What gets me going?

Attention! This is a lot of information about me that a bunch of you probably don’t want to know. But tough, it’s not your blog, it’s mine. This is a warning.

Bollocks to it…

This is a blog about me, right? And you know what I’ve been thinking about a lot recently? Sex. More specifically, what gets me going.

Because, frankly, there’s a whole bunch of things, but nothing I can put my finger on. I’ll make this as simple to follow as possible, partly for your benefit so you don’t get lost, and partly for my benefit so I don’t get lost. I’m going to start off talking about Fantasies and on a side note, Girlfriends, then move onto Kink, then finish with Sexual preferences outside of Hetero.

Alright then, Fantasies. A little while ago (about a year ago actually), I started writing my first erotic story. Fiction for friction, as I so quaintly put it. There were a bunch of reasons why I did so, one being that I was trying to impress a girl I knew, show her that I was all interesting and shit. Another reason was that I was genuinely looking for a creative outlet. There’s a lot of stuff floating about in my head, I’ve always been quite creative, be it musically or otherwise. I thought, I’ve been reading the damn stuff for so many years and 70% of it is shite and I could do a better job myself. The strongest reason, despite the fact I never fully admitted it to myself, was that it was my recurring fantasy. It was what I wanted to happen in real life.
Due to a massive long, arduous and not overly interesting turn of events, I didn’t lose my virginity the way I’d planned out. It wasn’t the worst way to go about it, mind, it just wasn’t what I’d figured (Interesting PJP fact #01: I never realised it was a fantasy until after I finished writing the damned thing. (Interesting PJP fact #02: That’s a bit of a recurring theme with me. Simply because I know something and understand it and it’s a full, colourful, tangible object in my mind, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ve ever once realised I knew it. Which can surprise you when you actively think about something for the first time and you get a full, organic, taste-the-difference delicious meal of an idea instead of the scraps of ingredients that you expected to get.))
Now, one of the reasons I decided to start this blog is for further creativity to develop and release. This is because I can’t write erotica at the moment. I wish I could, I thoroughly enjoyed writing the last one, I had a good response from friends and internet folk for it and it was one of the most cathartic things I’ve done in a long time. But upon analysis, I can’t write friction fiction any more because I’ve got nothing to write about. I don’t have any fantasies. Not even a little one.
As I stated above, I often get full ideas coming to me spontaneously, but if that doesn’t necessarily happen, I think things through until it’s complete. I rework and edit things until they’re just right and fully coherent. It’s something I pride myself on in fact. But I can’t do that with sexual fantasies. Sure, there are ‘concepts’ that I look at and think ‘Yum’, or activities that people present and I think ‘Yep, that sounds like fun’. There’s even times when I’ll just think ‘I’d very much like to have my wicked way with her in a specific situation’. But that’s not a fantasy. None of them are, not for me. In my mind’s eye when I look at these things I see vague forms, blurred movement and dulled sensations. No clarity. No feeling.
When I was writing the erotica of my perfect first time, everything was so perfect and visible, it surprised even me occasionally. The taste of the wine at the dinner, the raging tussle of emotions in the pit of the stomach, the wallpaper in the bedroom, everything. That’s fantasy, that desire for an unambiguous and exact situation. When all you want, all you need to express it or feel it or be there.
But I don’t have that any more. That type of fantasy can only be fuelled by the strongest of emotions. Matured by time and flavoured by pain and want.

