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2011/02/25

Acquired Tastes, Chapter VII : Bondage

I belong to one of those active Yahoo group sites that collect videos and photos depicting various acts of gay male bondage and receive daily emails containing photos submitted by its members. Based on what I’ve seen? This is an Acquired Taste that I have yet to acquire. It seems overly exotic and a little too physically painful to be something that I could just hand myself over to, but then I also suspect it is a world one is brought into very slowly, in order to build up tolerance, pleasure and comfort with each encounter.

Savage Love, a really top notch weekly sex-advice column written by Dan Savage , preaches over and over again the need to err on the side of caution the first time anyone delves into the world of bondage or works with a new partner. Mistakes made in this world can be costly and even fatal. I can think of one instance where a dude in St. Paul was caught red-handed attempting to dispose of a giant Tupperware storage box containing the body in of a newly acquired bondage playmate down by the banks of the Mississippi. Things had gone horribly wrong during the session (their first), and without intent, the guy died. So – “Danger, danger, young Will Robinson!”

Perhaps that’s a bit alarmist, but taking it slow with this particular Acquired Taste is the smart thing to do. That said, bondage can be a lot of fun. I guess it depends upon the spirit it is entered into. It also depends upon your playmate; his experience level and just how serious he is about it. Bondage is the land where extremes are simply horizons to be breached, stretched and achieved. Pain, both physical and emotional, is a very personal, individualistic thing.

Bondage

Scope of Activity:
A wide variety of activities fall under the umbrella of bondage:

- Self Bondage
- Couple Bondage
- Group Bondage

These activities may include:

- Role Play: Rape/Abduction Fantasy, Humiliation, Master/Slave, Predicament (being given two choices)
- BDSM (Bondage Domination Submission and Masochism)
- Rope Play
- Restraint (hog-tied, spread eagle, etc.)
- Ball Binding

- Blindfolds
- Gags
- Clothes Pins (applied to nipples, scrotum, penis, buttocks, etc.)
- Sex Toys (Dildos, Vibrators, Electro Stim, etc.)
- Spanking/Flogging
- Tickling
- Edging (repeatedly bringing one to the brink of orgasm)
- Oral sex, Anal Sex, or Masturbation
- Dirty Talk

Self-bondage is complex, and may involve special techniques to apply bondage to ones self, and also to effect release (not the sexual kind, the escape kind) after a lapsed period of time. Self-bondage is also notably risky because nobody is there to help you when something goes wrong.

Safety precautions when playing with a partner or group include:

- Use of a "safeword", or some clear way for the one being bound to indicate genuine distress and a wish to discontinue, temporarily stop, or vary the activities of the play. If the subject has been gagged or can otherwise not verbally communicate, they may hum a simple tune, open and close one or both hands repeatedly, or release an object held in one hand (such as a rubber ball, or a scarf).
- Never leave a bound person alone
- Avoid positions or restraints which may induce postural asphyxia
- Avoid restraints which impair breathing (Gags or hoods which block the mouth can become asphyxia hazards if the subject vomits or the nose becomes otherwise blocked)
- Make sure that the subject changes positions at least once an hour (to avoid circulation problems)
- Make sure that the subject can be released quickly in an emergency
- Remain sober; alcohol and drugs should be avoided before or during play
- Periodically ‘check in’ with the one being bound to ensure that everything is alright
- Periodically check for skin discoloration which can indicate lack of oxygen

The Official Line:

Bondage is the use of restraints (leather, rope, scarves, chains, etc.) for the sexual pleasure of the party or parties involved. It may be used in its own right, as in the case of rope bondage or as part of sexual activity or BDSM activity.

Psychological Aspects:

The power relationships that bondage brings to the surface may have a direct correlation to our positions in society. One of the clichés of bondage is that of the empowered business executive who yearns to be dominated, humiliated and controlled by another. Exerting control over another is a definite aspect in any bondage scenario, as is the submission of the person being bound.

If humiliation is part of a bondage scenario and the belittling activity provides emotional and/or sexual arousal or heightened sensation, any number of factors can serve as a possible source: from childhood trauma to a specific instance when the two sensations (humiliation and sexual arousal) were experienced simultaneously. In the latter case, that instance then may serve as a basic script used during role play in order to repeat that experience.

My Experience:

I’ve only bound two guys. One was that guy that wanted me to piss inside him (http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2011/01/acquired-tastes-chapter-one-watersports.html). He had leather wrist and ankle restraints, and I shackled him spread eagle, lying face down, on his bed, and then fucked him. The other was this guy I met up with one morning in the woods. He was this cute, slim, little dark-haired dude in his early thirties with a nice ass. We’d arranged a time to meet via one of the websites that I frequent. The scenario: while wandering the woods, I was supposed to “discover” him completely naked which would so enrage me that I would feel compelled to string him up in a tree for the whole world to see. He was to provide the rope. Everything went off as planned. I did my best, remembering what I could of my knot tying days in the Boy Scouts, and managed to suspend him by his wrists from a tree. I bound his feet and put a gag in his mouth. Then spanked his silly ass, cut him down, and fuck him. The end (so to speak).

Blindfolds have held a recent fascination for me, but I’ve never worn one while bound; I want my hands free to remove it in the event I no longer feel safe. For the past two years I have been experimenting, with mixed success, by inviting groups of guys over for walk-in scenes. The blindfold really limits my reaction to whoever happens to show up, robbed of a visual; I end up relying totally on my other senses in order to derive pleasure from the experience. Some of my past posts on this blog have dealt with a few of these experiences (http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2010/02/what-you-see-depends-on-blindfold-youre.html). It’s a dangerous activity (which is part of its appeal), and I think I might well be over the thrill of it.

Being bound by others takes a lot of trust, something not necessarily a given when meeting perfect strangers for the first time. You end up taking their word for just how experienced they are binding others, but the quality and quantity of their equipment (and I’m not talking about their dicks) can serve as a good indicator of whether or not they have enough experience to be trusted.

