Dark bits.

Whoever invented chat really had a hard on against DOMs, in my opinion.  

Before I explain, it's important to remember that I'm in a two star hotel, half a vape pen into the wind, and trying to decide if the wall plaster contains patterns of tiny sheep and well groom french poodles. You don't remember me telling you that before? Then this article won't make any sense to you. Pay attention.  

This instant chat thing is just too much for Dom's of a of certain age. In the days when phones were just phones, you'd call each other maybe in the morning, and then probably at night.  Sometimes you would play, sometimes you would talk, sometimes you'd just stay quiet with each other until things got awkward.  Then you'd hand up the phone. Maybe go make yourself a cup of mac 'n cheese and watch some TV, go for a walk. 

Then bed. 

Beautiful. Both parties invested a reasonable amount of time in their relationship, and got to see who hooks up with Colin on the Below Deck finale.  Like I said, beautiful. 

But now the phone is not just a phone. Now the phone is smart. And it demands sacrifice. 

I get my first good morning at 3:00 am, because either I can't sleep and decide to risk a text or she can't.   So from 3:00 am to 3:45 am, we try to figure things out.  

At 6:00 am, after sleeping almost 4 hours, I have to text my partner good morning.  I know she's not awake, but if she finds out I was awake and didn't text good morning, then there's trouble.  Then I'm a terrible communicator and "insensitive to [her] most basic needs."

At 7:00 am to 8:00 am. some play and chit chat. At 8:00 am I have to walk the dog. Instead of enjoyng the sunshine or quiet of the neighborhood, the texting/sexting continues and we engage on a varitety of subjects between 9:00 am and 12:00 pm

At 12:00 pm. We take a short break for lunch, but it isn't really a break as the texts keep coming. They're just of a "lighter" variety.

Sometime around 2pm I zone out on our texting and start watching a tv show, forgetting I was texting.  20 minutes later I send a text and receive a snarky response. Sometimes I'll apologize.  Sometimes defend myself.  Sometimes explain what happened. 

All three of these responses incur more snarkiness and 5 minutes later, I am psycoanalyzed. Here is were I will generally escalate the argument instead of daddying my sub. From about 4PM to 9PM we text argue. Or I argue while my partner merely "tells the truth." 

Sometime between 9 and 10pm, we've found our dynamic balance again. We might sext or chat for another hour or more.  If we're lucky, one of us will basically pass out at this point.  (If it's me, that's at least an hour of angry text exchanges by the next morning). 

It's 11:30 p.m.  I've been up since 6 am on four hours sleep.  But I still can't sleep becuase, America and tik tok, and adult swim. So let's say its 1:00 am by the time I go to sleep.  By 3 am, I'm getting texts again or else it's 6 a.m.  

All this is to say, I am not a dom for this modern age. I will crawl back in my crypt now. And dream of a relatively text-free life.  

Finis

That's France for Finish. 

P.S. I have no intention of posting this shit. 

It's ninety degrees on an early August morning. There's a can of Coke in the back of the fridge.  You take it, because you're an adult and it's fucking ninety degrees and the sun's just barely pulled itself over the horizon. You've been awake for at least an hour, thinking about the Coke.  Driving yourself half mad with thirst. You're throat is all clicky clacky, making strange, tribal sounds all on its own. 

The can feels colder than ice in your hand. Frost embraces your grip.  

                                   You've waited so long. Take me

That can, Red and Black. Glistening with condensation. Part of you wants to take it upstairs - to take your pleasures in your bed. Another part of you, throbbing with urgency, screams that there is no time.  Every second in your hot little hands wamrs it's contents. Kills it. 

No! You two have waited too long. The time is now. Here. In front of your fridge. With the door open. The cool air your only foreplay. 

You pull the tab. 

OMG. That sound. That sound is all promise and invitation. That urgent hiss that sounds like a prom date whispering do it.

She's only 12 ounces, you fucking animal, but you don't care. Like a vampire, you mouth is on it, and your throat is flood with sweet icy carbonation. 

You don't exactly cum, that's what your thinking.  

One gulp.  Another.

Swallow you bitch.  You whore.

