Metawriting/Rant – The Closing of the Queer Imagination

It may sound a bit ridiculous to some, but I have always found my writing in the MC/TF genre to be as much about politics and philosophy as it is about sex and the erotic. In many ways, this is because sex and the erotic can’t help but be political–the determination of what kinds of bodies are beautiful, what kinds of bodies are normal, what kinds of relationships and forms of intercourse are allowed, who gets to have power in relationships and in sexual acts–these are all political questions. The stories I write, then, contain within them their own political visions and imaginations. They are not idyllic visions. The outcomes are almost universally dystopic and horrific. At times, as I have mentioned off and on in various asks, I’ve found it difficult to try and square the fact that I find these horrors intensely erotic with my more sober politics of radical liberation. How can I argue for self-determination (for example) when my stories revolve around controlling the minds and bodies of others?

There are a few answers I’ve considered and rejected. One is to accept the fact that the erotic and an individual’s erotic fantasies simply cannot be grounded in any sort of political fact. After all, fantasies and politics exist on different planes–the former are necessarily impossible to bring forth in reality, while the latter is necessarily pragmatic and grounded in reality. However, I don’t feel this boundary viable. Politics and fantasies may exist in different realms, but they certainly do inform one another. Politics, after all, is the attempt to render our fantasies real, as best we can. Just because they don’t share a type with one another doesn’t mean that they aren’t related in other ways. A second defense I considered was that these stories, as horror stories, are meant to be terrible and shunned and avoided as satire. However, given the fact that they are also erotic the satire argument doesn’t feel sincere. In the thick of these fantasies, I generally want for these things to be happening; the satire claim is largely rational revisionism after shooting. I began to think that there was no reconciling these two ideas; that I’d have to accept at least some level of cognitive dissonance.

Along with this, I have always insisted on keeping a rather large divide between Wesley Bracken and my real name–while quite a few people in my real life know about the fiction I write, very few know *who* I am when I write it. It is, perhaps, a trivial barrier, but one I keep up regardless in order to protect my livelihood, but I’ve never been particularly happy about needing it. The secret has always felt as though it were driven largely by shame and a desire to keep these fantasies hidden within myself, as a way to keep them from emerging into my other life, but that felt deeply troubling in its own way. To me, part of a radical politics is about defeating and overcoming sexual shame. Shame is one of the key methods of social oppression–a system convincing the individual to oppress and internalize their desires against themselves.

These thoughts on politics and shame coincided with other thinking I’ve been doing on the nature of power exchange relationships. The more I have been on tumblr, the better I have understood what a real power exchange looks like. Contrary to what my writing might imply, I am a largely vanilla character in real life. The few times I ventured into anything remotely like BDSM in prior relationships I have learned were very contrary to safe power exchange–committed without communication or consent, without a safe word, without any sort of preparation of solid aftercare. I came to realize that fantasies can be brought forth into reality–even deeply unequal fantasies–without great harm being committed against either party. That in turn helped me feel better about my own fantasies, once I placed them in that context. I realized that much of the conflict I’d been feeling was the result of an internalized mainstream depiction of sadomasochism and other sexual deviance as something inherently immoral, shameful, the people who desire it broken and mentally faulty. I had bought into that idea, internalized it. After all, having a fantasy is one thing–a thought. A politics of that fantasy is a further step–an action based on that thought. Admitting to the thought is not at all the same as committing the action. Furthermore, there is a distinction to be made between a controlled instance of a fantasy committed with consent, and one forced on another without consent. My shame wasn’t worth it, and I decided to try and root it out as best I could.

