Penis Number One

Penis Number One, 6x8, 72dpi with Watermark

This is a color study I did a few years back.  It is mixed media on archival paper:  colored pencil, soft pastel, and oil pastel.  I am very proud of the sophisticated nature of the color system and ball sack texturing.  Somehow I managed to make the cock stalk glow with a copper patina finish!  But that is also a testament to the high-quality pigments in my materials.  The scrotal surfacing was achieved by a delicate sideways smearing of a white oil pastel stick, followed by various treatments with soft pastel powder and finger smearing with a light touch.  Finger work is also evident on the top of the quadriceps on the left.  The original size of the piece is 9″ x 12″, and the title is Penis Number One.  {>^<V}

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Ahoy Cap’n NEMO!

Squeeze and release.  Squeeze and release.  When you get right down to it, that’s all that the climax of sexual response consists of.  Whether it’s the relatively quick succession of contractions that pump semen out of your crotch, or the longer muscular contractions in other parts of your body, it’s really about getting in touch with your body on the primordial level.  It’s the basic experience of your physicality through your own skin, muscles, and breath.  That’s why fucking is so closely related to working out and big emotions such as joy and rage–these are the emotions that usually get you to want to do something physical.

Yet most guys don’t know anything about this or, if they do, it’s on the most superficial level, or it comes from a needlessly complicated and affected place such as Taoist philosophy.  Reading some sort of instruction manual about how to achieve non-ejaculatory male orgasms (NEMO) may be a good place to start for some.  But it’s always better to just be told the truth from the beginning.  If you’re alive, then your body is already prepared to experience great love, sex, and dry and regular orgasms.  It’s that simple.  If you have muscles that you can contract, then all you have to do is practice nudging them in the pleasure direction by cultivating your horniness.

I started learning NEMOs when I was twenty-two years old from a book written by a Taoist healer and a western writer.  It was okay.  I guess I did learn some things, but it was a bit fussy.  All I really needed was practice in “reading” my own body and letting it lead the way through a decades-long journey of self-discovery.  I think books and research can help get one started, so give them a try if you truly have no idea what this post is about.

I also started playing with my rectum at that early point in my life, such that now I am very aware of what is going on down there.  Many guys have only recently started learning about sex and their bodies, so I feel quite frustrated that I am so far ahead of most men in this regard.  Hopefully I’ll meet a wise gay sexual dynamo like me soon.  Are you one?  If so, please write me today.

Anyway, back to dry cumming.  What does the body consist of for the most part?  Muscles, bones, organs, and skin.  Therefore, eventually feeling a full-body NEMO might require getting in touch (no pun intended) with your skin organ, which is the largest organ of your body.  Touching, caressing, stimulating, and playing with yourself is great fun–all over yourself.  Let your hands and fingers go where they want.

The next thing I figured out, with my particular body, is that my lungs are the pathway to bringing my orgasmic contractions away from my pelvic floor and into my upper body.  What I do is calm myself down and relax for a while before taking in a deep breath.  I hold the breath for a few moments and feel the sex feeling down my middle and start contracting my pelvic floor, legs, stomach, pretty much everything, even my neck, face, arms, and my hands turn in to fists.  And I start breathing again, of course.  It’s like a cum that never fully finishes, so it can last indefinitely.  It’s a great way to feel your personal POWER.  After a little bit, I bring it down and totally relax and breath normally.  But I don’t feel spent like one does after a regular ejac, so I can start all over again in a few moments or minutes–whenever I want–because the horny feeling doesn’t go away.  It’s a great way to make lovemaking LAST.

The loser guys, who believe sex is something that is literally supposed to last a few seconds, are missing out in ways they can’t possibly imagine!  I met one once.  I know he was trying his best, but he came while trying to put it in my ass; he couldn’t even get it in, much less thrust in and out.  He actually LECTURED me that real life isn’t like the pornos where the guys fuck forever.  I was like, have you ever tried it big guy?  I don’t know what they do in the pornos, but in REAL LIFE, a man can fuck for hours if he really wants to.  It just takes time, maturity, self-awareness, healing, and patience, all of which most men do not possess.  Another irritating thing this guy did was dribble instead of squirt.  I guess in real life, men don’t shoot like in the pornos…  Jesus God, could this guy be any lazier?  He really had a lot going for him:  a huge gray grower of a dick, over six feet tall, full beard, very nice.  But if you never get healthy, functional, positive information about male sexuality, then I guess this is how you end up.