One gentleman, I will call him Pan, had quite the elaborate set up in his basement. Pan had a wild mane of brown hair and a full beard covering his cheerful, cherub face. Everything I needed to know about him was right there in his eyes. Mischievous, creative, and imaginative, I liked him from the get go. After a brief interview, I felt pretty safe as he led me down his basement stairs. It was very crowded down there, as I recall, featuring a series of homemade restraining devices – some vertical, some horizontal. He had a bunch of sex toys, too, but I vetoed playing with those. I have a firm rule about using toys that have been used on others – and that would be a definite “no”. This was not a problem as there were a lot of other things to play with. He spent a good deal of time binding me to his various devices and playing little mind games. I’m always interested in the psychological implications of any given play, so he kept my mind working overtime. At one point he had me crawl, blindfolded, into a hole he had tunneled through the foundation of his house and under his backyard. It was a little “Silence of the Lambs” for me. I really had no idea just where I was, or what I was sitting in. Later, he bound me, lying face down on a table that had holes cut out for my face and my dick. He’d crawl underneath and either milk me or suckle on me. It was odd, but definitely an experience worth having.

Near the end of our session, Pan disappeared behind a curtain. When he emerged he was dressed in a really ingenious satyr costume (hence his code name, Pan). With his beard, hair, and hairy torso he was picture perfect. I liked the little horns that peeked out from this thick mane and his brown wooly legs looked quite mutton-like. His hooves were a little problematic (awkward), but well made, though I remember disliking the sound of them as he walked on the cement floor. All in all, it was very theatrical. We ended up; me naked as a jaybird, and he dressed in his satyr costume, lying together in a giant bean bag chair, where we frottaged our brains (and cum) out. That was our one and only session. Some things should (need to) only be experienced once. It was sweet, but contrary to what Jacqueline Susann wrote, sometimes once is enough.

Years later I met a man on-line whom I will call Master Dick. Two weeks before we were to meet up, he sent me a whole list of rules, requirements and potential outcomes for our session. It all felt very secretive, as if I was being inducted into a cult, but I played along because I was curious. I broke a cardinal rule of mine and met him without ever seeing a picture of his face. Arriving exactly at the appointed time (for there was the promise of punishment if I was even a moment late), I was pleasantly surprised when the door to his loft apartment swung open to reveal a strikingly handsome, silver-haired fox. He was actually younger than me, but his silver coif gave him a distinct air of maturity. Dressed in a pair of leather chaps, a jock strap and boots, he welcomed me and pointed to the spot where he wished me to disrobe. Admiring his physique, I stripped down to my jock strap and black leather boots before being escorted to a room featuring a bed with a welded, steel frame – a custom-made number; it was like a four poster without a canopy. The bed was quite high up from the ground and I was told to stand and face the foot of the bed. Having been briefed on the rules ahead of time, I decided to be a ‘good boy’ and cooperate as much as possible. Looking back, I know I probably cheated myself out of the drama and potential fun of being punished, but I didn’t know this dude from Adam. Who knew what he was capable of or how out of hand these ‘punishments’ could spiral? Not wishing to risk injury or bruising, I played polite and subservient all night.

Using leather wrist restraints and chains, he strung up my wrists to the bar that ran above the foot of the bed in quick fashion. Obviously he’d done this many times before. In the notes sent prior to our session, Master Dick promised that he would take it slow and ease me into his world. I think he really did let me off easy. He broke out a brand new butt plug and, after lubing it up sufficiently, shoved it up my waiting hole, telling me to hold it in for as long as I could. It was a little uncomfortable at first, but I adjusted to the pressure. After placing a ball gag in my mouth he proceeded to lightly spank me and work my nipples really hard. My nipples are a little sensitive and it was his intent to make them even more so. By the end of the evening they were horribly sore, but it was somewhat perversely enjoyable. Periodically he would take me down and order me to my knees. Once given permission, I would nuzzle and lick the pouch of his jock. I fell in love with his voice; a deep, rich baritone, which lulled me into compliance. Eventually the pouch of that jock was pushed aside and I got to deep throat his rather nice 8” cock. He complimented me numerous time on my oral skills, which only made me work all the harder.

Stringing me back up, he removed the butt plug and proceeded to fuck my hole with a great deal of vigor, before working my nipples again, which were not quite painful. He was good to his word; at the first sign of discomfort, he would back off and move onto another activity. A leather riding crop was produced and applied to my scrotum, alternating seductive caresses with slight, sharp taps. It got a rise out of me and he seemed pleased. Pleased enough to let my arms down. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he ordered me to suck his cock. I complied and as I continued to work my magic on his dick, he began to inch back toward the headboard, until we were both fully on the bed. He spoke to me the entire time, his voice mellow and authoritative, right up to the moment he volleyed a nice hot load in my eager, wanting mouth. Encouraging me as I jerked off and until I shot my load, he then allowed me to nuzzle into the nook of his arm.

I have done a shit job capturing the tension that electrified the air throughout my encounter with Master Dick, but it was there. I know, because once orgasms had been achieved and that tension released, I found myself, still sweating and panting for air, luxuriating in the warmth and safety of his arms. The come down was as intoxicating as the high itself. I suspect that downtime is really important to these types of sessions, serving as a kind of decompression chamber before returning to the real world.

And that was it. I never went back. I don’t know if I was supposed to ask to come back or if he just wasn’t interested, but, again, once was probably enough. My nipples hurt like hell for a week, but they are indeed now more sensitive (for which I thank you, Master Dick, wherever you are).

My Conclusion:

Having never experienced first hand anything even close to the extremes of hardcore bondage, I don’t have a lot to base an opinion on, save my reactions to some of the photos I have seen. I guess I prefer my bondage to be rather vanilla in nature; I cringe at some of the photos I’ve seen and constantly find myself asking “and how exactly is THAT fun?” Maybe this is a case of you had to be there, where caught up in the moment limits are breached and exceeded by great bounds (no pun intended). I’ve certainly done things with men while caught up in the moment that I probably would not have consented to do if that had been presented as the starting point. And therein lies what is at the heart of what constitutes whether something is cool or beyond the pale – consent. No matter my reaction, I have to assume that those featured in the photos of extreme bondage are there, in the circumstances depicted, because they consented to what is being done to them (the alternative being something out of a horror film, too horrible to contemplate). In other words - they enjoy it, which is their right.

