Birthday Ruminations

Tomorrow, I will be 40.  That’s generally viewed as “halfway through life”.  I feel pretty good at 40.   I definitely feel better at 40 than I felt at 10, 20, or 30.  At 10, I was dealing with being an outcast and living under the thumb of a religious nutter.  At 20, I was alone and afraid in another city, having moved far from home with no support system.  At 30, I was in the deepest depths of clinical depression.

But, 40 is pretty good.  I’ve got a decent job with health benefits, a car that was new as of 2015.  I live in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of town in a little house that is not (knock on wood) falling in.  I have advanced in my job and should be able to continue to do so.  With the help of others, I’ve created a pretty good RP sim.  I have someone who loves me and someone who lets me love them.  Life is good.  Sure, I’d like to lose some weight and learn to play the cello, but pretty much…  Things are good.

However, looking back on life so far, I thought, perhaps, I would share some thoughts on things.    Perhaps they will be of use to you.  Perhaps not.

  1. If you are lonely, don’t buy a hamster.  Hamsters don’t give a shit about you.  Hamsters are bastards.
  2. Own up to your mistakes.  People don’t trust those who believe themselves infallible.
  3. If you have a cat, never unwind a roll of fly paper near one.  It looks like a cat toy, and you will spend the next two hours figuring out how to un-fly-paper a cat.
  4. Not everyone is the smartest person they know.  Not everyone is the most attractive person they know.  Statistically, you probably won’t be either of these things.  However, there’s still an opening for the kindest person you know.  You could be that.
  5. Don’t start smoking just because your friends are fucking in your brand new bed and you suddenly need something to do to occupy time until they are done.
  6. It’s okay to compromise.  It’s not okay to compromise your ethics.
  7. Do not point a laser pointer at a man with biker tattoos.
  8. Don’t worry about what other people have.  Worry only about what they don’t have.
  9. Don’t paste a collage of penises cut from sexy magazines on your front door unless you really want to fight a Girl Scout’s angry dad.
  10. Don’t lie to look cool.
  11. You might think drawing happy faces in sharpie on random eggs in the grocery store to delight unwitting customers is quirky fun, but that’s not what the grocery store employees will think.
  12. There may be a group that makes fun of you, or talks about you behind your back, or basically implies that the things you enjoy are, in some way, bad or wrong.  Ignore those people.  Those people are bitter and empty.  Enjoy your life, and your loves, and tell everyone else to fuck off.
  13. Bitches be crazy.  Especially any bitches named “Becky” or “Tiffany”.
  14. If doctors find a lump, or an abnormality, and need to test it, but you won’t get your results for two weeks?  Don’t spend those two weeks worrying.  If it is something dreadful and terminal, you’ve spent two weeks of what could be the best time you have left anxious and afraid.  If it’s nothing, you’ve ended up worrying and stressing for no reason.
  15. Being bisexual/pansexual is a phase.  My phase has lasted a good 25 years now.  But, you know, maybe I will wake up definitively heterosexual or homosexual tomorrow.  Keeping my fingers crossed.
  16. The following people should be avoided at all costs:  People who quote Ayn Rand, people who mistreat their pets, people who use ‘I’m just honest’ as an excuse for being mean, and anyone who says ‘I’ll pray for you’.
  17. Street tacos being sold on the street are good.  ‘Street tacos’ being sold at chain restaurants are not EVER good.
  18. Don’t worry about being special, or unique.  Don’t worry about becoming famous.  There’s plenty of unique people who are fuckwads, and plenty of famous people who are assholes.
  19. Sure, it’s great stress relief to repeatedly swing a katana at a tree after your ex drains your bank account, but your neighbors WILL call the police.  Also, not so great for the tree.  Or the katana.
  20. Find a way to love yourself.  That is a thing you will always have with you.  And it is generally necessary to achieve before others can love you the way you want, and need, to be loved.

The Care of Shattered Things – A Story of Corsets

WenCorsetFinal

I like the scraping sound of corset lacing being drawn tighter. It’s an almost hollow sound – fabric being drawn tight, the laces cutting into your hands as you pull and shape and force the body to conform to sleek satin and boning and….all those stitches, tiny stitches, want to give. They want to tear so badly that you can almost hear it in your head, the sound of fabric ripping open thread by thread, those pops as each one gives and then passes its structural burden onto the next. You can almost, almost hear it. But the corset holds, the lacing is tied, and heavy ribbons drape down the back of the wearer. Breasts are lifted, waist contoured, movement inhibited. Every breath must be shallow, and as such, her predicament is ever on her mind. Rigorously fuck a person in a proper corset, and they will undoubtedly come away from the exercise deliciously shaken and made trembling by the experience.

I have never fucked Nell. In fact, I had only known her for about two weeks when we decided on a corset. She’d arrived in response to an ad, one placed in discrete circles, for a maid who could be trained in those ways pleasing to a discerning gentleman. Her name was not Nell, of course. I don’t know her real name. She became Nell the moment she stepped into the front door.

“I shall call you Nell.”

She blinked at me with those doe-like brown eyes, a little thrown off by the firmness of the comment, looking around the foyer as I slowly closed the front door, waiting for that telltale click of a latch setting into place.