I also think dribbling is unhealthy, because it prevents the full evacuation of the contents of the prostate which, over time, could lead to prostate problems.  You wanna get that stuff outta there, preferably in spectacular fashion!  It’s not showing off, it’s showing yourself and other men what is possible.  That’s why cultivating a group of friends, who get to know and trust each other, for fuck parties is so critically important for the healing of men.  The more men experience each other sexually, the less they will fear their gay sexuality and their own bodies.  In other words, if you see a lot of other men’s bodies, you intuitively learn that your own body is okay too, and you stop comparing it to the bodies of models and porno guys.  Admittedly, their bodies can be amazing and inspiring, but if you look really closely, you can see that they’re not perfect either.  No one is.  Every man’s body has uniquely charming features that can be expounded upon.  What are yours?  Please let me know.

So naturally, I now have a taste for Captain NEMO and his fabulous full-body fucks.  It’s fun!  Todd is really into it.  So I am in the process of getting more comfortable doing it in front of another guy.  It does take some explaining though.  When I find a guy who is into it (and let’s be honest, why would he NOT be), I try subtly to get the point across that it might look like I’m in some sort of pain, or having a seizure or something, but really I’m having an orgasm.  It’s taking place in other parts of my body, that’s all.  That usually makes sense to most guys.  Todd did continue to ask me if I were okay, even after I explained it, but that is very understandable in light of my going bonkers with NEMOs.  I mean my facial expressions get kind of crazed after a while.  I kept reassuring him, and it worked out beautifully.  Like everything else in life, this is an imperfect process that takes time and patience.  Yet, as complex as this might sound, it pales in comparison to what it takes to have a healthy friendship/relationship that continues to be safe and rife with functional communication.  Todd is a good soul who tries.  I am a good soul who tries.  Therefore, we have the potential for a long lasting adventure; the work of a happy sexual friendship never ends, but it is fun work that makes you glad to be alive, male, and super gay.  {>^<V}

With all the focus on gay men’s bodily appearance, I think that the health factor gets lost in the shuffle.  I’m trying to get “hot” in the gym and kitchen because of all the diseases I’m trying to combat, for example.  If becoming super hot, ripped, and energized with self-esteem and love for the world and other people happens to coincide with that, well so be it.  Men are designed to be lean, muscly to some extent, active, and energized with legitimate confidence (i.e. not being a pompous ass).  If you haven’t found your version of this lifestyle yet, then that simply means you can start right now, today.  It is never too late to put your temple in order.

Chances are you’ve been distracted by a job or some kind of career.  But it’s still no excuse.  It has been incontrovertibly proven that a sedentary lifestyle kills subtly yet efficiently behind the scenes, slowly destroying your body’s abilities until one day you wake up overweight and miserable.  But it is never too late to intervene upon this destructive path.

I used to be fifty pounds overweight, and now I’m not, because I took the necessary time to find exercise modalities I truly enjoy.  There is something for everyone.  And I was wise enough to ask for help from professional trainers when I knew I needed it.  Fitness is complicated; it takes time, effort, and money just like anything else, especially good relationships.  Don’t give up on yourself and your birthright:  to be healthy, lean, strong, and happy.

Nobody said it would be easy.  Guys who look amazing work out a LOT.  They have chosen on some level to make it a permanent part of their lifestyle.  And it’s not going to be perfect.  Since I started a new medication a couple month ago, I have become a little lethargic.  But once I start the workout, my energy usually snaps back into place.  And, fortunately, I am making some new friends who are already in the same mode of life, so the possibility of getting a workout buddy is very motivating as well.  I also find motivation in my hot guy art.

Have a nice day.  {>^<V}

Whaaaaaaaah?

Apparently I’m doing better than I thought.  Making the transition from an insecure young person devastated by mental illness, who was brainwashed into taking on a woman’s persona, into a happy, hot, sexy muscle guy who truly feels like a real man on the inside too, is possible.  I almost gave up several times, but I’m glad I didn’t.  I must have had subconscious faith in myself and my dreams.  I always felt so bad that I took it for granted that guys would look down on me, especially hot guys.  And the possibility of them feeling jealous or intimidated?  Wow, that didn’t cross my mind until today.  I keep forgetting that American men are masters of hiding their true feelings.  I know I did it for decades.  Why do I keep getting fooled?

