Magic Mirror
He told me that he had lied about his age. "I am not really 65", he told me and I stood there, nonplussed. Of all the lies to tell me, any lie about his age was the least likely to activate my "Slowly, I turned... step by step..." hot button. Before I could do the math in my head about what possible ages are left that would warrant making the golden age of 65 a better admission, he told me the truth. "I am 73.", he said. "No kidding?", I replied and was immediately struck by how sexy this was in a very De Sade form of perversion. In fact, I liked him even more because of it.
How do you scene with a septuagenarian without having to call 911 before the scene is over? There are many jokes that are waiting to be extolled from this scenario but the reality is that the method of scening without ending up in a very embarrassing scene is really pretty simple. You pay attention.
And I did; from the tones of his voice when he offered himself to me as my slave to do with what I will, to the slightly labored breathing as he maneuvered around me in an effort to accomodate my gentle demands. The touch of his hands were silently measured by me in increments of steadiness, pressure and warmth. The movements of his body were gauged by changes or maintenance of agility, composure and control. Occasionally pinning him in place with only the soft palm of my hand, I would feel for his heartbeat through his chest while smiling wickedly down at him.
It was a scene that was filled with patient gentleness and quiet understanding for the frailties and limitations of the body. And because intensity is measured by perception and not physical gauges, our scene was like a magic mirror where everything that could be seen from the outside was not a true reflection of what was really happening at any given moment. After all, in a quiet room, even a whisper sounds like a shout.
And so our little games were played out in his dim, cool room. On his dresser, happy, multi-generational faces of his own lineage bore silent, forgiving witness to his own dynamic appetites. You can't help but wonder what would happen if his family knew that this obviously loved and respected grandfather and possibly great-grandfather was my personal boot licking slave in private. I am not sure if I am comforted or confounded by his testament to the fact that perverse desires will never fail you even if the body does. I do know that there is an honesty and candor in older ages that does comfort me. He trusts me to protect his privacy. He gives me enough respect to inspire just such a protective measure. We are special friends and if I ever have the misfortune of having to explain myself to one of his children, whichever satisfying lie I am forced to give them will still be imbued with the kind of protective secrecy that comes with being a friend.
In a game where humiliation is considered de rigueur, how ironic that silently upholding someone's dignity would be the framework within which it should happen.
How do you scene with a septuagenarian without having to call 911 before the scene is over? There are many jokes that are waiting to be extolled from this scenario but the reality is that the method of scening without ending up in a very embarrassing scene is really pretty simple. You pay attention.
And I did; from the tones of his voice when he offered himself to me as my slave to do with what I will, to the slightly labored breathing as he maneuvered around me in an effort to accomodate my gentle demands. The touch of his hands were silently measured by me in increments of steadiness, pressure and warmth. The movements of his body were gauged by changes or maintenance of agility, composure and control. Occasionally pinning him in place with only the soft palm of my hand, I would feel for his heartbeat through his chest while smiling wickedly down at him.
It was a scene that was filled with patient gentleness and quiet understanding for the frailties and limitations of the body. And because intensity is measured by perception and not physical gauges, our scene was like a magic mirror where everything that could be seen from the outside was not a true reflection of what was really happening at any given moment. After all, in a quiet room, even a whisper sounds like a shout.
And so our little games were played out in his dim, cool room. On his dresser, happy, multi-generational faces of his own lineage bore silent, forgiving witness to his own dynamic appetites. You can't help but wonder what would happen if his family knew that this obviously loved and respected grandfather and possibly great-grandfather was my personal boot licking slave in private. I am not sure if I am comforted or confounded by his testament to the fact that perverse desires will never fail you even if the body does. I do know that there is an honesty and candor in older ages that does comfort me. He trusts me to protect his privacy. He gives me enough respect to inspire just such a protective measure. We are special friends and if I ever have the misfortune of having to explain myself to one of his children, whichever satisfying lie I am forced to give them will still be imbued with the kind of protective secrecy that comes with being a friend.
In a game where humiliation is considered de rigueur, how ironic that silently upholding someone's dignity would be the framework within which it should happen.
posted by Samois at 12:41 PM
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