It’s not for me, but then I’m discovering there are a lot of Acquired Tastes that aren’t my cup of tea, though I do admire the creativity and perseverance of those involved.

But no clothes pins… those fuckers really hurt.

Next week: White Trash and Rednecks



















2011/02/18

Acquired Tastes, Chapter VI : Big Bellies

Society and the media deliver the message over and over again in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that fat is bad. If we listen to our doctor’s advice we also know that being overweight has a negative impact on our overall health. Those influences probably account for the less than enthusiastic response most overweight people encounter in the world. Add to that the over-the-top body consciousness of the gay community as a whole – with our focus on going to the gym, fitness, and a narrow definition of what constitutes a beautiful body – and you have group of men with big bellies living on the far fringes of the gay sexual arena, ostracized by some and celebrated by others.

Today I’m not talking about Bears – a highly celebrated and prized segment of the gay community. A Bear may have a big hairy belly, but many do not. And while you can have a big hairy belly and identify as a Bear, if you are hairless (furless) and have a big belly then you cannot. For the purposes of this post we will just concentrate on those big bellies – hairy or not – and not whether they identify or qualify as Bears. Bears will most likely be a future topic featured here on Acquired Tastes. Today, it’s all about the bellies.

Scope of Activity:
The sexual objectification of a man with a big, round, protruding stomach, known as a belly. May include pot bellies and beer bellies. Does not include slight tummies, pooches, or paunches.

Involves: a male licking or rubbing with his hands or genitals another male’s big, round, protruding belly.

The Official Line:

Is there one? I couldn’t find it, but maybe I’m not looking in the right places. Yes, there are sites devoted to big bellied men, on how to create your own big belly, and how much the big bellied love their bellies, but there doesn’t seem to be anything definitive, like a term assigned or a Wikipedia page devoted to it. So, I’m thinking this Acquired Taste is way on the fringe things – with a small, but devoted following that remain silent. (Maybe they like it and plan on keeping it that way.)

Psychological Aspects:

I’ve watched numerous videos on Xtube of men bringing themselves to orgasm by rubbing their dicks on an exercise ball or soccer ball. Rubbing one’s dick on a big belly pretty much accomplishes the same thing; the difference being that exercise balls and soccer balls are inanimate objects with their own psychological associations (sports, fitness), while that belly is very much attached to a man with feelings, needs and desires. Therefore, I feel it’s important not to separate the belly of the man from the man. In a way, this pushes us close to Bear territory, but as mentioned before, not all big bellied men are Bears.

I’m not sure what would cause one to fixate on the belly. There’s a part of me that admires a very pregnant woman’s belly; I like its shape and what it represents. Perhaps I’ve transferred those feelings – an appreciation of the life force and globe-shaped things - to our very non-pregnant male counterparts, but I doubt it. More likely? I just want something hard and round to rub my dick on.

There are two kinds of big bellies; hard and squishy. One is not better than the other, but the one doing the beholding may definitely have a preference. For me? Squishy doesn’t cut it. I equate squishy flesh with fatty flesh, and fat does not turn me on. A hard belly, on the other hand can be a thing of wonder for yours truly. Granted, a lot of my attraction depends upon what the belly is attached to. A masculine demeanor is important to me when it comes to worshipping a big belly. A big bellied queen is not going to trip my trigger and will actually find me scurrying from the room.

My Experience:

When it comes to sex I have always possessed the ability to think outside the box. The accepted norms and practices, while not without their charms, simply aren’t enough to keep my personal fires raging. I view experimentation as an opportunity to explore the confines of my sexual psyche, opening me up to new possibilities, sometimes finding joy in something that others all too easily dismiss. So I’m careful not to knock it until I’ve tried it, which makes for some less than comfortable moments (clothes pins, fisting, spanking), but stretching my whore-rizons continues to remain a passion of mine.

As a teen, my experimentation was completely limited to self-play. Therefore, my penis came in contact with many different substances and surfaces. One of my favorite surfaces? Bean bag chairs. I’m sure I discovered this quite accidently and was always very careful to clean up afterwards. The amount of noise involved somewhat alarmed me, but I kind of got off on how sweaty I got bouncing away on them. Perhaps the enjoyment of that type of frottage transferred itself over to big bellies?

At some point, a big, hard, round belly became a thing of wonder for me. I enjoy caressing it from below as I’m sucking the dude’s dick and marvel at the belly’s firmness and shape. If it’s hairy that is also a huge plus. It’s like a giant beach ball or smooth melon. Even the way the belly button is stretched or protruding is of interest to me. Where did this fascination come from?

Not sure. My maternal grandfather had a huge, round, hard belly… but I never liked him much (hated him) and certainly didn’t think he was sexy in the least.

It could trace back to an issue of Time magazine that featured a picture of Ugandan dictator Idi Amin sitting, wearing a tiny thong. The image of that giant, black belly fascinated me and I certainly, on some level, sexualized that image, probably equating a big belly with supreme power. Idi Amin was a bad man. He had a huge belly in a country where there were lots of people starving to death. Something tells me my adolescent mind didn’t take that into account when jerking off to that picture.

My actual encounters with the big bellied have been few. As I search my mind trying to recall those encounters I am pretty sure that they were all situations where I was horny, there was no one else available, and I thought, “Well, I might as well make the best of it”. Still, they don’t count as mercy fucks, because I do remember getting off on their bellies.

There was that giant trucker I fucked in an outhouse at a wayside rest in the middle of Iowa. I mentioned him previously here: http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2011/01/acquired-tastes-chapter-iii-tea-rooms.html

His belly was furry and huge (his dink, not so much). There was barely room for the two of us in that two-seater, but somehow we both managed to get off. I liked his beard and his macho, biker attitude, and since it was a definite first for me, of course I was game. Sexually, I have found that once I start in on something, I am more than likely going to see it to its conclusion. Which helps explain why I hung in there when I met a dude I call Massage Guy.