My erect dick started out at 5.75 inches long.  But through a lot of perseverance with my penile enlargement exercises, I have made it to 7.00 inches on the dot.  It sticks out far now.  Guys seem to notice.  And the more fat I lose down there, the bigger it appears.  I definitely would like to make it even bigger.  It takes a long time and you have to be careful not to overdo the exercises.  But it does work, obviously.  I can’t help it.  I gotta either have a huge cock and/or get my hands on one, one way or another.  A good friend of mine has a boyfriend with an eleven inch dick.  When he told me I started to cry, no joke.  Right there in the coffee bar.  The barista gave me a free drink.  He probably thought we were talking about someone who died.  I felt sad that the guy met my friend before me.  My rectum felt sad too.  Using dildos, I calculated that I can fit 9.5 inches of whatever into my boy pussy.  That would leave about an inch and a half of wiggle room…

I got to know the eleven inch guy.  And you know what?  He’s a bit precious.  He clearly enjoys spending time with me; when he does grace me with a get-together, he opens up and we talk and have lots of fun.  But he still hasn’t returned several important text messages I sent him days ago.  Once I texted him when my car broke down.  Everyone else I knew was busy or out of town, and I was trapped in the Whole Foods parking lot–a fate worse than death.  I was surrounded by pretentious douchewads as far as the eye could see but, in their defense, two of them did help me bump start my car.  Anyway, the guy totally blew me off.  Apparently he’s moody and goes home and plays his guitar by himself for hours on end, due to him being so deep I guess.  These are classic symptoms of low self-esteem, and I fear he is depressed.  Fortunately he has my good friend as a boyfriend.  Anyway, I wonder why he doesn’t have some sort of penis-related self-esteem.  But if self-esteem were physiologically connected to one’s penis, then we both should have superhero confidence, right?  I’ve had a rather hefty seven-incher for a couple years now, but I have developed self-confidence by many other means that I do not wish to gloss over in this post.  But I shall save them for another time.

Tonight, however, this is what happened.  I met a guy on Craig’s List and we seemed to hit it off.  He said he was interested and sent me his picture.  He was a bit plump, but I didn’t mind.  I liked his crotch.  And his face was so cute!  I just wanted to meet new guys and socialize anyway.  Rejecting him for his weight was the furthest thing from my mind.  But the whole time it turned out that he was super insecure about it.  Finally, we got into an email argument over nothing, and he wrote, “And we’re finished.”  I was like, wow, so dramatic.  I wrote him back to explain that if he couldn’t handle the simplest of conflicts, then how exactly did he function at work, for example?  And that I genuinely liked him and gave him a chance.  I assumed that I would not hear from him, and I wasted my valuable time and energy on yet another ridiculously immature flake.

Then something interesting happened.  He wrote back with a lengthy tirade about how guys always find something to reject him over, and all the pain he was in over being overweight and out of shape.  I could hardly believe my eyes:

  • I know I’m not fit and handsome like you, and obviously you have your shit together and I don’t, you’re witty and intelligent, and you have a big dick–many good attributes.  I liked you too, and I was flattered that you even talked to me.  Fat, ugly, out of shape, bald me.  But there always seems to be something where when guys see me they find something to nitpick just to get out of being with a fat ugly guy.  I’m sorry, maybe that’s just my wall that I’ve built, but that’s how I feel.  I’m always on guard and probably overreact.  Okay so this is a rant–I’m sorry.

I really didn’t mind the weight.  He didn’t appear to be morbidly obese or anything like that.  I bent over backwards in previous emails to assure him that I was not concerned about his appearance.  But obviously he did not hear me.  I decided to try a different approach with my response:

  • You may be surprised to learn that I used to be overweight and very out of shape.  But I decided to change and was a personal training client for four and a half years nonstop.  I’ve been relatively hot for enough years now that I forgot what you might be going through.  But I am still over twenty percent body fat.  Guess what!  I have really thinning hair and thick red psoriasis on my scalp.  I took it for granted that fatter guys would NOT feel intimidated by me, but I was wrong of course.  I understand what you say in your email.  All guys want to be hot.  I’m sorry guys were mean to you.  Like I said, the guys who were born hot are all but worthless.  They are really horrible.  I have stories of them.  They don’t even know how to speak like a man.  I’ve met some who literally seemed retarded.  It’s crazy.  If I meet a kind hot guy I will let you know, in the mean time it’s up to the rest of us to find a way to meet and be friends and fuck I guess.  🙂

Here’s the deal.  The difference between being born hot and becoming hot later in life cannot be overemphasized.  It’s like the difference between being a native speaker of French and learning it from scratch as an adult with flash cards.  And I’m not even extremely ripped or anything yet!  But apparently, this guy assumed I have my “shit together”?  Good God, if only he knew.  I’ve been trying so hard for so many years to make up for the depth of my insecurity and perceived lacks, that I forgot to notice how far I’d come.  Native French speakers are notorious cunts, just like the hot fags who treat everyone they meet like shit, especially if you dare to have more than an ounce of fat.

