Did you know Toys R Us is closing down? That’s really sad. There’s this whole “r us” thing that’s just going to disappear, like when my parents get on a roll about ‘where’s the beef’ and I’m like what? That’s going to be me someday, all something-r-us and a snotnose brat will roll his eyes at me and say, whatever grandpa.
But we’re not there yet, so you got the R Us reference, right? Maybe not the Bator reference though, not unless you practically live on Tumblr, which I do.
Chastity Tumblr is the best. I mean, it’s totally crazy-train. I don’t know what fantasy planet some of those guys are living on, like I’m going to let Graham solder this thing onto my dick? Um, that’s a no. And it’s not the idea of permanence that scares me. It’s the idea of someone coming at me with a blowtorch or a hacksaw to get this thing back off me, because you know it’s coming off. It’s just a question of how.
But that doesn’t stop me scrolling through the pictures and drooling, even over those ones with the snapped off keys. It’s a fantasy, OK? No one’s doing it. Or at least no one’s doing it to me.
My favorite pictures are the ones where there’s the little locked up dick posed next to the big monster cock. That’s me and Graham. I asked him if I could take a picture of us and he said I couldn’t have a Tumblr because I had more important things to do and I was like, that’s not what I asked, but anyway. Don’t expect any pictures.
Also on Chastity Tumblr, sometimes there’s these big ole Doms and they’re like, you’re going to shave from head to toe and drink my piss sub-boy and I’m like LOL. You want my dick in a cage you better talk sweet to me. Graham’s my biggest fan when I’m locked up, and I’m his right back, don’t get me wrong. I’m just saying it goes both ways. That whole BDSM thing, it goes both ways. You probably knew that though, right? Those big-talking Dom dudes are basically the same as the subs who are ‘yay, I’m locked up forever.’ Just playing.
Anyway, I’ll tell you who’s not playing. Bator Tumblr. Or no, ha ha. They’re totally playing. WITH THEMSELVES. That’s what bator is short for, if you haven’t figured it out yet. Masturbator. Bators are guys who jerk off so much, they’ve made it into an art form, into its own kink, into this whole rules-based, competitive field of self-satisfaction.
I wish I’d found them back when I still had a dick to play with, except there’s no way I could compete because what makes a bator a bator is he DOESN’T COME. Yikes, right? But way hot. The idea is to get into this state, this absolute state of transfixion on your own pleasure, to hang right on the edge of it and milk it so long you never reach the end of the high you’re aiming for. Just higher, higher, deeper, deeper. Every touch—right there.
I get it. I totally get it. I wouldn’t be able to do it, not to myself, because we know who we’re talking about here. I have the self-control of a two month old puppy. But I get the concept. See, once you come, it’s done. There’s this gigantic, spectacular peak and the dramatic tumble and then blah. You go do the laundry or something.
That’s me with this cage. All week long, the beautiful buildup, endless foreplay and anticipation, all the longing and fantasizing and dreaming. Graham lets me out on Friday and pow! It’s over so fast and it’s so good but it’s over.
Saturday I’m moping around begging for more sex or sneaking off to enjoy a selfish wank, but the pow I get from that first orgasm Friday night isn’t repeatable. However many times I come the rest of the weekend, nothing compares. I’d say it’s anti-climactic except it literally is.
Once I’ve come, I need to go back in the cage, see? I need to recharge, build up that power again so I can burst like Clark Kent out of the telephone booth. Pow! Bam! Sock it to me. That might be Batman from that cheesy 70s version, not Superman, but you get what I’m saying.
So that’s why we changed the rules. I get one orgasm Friday night and then it’s back in the cage. That’s not Graham being mean to me. That’s Graham helping me—helping me make every orgasm count. I don’t want those little pop-pops I used to have. I want huge, necessary, epic orgasms. I want to pine for them like Heathcliff pined for Cathy. I want to live in a constant state of nearly-fulfilled hunger, that moment when dinner’s on the table and your fork is in your hand and you wait there, just wait there because the smell is better than the taste.
I want to know how long I can live on hope alone.