One of those means of dispelling that shame has been an attempt to embrace what I might call the queer imagination. As queers outside mainstream sexuality, gender and relationships, we have largely been left to our own devices to decide what sorts of relationships and communities we craft. Make no mistake, crafting those communities have never been easy, because they have always been under constant attack from social authorities, but craft them we have. For queers, it was alright to be single or serially monogamous. It has been acceptable to participate in a triad, a quad, or a community of lovers, friends and found family. It has been ok to be committed and monogamous as well. All of these ways of living, by being equally ostracized, were all imagined and realized by queers outside of mainstream respectability. In a similar way, that imagination is responsible for pushing the boundaries of acceptable sex and intercourse. None of the fantasies I put down are new or unique–I still think most of my writing is less shocking than Marquis de Sade’s stories over three centuries ago. The queer imagination is one of the few spaces of liberation beyond the mainstream, beyond acceptability and respectability. It is, I have realized, the root of stories like “City of Bears”, which is at the core a radical re-imagining of what a society can look like–a society without women and children, without the certainty of physical and mental identity, without any sort of mainstream future. The queer imagination is perhaps our greatest weapon in liberation–without the ability to imagine and fantasize about alternative societies and politics, the status quo becomes inescapable. Perhaps the worst thing that can happen for any queer radical politics (to borrow rather cheekily from Alan Bloom’s mainstream culture war manifesto of the 90’s) is a closing of the queer imagination.

And so I pivot to Friday’s supreme court ruling in favor of nationwide same sex marriage. It is, of course, a positive step for queer rights, and yet, as I see the various celebrations unfolding across social networks, my mood moves from sweet, to bittersweet, to mostly bitter. On facebook, everyone is literally pinkwashing themselves with a rainbow overlay–people who I have never seen a single post from regarding queer rights are suddenly proud on my behalf. Now that we are a trend, now that we are on the right side of history, now that it isn’t 2004 with George W. Bush using us as a wedge issue, we can have their support. I see every corporate brand and logo suddenly displaying the six color rainbow flag (which, it bears mentioning, isn’t even the original rainbow flag–the original had eight colors, all with a particular meaning which have been all but forgotten in the modern queer movement) and by and large, it is companies with rather questionable political practices. Uber has a six lane rainbow highway, but is still trying to illegally classify its drivers as independent contractors. Levis has turned it’s logo into a rainbow, but never mind their sweatshops, abhorrent labor standards, and outsourcing. Everyone is celebrating, but the celebration is politically meaningless. Everyone wants to be the good ally, but no one seems to care about what being an ally means.

All of this stands in the shadow of pride month, as well. Sunday was the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, which were begun and fought by trans women of color. Those women fought the police because they could imagine an alternative to prosecution and tyranny by the police, because they could imagine a world where their lives weren’t regulated and criminalized by the state. Even before that was the Compton Cafeteria riot in San Francisco, fought for the same reasons. Queer liberation has always been and will always continue to be an act of the queer imagination–but there has also always been a queer mainstream interesting in silencing that imagination in the name of assimilation. Earlier this week Jennicet Gutiérrez, a trans latina activist, heckled Obama in a room full of LGBT activists, all of whom helped boo her from the room. The plight of undocumented trans women is apparently less pressing than respectability politics. This, of course, echos what occurred in San Francisco over 40 years ago, when Sylvia Rivera–also a latina trans activist, also fighting for trans liberation from prisons–fought her way to the stage, only to be similarly heckled during pride “"celebrations”“. Pride. I have been to various prides, and rarely see anything to be proud of. I see consumerism and pinkwashing and celebrations of false progress narratives, the same sorts of meaningless celebrations I have seen across social media these last few days. It seems we have forgotten who we should be celebrating, what exactly we should be proud of, and that any celebration without imagination is no celebration at all.