Once, at college, our native French teacher’s parent’s showed up during class; they were visiting from the homeland.  The previous day this instructor, who was actually pretty nice, told us they were coming, and encouraged us to practice speaking French with them.  So, naturally, when there was a lull in the conversation, I gathered my nerve and bravely asked if they had been to any shows on Broadway.  New York is known for the theater, of course.  I thought this would be an excellent way to start.  I don’t even remember how I said it because it involved one of the past tenses–you know, Have you been to the theater, that sort of thing.  Well, the dad totally yelled at me!  He was like, NO.  We HAVEN’T BEEN to the THEATER.  One could have heard the proverbial pin drop in the classroom.  I looked at my teacher.  She looked embarrassed, which helped a little.  No wonder everybody hates these goddamn fucks.  Years later, an American French professor, who went to boarding school in France as a child, explained it to us:  they are taught by the school system from an early age to have a cultural superiority complex.  That, combined with a hefty national chip on their shoulder, makes for a pretty unpleasant group of people.  Just like the hot fags who roll out of bed every morning looking like a Greek god.

So it finally happened.  Someone out there is jealous of the forty-one-year-old guy who can’t work, pulls in a cool ten thousand dollars a year from Disability, has to live in a bad part of town, and has a hard time brushing his teeth regularly.  And all because I’ve managed to counteract my dumpy genes with several years of nonstop ass kicking in the gym to put on a few pounds of muscle.

Please continue reading at Whaaaaaaaah? II.

{>^<V}

 

Things & People Are Not What They Seem II

Apparently who a person is, is far more complex than I could have ever imagined.  Our only hedge against utter life-long pandemonium is self-awareness, so that we don’t constantly repeat the same old dumb mistakes, and waste a bunch of innocent people’s time.  To make matters worse, what if part of your body doesn’t work right?  For example, I have a HUGE problem.  My level of dopamine, a critical neurotransmitter necessary for life, has never been in the normal range.  My doctor uses antidepressants and dopamine agonists to try to increase the level, but it’s not working out well.  So, as I go through the process of changing drugs and dosages from time to time, I discover the most peculiar things about my character and true motivations.

When I’m on a higher dose of ropinirole (being used as an antipsychotic), my life comes alive mentally.  I can sit down and accomplish a lot of cerebral tasks such as writing in this blog for example, doing various art projects, learning new software, and completing foreign language lessons.  But my physical life completely falls apart.  I start getting lethargic and experiencing that horrible fuzzy zombified feeling.  My joints and muscles hurt and don’t respond with power and strength during workouts.  In fact, I cease having any interest in working out at all, despite the fact that I LOVE working out.  My personality mostly changes for the better, but I start getting the most wicked headaches in the evening.

When I’m on a lower dose of ropinirole, my life falls apart mentally.  Symptoms of depression and psychosis return, as does the drive to work out in the gym and fuck, hard and satisfyingly.  Apparently being a little psychotic and being a badass in the gym and bedroom go hand in hand?  I return to the state of grace in which I can work out for at least ninety minutes, if not more.  My strength, focus, and wiener come alive as more and more disturbing thoughts spontaneously enter my attention against my will–until I begin working out that is.  Workouts are a temporary reprieve from the pain of living.

I’ve already accepted that life is not fair.  But many would agree that this is just over the top.  I mean seriously, this state of things is not just unfair, it’s beyond cruel.  Whether I can get through the day depends on what medications I’m on and how much, not the fortitude of my personal attitude choices.  Over the past forty years I have suffered, suffered, and suffered some more and I’m just tired.  My nervous system is totally out of my control.  My doctor says that I have one of the most stubborn cases of depression he’s ever seen.

Why?  How could this happen to someone?

My doctor finally explained it to me:  extreme stress in early childhood.  My earliest memories are of white hot fear and suffering.  I never had a chance; I know now that my mother was in an extraordinary, prolonged, state of stress while I was in utero, and so my tiny nervous system got acid-washed with stress hormones since, well, before it was a nervous system.  I have been severely depressed and psychotic since I was about four.

This decades-long odyssey of torture and near-death experiences is not the real me:

  • Instead of tanning like an absolute caramel-butter dream like I did when I was a kid, I am a particularly ghastly shade of pale due to a particular side effect of the antidepressants I have taken since I was fourteen.
  • Instead of being the picture of vibrant health and gigantic physical development I have wanted since I was a teenager, I struggle to work out and put on mass due to the dramatic suppression of muscle function inherent to psychiatric drug therapy.