You deserve it all. The frosty taste and the humilation. 

Later, at the end. She'll be all warm backwash and you'll wonder what you ever saw in her.

But for now. 

Swallow, whore. 

Carefully.  

Very carefully. 

P.S.

I recently collared one of these creatures. (Edit: Sounds like the beginning of a Pokeman story).

I recently had the privilege of having a submissive and very good girl agree to wear my collar.  She is what we doms call a "kitchen sink" sub - A submissive, bratty, little, daddy's girl, polywhatchamallcallit, pet playing, Disney loving, needy, needy, needy, age playing, insomnatic masochist. Everything but the kitchen sink, ya follow?

Those of you who know me, know that I have very few flaws and can do pretty much anything.  I mean, I saw Carrot Top in concert - twice!

But this brat taming shit? Fuck. 

Remember that scene in Squid Games, where the players have to cross an abyss and avoid breakable glass panels? Brat taming is like doing that two to three times a day. 

Pps.

Anyway, I think the best way (for me) to tame a brat is:

1. Have a thearpist on call to help repair my dom ego when I fail. 

2. Get a second sub, someone I can take out my frustrations on when my brat is too much for me to handle.  Kinda like a service dog, but with less fur. 

3. Understand that no matter what my brat says (in texts, mind you, because even a gentle sadist like myself can only take so much), remember that what she's really saying is 'pay attention to me. I need you.'

4.  Remember that I need her as much as she needs me. 

5. Sometimes you just got to fuck it out. 

6. Carrot Top was a very bad comedian back in the wild west days of the 1980s. 

Most importantly, remember that she is my submissive, she's always going to be bratty, and she's always going to be mine. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. ;)

The world is a cage, my dear. It's bars are made of work, 

                                                                                           obligations, commutes, holidays

                                               norms.

They keep me contained. Restrained, my dear.

Frus.trated, stressed. Hungry.

     The world is cage, but night is a key.

Darkness, release, and invitation to hunt.

In dark, the bars disappear, my dear.

And the wolf is free

                             to hunt to taste to smell to nip  

to mark, to claim, to bite, my dear.

The wolf is free to take. To rake. To slake

our mutual hungers

my deer.

palms out.

night growl.

leather switch.

good girl howl.

Wolf mounts

throat bared

take what's mine

teeth tasta

cum marks

Prey claimed.

I know their's plenty to like about this world.  But when you get to be my age, your more interested in what's dying.  SoThings that are on their (oops) way out, are in.  S.o, I axe you to joion me in waving ghoodbye to the dinosaurs.  The things and mannerisms forgotten. Those that stayed behind while the world moved on:

Patience                        Double Spaces

Correspondence            Sleep. Rythym. 

Tap Water                       Stillness

Anticipation                    Remembering you don't know everything. 

               Being comfortable with not knowing everything.

Bumper stickers - the original meme.

Join me in applauding the world

winding down

heating up

Ignore me grammer

its just an itch that fades away.

I was born in the wrong age. 

These times are too permissive, too inclusive

for an old school sadist.

"Swipe left to whip tight

   pussy."

Broke your riding crop? No worries!

Amazon will have another in your cruel hands while her tears are still wet.

I want the house on the hill,

the one young barmaids whisper about at the tavern.

wondering what he really keeps in the cellar, curisioty hardening their nipples like an icy, wet wind.

I want to wear a cape and hunt at night, not read about an "87% primal degradee".

When everyday is Christmas, the eggnog tasts sticky and stale.

No one wants to work for their meals anymore.

I was born in the wrong age. 

November 18, 2012. 

It was a cold and rainy night. 

I had spent the last several years gorging myself on cliché. 

I fell asleep that night watching little people porn.

I woke up before sunrise, a caricature.

A monster. 

Now everything is terribly normal. 

I will try, 

fail,

to speak your tongue.

Cryptex lock which opens

not with words. not with light.

        but with words and light. 

Inside,  sunlight bruised by pending storms.

What small gifts shall I lay at your feet?

What dusky recompense may I offer in

exchange for your light

that breaks through my own heavy clouds?