Massage Guy hit me up on-line one horny Friday evening many years ago. He didn’t have a picture on-line or one he could send me, but this was during a time when I would meet people without pics. In those instances, if I was horny enough, their stats added up to something I might not want to miss out on, and they made for pleasant on-line chatting I was game. He met all three criteria and so we agreed to meet at his place. We both claimed to be really good with our hands and the dude had a massage table, so I was looking forward to a little mutual rubbing.

After driving forever all the way out to some bumfuck western suburb I stumbled on his residence. It was one of those condo units surrounded by a million other units that look exactly alike; a Stepford Wives wet dream if ever there was one. Still in awe at the lengths I’d just driven in order to get laid, nothing could have prepared me for what greeted me at the door. My athletic, muscular, 150 lb, forty-something with a crew cut, turned out to be a slump-shouldered, pasty-skinned, melty-looking man sporting a spiky, weird eagle’s nest on his noggin. It seemed the only muscles he had ever worked out were the ones lining his stomach. There, in the middle of his somewhat slight frame, sprang one of the roundest tum-tums I have ever laid eyes on. He invited me in, and since I’d driven a good distance I decided I might as well at least get a few kinks (no pun intended) worked out and a happy ending before heading back into the night.

Massage Guy took me down into his lower level where his massage table was set up. I remember feeling really cramped, but that could just be because his belly kept pushing at me as he was bent over working my back with his hands. It probably also had something to do with the length of the massage table being flush against a wall. Given these special limitations, the massage ended up being quite good. The combination of the feel and scent of the oil, the mundane new age music that played, the glow of the candles, and the warmth generated by his hands got to me, rendering me relaxed and… much to my surprise, hard as a rock. As I rolled onto my back I kept my eyes closed, not wanting the sight of my host to spoil my mood. His hands roamed over the length of my rigid digit and explored the depths of my ass crack without much commentary on his part, which is a good thing, as it would have negatively impacted my horny.

After a point, I realized this dude had no intention of just getting me off… he wanted more. I wasn’t into the dude physically, so I had to get off that table or remain in a compromising position not to my liking. As I sat up and prepared to swing my legs off the table, Massage Guy managed to wedge his way between them, causing my fuck stick to come into direct contact with his magic belly melon. This caught me totally off guard, first of all, because I felt trapped and secondly, because when my dick came in contact with his bulbous tummy it sent a jolt of sexual excitement running through my body. Further attempts to get off the table only caused my dick and balls to rub up against him even more and that sort of sealed the deal, for me; I knew exactly how I was going nut. Frottage can be a wonderful thing.

Grabbing his upper arms, I pulled him into me, held him there, and began up gyrate up and down on that hard, round surface. I felt like a 70’s female porn star, generating heat by writhing about while becoming vocally orgasmic. It wasn’t all an act, for after about ten minutes, I blessed his chest and belly with a generous rain of hot spunk. After luxuriating in the smell, sight and heat for a bit, a switch flipped to the off position in my head and… I was done. Moving swiftly, I began shoving my legs into my jeans in order to make a swift exit. He asked if I planned to make good on my promise of a mutual massage. Shooting him a tight grin, I begged off, explaining that he had done such a good job on me that I was just absolutely spent and had no strength left. Thanking him, I fled to the safety of my car as quickly as I could.

I felt a little bad about my hasty exit, but not much. If a dude lies about their physical stats I figure they get what they deserve – sometimes that means a door slammed in their face, sometimes a polite rejection, and sometimes a torso full of cum with no reciprocation.

Since then, I have been with several hot, big bellied dudes. Generally, they each have something else going for them besides just their belly; they’re masculine, charming, have a handsome face, a great smile, a twinkle in their eyes and a nice sized dick. They also tend to be over 6’ 2” – dudes taller than me? Rare. So it tends to be something I’m drawn to. The size equals power equation comes into play and the part of me that likes to be dominated gets an opportunity to ride the wave, or, in these cases, ride some big bellies.

But it’s a rare happening.

This year, I’ve run into a bevy of guys sporting big, round, hard bellies at the warehouse parties. I look, but don’t touch and if they try to touch me, I scurry away. Why? Well, and I know the lighting is not good, but even so, I don’t appreciate their faces. There’s nothing charming to be found there. They wear leather and jock straps, most sporting tantalizing fur – so the macho thing is definitely there, but it just doesn’t add up for me.
Maybe because it’s in front of other people. Maybe if they dragged me away to some dark, back corner, I’d let them do me. Maybe I’d get into it… but I doubt it. I think it’s because an environment like the warehouse lacks intimacy and that’s needed, for me, for this particular kink. Kissing and cuddling play an important role. Warmth is also an important ingredient and the warehouse tends to be rather chilly.

Or maybe I have just not been in the right mood yet.

On occasion one of these guys will come over to me as I’m lounging in a chair or busy going down on some other dude and I will pay a bit of lip service to their cock, but after a few minutes I spit it out, like a bit of beef not to my liking. They always wander away a bit bewildered, as do I. I’m not sure what that’s about. They fit a kind of gay archetype, but something is lacking. Who knows… maybe I’ll surprise myself. Also, I should point out that not all of the big bellied dudes at the warehouse are all hot to get with me. A good deal of them ignore me – I’m not their type. In those cases, I walk among them like a shadow as they get busy with something more to their liking. Perhaps, because they are a type, they only respond well to their own.

My Conclusion:

Big bellies are sexy, in a way. I admire those that just stick theirs out there for all to see. Their pride is definitely kind of sexy. As I mentioned previously, they have websites devoted to them, so they definitely have a following. There is something symmetrically appealing to them, but for me a belly alone isn’t enough. For me, there’s got to be more going on – a personality, a situation, a manner of speech… something. Otherwise why not just use an exercise ball, or a soccer ball or… a bean bag chair? I’ll tell you why not… because I’m not stuck in adolescence. My developed, maturing mind demands more than just a surface to get off on. I need warmth. I need a smile, some charm and atmosphere.