Marriage can never liberate us. Marriage is not about love; it is about legitimacy. I am a married queer, but I am not married because that marriage makes the relationship to my partner real or stronger–I am married for pragmatic protection. I am married so that we can have easy access to health care through employer coverage. I am married so that should something happen to one of us, we are able to make decisions on the other’s behalf without contest. I am married so we can share a more privileged tax status. I shouldn’t have to be married to gain access to these benefits–no one should have to. I have been married for five years, but I have been in love for seven, and my relationship in those two earlier years was never less important to me. Queers have been falling in love forever without marriage. Marriage is about control and regulation, not love. It is about the dulling and dimming of sexual and romantic imaginations. Friday’s decision was, and always will be, a fundamentally conservative victory–it will just take conservatives a few more years to figure that out. I find it amazing, in fact, that it is in the conservative imagination that queer fantasies have manifested as horrors! "All of our marriages have been cheapened!” they despair. Imagine! Why, what if we cheapened and de-valued marriage itself for everyone? What if we abolished the legitimacy of this coercive institution, instead of enshrining it further? “Polygamy is next!” they cry. Why not? Why shouldn’t we be able to recognize relationships with more than two people as valuable to society? Why not embrace triads and quads or larger communities of relationships? “How will we possibly procreate!” they moan. Indeed! What might happen if we dispel the cult of the child? What might happen if we stop breeding, and instead stem overpopulation, caring for those in the present rather than the hypothetical future?

What I see is a possible closing of the queer imagination. It is a closing that I see stemming from the horrors of HIV and AIDS through the 80’s and 90’s. I am young, born in 1988. I do not know what it was like to live through the Plague. My husband, who is twice my age, has told me his own stories of friends dying, of terror, of loneliness. I have read other accounts, and they make me weep, universally. I find I must come to the conclusion that AIDS succeeded where dominant mainstream culture couldn’t, by literally murdering queers with any sort of sexual or romantic imagination. Those who survived the plague often did so through abstinence, through fear and loathing, by closing off their desires and living in the closet. All I can do is mourn for everyone we lost, for an entire generation of imaginative queers decimated. For me personally, I can only talk about growing up in the aftermath. How my middle school health classes were full of fear-mongering and threats and lies about the disease and how it was spread. How, when I realized I was gay, my first feeling was one of terror, that I too might become little more than a plague body. That when I came out to my father, one of his comments to me was akin to: “You know you’ve chosen a difficult lifestyle. What if you get AIDS?” Looking back, I realize that all of this was working to stifle and shame any sort of queer imagination in myself, by associating anything outside of mainstream heterosexual coupling with sickness and death. This is the terrible foundation on which the gay marriage movement was built. It is a movement of fearful, unimaginative white cis queers knocking at the door of social hetero legitimacy, begging to be let in–that they’ll be good, boring, mainstream couples as long as they can be safe. That as long as they aren’t left out to die, they’ll behave. And now they have been let in. They’re in–myself included–but there are still so many people left out.

The HIV crisis isn’t anywhere near over for African Americans, who make up 44% of new infections, more than eight times the rate of whites overall, according to the CDC. Of all groups, the greatest at risk population are African American adolescents. This doesn’t even begin to touch on the questions of police brutality and right wing extremism and their threat to the black community. Our trans siblings are still being murdered and locked up at astronomical rates. No amount of marriage can protect them, no amount of marriage can protect any of us. Instead, we have given over control of our relationships to the very society which has shown at every turn to despise us, to hate us, to view as perverts, as walking corpses, as death. These are the people we are now asking to save us. This is the altar at which we have chosen to sacrifice our imaginations. We can do better than marriage; we can imagine more than marriage.

Master of Men (Part 3)