“Oh but, I…maybe I don’t have the right place. My name is actually…”

She never managed to get her name out, and thank goodness, too. It would have irked me to know she was called Ashley or Madison or something of that nature. No, she was caught dumb when I took two quick steps and with one hand reaching for the back of her ill-kept hair, shoved the other over her mouth. I had pulled her backwards slightly, by her ponytail, and as such one of her arms jutted out into the air, searching for something to grab onto so that she wouldn’t fall. Her other hand curled around my wrist and tried to wrest some sort of freedom from me. She more she struggled, the more I held her firmly in place.

“Nell. Your name is Nell.”

I could tell that she had tried to pretty herself up, tried to make sense of that unruly brown hair. She’d poured herself into a knee-length black pencil-skirt, and wore the most low-cut blouse she owned. It did nothing for her, ill-fitting as it was, small as her breasts were. Her stockings were cheap, bought at some discount department store, and did nothing to accentuate her wonderfully toned calves. She wasn’t as young as some who graced my doorway, and had to be in her mid-thirties. Nonetheless, she had a way about her that had me immediately suspect someone had done something to make her afraid of the world when she was very young, and that she didn’t want to be afraid anymore.

I set her upright onto her feet and released her. She panted to catch her breath, a hand pressed to her throat. I knew that this was the first of several deciding moments. I had not locked the door, and with me standing to her left like I was, she easily could have bolted, made it outside, and run away.

She did not bolt. Instead she just kept her gaze lowered enough that she surely could see no higher than my kneecaps as she said, “Ah…um…okay. If…. If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” I said, turning to hold a hand out and direct her towards the parlor, “This way please, Nell.”

My last maid had left my service some weeks prior. There was no falling out, I’d simply found a better situation for her, in Paris, with a colleague who had grown particularly fond of her. I had a feeling she was in for a very, very long plane ride, considering the distinctly vibrant shade of purple her ass had turned after I’d given her an excellent volley of goodbye swats with a rattan cane.

I sat on the Chesterfield, and motioned for her to make herself comfortable on the divan opposite. Our interview progressed quite speedily, with her satisfying so many of my questions more by her body language than her words. Poor posture kept her hunched slightly forward. She remained always drawn in upon herself, clutching a small leather purse. Her knees were locked tight, legs crossed at the ankle. Occasionally, she would tug absently on a certain lock of her hair as she spoke. The details of her life are…unimportant to really get into deeply, other than that she revealed she’d worked for a maid service before, but she wanted something “different”, and that she could cook. Cooking was a must. I’m a terrible cook.

“This is all quite satisfactory, Nell. There are just a few more things before you are hired.”

“Of course, Mr. Hargrave.”

“Please stand up and remove all of your clothing.”

She cringed. Not much, because surely she knew what kind of position she was applying for, but enough that I knew she was dreading it in some small fashion. A natural reaction from most people, but then…most people do not apply to be this kind of a maid.

She stood and reached behind herself to find the zipper for her skirt. I always do love watching a woman unzip a tight skirt from behind, the way it pulls back her arms and thrusts out her chest a bit… The way it so often reminds me of binding their arms behind them. Her hips wiggled, just slightly, as she pushed the skirt down. Even though her blouse fell into place to cover everything indecent, I immediately noticed that besides the cheap stockings which clung to her thighs, she wore nothing underneath that skirt.

Perhaps she was not quite as much of an innocent as I had deduced.

“No panties, Nell?”

She blushed, and stammered as she undid the buttons of her blouse. “N…no, Mr. Hargrave, I…didn’t think… I mean the seams….with such a tight skirt…”

“Ah. I see.” That was too bad, in a way. I like panties. You can tell ever so much about a woman by her panties. “What do you know about me, Nell? What have you been told about this position?”

“Well, I… I…know that you’re a novelist. And ah…it’s said that you…certain people in Hollywood and politicians…come to you….to help them become more confident and…stuff like that.” She was skirting the truth, surely enough, and trembling as she paused in her undressing.

“Go on,” I prompted, meaning both the undressing and in her answer to my questions.

“They say you’re very stern,” she said softly, finally letting the silk blouse slip over her shoulders and onto the divan. Her bra followed it shortly, a lacy thing in a nude tone. Not that there was really much need for it. Her breasts were small enough not to have suffered the effects of gravity much as of yet. She let her arms hang to her sides, rather than cover herself, but I could tell from the way her fingers twitched that she wanted nothing more than to cross them over her chest. She had one of those vaguely underfed looking bodies that women favor these days, in an attempt to look like all the magazines. Her pelvic bones stuck out a bit from it. The prospect of fattening her up a bit delighted me. Already I was imagining feeding tubes pumping her full to bursting, her little stomach becoming rounded and distended and painful. The shamed look on her face shortly later when she was forced to beg to be given the key to the restroom. “They say you’re twisted and…perhaps even…cruel.”

“They would likely be right,” I replied briskly. I stood and crossed the room, heading to a small writing desk against the wall. Papers procured, I brought them over to Nell and dropped it, and an inkpad, on the coffee table. “This is your contract. Make certain to read it thoroughly, and then sign, print, date and fingerprint it. If, after reading it, you refuse, then please collect your things and see yourself out. Johan will be by shortly with your uniform.”

