As a 'homosexually-orientated' man, I've never really thought of myself as particularly raunchy or adventurous when it comes to 'bedroom things'. In fact when asked to describe myself in five words, vanilla is usually about the third one on the list, directly below intelligent and infuriating (I can actually talk for 15 minutes without hesitation, deviation or repetition on the origins and interpretations of the missionary position. You probably aren't aware of this, but in 3rd century BC Mesopotamia, in what is now modern-day Iraq.................... well, maybe another time, eh?).
When it came to anything out of the ordinary sex-wise (by gay standards), I always felt very much like one of those rather dull, middle-aged, home-counties, cake-baking, Women's Institute ladies. They spend almost 30 years being gently and predictably penetrated vaginally (apart from one slight slip) once a month by a mild-mannered accountant with haemorrhoids and striped pyjamas. Then suddenly, they find themselves
widowed, divorced, or separated at the age of 50, and on a 'foreign' holiday in Turkey for the first time with their friend Margaret, confronted by a 25 year-old Turkish waiter with a rock hard, throbbing, 8 inch boner squashed into his fake 501's. And like the plate of freshly-caught, chargrilled baby squid in its own ink that he's holding out, they have absolutely no idea what to do with either, and just sit there like a 'rabbit in headlights', jaw resting gently on their large, securely-brassiered chest.
widowed, divorced, or separated at the age of 50, and on a 'foreign' holiday in Turkey for the first time with their friend Margaret, confronted by a 25 year-old Turkish waiter with a rock hard, throbbing, 8 inch boner squashed into his fake 501's. And like the plate of freshly-caught, chargrilled baby squid in its own ink that he's holding out, they have absolutely no idea what to do with either, and just sit there like a 'rabbit in headlights', jaw resting gently on their large, securely-brassiered chest.But then, before you can say 'Kamal Ataturk', there they are, shrieking up and down the beach at 3 o'clock in the morning on the back of the waiter's scooter! Clad in a bikini top, sarong, and ankle-chain, clutching a glass of Raki & Diet Coke, sucking cock and 'doing anal' as if they were born to it.
We think these lusty Shirley Valentines are the exception, but it seems that we all have boundaries which move quote easily with a some gentle persuasion (and a bit of Aegean spit!).
I realised just how far my own boundaries have shifted quite recently when I read an advertisement on one of those Internet sites that people claim never to use, you know, the ones packed full of sad and lonely losers desperate for sex. The advertisement was written with impeccable grammar by a guy who wanted nothing more than to be kicked in the balls. I read the two sentences through twice just to be doubly sure that he really had said 'I want to be kicked in the balls', and yup, he definitely wanted a ball-kicker.
My first reaction was to tut tut, roll my eyes, say something like 'Shiver me timbers, what a fucking freak', and move on to the next advert.
But I didn't.
Something caught my imagination and made me wonder what it would feel like to intentionally kick someone in the goolies. Would it feel sexual? Or would it just feel odd? And how would it work? Would he just stand there with his legs apart and shout 'Come on you fucker, kick me where it hurts!'. And surely it would hurt, in fact it hurt me just thinking about it. But I did more than think about it, I emailed him back.
I was still thinking 'Shiver me timbers, what a freak' and wondering if I could go through with it several hours later, when Mr 'Kick Me Hard In The Balls' rang my buzzer.
I've discovered that the thing about pushing your boundaries and
doing something that you could never imagine doing usually, is that at some point you find you have an alter-ego who is more than happy to do it. It's a bit like being an actor and walking on stage in a play. You stop being yourself and become someone else, which in my case was a ball-kicker. My shy, mild-mannered, cake-baking facade melted away and before I knew it, I'd turned into a kind of sadistic, truncheon-stroking prison-officer and had this complete stranger's nads in a vice-like grip. And the more positively he responded (which he most certainly did), the more comfortable I felt and the more pleasurable it became. He had come fully equipped for his ordeal, and had brought a pair of beautiful, yellow leather boxing gloves, which I needed no encouragement to slip on. After instructing my victim to strip down to his underwear (which rather surreally was a pair of Union Jack boxer-briefs), I gave him what I thought was a pain-inducing tap.
doing something that you could never imagine doing usually, is that at some point you find you have an alter-ego who is more than happy to do it. It's a bit like being an actor and walking on stage in a play. You stop being yourself and become someone else, which in my case was a ball-kicker. My shy, mild-mannered, cake-baking facade melted away and before I knew it, I'd turned into a kind of sadistic, truncheon-stroking prison-officer and had this complete stranger's nads in a vice-like grip. And the more positively he responded (which he most certainly did), the more comfortable I felt and the more pleasurable it became. He had come fully equipped for his ordeal, and had brought a pair of beautiful, yellow leather boxing gloves, which I needed no encouragement to slip on. After instructing my victim to strip down to his underwear (which rather surreally was a pair of Union Jack boxer-briefs), I gave him what I thought was a pain-inducing tap. This is the point at which, without exception, every man I have told the story to, has turned rather pale, broken out into a cold sweat, and asked not to be told any more. Consider yourself warned.
My idea of a pain-inducing tap was met with a groan of sexual pleasure (and a serious woody), and so my taps became harder and harder, gradually turning into full-blown punches (complete with an arm-swing and a three-step run-up). This 'ball-beating', which turned out to be extremely enjoyable for both of us, lasted for well over half an hour, and would have left even the Kray Twins feeling pleased with themselves. My point is not to see how quickly I can bring tears to your eyes or to change the way you look at me forever. It's to demonstrate the ease with which, even someone like me, can take something that we imagine to be beyond our capabilities, and turn it into something which is perfectly acceptable. I found it exciting, but at the same time frightening to think how far I was capable of pushing my boundaries.
How far could you push your boundaries?
(This blog was written from the comfort of my padded cell).