WARNING: Furry, Feral, and Mind Death

Craig turned back to him, and Paul screamed and snarled once more–but then continued to do so. Slowly he became aware that he was no longer doing it because he wanted to, but because he had no choice. This wasn’t him. Craig had done something to his mind, had broken in and changed him…but that wasn’t right. This rage he felt, he knew this rage. This was a rage he’d felt all his life, the rage that he’d used on his little brother whenever he’d beaten him into the dust, the rage that had pushed him into sports where he’d revelled in breaking other men and sending them from the field screaming, the rage that had propelled him to murder men he’d never met in foreign countries and cities he’d never bothered learning to pronounce. Craig had simply undone it’s chains, the chains he’d learned from society to channel his anger in acceptable directions, and now it felt like a beast was loose in his mind, rampaging around, bristling with hate and fear and loathing for everything beyond itself, including Paul. He realized too late that he had counted on those walls and chains to protect him from his own wrath as much as society had, the beast ripping through him, his memories, his thoughts and desires. It was eating his mind from the inside out, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The man named Paul was no match for his own beast, and he was devoured in a matter of minutes as the men watched, his eyes growing dull, the screams and howls becoming less human, the beast’s body changing before their eyes. His body grew hairier, and was soon coated with a thick pelt all over, including his face. It remained fat, but the rage poured itself into muscle, the animal growing taller and thicker, and its face. It was no longer a human face, with a powerful set of jaws lined with teeth, something between a wolf and a bear, and two thick horns bursting from his head, turning forward, points sharp and ready to gore. They expected it to tire at some point, but the transformation only seemed to give it more power, and it fought harder against the metal binding it in place, it’s paw like hands tipped with sharp black claws tensing and untensing, trying to leap at any of them. It could smell their fear, their hatred. Their blood.

“Fear not, my Men–it cannot get loose,” the Master said, coming close to the beast, which tried to twist it’s head and snap at him. “This is rage. This is false masculinity. This is the corruption of a man’s spirit, rendered flesh. This is not a miracle–this is shockingly common. The world is filled with men like him who have allowed their rage to consume their better selves. But I am the Master of Men–I possess the true power necessary to tame this beast. Bear witness.”

The metal retracted, and the men scooted back to the edge of the dias, suddenly aware of just how high up they were from the ground below. The beast shook, and pushed itself up, revealing just how large it had grown. It was easily eight feet tall, with a huge, bright red cock emerging from a sheath running up it’s furred torso. It flexed it’s body and howled, turning to Craig, the fat, pudgy, sweaty man unafraid and facing the beast. “Fuck…you. Fuck you and eat you and tear you apart!” it screeched at Craig. It charged at him, and he stepped to the side out of the beast’s way with a surprising amount of agility.

The beast charged again, and Craig continued dodging. The men noticed that the beast was favoring one leg over the other–the remains of Jason’s damaged knee, but they knew their Master was outmatched–and when the beast had consumed him, it would take them next. Craig seemed unworried, but the beast knew it could win. It could smell him, it could smell that musk, and…and…

And it felt fear. This was no simple man. This man did not smell like the others. The beast redoubled it’s efforts, growing more crazed, when the Master slammed one fist into it’s wounded knee, bringing forth a crazed howl as the beast crumpled to the floor in pain. Before it could react, the man had shoved the beast’s long tail to one side and plunged his cock deep into the beast’s ass. It screamed, but already it could tell that it was too late, that the man had beaten him, that this man would always beat him, had beaten him before in a hundred other lifetimes. Still it fought, trying to crawl away, but the man was gentle, petting it’s hair softly. “Accept your defeat beast, and rage no further–for I am Man, and I will tame you.”

Tame. That scent, that musk. it was so close now, and the more the beast smelled it, the quieter it’s howls became, the more it began pushing it’s hole back, allowing the man to penetrate deeper, the more it felt like it’s very nature was being slowly manipulated and transformed. Indeed, the awestruck men outside the circle watched at the beast’s form began to shift once more, it’s muscled body dissolving into fat once again as it shrunk in size, becoming as large as the Master, and then even smaller, no more than five feet tall at most. That gaping maw full of teeth had softened into a pig’s snout filled with short, stubby, harmless teeth, the horns on it’s head shorter and rounded at the tips, it’s clawed paws becoming clunky trotters. Now it was grunting and squealing loudly, rage forgotten in pleasure, and it’s short, stubby cock exploded with cum, the men watching it’s balls shrink in size, pulling up into it’s belly. The master continued fucking for another moment before cumming as well, and the men cheered, unable to believe the miracle they had just witnessed. The beast, now simply a pet, turned around, grunting softly, and began sucking it’s Master’s cock clean with it’s long tongue, looking up at him lovingly as a strand of metal curled up from the floor, wrapped it’s way around it’s neck and detached from the floor, leaving it with a thick metal collar.