As for my own stomach, I hate it and do a minimum of 200 crunches a day to try and keep on top of it. It’s a constant battle, one I’m never sure I’m winning. So while I admire them on others I know having a big belly is not for me. As I mentioned previously, there are a number of websites devoted to how to get one – as in, diet tips on how to develop your own big belly. I find them a tad disturbing – just as the idea of getting sexual gratification from force feeding someone to certain weight strikes me as something that is fundamentally wrong. But, hey, that’s just my opinion – to each their own.

I guess it all comes down to fat and how you view it. Or, in this case, rub your dick on it.

Next week: Bondage

2011/02/11

Acquired Tastes, Chapter V : Underwear

Wikipedia is one of my usual go-to sources when gathering information about the various kinks I explore for the Acquired Tastes series. Yes, I realize that I run the risk of publishing something inauthentic, but I do like the “average-joe” approach of the information provided and the enthusiasts who contribute it. If inaccurate, at least the information provided represents a common held belief (wish). I also love that the site doesn’t limit subject material. So imagine my surprise to discover a distinct lack of gay coverage when I went looking for information on today’s topic. I know this is an established gay kink (and hetero, too, but I’m content to let the heteros write about their own kinks). There are tons of Yahoo and blogger.com gay picture groups dedicated to this topic, but not a single mention of anything remotely gay in the Wikipedia article pertaining to underwear fetishism. I also looked up tighty-whities and was again surprised that there was not a gay spin to the info provided. Is this just a hole in the internet information ozone? Maybe I’m not looking in the right places. Not a big deal, because I know, first hand, that underwear holds a particular appeal for members of the gay community. In fact, we’re kind of obsessed by it.

For proof, one need look no further than to the designer underwear movement that began in the mid-70’s and bloomed in the late 80’s. I mean, who pays $20-30 dollars for a pair of briefs? Not I. But those faggots with that kind of disposable income may do as they please. I must admit that those who pay those prices for designer wear get something for their money besides name-brand bragging rights. The stuff is generally really well designed (to be flattering) and well made (durability).

As for me, my personal price line is $10 a pair – which means, yes… I sport the cheap stuff. (Kind of fitting, huh?) When it comes to fetish-izing underwear, who says cheaper isn’t better? I like the idea of cheap drawers; makes them seem tawdry (like me), disposable (rip ‘em up), and anonymous (how I like my sex). Remember – sex is (supposed to be) fun! So, gird your loins and try not to get your aussieBums in a bunch, boys, as we take a hard look at what’s happening down under…

Underwear
Scope of Activity:
Involves the use of underwear to gain sexual stimulation via: wearing underwear, underwear being worn by a man in your presence, looking at images of underwear, or images of underwear as worn by a male model. May include masturbating in or on a pair of underwear, or smelling or licking a pair of underwear. May also include the habitual wearing of and masturbating on a single pair of underwear until they become encrusted and discolored.

For the sake of this post we will limit ourselves to male underwear only. We will not be covering jock straps or speedos, as each one of those, while somewhat related, are actually their own kink and may be explored as a part of a future Acquired Tastes. We will, however, be paying particular attention to the appeal of those scrotum inhibitors known as tighty-whities.

The Official Line:



Underwear fetishism is a sexual fetishism relating to undergarments, and may be directed towards people wearing them, wearing them yourself, or towards the garments themselves.

Psychological Aspects:

“In the space of thirty years, a radically new vision based on eroticizing the male genital area and men’s buttocks is transforming the ways men look at their bodies.” (The Metrosexual: Gender, Sexuality, and Sport by David Coad)

I think that about captures it. In my lifetime underwear went from something you had to wear, and retailers and designers had to provide, to being something sexually iconic. Pre-mid-70’s, they had to be cheap and durable, but once athletes and celebrities got involved and started a marketing revolution, they became the stuff of legend. Now, undies get their own runway shows during fashion week and underwear ads serve as gay porn for the masses.

My Experience:

My fascination with underwear began when I was on the cusp of puberty – if you consider the cusp of puberty to be about six months before one begins to masturbate. In a room I had in the basement of my family home I ‘collected’ things; as in things other people had discarded (also known as trash). I had a huge shelf featuring cracked porcelain figurines, travel souvenirs (ashtrays, spoons, plates, knick knacks) and odd pieces of crap, all displayed with the care of museum quality pieces. I also had stacks of magazines such as Photoplay, and T.V.Guide. There were certain T.V. Guides I went back to time and time again – particularly one that featured LeVar Burton in Roots and another that featured a set of Hanes underwear ads featuring professional athletes. For some reason I was particularly fond of a picture of Pete Rose and no, it wasn’t his face or his batting average that elicited the admiration of my teen self. Let me set you straight – Pete Rose? Not sexy. Pete Rose standing in a pair of tight striped briefs wearing a baseball helmet and holding a bat in the 70’s? Vintage gay porn. Big bulges captured my attention early on and, needless to say, have kept it since.

I vaguely remember seeing the popular Jockey ads that featured Jim Palmer around that same time. Jim was a bit too smooth for my tastes. Even at that age, I wanted something a little rougher, with a tinge of humiliation and physical abuse added to the mix. The mere though of Pete Rose pushing me to my knees and calling me a fag was enough to send my juices flying all over that basement floor.

Growing up, for me, it was all tighty whities or polyester bikini briefs. To this day I have an aversion to bikini briefs or anything that looks remotely like panties. I hated wearing bikini briefs. They were cringe-worthy visually, too. Keep in mind that it was the late 70’s and very, very few men were hot enough (trimmed or trim enough) to carry off that look. Some of the coaches I saw walking their stuff around the locker room wearing bikini briefs? Emotional scar inducing and certainly not sexy. There were exceptions (my sixth grade science teacher, my algebra teacher), but they were rare.

Tighty-whities, on the other hand, retained their allure for me. I don’t wear them – except on rare occasions (see below), but I do like photos of hot dudes wearing them. There is something particularly appetizing about a man on all fours wearing them as the fabric stretches across the crack of their ass creating a weird, lusty scrim play. In the end I don’t know if I want to spank them, eat them, fuck them or simply be them. Part of me wants to rim them right through that taut cotton. Of course, a dude has to have the body to pull them off in order to illicit that type of response.