“Yes Mr. Hargrave,” she said to my feet. And in response those feet carried me to the door.

This was going to be an interesting one.

————————————————-

I’ve always liked my initials. O. H. H. Ohh. Like a pretty little moan. I put them on my towels. I have it in my hat. And it’s embroidered in my handkerchiefs which are currently…. “Pink?”

“Master?” Johan was wearing nothing but a frilly apron. A suspiciously pink apron. I’m pretty sure that apron was white last week. He was washing dishes and I was drinking tea in the kitchen. I tend to take breakfast there rather than the formal dining room simply because it has a huge bay window that overlooks the back garden.

“Why are my handkerchiefs….pink?”

“An incident with the laundry, Master.”

I might have also liked the fact that Johan was an exceptionally short person. So short that he had to stand on his toes to properly wash the dishes. Pretty soon he’d be standing on his toes all the time, but the postal carrier was being slow about delivering the new shoes.

Johan is, ostensibly, my butler. Really, he’s more like my personal assistant, but that’s just because he’s been with me the longest.

I did wonder why Johan was doing the dishes now that Nell had been hired.

“What do you think of Nell so far?”

“She’s shy. And sweet. And kind of clumsy.” Johan’s ass flexed as he hopped up to grab a scrub brush on a high hook. My teacup clinked just a little harder than I wished as I put it down on the table.

“Clumsy enough to drop something red into the laundry basket?”

There was a short silence, and eventually Johan knew he couldn’t get out of answering the question. “Yes, Master. I promised her that I wouldn’t say anything.”

“Hm.” I opened up the newspaper. Sometimes I think I may be one of the last humans alive to read a newspaper. I can’t get out of the habit. Maybe I’m addicted to the smell of it. “Where is she now?”

“Sitting room, I think.”

“Good, good.” I flipped to the classifieds. “Add ten swats of the belt to your tally for not telling me.”

“…Yes, Master.”

Johan hates that belt. It’s got metal studs in it. The welts it leaves are remarkable.

Minutes passed, and I sipped my tea, reading over the obituaries. I feel it’s disrespectful not to. A person’s whole life condensed into a paragraph or two. I can spare a few seconds of my time to acknowledge someone’s passing. I’d just begun learning about the life of Mr. Albert Walter Beech when the sound of a crash had me looking up sharply, and Johan looking over his shoulder.

“Sitting room,” we both said, in unison, as I rose to my feet.

I found Nell on the floor, crying, next to the replica Daum crystal vase. Or what was left of it. Thank the gods it was only a replica. It meant the difference between a few hundred dollars….and twenty thousand. But Nell was crying like she’d not only broken the vase, but killed the maker and his entire family and then did indecent things to their corpses. There were deep, heaving sobs that wracked her whole body, and she had buried his face in her hands. Every now and then, I could hear the word ‘sorry’, but everything else was nigh-hysterical.

Someone had done something unkind to this woman. Someone who, most likely, had some control over her at some point. Maybe a parent, or a lover. On rare occasions, it’s a teacher or a sibling. But someone with control over her had used that control in a monstrous way. And now, every little thing that went wrong destroyed her world and made her fear retribution. Such horrible retribution that she fell apart, shattered as completely as the vase. Considering the hysterics she dissolved into, I almost couldn’t fault Johan for keeping the secret.

Normally, if one of my employees broke something of mine, I’d do something pretty horrible to them. But this? This was different. So far, I’d mostly let Nell be, for lack of time rather than anything else.

I gathered her up, pulling her into my arms and literally lifting her off the floor. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and five pounds soaking wet. She was wearing a maid’s uniform, and I don’t mean some mockery of one. It came down just below her knees, and was paired with sensible shoes. The fabric was stain resistant and washable. I wanted her to feel comfortable. She didn’t look like a woman who had ever, in the whole of her life, felt comfortable.

“I didn’t….didn’t mean…I’m so sorry…I know I’m clumsy, I’ll…”

“Yes,” I said firmly, “You are clumsy, Nell.”

This sent her into a new fit of sobbing, most of the tears ending up darkening the front of my suit. This is fine. In my line of work, one learns quickly to have one’s suits stain-guarded, and besides, a few tears never hurt anything.

“You are clumsy, but you do not have to be clumsy. The vase is a lost cause. You, however, are not.” I glance to the side, where I expect Johan to be, and indeed, there he is. “Johan…the white set, please.”

The master bathroom of Hargrave Manor fits the term in every sense. The heated floors and countertops are done in storm-cloud colored Etruscan marble, with Florence glass sinks. There’s a wide, open-layout shower into which I’ve had stainless steel rails and rings, as well as an overhead beam with load-bearing capabilities. Throughout the manor, really, there are such things, because you never really know where you may need to chain someone or tie off a rope, or rig a pulley. Besides the toilet, the bidet, the sink, shower and massive bath, there is a wooden bench long enough to seat two comfortably, or one if she’s laying on her stomach. This is where I carefully place Nell, arranging her carefully as her sniffles begin to subside. She draws in on herself, shrinking and cowering, eyes ever on the floor.