“Men, let us celebrate my victory!” Craig shouted, and the men revelled, an orgy erupting on the dias, their new pet crawling among them, licking their bodies clean, sucking their cocks and begging to be fucked. It lasted for hours, until the men, exhausted, climbed back down from the dais and returned to their homes, and Master’s newest pet stood on it’s hooves and followed his Master down the stairs as best it could, but the path was treacherous, and it’s knee ached. Master could see this, and knelt next to his pet, holding it’s wounded knee in his hands, a dull light coursing beneath them as the pain dissolved. “Thank you,” Craig said, “Your sacrifice was great, for my Men, but you will be happy, I promise.”

His pet grunted it’s thanks. It knew. The rage had hurt so much, all it’s life. To be rid of it was enough for him to follow his Master anywhere, until the end of it’s days.

Master of Men (Part 2)

Craig opened a trapdoor in the floor of his garage, revealing a staircase which descended into the ground below. Paul followed him, no longer able to think of doing anything beyond following the stink of the older man’s sweat down into the depths. The stairs gave way to a ramp, the tunnel linked up with other tunnels, and soon they emerged into a broad, high ceiling cavern. In the center of the room was a dias poised a story and a half off the ground–it looked ancient, and far too well crafted to have been made by anything crude–rather, it seemed to have erupted from the ground as a fluid mass, before something froze it in place. Paul reacted instinctively, tugging back when he saw it, but Craig yanked the lead, and he followed him up a winding stair to the surface above.

The men of the neighborhood were already there, milling about, finding their places around the circle. Paul saw Jason there, limping, but he wouldn’t look at him. Unlike the other men, who all bore plain robes, he was naked aside from a solid ring of steel around his cock and balls. Paul wanted to cry for help, but his jaw was slack. He didn’t think he could even muster a single word. The surface of the dais was perfectly even, yet bore an intricate pattern of metal inlay, winding around the black rock, glinting in the torchlight. However, as soon as Craig stepped into the circle, the metal began to glow a dull red, the other men hurrying to the edge of the circle, where they knelt in a ring around them both.

He waited for them to settle, and for the cavern to return to silence, before booming out, “Welcome, my Men.”

“Glory to the Master of Men,” they replied, in unison.

“Today, my men, is a very special day! A day all of you know well, a day when we welcome a man into our midst, the day we elevate another to our height, a day when we add another to our service. Jason, come here, come, stand tall and be joyful! Today is your day, a day you have been working toward for such a long time.”

Jason stood, he limped into the circle, head bowed away from his brother, and stood on the other side of Craig.

“You have completed your duties, as an initiate, and you have provided a worthy sacrifice. Today, you will claim what you seek, the true manhood you desire. We shall witness your re-manning, and we shall welcome you into our midst.”

Craig waved his hand over the floor, and the metal shimmered, slithering up as though it were alive, before grasping Paul’s neck, ankles and wrists, tugging him down to his knees, and then all fours, holding him in place on the floor. He tried to fight against the enchantment addling his brain, but he couldn’t, just drool on the stone, as Craig turned to his brother.

“Your brother has failed to use his gifts. You shall make better use of them than he has. But the Beast in him will not give up easily–a true man must be firm of hand and strong of spirit. If you want to join us, you must take from him what he has abused.”

Craig stepped to the edge of the circle, leaving the two brother’s alone in the center of the platform. Jason stood still for a moment, and then walked around behind Paul, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I…I can’t…”

“Ja….son…” Paul managed to force from his slack mouth, but it dissolved into a moan, as his brother’s thick fingers slid into his sweaty hole, loosening him, and then he felt Jason’s cock push into him. It was hot, it was so hot, and he wanted to crawl away, but the metal held him tightly in place, as Jason fucked him. Craig began a chant; the men around them were soon following him, and floor began to glow a brighter red. Jason was panting, but he was close. The chant grew louder, and he groaned loudly, cumming into his brother’s hole, and Paul felt a searing force push it’s way into him from his brother, twisting him, destroying him. He fought it, he but it was so strong–it ripped his defenses to shreds. His body was gurgling, and his muscles began to fade as fat filled up the place they left behind, his barrel chest dissolving into a heavy gut and two pendulous moobs, and his knee. His right knee, it hurt–a desperate, searing pain. Is this what Jason had felt? Is this what he’d suffered with for so long?

