly over the outcomes, it wasn't the old rage that made me step to the square. It was love and regard and a desire to protect that outburned the unquenched desire to rain down pain and devastation. And, yeah, even Holly despite the fact that she tried to kick me in the nuts for thinking she needed "protection."
"Back-up, maybe."
There were... others during that time. Not many, since I was spending every scratch of my free time with a group of lesbians (that absolutely delighted in pretending they weren't in front of any they deemed unworthy of their honorary lesbian male friend), but a few. However, ironically, I couldn't seem to shift that gear between my platonic lesbian friends and those short-lived anything but platonic... whatever they were.
Sadly, we fell out of touch when I was carrying twenty-one hours in a final push to graduate and working three jobs to buff up my resume. And I showed up to "The Loveshack" one day when I had time to find one of their sisters living there and no clue how to find any of them.
Not that I ever expected us to be anything other than what we were. It just would be nice to know that my friends were happy, healthy, and above all safe, without me watching over their antics, kicking the shit out of any dumbass that couldn't leave well enough alone, and holding their hair while they puked from drinking too much... or that week when the nurse amongst them brought some cataclysmic virus home and all six were sick for a week.
As a part of my college major and minor, I'd studied sex the way most study math or literature. There weren't enough courses offered to qualify for a minor, but I took every one offered.
However, I hadn't had time for... ah... more practical experiences. At least more in-depth practical experience. As I mentioned, I was working three jobs (technically two paying jobs and one internship) while carrying almost double a full-time course load. And I was living in a small town thirty miles away with my mother and little sister (whom I barely saw) while I did it. What experiences I did have, all I had time for, were hardly one-night stands with very little in the way of relationship development.
Not that they were intended to be. That was just the way they fell out when the gal didn't have the patience to put up with me not having more time for her. And me unbending on my schedule.
And there was hardly time for me to fully explore things I'd picked up from classes that piqued my interest.
When I graduated, I found a job rather quickly that was based in another town. Classes were done, and I'd served out my two-week notices. And I had a free weekend before I could move into my new apartment six hours away.
I was bored, antsy, and eager to blow off some much-needed steam. Or sow some wild oats. Whatever. And had a burning curiosity about several things I'd learned about that I hadn't had time to try out.
I'm not proud of it. But, I tossed a "battle-bag" filled with everything I could think of I might need, and went out... and took the shotgun approach to find a woman. No, I didn't capture one at the point of a shotgun. What I mean is that I propositioned every one I saw that didn't revolt me until one said yes. Went back to her place.
And embarked on what was, for all practical purposes, a clinical experiment in which she (and her roommate by the third day) were little more than lab rats.
Again, consent is of prime importance to me. And they did consent. Maybe not individually to every single thing I did to first her and then them. But, they did consent. And I would have stopped at any time if they had withdrawn that consent.
However,... Over the years, I have wondered from time to time if they were possibly too frightened of me by that third day to make it clear they didn't consent to...
Well. Any road, as I say, I'm not terribly proud of it. But, when I cut them free of the bindings, pulled the cum soaked covers (mine and theirs) over their passed out, sexually wrung-out bodies, and locked their front door behind me as I left, I had a little better idea what I needed in the sack, what I wanted, what I could put up with, and what under no circumstances would I allow.
Went home and packed a borrowed horse trailer with my stuff, and headed off to my new career.
And went back to looking for the gal I would get the white-picket-fence, dog, and two-point-five children with.
After a couple of false starts ("You said you were divorced! Separated doesn't count!"), I settled on one that seemed at first blush to be the perfect one. A gal that had been pining for me for four years that I'd lost touch with.
In retrospect, what I thought was the love she felt for me was actually an obsession with the "good boy" I had been. And when we weren't fucking, we were fighting. And the only way we knew to stop fighting was to start fucking.
And it wasn't always clear just which was happening.
I wasn't happy. Neither was she. Though both of us would have raised our right hand with our left on a Bible and said we were. What we were was both loyal to a fault, and too damn dumb to know when it would have been smarter to quit.
But, hey. I was young, dumb, and full of cum. And as long as I could shove her to her knees and stop her arguing with my cock in her throat without her biting it off, I was determined this third engagement was gonna make it to the alter.
It didn't.
Remember how I said we were both loyal to a fault? Well, we were. Until I wasn't.
I've shared (and perhaps overshared) a few things I'm not proud of here. But, I am really, really not proud of what I did next. What I allowed to happen.