  • Instead of making my elite fitness dreams come true and having a credible chance at winning big money in fitness contests, I engage in circuit and other forms of intense training at my peril.  One persistent side effect I have is a skyrocketing heart rate.  Underneath all the drug therapy, I possess crazy-high cardiopulmonary endurance, but one would never know from the way I trudge through exercise classes and swimming, constantly having to stop to catch my breath and take a BPM reading.  Teachers still give me a pep talk about how a “beginner” like me needs to just “stick with it”.  I’ve been sticking with it nonstop for seven and a half years.  I was a personal training client with professional trainers for four and a half of those years.  If I didn’t have to take any medicine I would, quite simply, be the biggest badass in the county, or maybe even the state.

  • Instead of finishing the prestigious film school degree I was given–with huge scholarship–and entering the elite film industry to fulfill my every creative fantasy, I now live on Disability and handouts from my family.  I am totally unable to work to support myself, despite having attempted to do so about fifty-five times since 1996.  I struggle to keep up with the payments on many thousands of dollars of unsecured credit card debt.  I have no assets, no retirement savings, and am almost totally unemployable due to my undesirable work history.  Yet, I have never once been fired or disciplined on the job.

Because my mom chose not to take care of herself decades ago, I’m completely fucked now.  My full-time job for over a quarter of a century has been improving my nervous system with diet and exercise, but the moment I reduce the dosage of any of my medications, I become suicidal in a matter of days.  Basically, I haven’t altered my nervous system, even in a small way.  My doctor explained to me that physical exercise has been proven to stimulate the production of new, non-depressed, neurons.  Why isn’t this working for me?

My life was over before it even began.  Still to the present day, my astonishingly retarded family expects me to take care of them and their emotions whenever we are together.  My sister, who is an experienced, working, graphic design professional, REFUSES to help me start my freelance business or get clients, even though I am a patently multi-talented artist and everyone, including her, regularly compliments my work.

I used to feel sorry for others, such as the people in my family, or people in other, shittier, countries.  But now I know the truth of who I really am.  And my life and I are not what I thought they were.  The real me has been hidden under a Niagara Falls of other people’s worthless shit.  I am now, and have always been since birth, completely alone.  Perfectly rejected by everyone I have ever met.  Or so I thought.

Now that I have finally found an antipsychotic I can tolerate, I’ve begun to remember all the good people I didn’t notice over the years.  All the kind, interesting, caring individuals who showed me understanding, listening, and compassion.  It was a lot to absorb and come to terms with, as I remembered all the people who tried to show me love.  The only trouble was I was too good at noticing the bad people, and not skilled enough in noticing the good ones.  But it’s never too late to heal and change.

My nervous system doesn’t work.  All I can do is keep taking the right medicines in the right amounts to facsimilate as normal a mental experience of life as possible.  But many other parts of my body do work, and work fabulously well.  My sex drive, for example.  More than one lover has informed me that my sexual appetite and abilities are quite above average.  I thought it was normal to cum three times in an evening.  I thought everybody was doing it.  Anyway, focusing on the health of my body, and slowly healing my social abilities to get my basic needs for love, touch, sex, and intimacy met, is what I am meant to do now, despite the constant fear of financial ruin.

I’m only 41.  Maybe I am meant to start my life all over again.  Maybe I can learn how to notice only the good guys, at the expense of all the lousy.  People regularly tell me I look as though I’m in my twenties.  Maybe this was all meant to be.  I might never be able work at a traditional job, but maybe there’s a reason for that.  Maybe I am meant to be an artist and/or a househusband.  My first personal trainer asked me whether I were a “lover” or a “fighter”.  That’s easy, I thought, I’m a lover, a child born under the sign of Venus, two-fold (At my birth Libra was on the horizon at dawn, so the sun was in both Libra and the current rising sign.).  And I’m a lover of beauty to be sure, especially male beauty.

Once I had a dream in which a big, muscly robot lost his head.  But he was fine.  The rest of his body simply adapted, as he crawled around to find things, poured robot fuel down his neck hole, etc.  He wasn’t in any pain; in fact, it was a relief.  Then he found me and, of course, we could still fuck; your dick ain’t on your head after all.  It was weird at first, but his headless body quickly took on the appearance of an intact whole.  And his head happily lay on the ground a few feet away, but he didn’t feel the need to put it back on.  Besides, he now had me to help him find things and lead the way.  {>^<V}