The force ebbed, the tatters of himself settling within him, and Jason withdrew, standing up. Craig approached, “Welcome! Welcome, my newest Man!” he said. Paul couldn’t turn his head with the metal clamped around his neck, but Craig led him around his fat body, and he could see his brother–he was huge. At least seven feet tall, and packed solid with muscle, far more muscle than he could have simply stolen from Paul. He was sobbing. He was sobbing, and he fell to his knees before Craig, “Master…Master, thank you. It doesn’t hurt. The pain–”

“I know,” Craig said, caressing his bearded face, “I know, and you are a Man now. Your sacrifice was great–you should be proud.”

“I promise…I promise to serve you, to obey, anything, anything for you Master, anything, I swear, for what you’ve given me…” Jason tried to continue, but he dissolved into wrenching tears, and Paul could only watch. Craig stepped away, the men of the neighborhood came forward and helped Jason stand, bringing him back out of the circle. But what about him? What about his sacrifice? Paul was broken too–why should he be forced to carry Jason’s burdens as well as his own? How was that fair?

Craig walked back to him, and kneeled in front of Paul. His face was kind, and that only made Paul angrier. “You provided your brother with a great thing, you know. You should be proud.”

Anger. Anger greater than anything he’d ever felt in his life, greater than anything he’d felt in war welled in him, pushing Craig’s musk from him. He screamed and cursed at him, his body tensing, but the metal refused to give an inch. In that moment, he felt like all of the layers of himself were being stripped away, and he was simply an animal. Craig didn’t flinch, he waited until he stopped, heaving for breath, before standing up and turning to the men behind him. “All men are broken. All men are flawed, are deficient. They are prone to vice and sin. This man, is more than broken however. He was welcomed the Beast into his heart. It is not his fault–he has been trained to shurg off empathy and fellowship, to replace them with hatred and rage. This, my Men, is no man at all, but a beast in the guise of a man. But I am the Master, and I can free him of his self-imposed illusion. Bear witness to my miracles.”

“We are the men who witness,” the men reply.

Master of Men (Part 1)

No one had told him that taking it easy would be so difficult. In the military, there had been order and regimen, every day had had a purpose and a script that he could follow. Now that Paul was out–no, he had to be honest with himself–now that he was discharged, he was finding it difficult to adjust to the easy-going life he’d been trying to protect. The wife he’d had while he was overseas couldn’t handle him this close, and she’d left him. Thankfully they hadn’t succeeded in getting pregnant yet–he suspected that she’d been taking birth control, even though they’d been “trying” for months. It was like she was terrified of being tied to him. So what if he could be a bit aggressive? That’s what he’d been trained to be. No one could understand how different this all was. Thankfully his brother Jason was willing to let him stay with him while he figured out how to adjust.

They had been so similar when they were younger, but in their years apart, they had diverged. The Jason he remembered had been loud and brash, muscular, eager to follow in his older brother’s athletic footsteps, but a knee injury his senior year of high school had grounded him back at home. It was obvious from his limp that the injury had never healed right, and the weight he’d put on probably didn’t help matters, turning into a rather fat young man. He also always seemed to be a bit…distant from Paul, although Paul was so distant from everyone, he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t just him imagining things. He’d also come out of the closet while Paul was on tour, and he seemed…happier for sure. Paul wasn’t thrilled about living with a fag of course, but Jason assured him that he wasn’t particularly active. Besides, where else was he going to go? He hadn’t managed to hold down a job–everything he did seemed to end with him screaming at someone, or punching a hole in the wall–and Jason assured him he had more than enough money to support them while his brother found his footing again.