I don’t. Although that did not stop me from wearing them one night to the warehouse. I was in a whore-ibly horny mood and happened to have a single pair of brand new tighty-whities hiding in the bottom of my underwear drawer (a gift). I wanted something sexy and fun to walk around in and it was either those or a pair of well worn long johns (which I also think are super sexy). To add fuel to the fire, and because I hate wearing tighty whities and wanted to ensure I would never wear this pair again – I cut a hole on the underside of the rear, right where my own hole happens to reside, eliminating the mystery of the shadow play, but getting my point across loud and clear.

It got the reaction I was looking for. I barely got down into the basement when this dude I played with a month before hit on me. He has a huge dick, which last time I sucked on for like forever, but it never made it into my rose bowl. This time I wanted to make sure he got the message, so I kneeled on the center of a nearby couch, bent over, and raised my ass so that he could see the crude modifications I’d made to my underwear. He took the hint. As did three other dudes in rapid succession. Three hours and several more episodes later, those poor undies were torn up so bad I had no choice but to leave them on the floor and walk away. It’s almost enough to make me wish I had another pair.

I like used underwear and frequently look for it at used-a-bit shops. Sometimes you can pick up a pair of long johns or some other kinky stuff on the cheap. The possibility that they may have been worn by a hot dude adds to their allure. The more likely possibility that they belonged to some old fart who recently died? Admittedly, not so hot, but sometimes part of what makes something sexy is based totally on wishful (deluded) thinking. Me? I’ll stick with my delusions when it comes to used underwear.

‘Finding’ underwear is also a habit of mine. My heart leaps every time I stumble upon a pair left along the side of a trail in the woods or on the shoreline of a river or lake. If they are clean and wearable, I’ll take them home, wash them up, and then, either donate them or keep them for some future adventure. I’ve also found some in the lost and found at the gym, but somehow, those always lack the appeal of those found outdoors. I guess I know that the ones left at the gym were just that; left behind, while with those I find outdoors have an element of the unknown and I am free to make up a delicious story of sexual abandon on the part of the previous owner. Anytime I find a pair of undies that are in less than pristine condition (dirty, torn, or – eek- soiled) I will take a look at them out of curiosity and leave them as is or hang them on a low hanging branch (like flying a flag – a freak flag).

Now, there are those out there who take the idea of used underwear to a whole ‘nother level; a level not for the faint of heart or those with sensitive stomachs or noses. I’m referring to those guys who have a particular pair of undies (or a jock strap, or a pair of jeans) that they like to repeatedly piss and cum in while wearing them without the benefit of washing – ever. The fact that they do it? Well, frankly, I don’t get, but it doesn’t bother me. The fact that they wear them in public and take and publish photos of them on the internet? That I find disturbing – but to each their own. I have yet to actually meet one of these kinkmiesters face to face. That’s probably because; based on what I know of those I’ve seen on the net, they all live in Germany. In any case, under these conditions, for me – undies are not hot. In fact, for me, any time undies involve something crusty or stained, tag me out. On the other hand a tiny little piss stain on the front, as in one produced by a day’s worth of wear? They still maintain their allure and (maybe) then some. And just for the record – because, let’s face it, we already almost went there so why not just put it out there – skid marks? Not sexy. Ever.

Also, for the record? I sport boxer-briefs most of the time. Boxers are a little too free-spirited for me; my wiener tends to work its way out of the opening which is almost always awkward. Also I associate them with a couple of things from a couple of eras; things that don’t make blood run to my dick: 1/ sock suspenders (the dress kind, not the athletic kind), as worn in Neil Simon-type comedies featuring people like Walter Matthau and 2/ Greasy-haired slacker boys from the 90’s who smoke too much pot and have yet to move out of their parent’s basement or beyond fart/potty humor. I realize that I may be missing out on something, but if I’m going to wear something so loose fitting under my pants, why wouldn’t I just go commando? Rest assured, I run a clean house down there, so no worries.

As for designer underwear? With those big brand names plastered on them? Eh. Pretentious. Although I do ‘own’ a pair of Tommy Hilfiger briefs (a size small!) which I must say look pretty hot on me. I found them tucked between a couple of couch cushions at the warehouse last time I was there. What can I say – leave a pair, take a pair.

My Conclusion:
The sexualized evolution of underwear is something that has happened in my lifetime – something I witnessed first hand. That I recall those Hanes ads from the 70’s demonstrates just what a powerful impact they had on my young gay psyche and, I’m guessing, our collective gay psyche. We’ve become a society that routinely elevates images of sculpted perfection sporting designer undies in iconic, bigger-than-life ads that rule periodically over Times Square. I’m thinking it’s just a matter of time before Calvin Klein has a giant brief-toting uber-hunk balloon gracing the skies of a future Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.

The allure of those cotton clad bulges is the promise they hold; the mystery and anticipation of their ever impending unveiling. The image of two perfectly formed globes tightly covered in brilliantly-clean, stretched fabric have us salivating and dropping $20 for a pair just like them so that we, too, can take part in that created illusion. But in the end (no pun intended), no matter how well-designed, colorful, or fancy the wrapping, what we are really yearning for is what lies beneath – and the fact that those naughty bits are so unattainable only makes us want them all the more.

Unearthing that basic plumbing remains our eternal quest – the effervescent luster that envelopes it really is just the icing on the cake.

So, go ahead, pretend it’s your birthday. Close your eyes, blow out that candle and make a wish!

Next week: Big Bellies

2011/02/05

Acquired Tastes, Chapter IV : Exhibitionism

Originally, I had planned to discuss exhibitionism and voyeurism in this week’s Acquired Tastes, but after further reflection, I realized that, while related, they are two very different beasts. So this week I will limit my exploration to exhibitionism in all its many forms.

I love the idea of exhibitionism. It’s a real turn on – in theory. Like last week’s topic, tea room sex, exhibitionism has its share of risk involved, however, while the risks involved in having sex in a mens room doesn’t stop me from engaging in that type of behavior, those involved in exhibitionism frequently stop me cold.