I am at times a cruel man, and almost always a stern one, but this has not so much to do with a dislike of those around me as a love of them. The are people in the world who need certain things that are not always available to them. Johan needs to be forced to dress like a girl. He hates it, and at the same time, he loves it. Nell needs something to hold her together. Something to be a constant reminder to take care with her movements and decisions. Nell needs a corset.

I try to explain, sometimes, to others, that this isn’t always about sex, or beauty, or degradation or some sort of power rush that I might get from being in control of others. Sure, those things enter into the equation sometimes. I’m not going to deny being a sadist, a pervert, a general lecherous bastard. But at the core of things, something else is happening here. Nell needs care. She needs someone to take control of her life, which has been spinning out of control for some time. She needs someone who will do this in the right way, trustworthy and without mind-games, so that she can feel secure and safe.

But what is it that I need? Why do I do this?

I need to express care. That is what keeps me whole, and shows me that I can, indeed, be a good person who has a positive effect on the lives of others. Having someone to care for, and having responsibilities towards those people, keeps me from slipping into a state of emotional coldness. I have been there, in the depths of apathy towards my fellow humans, seeing only the negativity in the world and shutting myself off from the ability to care about those who might need help. It’s easier, always, to not give a damn. But it’s also dangerous for my own mental health. Taken too far, I come to care so little for others, for myself, that I don’t care about damaging anyone around me, or, in truth, about damaging myself. Without someone to care for, I am lost.

In the end, I benefit from this arrangement as much as Nell.

Johan brings the white set in a lovely faux-satin box. White is extraordinarily sexy, but also quite practical. Nell is prone to spilling, I’d think, and to bumping into things, and the pristine whiteness and delicacy of the lace will immediately show any discoloration or damage. I will know if she hasn’t been careful.

And this is how I find myself lacing a white corset onto a crying woman. Crying and corsets generally do not go well together. The former pushes you to sob, quake and gasp, and the latter struggles against that kind of movement. Fairly soon, Nell quiets herself, because the pressure demands it, demands one to recognize what is being done to one’s body. A stillness begins to take hold in her. For so long, her life has been a whirlwind of fear and anxiety, and the feeling that she might, at any moment, ruin something else. The corset will help to pull her mind away from chewing on itself, and force her to concentrate, every moment, every breath, on what she is doing. Here and now. This second.

I can hear just a faint scrape of her fingernails against the marble of the bench every time I pull one of those laces just a little more. But the crying has stopped. And when finally those laces are draped down her back, I motion for Johan to come and fix her hair whilst I tend to washing her face. There’s something tender about washing another person’s face. It’s a thing that we don’t usually have others do for us past childhood. It’s a kind of intimacy that internet porn videos can’t relay. You do not need to stick your dick in someone to be intimate with them.

The shoes that I take out of the box are…difficult things. They are certainly not the most brutal pair of shoes by any means, but I don’t think Nell has ever quite worn anything like them. The heels are extreme, and she will be in constant danger of falling. I’ll have to watch her carefully for quite a few weeks to come. I do not mind this.

Spend hours upon hours watching a lovely woman totter carefully around my manor in a corset, panties, and heels? No, please. Who will save me from such a truly wretched fate?

When Johan has finished her hair and makeup, and I’ve fitted her into her stockings and shoes, I carefully pull her to her feet, for now giving her my arm as a crutch. She’s expectedly wobbly.

“How do you feel, Nell?”

I walk her to the full length mirror, so she can see what she’s become. The sobbing has made her face bright underneath the makeup, giving her a glow that can not really otherwise be obtained. It is enhanced by her blushing, probably in regards to the scandalous nature of the outfit. Her panties are just sheer enough to give a hint of her barely-hidden sex. Truly, the panties were completely unnecessary for this exercise. They just go with the outfit and are mouth-watering in the way the flimsy material clings to her skin.

“I feel afraid, Mr. Hargrave. But…in a different way. More like excited butterflies in my stomach than…” She stops, half because she can’t find the word, and half because her left ankle seems to wobble, causing her to lean hard against my side.

“Dread?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, as I help her to right herself. “And I feel…I feel like…” She has to stop to catch her breath. What comes out after is a purr, quiet but wrapped with more confidence than I’ve heard Nell yet display. “I feel sexy. Really sexy.”

“That you are, Nell. That you are.”

(Thank you to Daeberethwen Arbenlow for posing for the picture.  And to Ziekling Bunnyhug for posing for the original picture, which I lost when my computer cratered.)

The Minds of the Roleplayers

cotton

I am always just astounded by the minds of the roleplayers at Convergence.  They come up with things that make me stop and just go wide-eyed with astonishment.  I find myself constantly saying, “I…never thought of that.”  They create new spells and scenarios that I could have never imagined.  They debate lore points passionately.  They make the world theirs.

I guess the feeling of that is a little like a parent seeing a child go off and make friends of their own, go to school, develop their own personalities separate from what you could have ever imagined.  I’m not 100% sure, really.  But, I find it amazing.  And I’m glad, and a little sad, when I know that the game as a whole has grown beyond a single cheeping chick, and become a whole flock of birds soaring towards an unknown destination.  Or a whole flock of ducks, I suppose.  Silly metaphor, but there you have it.