I realised a little while ago that I haven’t had a girlfriend for about two years. I was a little shocked by that as it’s not like I’ve been utterly unsuccessful with the fairer gender, nor am I some sort of warthog that girls are warned about before they meet me. I tried to rationalise it, make some sense of why for 28 months (but who’s counting?) I haven’t had someone I can tell my deepest and most intimate secrets. I, for 120 weeks (but who’s counting?), haven’t had someone I can just be comfortable and boring with. Because who needs to be the life and soul, the ultimate gent, the peak of all I can be, all the time? I, for 840 days (but who’s counting? Apparently me, the poor, lonely, OCD bastard that I am), haven’t found someone that I find so inherently interesting, beautiful and capturing that might like me too to settle down for a little while with. And through rationalising it, I realise I’m talking out of my arse.
A massive portion of my friends are ladies. I am really rather happy about this as I find women to be more interesting and more of a challenge generally. I’ve always liked a challenge. Moreover, there’s a special young lady, an ex-girlfriend of mine, who despite us not going out, is extraordinarily close to all of the things described above. I think I shall do a blog post about the dynamic between us with more depth than this in the future for it’s an interesting subject. But she’s my best friend, a ‘friend with benefits’ if you’ll tolerate my crude use of the phrase and one of the closest people to me in my life. But she’s not my girlfriend. This is for a number of reasons (as I said, it’ll be covered at a later date) but I’m not unhappy with this. That’s not to say it’s an adequate or fair replacement for a girlfriend, but for a guy who hasn’t had a girlfriend for two years, I think I’m doing pretty well.
Moreover, it’s not like I’m starved of sex. I’m not drowning in it either (you’ll notice sex here has taking the form of soup. A liquid you can eat. (Don’t start complaining that soup is inherently un-sexy, it was either that or custard. And I’m many things, but I’m not a splosher)). If I knew anything about cars, I’d give the example of some nice little motor that runs on the sniff of a dirty rag until the next refuel station. Tiding itself over on the scraps off the table. To put it back in the physical world of flesh and mind, a kiss can last me months, a loaded look across the room a matter of 6 weeks or so, a compliment about 10 days.
So all this complaining that I haven’t got or had a girlfriend is a bucket load of excrement. How can one complain about not having someone to lean on when you do have someone like that? How can you complain that you’re sexually starved when you’re simply not?
That being said, any women reading this with a strong sadistic streak, a love of Shakespeare, an understanding of romance, an eclectic and developed music sense and a pretty mouth, don’t hesitate to drop me a line…

Talking of Sadistic streaks, I believe we’ve stumbled upon the topic of Kink. Now, kink is a very sexy, interesting and intriguing subject at the best of times. At the worst of times though, it’s a cringe-worthy exhibition of stupidity, ignorance and ugliness. All of which I find supremely unattractive. They’re my ‘hard limits’ if you will. I haven’t got a great deal of experience in Kink, but that not through lack of desire. I’ve always been very happy to experiment and explore things, but practicing kink by yourself is just an expensive and time-consuming way to wank.
Now, let’s first clarify what I mean when we’re talking about Kink. Pretty much throw out all archetypal ideas you’re harbouring there. I can see you doing it already. “Oh shit, he’s talking about sadism and kink. Women with Croydon Facelifts*, Thigh-high PVC boots and a queen-bitch sneer; short, fat, bald, old and disgusting men opening their wallets being called every name under the sun and being forced to crawl everywhere.” No. Just, No. (Except the queen-bitch sneer. That’s kinda hot sometimes. Oh, and crawling. But very occasionally.) Stop thinking that. Simply because that’s what the media shows, I often have to honestly question my regard for the human race when I look at that sort of thing and think ‘Someone gets a kick out of that?!’. There’s no good feelings, no passion, no fun. Just negative after negative.

Now, if we’re going to discuss my sort of Kink, we’re talking dominance and submission. Because, y’know. It’s just hot. I’ve always found interest in role-reversal and opposites. Flipping something on it’s head? So the whole ‘dominant female, submissive male’ I find plenty alluring for a bunch of reasons. I’ve been brought up around a lot of strong females, I have a strong moral standing and that whole kind of ‘tamed beast’ is kinda hot. I’m not suggesting women are any better than men, nor this is all some sort of odd, psuedo-gorean fantasy where men are still better, but simply allowing it to happen. No, I’m talking about equality. Where one man turns to one woman and through a relationship of respect and (if you really want) love, submits willingly to anything that is given. Think of me as the mirror of Bitchy Jones.
I have a very strong masochist streak. And a high pain tolerance at that. As I explained to a young lady outside a pub in December “I enjoy two things a great deal. Biting, and the cold. This is my favourite type of weather: the biting cold.”
I don’t dislike myself. In fact, I think I’m an emotionally stable and healthy, confident, independent, courageous, polite and an all round good sort. But sometimes we all need a change don’t we? Some sort of escape? Sure we do. It just so happens that there’s a large part of me that’s searching for that release in the form of a beautiful woman who attaches clamps to intimate places, forces me to do things I wouldn’t otherwise and generally use me to have a jolly good time.
Why should I have to be aligned with pathetic, ugly and useless men that the media insists all Submissive men are?