I was engaged to the girl that would become my third ex-fiancee. She lived several hours away, ironically attending the same college I'd matriculated from before heading off to follow the clarion call of "a salary." I was a clinically diagnosed sex-addict and co-dependent with a heavy leavening of depression. What this means is, after a hard day at work, coming home to a drink or five just didn't cut it for me. Nor did any other substance. The only thing that would work was some mad, passionate, monkey sex.
When another woman... the wife of another man and mother of two children by him... offered herself up to me, I didn't have the... willpower? Whatever it would have taken to say no.
Sex between us was gratifying, for both of us, in a way that it just wasn't with our chosen partners. Not least that her nymphomania momentarily sated and was sated by my satyrnalia.
However, both of us were stubborn to a fault. Both of us were resolved that we had already made our life choices and were going to stick to them. She was going to stay married to her husband "'til death do us part" no matter what he did. And I was going to go through with the wedding to the girl I'd bought a thousand dollar ring for.
But, we enjoyed the sex too much to give it up. Needed it too much to give it up.
For several months.
Until finally my conscience, that I'd stuck a ball-gag in, managed to chew through the restraints and make itself known.
Irony of ironies, we'd managed to "get away with it" for months... and her husband caught us the morning we'd agreed to break it off, fucked 'round the world for what was supposed to be the last time, and had dozed off during tearful good-bye cuddling.
Oh, how different my life might have been if I'd either kicked her out when we were done, or he'd just waited one more hour...
I said I am not proud of it, and I'm not. I said my conscience finally screamed loud enough to be heard over my sex-addict hard-on and it had.
Now, the guilt settled in. And had a field day fanning the flames of my depression.
I didn't know how to deal with what I'd done, poaching another man's wife in blatant disregard of promises I'd made to a girl that... okay, I wasn't happy with, but I'd still made a promise to.
My depression spiraled out of control. Even overwhelming my co-dependent sex-addiction. And I made a conscious choice to clear the decks in preparation for my demise by quitting my job, breaking off my engagement, and moving my junk back home to my mother's house... Which resulted in breaking up her second marriage to an abusive ass... but, that's not really relevant to the story at hand.
However, rather than taking the easy way out and eating a bullet from my own hand, I... took chances. Risks. Pushing farther and farther as I was just a little too good, a little better than I'd thought, and survived the last attempt.
What was I doing? Don't worry about it. All that is relevant to this story was that I was engaged in risk-taking behaviors that even the reddest redneck would switch from "Hey, y'all! Watch this!" to "Damn, son. You gotta death wish?"
Right up until that woman left her husband and children several months later and followed me.
I didn't love her.
Frankly, I resented the fuck out of her for spoiling my attempt to die with a clear ledger.
But some sense of responsibility force-grown in me by hanging out with those damn lesbians in the hothouse that was "The Loveshack" reared its head. And I put my plans on hold for a bit as I tried to get her able to stand on her own two feet.
But, only on hold as I had every intention of going ahead once she, too, would be okay without me.
Only... she never seemed to get there.
Oh, she was a damn fine woman. And any other woman should be proud to have her accomplishments. I was proud of her.
But, there was always... just something more needed. She was never quite safe enough. Never quite accomplished enough. Never... something enough for me to continue ahead with my plan.
Through two and a half decades until the day I held my beautiful butterfly's empty chrysalis and screamed my pain and rage at the ceiling of our bedroom and the heavens beyond.
Damn it! She did NOT have my permission. I was supposed to go first and leave her to pick up after me and continue her own amazing life!
And to add insult to injury, she had left me with a dog and three cats that now I had to stick around and tend in her stead before I could follow!
***sigh***
The thing is... I am a codependent sex-addict. That's not something that you heal, so much as it's something you develop coping skills to continue muddling on with.
And while I didn't know just how much longer I was going to be on this damn ride, I needed some sex to make it worth waking up in the damn morning since I had to anyway.
***shrug*** Wasn't a lot of point in looking for a fairy tale "happily ever after" since I'd had mine. But, a little "friends with benefits" (heavy on the benefits) seemed like a way to fill the time between dealing with the four-footed roommates' needs since I'd pretty well exhausted the possibilities of porn.
The thing is... if at any point in time, you'd asked me if I was into BDSM, I would have laughed at you. Of course, I wasn't one of those leather-wearing freaks who beat each other bloody for foreplay!
I just liked what I liked. And the ones I played with liked what they liked. And nobody bothered to label a damn thing, 'cause we weren't talking about anything. We didn't have the time to. We were too busy doing it.