What’s the difference?

Well, in the case of tea room sex, I only go to rest rooms that are known for that type of activity. Restrooms are also rather insular in nature, cloistered – I can sit and hide in a stall if I want. The rooms themselves are also relatively small in size, so it is easy to scope out the situation and modify my behavior accordingly. Of course I still run the risk of being walked in on by a child or adult male who has come to use the facility for the purpose intended, but remaining aware of that possibility and by being a bit discreet about my activities I allow myself adequate ‘recovery’ time and the means to do so in order to escape detection or attention.

With exhibitionism that discretion is thrown to the wind. There are simply too many unknowns for me to personally be comfortable with it. I would never want to expose myself in a sexual manner to people who have no desire to experience that and just the thought that a child might wander upon the vision of me running around in the buff stops me cold. Given those distinct possibilities, I view exhibitionism as a form of psychosexual terrorism. Granted there are places where one can minimize the chances of being discovered, such as the prairie I frequent in the summer. However, even at the prairie, I err on the side of caution because you never know who is about – bicyclists, families on a hike, cops, etc. So even nude sunbathing is out of the question for me under most circumstances. Again, I would never want to inflict the sight of my naked physical self on the unwilling, even when such nudity is not sexually explicit.

Exhibitionism

Scope of Activity:

Involves the exposure of private parts in an environment where one (male or female) is likely to be seen by strangers. Intent may or may not be sexual in nature; however, this post will limit itself to only examining instances when the act is sexual in nature.

The Official Line:

Public exhibitionism has been recorded since classical times.
Exhibitionism as a disorder was first described in a scientific journal in 1877 by a French physician and psychiatrist Charles Lasègue (1809–1883).

In some situations exposing one’s privates in public is a crime of indecent exposure or public nuisance. Though the offense is not often prosecuted, it is taken especially seriously when the offender is male. In Minneapolis and St. Paul they take such offenses very seriously and frequently prosecute offenders to the fullest extent of the law.

Various types of male and female behavior classified as exhibitionism of a sexual nature include:

Anasyrma: the lifting of the skirt when not wearing underwear, to expose genitals
Apodysophilia: an undue eagerness to disrobe


Candaulism: when a person exposes their partner in a sexually explicit manner


Flashing: the momentary display of bare female breasts by a woman with an up-and-down lifting of the shirt and/or bra or exposure of a man's or woman's genitalia

Martymachlia: a paraphilia which involves sexual attraction to having others watch the execution of a sexual act

Mooning: the display of bare buttocks by pulling down of trousers and underwear. There tends to be a gendered double standard here: with males, the act is most often done for the sake of humor, disparagement, and/or mockery rather than for sexual excitement, whereas with females, the reverse tends to be true, with the sexual arousal (or at least sexual attention) of those being mooned being the desired result

Streaking: the act of running nude through a public place

Psychological Aspects:

Some people have a psychological compulsion to sexually expose themselves. The condition is sometimes called apodysophilia.

A research team asked a sample of 185 exhibitionists, “How would you have preferred a person to react if you were to expose your privates to him or her?”

The most common responses were:
“Would want to have sexual intercourse” (35.1%)
“No reaction necessary at all” (19.5%)
“To show their privates also” (15.1%)
“Admiration” (14.1%), and “Any reaction” (11.9%)
“Anger and disgust” (3.8%)
“Fear” (0.5%)

My Experience:

In light of the definition we’re working with, many of the examples I would consider exhibitionism don’t qualify. Those include episodes in bathhouses and tea rooms – because even though I felt exposed in those circumstances and garnered the attention of a group of men (purposefully), anyone in attendance had a reasonable expectation of seeing public sexual acts in those environments. So I will limit my examples to times when I willfully and with sexual intent, risked exposing my naked body to others who had no reasonable expectation to see such a thing.

There is a degree of humiliation when getting caught naked. I remember getting caught several times when I was a football manager. The team would be out at the field, while I remained inside. Thinking I had the locker room to myself, I would sometimes strip off my clothes and either take a shower in the coach’s private shower in his office, or walk from locker to locker trying on the player’s underwear and jock straps before using the group shower. Being naked, I found the environment very stimulating and felt extremely naughty. I recall getting caught twice – once while taking a shower and jerking off in the main group shower and once when I was fooling around in the whirlpool (I liked to aim the jet stream at my dick). I managed to recover from both without drawing too much attention to myself, although it was awkward. Both times it was an instance where a player came back from the field unexpectedly – one had a family event he needed to attend and the other was injured. Each time I was quite embarrassed, but managed to cover up my hard-on and escape detection… at least I assume I did.

Last year, when I spending time out at the prairie in the summer and there is no one else around, I would challenge myself to get naked and walk around. In an area frequented by hikers, fishermen, mountain bikers and the like, one is never truly alone, so I hedged my bet, waiting until close to 6:00 pm before disrobing, figuring there is a good chance that everyone is headed home to dinner. The details of one such instance, when I was joined by a fellow ‘nature enthusiast’ can be found here: http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2010/07/going-nude-having-balls-to-do-it-and.html

On a summer evening several years ago, I was cruising on-line, looking for something/someone interesting to do. A dude with no pic in his profile, but really decent stats hit on me. He was into exhibitionism. He wanted me to come over to his house, drive down the alley and park my car in his driveway, where I was to strip and then walk into his backyard through the back gate next to the garage. There, he promised, I would find him, running around naked, jerking off. I was intrigued and since it was such a lovely summer night, I thought it would be a gas.

I arrived at the appointed time. It was quite dark in the alley, save for the light above the garage door. After peeling off my clothes, I stole out of my car and made my way to the steps which led up to the back gate. The wooden gate opened onto a backyard surrounded by a solid, six foot fence. I could see the back of the house, which was uphill from the garage. There was a good 15’ of lawn in between the house and the garage. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I could make out a figure lying in a chaise lounge on the patio adjacent to the house. Enjoying the night air as it caressed my body; I leaned back against the garage and began playing with my dick. Even with the distance between us and the relative darkness I still got a sense that the figure in the chaise lounge was doing the same. Once I was hard, I made my way up to the patio. Soon I was standing a matter of feet from the man lying in the chair. Despite the heat of the night, he wore a ski mask; otherwise he was naked as he worked away at his dick. He was completely erect and looked to have a nice seven incher of average width. His body was taught and it was obvious he was a cyclist or a runner. Even in the dark of night I could tell he had a beautiful tan.

