when I was young, in college and first dating. I started seeing a man in the Coast Guard Academy. He was tall and black, nothing like any of the men who I grew up with, in fact where I'm from the idea that someone who was white, even half-white like I am, would date a black man was inconceivable. I guess because I knew nothing about black men, I didn't even know that there was a stereotype about them having big cocks, and so after our third date when we started making out, I was absolutely shocked by the size of the hard-on I felt inside his pants. At first, I thought he had his hand in his pocket and I was feeling his forearm, but in fact it was his cock. I have to admit, it freaked me out. I didn't want anything to do with him for a couple of weeks because I was frankly afraid of the size of his penis.

Let me tell you about a professor I had in grad school ("had" in many ways...). At the time, I was with a short term boyfriend who I wasn't very sure about--he was rather dull and eventually his inability to tell stories in interesting ways annoyed me to such an extent that I couldn't bear to be with him. He was perfectly acceptable when he was silent, but as soon as he tried to tell me about his day, or even when he was trying to say something serious (very rare), he babbled like a fool. I guess the only reason I was with him was because he was gorgeous, in the way that some men can be--long eyelashes, brooding eyes, dark features--effeminate in many ways. My vanity got the best of me since everywhere we went in public women could not help staring at him, and I felt the envy in their eyes as a source of great pride. It's lucky that he never spoke while we were having sex, but eventually his dullness infected even that part of our relationship and I was too bored to even get horny. He had a wonderful cock, as pretty as he was, and I wish now that I had taken pictures of him nude with his perfectly proportioned hard-on, but he never wanted to record our sex-making, and so I have no visual representations of him except my memories.

I was watching some of my favorite bondage porn tonight. I bought it in San Francisco on one of my trips there...

I understand the woman's need to be punished, to be degraded and cleansed of sin by being utterly abject. Someone I love needs to take me into the depths of enslavement, so that I live only for his pleasure. If he needs to see my pain, then I want him to extract my screams, to torture me until I know I cannot resist, that there isn't even a tiny shred of dignity left inside me that hasn't been obliterated.

I was thinking today about a trip to Paris I had with a boyfriend. We were at the dusk end of our relationship, and so I spent a lot of time exploring the city by myself. One of the few nights we spent together we went to a club where they had live sex shows on the stage. The Parisians all sit and watch in sophisticated silence, as if it actually were dinner theater, and so it caught me by surprise during one of the shows that night, featuring two women, when one of them looked out over the audience and then, catching me eye, motioned for me to join them up on the stage. At first, I shook my head in embarrassment, but she kept waving and then enjoined the crowd to clap and encourage me. I looked at my boyfriend to save me, and perhaps it was his look of disapproval that threw the switch inside me. As I said, we were not much longer for the world as a couple, and so there was a tangle of resentments and simmering anger unresolved between us, and seeing his look of disdainful disapproval, as if I were a slut for being the object of such attention from the women on stage, that just pissed me off to no end. I immediately stood up and walked towards the stage. The crowd roared, and I actually began to feel a rush of pride that I was so much better than the obvious low opinion that my boyfriend had of me.