Jason seemed pleased to have some company. He lived alone in a small house in the quiet suburban neighborhood. Paul found it relaxing, and spent most of his days working out with his set of weights at home and taking walks around the neighborhood, where he started to meet the people who lived around them. They were all nice older men capable of good, safe conversation, each thanked Paul for his service and were interested in what he was doing now that he was home. None of them probed into the trauma they could all sense. It took Paul some time to realize that he’d never once seen a wife, or a child, on the street in front of their house–in fact, the entire neighborhood seemed to be home to men. He asked Jason about this, and his brother just shrugged, saying he’d never noticed it, and assured him more than a few of the men were married, and left it at that. He began to notice other strange events occurring around the neighborhood, however. His brother would often receive calls on the phone, and immediately leave the house, only to return hours later, and refuse to give Paul any information regarding where he’d been. The men seemed…overly familiar with each other. Not in a physical way, but like they had some secret passed between them when he wasn’t looking.

One man down the street seemed to catch Paul more often than the others, an accountant by the name of Craig Wheetly. He was short and rotund, with a horseshoe of hair where he was balding and a thick black mustache, but he had a big laugh that always got Paul laughing with him somehow. It was the thick of summer when Craig asked Paul if he’d help him out with reorganizing his garage–he wanted to install some new shelving, and he figured with a big guy like Paul helping him, it’d be done in no time. Paul was reluctant–he didn’t work very well with others–but he came around when he promised to pay him a hundred dollars a day. His brother was generous, but didn’t provide him with much of an allowance.

It was the late morning and still cool when they got started. It was a spacious three car garage, but it was sweltering after only a few hours. Paul suggested that they at least open the garage doors, but Craig kept diverting the conversation and they stayed closed, the room growing hotter and hotter. Craig pulled his shirt off, revealing a flabby gut soaked and glistening with sweat, and he convinced Paul to pull his off as well. As he was working close to Craig, he began to notice how musky the older man was. He’d smelled plenty of pit stink in the army, but nothing…nothing like this. And he was thirsty, all of a sudden. He asked for water, and Craig just kept talking over him. He had…had to drink something, he was gonna…

Paul got down and started lapping the sweat up from Craig’s gut, drinking it down, moaning and groaning all the while. Craig told him he was being very good, as he ran his hands through Paul’s sweat soaked buzzcut, walked over to a chair, stripping his shorts off as he walked, and let his muscular bull of a neighbor continue licking him from his soft chins to the bottoms of his feet. Paul didn’t understand what was going on. The heat was addling his brain, but something else was wrong too. He was…enjoying this. He was enjoying the taste of this old man’s sweat, and when Craig told him it was ok for him to take his pants off and jerk off, that he knew it would be hard for him to contain himself, he did just that, and exploded over and over again, leaving massive puddles of his cum splattered across the cement floor of the garage. Sucking Craig’s long, thick cock only seemed like the natural thing to do. The older man leaked precum like he sweat, and Paul swallowed it all down, feeling his thirst abate bit by bit, but not enough, never enough. The harder he sucked, the more liquid poured forth, but Craig seemed pleased but unaffected, and never once came.

Craig eventually stood up, and Paul chased his cock, barely noticing as the older man secured a leather collar around his neck, and attached a lead to it. “Come on then, you’re as ready as you’ll ever be. The ceremony is about to start, and we wouldn’t want you to be late.”

What do you think about the exchange of bodies? that’s what attracts this issue? to me personally what I love and what I love about their stories is seeing someone fall from such a height that his fall is so humiliating. see a label on his blog on the swap body is charming. (Sorry for the spelling, I follow the truth from mexico)

To be honest, body swapping is not a huge turn on for me. Well, that’s not exactly true–the idea of forcing someone into a body that they despise, that works for me. However, body swapping–where two people become one another–isn’t as much of a turn on. This is mostly because body swaps require reciprocal transformation–whatever happens to one character–the opposite is going to have to happen to the other. But that means one transformation is usually much less interesting/appealing to me than the other. A businessman and a garbage man switch lives? Great! I’m more than happy to write about the businessman’s fall from grace, but if I have to write the other half, I just…well, don’t care. I’d much rather there just be two garbage men at the end of the story.