Oh, sure. I tied up my wife and others sometimes. I choked a few as I fucked them. I used floggers, paddles, canes, crops, and an eight-foot-long braided leather bullwhip. I used nipple clamps, anal plugs, dildoes, and a wide assortment of other "toys" (or "tools" depending on who is asked). I used blades with a few and with one that needed it to the point of blooding.
And I was always, always, always the one steering. Craving to be master of my own destiny and, eventually, anyone else who fell into the sphere of my influence.
But, I wasn't one of those BDSM freaks.
And neither were the lovely, lovely ladies who shared themselves with me, least of all Love who earned her nickname by teaching me what love really was and how to. And I would fight anyone who said otherwise about them until only one of us was standing.
The thing is... no one outside of the BDSM crowd seemed to be alright with the things that I liked.
But, I wasn't one of those BDSM freaks. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.
Ok, so maybe I kind of liked some of the same sorts of things. Even needed some of the same sorts of things.
But, I was normal damn it. And so were my playmates over the years. Didn't everybody like those sorts of things?!
Apparently not.
It so happened that my wife was still alive when I stumbled into that understanding, although health issues had tabled the... ah... more exuberant explorations of the physical side of things for us as she was all but bedridden.
And she laughed her ass off about it when I mentioned to her that only the BDSM crowd on the site I was hanging around on seemed to have a clue how us normal people got our jollies.
And we fell to playful bickering which devolved into little more than "am not," "are too" before I finally decided to put her in her place once and for all. And went on a research binge designed to supplement my arguments.
Well, fuck.
Apparently, I was a Dominant. And worse, one of those Alpha assholes. With more than a sprinkling of Rigger and Sadist.
Well, fuck.
Fine. So, I was wr-... I was wro-... I was less right and I was one of those BDSM freaks after all.
A few months after her death, a gal managed to catch my attention. Only she turned out to be one of those DD/lg weirdos.
Oh, Hell no. I might have to admit to being some sort of Dominant as well as Rigger and Sadist, but I was NOT, most definitely not, some incestuous pedophile sicko!
She laughed her ass off over a long-distance telephone line. And to add insult to injury informed me that I was THE most Daddy Dom of any Daddy Dom she'd ever heard of.
And, once again, I went off spelunking on a research binge to prove to an uppity little smartass that she had no clue what she was talking about.
Only...
Well, fuck.
It is so damn hard to be Alpha Dom when you are consistently drawn to intelligent submissives that know more about labels and shit than you do.
***sigh*** Love even called me "Daddy." So, for that matter, did those six lovely lesbians from that platonic friendship years before.
My only defense is that I'd always been much too busy just doing what felt right to spend time labeling a damn thing. Whereas Love, Little One, and others had spent time not only fantasizing but reading up on it. First via "bodice rippers" and then, at the advent of the internet, chatrooms that I'd been much too busy for. And the only time a label becomes important is when you are communicating about it.
Which I hadn't, but had just gone with what felt good to me that she didn't not consent to and what felt good to her that I didn't not consent to. And the most communication was "more of that" or "ow! Fuck! Let's not do that again."
And there I was, tossed off into the deep end of the pool with Love's death and trying to find someone I could have a little "bow-chicka-bow-bow" fun with.
It didn't work with that "Little One" as nine months after telling me I was the most Daddy Domly of any she'd ever heard of, she screamed in hysterics at me that I was no sort of Dom at all.
I licked my wounds and moved on to another. And when that one didn't work, on to another. And then two and three at a time, trying to figure out what was missing, looking for one something would work with. Spiraling into a textbook Dom frenzy even as I touted in my writings that first and foremost a Dom should be in control of themselves until I'm ashamed to admit that I've quite lost track just how many "submissives" I was "training" around the world.
Until finally it struck me that I, who I now knew was either a Daddy Dom with Master tendencies or a Master with DD tendencies had reduced myself to less than a Service Top, a digital dildo for them to get off and then log off, returning to what was more important in their lives, and leaving me to find something else to fill the ever-growing hunger they left behind until it was threatening to consume me, leaving nothing but a pile of dust and ash.
It took waking up on the floor with my computer chair pulled over on top of me with no idea how I got there since the last I'd known I'd been dealing with not one, not two, but three little "submissives" screaming hysterically at me and several days in bed waiting for a stress swollen valve in my literal physical heart to relax again.
When I was once again able to sit up and log on, I wrapped things up with those I'd been involved with that hadn't wandered off on their own. Far better, I judged, to be alone for the rest of my days than continue trying to be what I knew I was in the off-line world, but just couldn't seem to make work on-line.
Except for one miserable little erstwhile playmate came crawling back while I was giving the last a delicate boot (but boot all the same). And this one just wouldn't take a fuckin' hint.