Anyway, these are pictures of two of our players in the costumes they made for a production they put on, IC, in the sim’s theater district.  It was an AMAZING show, with choreography, and sets and costumes, and I had missed the second number because my computer crashed.  I was bummed beyond belief.  But they let me come see an encore, and take a few pictures then, so huzzah!

cottoneo

New Years Resolutions

Last year, I sat down and made a list of New Years Resolutions.  I wanted to make some changes in my life, because I felt like my life was in an abyss of pointlessness.  And I did pretty good with a lot of those resolutions.  These are the ones I managed to complete:

1) Sell my house and move to an apartment.

2) Quit smoking. (I have not smoked in 2014!)

3)Take at least one class to advance my professional career and get a certification.  (I took two classes, and received a certification.)

4) Get a raise.  (I got two raises.)

5) Start working out regularly.  (I’m still not perfect about this, but I manage to do it several times a week.)

6) Get my teeth fixed. (I have gotten some of them fixed.  Two root canals later, I need two crowns and like one more filling.)

7) Make inroads into fighting my Depression and anxiety by sticking to my pills, doing breathing exercises, taking vitamins, and taking care of myself.  Did OK on this one.

Unfortunately, I did not manage to fulfill all of my resolutions.  I did not lose the amount of weight I intended.  And I was not a better lover and support to my former partner, resulting in me losing a relationship I truly cherished.  I also did not find another job.

This Year:

1) I wish to continue with the things I began last year.  I will continue to work out and take care of myself to the best of my ability.  I will continue exercising and eating right, and attempt to lose the rest of the weight I intended.

2) I will either get my car fixed or get a new car.

3) I will get more professional training, at least two more classes and one more certification, in the hopes that I can eventually move towards getting a new job in 2016.

4) I will work hard, but I will work harder on not letting my job, or my hobbies, stress me out.

5) I will work to make Convergence an amazing sim which will still be in operation at the end of next year.

6) I will start writing again, regularly, and have at least half of a novel written by the end of 2015.

7) I will express my emotions more, endeavor to trust those around me, and be a better friend to those I know.

8) I will attempt to reach out to people with friendship, both in SL and RL, instead of being so withdrawn and insular.

Well, that seems like a lot of things, but hopefully, I can make as many inroads into these things this year as I did with things last year, and avoid catastrophes this time.

I hope you are all having a very wonderful evening, and a Happy New Years to you all, each and every one!

I Didn’t Order Any Whistles.

It is my goal in life to someday, with words, give as much comfort and encouragement to someone as Mister Rogers did for me as a child.  I want to create an environment which so openly encourages creativity and imagination.  I want to pull people away from their world, and whatever worries and hurts and burdens they have, and just for a while, take them on an adventure.  We will go to a place far away, and before we come back, I will give them a piece to keep in their hearts.  So that no matter where they go, or what ills may befall them, they will always have that to hold.

That’s what I want to do with my life.

Convergence: TLC Update

I think I will start using my blog to write out my updates as far as the progression of Convergence:TLC goes.  I hate to spam people with NCs inworld.  And hopefully if it’s not something you’re interested in, you can just scroll past it in your blog reader.  I’ll try not to have them more than weekly, even though I’m so excited now, and things are going so quickly, that I could probably update every other day!

So what’s new?  Well, first and foremost, we have a sim!  It’s a whole sim, though only 3/4ths of it will be used for Convergence.  The rest will be parceled out for residential rentals or skybox shops. These parcels, if rented, will give you full parcel rights.  You can change the name of the parcel, the music.  There will be some restrictions in that:

A) You will only be able to put skyboxes in the 1000-1400m or above 2500m zones so that they are not in view of the city platform.

B) You will have to accept our sim-surround.  (It’s actually very beautiful, with trees and mountains and whatnot.)

C) Anything you put on the ground level will need to either fit our sim theme or not be excessively tall so that it can’t be seen over the landscaped wall.  So, no castles.

D) Scripts need to be kept within a decent range.

I would extremely prefer these parcels to go to players or friends of the sim.  We already have one person on the waiting list.  The parcels have 850-950 prims each, and will probably cost 1.8 the amount of prims.  So a 900 prim parcel is going to be 1620L per week.  Might be a good deal for hardcore RPers who want to live on their RP sim, and possibly have their own houses or groups.

If you’re interested in getting one, shoot me an IM inworld, and I’ll add you to the list.  The rental system isn’t set up yet, but should be very soon.

What else?

1) I have a vague map/plan for the ground level.  The ground level will include the harbor, the gypsy camp, and the hideout for the smuggler/scavenger group.  It’ll be somewhat scenic in places, and a bit scary in others.  I need “haunted forest” type trees and items for this area.

2) Factions are being worked on.  You can see them on the factions page as they get added.  There are seven factions associated with races, and three that are “up for grabs” so to speak.  You do not have to join your race’s faction if you can convince another race’s faction to let you join.  However, your character will have to realize that there may be consequences for allying with another race.  You may be ostracized among your race, or even hunted.  Race factions that accept outside races will have to realize that those outsiders might be spies or saboteurs.