That being said, I would technically be described as a Switch.
I don’t get the same sort of thrill from the prospect of dominance as I would with submission, but that’s not to say I don’t do it. But I dominate occasionally, firstly because it’s a great deal of fun. You can’t deny that forcing someone to get on their knees to pleasure you, no outside work, no distractions is a good thing. It’s just nice. In fact, it’s better than nice. It’s a delicious sense of pride and strength that massages the ego in all the right places. But at the same time, I only do that for women who genuinely want me to. It has to be more than consent, but indivertible desire on the matter. The woman has to really, really want me to dominate her. And only through that can I get any pleasure. You’ve heard of Topping from the Bottom, i.e. taking charge of the situation whilst being ‘dominated’? The way I do it is Bottoming from the Top. I get my submissive kicks by fulfilling her desires and needs for submission. The recurrent theme is my masochist streak.

I quite like my masochist streak, because it’s a strong part of who I am, the vein of masochistic ore running deep through everything I do. It’s not simply that I can draw pleasure from physical pain, but through all types of restriction, denial, mental anguish and torment. I don’t mind too much in the long run when I find this perfect woman of mine, the one who completes me, as the denial and the wait is difficult, painful but I know that the release in the end is so much better for it.

Now, back on schedule, after that little detour.
I’m not gay. I have absolutely nothing against being gay, I strongly promote it if it’s you’re thing. The same goes for bisexuality. If that’s what you want, then go right ahead and have shitloads of fun whilst you’re doing it. But after a seriously long time thinking (We’re talking a number of years here), I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not. It’s just not my bag. But complications arise when it comes to looking at pictures of guys. Like, hot guys. Guys with extraordinarily good bodies. It’s not that they grab my goat, so to speak, but by golly they are nice to look at. And it took me a really long time to figure that out. I can quite easily go out with a bunch of female friends and we could all point out who the hot guys are and who the ‘trying-too-hards’ are and everything else. I can do that just as well as any of them because I know what a good looking man (or at least, my highly subjective view of one) is.
But when it comes down to it, I am only aroused by the wonderful gender that is apparently behind all good men. And I’m happy with that. More than happy in fact. It did take me a while to figure out why though. It’s in the mind. I know quite a lot about males as I am one. I’ve had some good male role models so I know I’m not an absolute outcast with no foundations in understanding ‘my kind’. I get what makes them tick, why they do what they do, when they do it and all the rest of that shebang. It doesn’t mean that I do it too, quite the opposite. I have to remind my friends not to generalise when slagging off men when I’m around. But women. Women, women, women. They intrigue me. They occasionally confuse me (more and more of a rarity, but when it does happen, I stick to them like a curious little limpet to find out what’s going on). Everyone knows that the most sexual organ in a person’s body is the mind. It’s just the best thing ever. Imagination, sensation, trickery, deviance, will, perseverance and control all come from there. And without those, what’s the point? I have to fall for someone’s mind if I’m going to find them attractive.



What I’m attempting to say, in probably the most longwinded and round about method known to man (Interesting PJP fact #3: I am a juggler and as such, don’t do things the simple way. Ever.) is that I find women sexy because I want to know more about their minds. I want to understand and study them, as only then can I enjoy all they have to offer.
The chase is more fun than the catch.

And that’s what’s been on my mind in the last couple of days. Not necessarily a great deal of interesting and world changing topics, but things that I’ve never actually communicated to people before. So count yourself lucky, you cheeky little things. Who’d have thought someone with an ego this big, could get shy? So enjoy these few thousand words of me. Revel in them and delight in the luxuriously velvety jumble of ideas. This is how I think. No real tangible structure, no form, just one massive pile of soft fabric for you to attempt to flatten as you wish.
Any and all comments will be appreciated and probably returned.




*Croydon Facelift: A pony tail so tight the face becomes stretched and distended in a highly unattractive way. Think… that scene with ‘Edgar’ from Men In Black.