Fine. Okay. You want to be my submissive? Then get your pretty little ass over here. No more of this fucking around online. You will have your ass in my bed in the off-line world where I will fuck you until you scream your safeword. Or whatever you are... whatever WE are... you are not my submissive.
I didn't expect her to take me up on it!
Ulp.
See... the thing is, while I knew about this shit, in fact there was very little I hadn't done with my wife and/or others, and it was fun to talk through (now that I knew the fuckin' labels so I could) while we each stroked ourselves to mutual satisfaction, whether literally or figuratively... It had been a long, long time since I'd even had Ms. Grundy approved missionary position, more vanilla than Dairy Queen soft-serve ice cream, penis in vagina, actual sex.
My wife and I were both disabled. I was virtually housebound and she was virtually bedridden. She had exactly three spots on her that I could touch that weren't either numb or caused her pain; the crown of her head, her left cheek, and between her shoulder blades. And I'm not so sure that last didn't hurt so much as she needed that itch scratched.
I remember that we tried the last time two months before she died and it was an abysmal failure that we had to stop when it hurt her too much. Before that, I can't remember when the last time we were able to do that much successfully, but it had been close enough to a decade without any fetished kinkery.
I'd been very careful to constrain my talks with those various playmates to things I had done... but it had been a long, long time since I'd done them.
Ulp.
I was a bit disappointed in my performance as I was only able to train her for forty-seven unbroken hours that first time. (As opposed to a seventy-two-hour session with Love almost three decades ago.) But, time and infirmity had sapped me of some of my vigors.
Fortunately for me, she was perfectly contented with what I could still manage and has been back several times since for more.
However, while she is extremely well behaved in my physical presence where my hand is my collar and my leash is my arm, there is a certain... willfulness while she is there and I am here.
And no, dear. "LDR privileges!" are not a thing.
***sigh*** Only, I guess they are as I have yet to learn to project my Dominance across the miles via text, voice, and video.
But, that's alright. It really is. 'Cause she will come back. And when she does, there will be a reckoning. One that she will love every squealing moment.
What the fuck was the question again?
Oh, right.
"When did you come to the realization of your submission or Dominance?"
You tell me.
Was it when I was still crawling around in Pampers and willing to court a swat on the butt than do a damn thing I didn't want to do and didn't see the purpose of?
Or was it at the age of three when I fell in love with the role of Daddy, but didn't have the first clue that was a BDSM thing?
Or was it the age of fourteen, when I started stomping on those who tried to physically make me do anything?
Eighteen when I, in a fit of pique, rediscovered the "24/7 TPE" although I didn't have the first clue that was what we'd done?
Twenty when I rediscovered the joy of "Daddy" although I still hadn't a clue it was a BDSM thing?
Twenty-two when I "trained" that gal and her roommate I'm embarrassed I can't recall their names (if I ever knew them) or their faces? And then went on to a battle of wills that only in retrospect do I recognize as the Primal battle for supremacy it was?
The two and a half decades with Love that I explored Master/slave, Daddy/little, Top/bottom, 50s Head of Household, Sadist/smart-assed-masochist, and virtually every other aspect of BDSM without understanding that was what we were doing much less labeling anything?
The eighteen-month time period when I finally got around to labeling shit... and then failing again and again and again to make it work with one miserable little on-line subbie after another until I started to question not only my Dominance but the point of any of it?
Or the last fourteen months as Daddy Wolf for my sweet little spice of my twilight?
***shrug***
I don't know.
To a certain extent, I envy those that are so absolutely certain that "this" is what they are and evermore shall be.
And yet there is a part of me that can't help but think they don't know shit.
The secret of life, at least so far as I've been able to tell, is that once you stop growing, you start dying. And every single day is chock full of new experiences with new people... if you are brave enough to stick your head out of your shell and live it.
At a tad past the half-century mark, with classes and coursework piled atop life experience (both off-line and now on-line), about the only thing I know for certain is the same damn thing I knew skidding around on my diapered butt, that I will do what I damn well please. With the caveat that it can not broach anyone else's consent or safety.
But, despite more than a few rough spots, I've had a Hell of a good time kicking my tin can down the side of this gravel road, pausing from time to time to pick gravel out of road rash, and look forward to continuing along with it right up until they nail the coffin shut and shove me in the fire.
And who knows? Maybe this Old Wolf might pick up a new trick or three. After all, I just stumbled across something where they shot a cannon loaded with gummy bears at a girl's ass which does rather seem like a logical step from the flogger and Wartenberg wheel... right?
I can't believe such never occurred to me before!