We’d agreed that there would be no physical contact between us; this was to be all about watching the other. We moved about the backyard parallel of each other, striking various poses for one another while showing off our various body parts. I kept waiting for him to shoot his load or to give some indication that I should. Instead, after about twenty minutes of play, he opened a side door to the garage and slipped inside, leaving the door wide open. I walked over to the doorway and peered in. He was standing in the middle of the second floor of garage. It looked like an unfinished attic and contained very little, save a rake and a lawn mower. Standing in the doorway, I watched as he continued to play with himself, unsure if I was meant to enter. He kept retreating into the space, drawing me in, and finally, after he actually disappeared through another open doorway, I walked inside. There was a window opposite the door and that is where I decided to go stand. As I did I imagined someone accidently looking up from their yard on the opposite side of the alley and catching a glimpse of me in profile, jerking my dick. My fellow exhibitionist returned and stood closer to me than he had previously. I turned and offered him a view of my ass, bending over and spreading my ass cheeks apart. He bent down and I could feel the warmth of his breath on my ass. Inhaling deeply through his nostrils, he took a whiff of my hole. Apparently that was all it took. He stood up and deposited his hot load all over my ass. Then without touching me, he crouched down again and took another whiff. I felt like a frosted cupcake. He remained crouching as I turned around and stood over him, working my dick and eventually baptizing him with a healthy load. Once I was spent, he rose, handed me a roll of paper towels and exited the garage. Game over. I wiped the cum from my backside before following him out and was about to exit via the gate when I heard a gruff voice coming from the direction of the house.

“Let’s do this again some time.”

I nodded in the darkness and then left. We never did get together again. C’est La vie.

Another summer night, I got picked up by a dude with a mustache and an honest-to-God mullet. He was the epitome of some California 70’s porn star, dressed in a pair of raveled, very short, cut-off jeans. Out of the legging of those cut-offs hung the tip of his dick and a pair of nice lowhangers. I hopped in wearing only a ball cap and a pair of work out shorts. We were going to strip down and drive around on the highway, jerking ourselves and each other off while showing off for the truckers. To this day, I like the idea of doing this, and admire those who are brave enough, but I’m always afraid of getting pulled over by the cops or having a trucker take offense, write down the car’s license plate and report it to the police. That night we drove around for about an hour before parking in the parking lot of a grocery story and spewing our loads.

As I mentioned previously, timing plays an important part for me when contemplating any type of nudity outdoors. I’ve found early morning, as in, on my way to work around 5:30 am, to be a safe bet. I once set up an assignation with a skinny, hairless bottom I fancied. We were to meet on the top of a hill in a park in Golden Valley. We both dared the other to make our way naked up the hill which meant parking on a residential street that ran along one side of the park and stealing in unnoticed, as the park was not even open to the public at that time in the morning. Once in the park, I realized that it was quite dark and while I knew the place like the back of my hand during daylight and dusk, wandering about in the pitch was another matter. Everything looked different. After some struggle, I found the bottom of the hill, dropped my shorts and climbed to the top. There, perched on all fours on a picnic table with his beautiful bubble butt in the air was my chosen target serving up his hole like a Martha Stewart Christmas dinner. I dove in face first, before slipping on a condom and doing the deed. It was short, sweet and to the point, but the dawn that greeted us made for a great, climatic, special effect.

For a time I had a bud who was partnered and we would meet super early in the morning for naked romps. He had this specific site along the shore of the Mississippi he liked to meet up at in the heart of North Minneapolis. I would arrive before he would and park my car quite a distance from the site. Changing into my work out gear I’d then head across the lawn of the park until I found an entrance to the trail that ran parallel to the river. Some mornings the dew hung so heavy in the air I felt like a swollen sponge by the time I reached my destination. All along the trail I would leave a bit of my clothing – my shorts, my t-shirt, a sock before arriving at my favorite log, where I would hang my jock strap from a low hanging branch to indicate I was good and ready. Then I would lube up my ass, bend over the log and wait for my bud to walk up behind me.

It was a little risky. The area was frequented by homeless people; their debris lay all over the ground including food tins, empty liquor bottles and abandoned, burnt-out campfires. A railroad bridge ran the expanse of the area. I always worried that a train would pass by and that the engineer would see me with my ass in the air.

My bud would eventually arrive, having picked up my trail of clothing along the way. He would deposit it on the ground with his own before walking up behind me, lying down on top of me and wrapping his arms around me; his fat dick nestling ever so sweetly between the cheeks of my ass. We’d have a great time fucking, sucking and kissing. He was about a foot shorter than me, with boyish looks and a nice, firm body. It felt great to be so exposed; very earthy and primal. Once we were done, despite the garbage strew about us, we always took great care to pick up whatever we brought in with us (used condoms, used wet wipes, etc.), taking it with us so as to not leave a trace.

My Conclusion:

I have a feeling as I am getting older, I am also getting braver. This summer could feature a lot more risk taking on my part, especially out at the prairie. When I see others bravely strutting their stuff, or lying out in the nude, I admire their courage and am a bit envious, wishing I could be so bold. Of course, it could be that at this point in my life nobody would want to see my naked body. I can definitely think of a few folks who hang out at the prairie who should reconsider baring all (http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2010/05/prairie-homo-companion-meet-irregulars.html), but to each their own. If I don’t want to see it, I can always avert my eyes (and do). Those that don’t want to look at me can do the same.

I wish we lived in a more permissible society, one more comfortable with nudity, but we don’t. And this is one area where forcing change is definitely not a good idea – doing so will only get you in deep trouble. So my advice is to always err on the side of caution when letting this particular freak flag fly. Be on your guard and be considerate.

Next week: Underwear