3) New admins have been added, and you can see who they are on the admin page.  i’m quite excited to have Hephaesteon with us doing the promotional items.  Katrynablanchard going to be helping out with applications, which is The Worst Job Ever, so bless her for that.  We have Manjezon, Pryar Kirax and Kurai Thei so far for the Race/Faction leads.  There are still plenty of positions open, and we need all the help we can get, especially for applications and faction leaders.

4) Things that are pending:  Building the city mockup and calculating prims.  Magic and skills.  Applications and forms. Deciding on an XP system, if any, and   Finding a new system for the LZ dropbox.  Builds that I know I need but definitely do not have: A theater.  A club.  (We have the club from the first CV, but I’d like to do something different this time.)

5) If you want to come visit the sim while building is in progress, feel free.  The sky platform is here.  And the ground level is here.  I will likely be AFK often if I am there.

Happiness

I am alive, and I feel glorious. Last Wednesday, when I opened the door to go to work, the first crisp clean bite of winter air shocked me into a sudden revelry of the senses. The kind of joy I so often avoid in my life has seized me and won’t let go, infecting me with the wish to wear my jaunty winter peacoat and walk somewhere. Anywhere. To let the sharp breeze wrap around me and steal my breath, like a long-lost lover’s brutal kiss. I wish to stand at the final edge of something, anything. A forest. A field. A cliff. A road. I want to hold someone’s hand, their face, their heart, and pour my love into them. Oh, they need not be a romantic interest. I wouldn’t mind a stranger. A child. An animal. An elder. “Let me give you love! Let me give you hope! Let me give you laughter and awe! I have plenty, and I want to share it. That’s not weird. That’s how things SHOULD be, but can’t be, but could be just a little more…. If we wanted. If we tried. If caring and sharing didn’t make you vulnerable in a way that draws dark hearts to take advantage.”

Happiness is kind of a weird emotion. I don’t experience it often. I fake it often — I think most of us do. But, I think most people strive to be happy. That’s what they want in their lives. They are in pursuit of happiness, whatever that might mean, for a great deal of their lives.

But I was initially diagnosed as “Clinically Depressed” as a child. When I was six years old. My father and stepmother decided that: A) I spent too much time with imaginary entities, and seemed to have no friends. B) I cried too much, often alone in my own room to seemingly no stimuli, and C) I was eccentric. Weird. Odd. Strange. So, they took me to a shrink. Psychiatrists for children are…interesting. This one played board games with me and had me draw pictures. She eventually told my parents that, although I had an active and lively imagination, I was behaving correctly in response to the conditions in my life. The reason I had no friends was because my parents had joint custody of me, and I switched schools every year as they passed me back and forth. I did not go to the same school for two years in a row until High School. It’s hard to make lasting friendships that way. And the reason I cried a lot was because I probably had a chemical imbalance, and my stepmother was a horrible bitch. I’m sure the shrink used some term other than “horrible bitch”, but she did suggest that my father and stepmother start come seeing her. My stepmother could not accept that she might be part of the problem and, shortly thereafter, I was pulled from therapy. I was given no medication. It was not really something that was done much, in 1982, medicating a child for depression. There weren’t a lot of things on the market for it. (Prozac wasn’t approved for the treatment of depression until 1987.) The general thought was, “You’ll grow out of it.”

I did not grow out of it.

To me, happiness is an almost frightening emotion. It’s foreign and seemingly unattainable, but it’s something I am told I should seek. I might as well look for unicorns. Or the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Or sensible logic in a Fox News story. Happiness is…a fragile addiction. People do no end of drugs to just feel somewhere in the vicinity of it. For the same reason that people do not like to get addicted to drugs, I am wary of becoming addicted to happiness. Because when you lose it, when it is crushed or taken away, you crash hard. And you will do anything to have it again. We are…addicted to the chemicals in our brain that signal joy. How do we escape wanting to pursue that? It should be impossible.

I seem to have escaped it, somehow, by having been depressed all my life. When your baseline experience for your life is, “I feel miserable completely independent of any rational reason to feel that way”, your perception gets a little skewed.  You stop pursuing happiness and just look forward to the days that are a little less miserable.  Days where you aren’t just trying to make it through without the feeling that someone is sucking the air out of the world.  I stopped looking for happiness and just prayed for numb.  Numb would be so much better.  And eventually, I found the numbness I sought.

And then that became normal.

All my life, I wavered between miserable and numb, teeter-tottering back and forth. Happiness didn’t enter the equation. I just wanted to be normal. /Feel/ normal. But I wasn’t sure there was a normal. Maybe everyone else felt like this all the time and they just….were stronger than me. Braver. Or at the very least, better actors. They knew some secret I did not know, some coping method. Something.  My mind was screaming at me, “For fuck’s sake!  There is nothing wrong with you.  You have a job, and a car, and a warm bed and decent health.  Put on your Big Boy Britches and walk it off!  There are people in Rwanda getting limbs hacked off and for some reason, you can’t even manage to buy groceries.  What is your freaking problem?”