So, I very much enjoy the humiliating aspects of a body swap, but avoid them in general because it often requires me to write an opposite change that I have much less interest in.

That’s actually even worse man, you’re stroking and reading up on something that starts out really hot like the story you’ve mentioned or the one with the actor getting hypnotized, thinking to yourself ‘damn, wesley really outdid himself, that’s some really hot stuff’ but then BAM! shit gets super dark out of the sudden and there’s no more fapping that day because you’re just left feeling bad.

I mean, *I* keep fapping, so I don’t know what’s wrong with you…

I’m not really complaining that they are bad, on the opposite. Some of the stories were so well written that despite having next to no characterization actually managed to make me feel bad for quite some time. And I appreciate them on this level alone, but it’s just like, an equivalent of scrolling through some porn and jerking off when you suddenly stumble upon a beheading video and lose your boner for the rest of the day.

Am I a bad person for feeling like that’s the best compliment I’ve gotten in a long while?

I do check tags and usually skip the ones tagged as ‘castration’ because they usually entail what I had in mind as ‘extreme’, but not always. Back in the day you posted one called ‘into the night of god’ or something along these lines and included a bunch of warnings about it being messed up. As far as your recent stuff goes, maybe you aren’t there quite yet, but people being mindfucked to the point where they turn into borderline vegetables is pretty close.

Point taken. Perhaps I’m a bit desensitized to my own horror. The other issue here is that in my head I tend to have this idea of what I want a story to do. “Into the Night of God” wasn’t intended for anyone to jack off to (although I *may* have done so once or twice…) because it was really more a horror story than a horror/porn story, if that makes sense. Part of the reason I included those warnings was to assure people that this story was out of the ordinary–a warning that “If you’re reading this and have your cock out you will likely be disappointed.” This is part of a category of my stories I tend to call anti-porn–I can see how the ending of something like “Persistance’s Rewards” falls into the same grey area–the reason it didn’t occur to me to bump up the warnings on it is because I honestly intended that to be jack off material. Certainly not for everyone, of course.

So that’s a bit fucked up, of course. But that is as close to a “reason” as I can approach. I’m not trying to excuse it–I should have beefed up the warnings on that, especially since I already had a great big scat warning to begin with–but this is as close as I can get to explaining *why* I didn’t add that warning.

I really enjoy your stories but could you consider developing a special tag for ones that deal with more extreme forms of abuse? You have huge warnings for scat, but some of the other stuff you’ve dishing out recently is infinitely more disturbing to be honest.

I do try to tag my stories accurately through tumblr’s tagging system–unfortunately, the platform lists them at the bottom of the post and not at the top. My suggestion would be to check down there first, before reading. If I tried to put up a warning for every extreme form of abuse in my stories, pretty much every story would have a warning on it, and I’m not sure it would mean much in the long run, especially since each individual’s idea of “extreme” is less a natural category and more of a “know it when I see it” sort of thing. I also know that (for myself at least) part of what turns me on in a story is the surprise of what happens–these sorts of obvious tags tend to diminish that in my opinion. I put up the scat warnings only because I get *so* many complaints if I don’t. This isn’t to try and minimize your experience here–I’m sorry you ran across something that upset you. But I also embrace the fact that my stories are horror stories. They’re designed and meant to be disturbing and upsetting, so I can’t help but take this as a bit of a compliment. I hope providing the tags I do is at least somewhat a compromise solution.

which one of the stories you wrote have you found the hottest one?

Oh goodness.

That’s a bit like asking parents to pick between children or something. I mean, the stories I turn to when I need something to jack off to (i.e. “the hottest ones”) usually depend on the mood I’m in more than anything else, and so they tend to rotate more often than not. That said, if I had to choose, I’d probably have to go with “Letters From Prison”.