People are taught to want happiness.  To want to enjoy life.  But almost nothing we ever teach them gives them any instruction on HOW to enjoy life.  “Stop and smell the roses” doesn’t quite cover it.  There are so many things we don’t give people any data on.  How to relax.  How to be happy.  How to ask for help.  How to be alone.  How to face your fears.  How to move past trauma.  These things we just expect people to know how to do.  Save for the alone one, I didn’t know how to do most of them for most of my life.

I have been trying to learn these things for a long time.  I have, hopefully, made some progress.  There’s medication every day, vitamins, exercise.  Meditation.  Keeping to a good sleeping schedule.  Recognizing stress points and avoiding them.  It’s been a slow uphill battle.

This past week though, has been one of the most amazing weeks of my life.  I don’t even know why.  Well, I did get a raise, that was nice.  But, other than that, it’s been like any other week.  I’ve just been overjoyed and weirdly elated all week.  I’m beginning to worry there’s something wrong with me.  Being this happy NEVER happens for such a long period of time.  I feel like a person who has been climbing a hill on a bike and am finally going “wheeee” as I pass the summit.  The only problem with that is, you eventually end up back on the bottom.

And I’m tired of the bottom.  I’ve spent almost 40 years down there.

I don’t want to go back.  I refuse to go back.

I’m armed with happiness now.  WHEEEEE, motherfucker!  WHEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Kindness.

Some people say that I am too nice.  They tell me that I am a doormat or easily manipulated by others.  They tell me that I forgive too easily, or want to see the goodness in people so badly that I am blind to their faults.  That I try too hard to make others happy while allowing myself to be miserable.  I think about these claims often.  I take them very seriously.  Much of my time is spent in private contemplation of the world, of myself, of others.

There are things about myself I do not know how to change.  There are things about myself I am afraid to change.  And there are things about myself I simply do not wish to change.  I think that these are usually the obstacles to self-improvement in people, rather than an inability TO change.  I do not like the phrase “people never change”, because I think that’s the most depressing idea in the world.  That we are static, condemned to repeat the same patterns in our own lives forever.  Everything in the world changes, not always quickly and not always for the better, but it is a constant which is undeniable.

The thing is, I’m not a very nice person.  Or I….wasn’t.  I still may not be, I don’t know.  For a long time.  In my youth, my teens and twenties, I was very angry and very cruel, and very cold.  I still am, to a large degree, that person.  I watched as I destroyed the people around me, hurt them with sharp words and insensitivity, condescended to them harshly for their shortcomings in the name of self-righteousness, self-importance, and a sense of superiority.  I hurt people to get laughs.  I ruined people’s lives because they hurt me.

Until finally….I hurt a few people very, very deeply in ways that I am still ashamed to reflect upon.

I decided…I didn’t want to be that person anymore.  So I went on a quest to change myself.  I had to learn how to temper my sharp tongue and my inherent rage.  I had to figure out how to hide how cold of a person I was and instead express some sort of genuine warmth.  I had to learn how to listen to find out how people were hurting, why they were hurting, instead of always forcing them to deal with my hurts.  I had to figure out how to connect with others in a way that wasn’t based on cattiness or belittling others.  But, I didn’t know how to begin this process.

I read a lot of books, many of them on Buddhism and Taoism, a few on Christianity and some on various forms of magical practice.  I’ve always been very interested in religions, and I like to study them extensively.  I’m not that big into the concept of God, but I do think that there must be some wisdom in each separate form of worship.  Something attracts people to these concepts.  Maybe it is small, but it must be there.  Those words which bring enlightenment, or self-realization, or peace, or just simply offer a path to live in a better way.  For me, it was a single section in a single book that changed my life.  I can only paraphrase it to you, sadly, but it went something like this….

The author spoke of how dreary and horrible his life had become.  How boss was cruel to him, but he couldn’t leave his job because he had a family and a wife ill with cancer.  He was falling into debt.  He saw his dreams of becoming a writer becoming less and less likely.  He was angry all the time not only about his life, but about the world he saw around him, and that anger was poisoning not only his last few months with his wife, but his relationships with his children.

He felt trapped.  There was nothing he could really do about his life situation, he felt.  He couldn’t get a new job, and he couldn’t cure his wife.  He couldn’t change the ills he saw in the world.  He couldn’t force publishers to put out his books.  What could he do at all?  What could he do?

The only thing, in the end, that he found he could do was change /himself/ and how he reacted to the world.  He had no power over the world around him.   He had no power to change any other person or thing.  But he could, at the very least, change how he interacted with the world around him, how he dealt with it, how he coped with it, how he found joy in it or let go of the pain of it.  He began meditation, even though he didn’t have much time, practicing it while doing chores or in waiting rooms while he waited for his wife’s chemo treatments.  He started riding his bike to work instead of taking the bus, using that exercise to help work off his anger as well as keep him in better health.  Slowly, his relationship with his children improved, and together they were able to make the sick wife more comfortable during her last months.  When she passed away, he was not spared grief, but he was at least spared knowing that his wife left the world seeing the worst side of him, or worrying about how her family would stay together after she was gone.  The insights he gained allowed him to write an inspiring book, which was published and allowed him to finally leave his horrible job.

Some people call this “the power of positive thinking”.  I think that’s fucking bullshit.  Positive thinking doesn’t do jack shit.  “The power of positive acting”, however, does.

“Positive acting” is most difficult at the beginning.  Especially if you are in a self-destructive mindset or have problems such as Clinical Depression.  I will tell you from experience, Depression makes this shit almost impossible.  Because on top of changing ingrained patterns, you are pushing against a mountainous wall of sadness or hopelessness or numbness.  For me, it had to start in very small steps, because I had sunk very, very low.  One day, I said, “Okay.  I will get up, and I will walk to the mailbox.  I can do that today.”  And so I did.  And the next day, I said, “Okay, I made it to the mailbox.  Today I will make it to the streetlight.”  And I did.  The next day, it was to the end of the block.  If I missed a day, I didn’t push myself.  I repeated the previous day’s action to make sure I could still do that, and then waited until the next day to go further.  This is a fairly common way to go about things, and I am sure you have heard it before, but I found it quite useful.

I pulled myself out of my anger, and years later, pulled myself out of my depression.  But, these things are still in me.  I’m not free of them.  Maybe I will never be free of them.  So I fight.  I fight every single day.  I struggle.  I try.  I try to see that others are struggling too.  I try to find joy by bringing joy to others. I try to enact kindness in the world.  And I fail, often.  For in me, there is selfishness, and coldness, and cruelty, and all sorts of broken, terrible shit.

I overcompensate, a lot, for certain things.  When it takes me a long time to reply, that’s often because I’m trying to make sure I’m not answering from a place of anger or hurt.  (Or because I want to make sure not to cause unintentional damage, especially in emotional situations.)  When I see someone I have a bad reaction to, I try to take extra time to get to know them, and find out why they act the way they do, or how my perception of them might have been skewed.  And I do try to let go of old issues between myself and others.  (Though truthfully, I’m really not all that forgiving.  I just have such bad memory problems that I can’t always remember much about the initial falling out or why I was so angry or upset with them in the first place.)

I am sorry if the way I behave has inadvertently caused pain to others.  If it is done because I am oblivious, or do not take into consideration the feelings of others, then I will often change my behavior if this is pointed out to me.  But, for the most part, I am happy with this approach to the world.  I will continue to attempt to refine and improve upon it.  For that is the trademark, i think, of a good Way…that it changes according to new input and that it, along with you, evolves.

I meant to put something in this ramble about being kind to yourself, and forgiving yourself, but I guess that will have to wait for another day.

Anyway, this has been a lot of rambling, and I can not imagine anyone has read to the end of this crap.  Nonetheless, I shall leave you with a poem that I think about often:

Please Call Me By My True Names
By Thich Nhat Hanh
 
 
Don’t say that I will depart tomorrow–even today I am still arriving.
 
Look deeply: every second I am arriving to be a bud on a Spring branch, to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings, learning to sing in my new nest, to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower, to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.
 
I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry, to fear and to hope. The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death of all that is alive.
 
I am a mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river. And I am the bird that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.
 
I am a frog swimming happily in the clear water of a pond. And I am the grass-snake that silently feeds itself on the frog.
 
I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones, my legs as thin as bamboo sticks. And I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to Uganda.
 
I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat, who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea pirate. And I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving.
 
I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my hands. And I am the man who has to pay his “debt of blood” to my people dying slowly in a forced-labor camp.
 
My joy is like Spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth. My pain is like a river of tears, so vast it fills the four oceans.
 
Please call me by my true names, so I can hear all my cries and laughter at once, so I can see that my joy and pain are one.
 
Please call me by my true names, so I can wake up and the door of my heart could be left open, the door of compassion.
 
This poem is from “Call Me By My True Names” The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh. Parallax Press

Waterproof Cyberboy

Waterproof Cyberboy

 

“But, I’ll short circuit,” he murmured, looking at the enormous tank with apprehension.  He’d been afraid of water since he lost his arms to that shark.  When the Doctor began to upgrade him, he assumed that was one less thing for him to have to worry about — ever going in the water again.

 

“I am fairly certain that your new waterproofing will hold.  But, we must test it.  I can’t have you breaking down every time it rains or someone spills a glass of water on you.”

 

7C.20X, who the Doctor just revered to in his slightly accented tone as “Svensi”, curled his segmented fingers, holding onto his upper arms as if he might have a chill.  He could feel his emotions subroutine going haywire, sending the signal of ‘fear’ over and over to his core processing unit as he looked around the posh ballroom.  Svensi had never been in this part of the castle before, much to his chagrin.  The magnificent ballroom looked as if it could hold hundreds of people, both on the ground floor and in the more private balconies above.  There were huge chandeliers and red velvet drapes so heavy they looked like they could smother a person should they fall.  There was a place for a small orchestra, raised just above the grand entrance, a bar accented in polished brass and on the wall opposite the bar, the massive tank.  Inside, strange plants glowed and swayed as the exotic fish made their perpetual loops around their watery prison.  Svensi had to admit, it was definitely a spectacle.  But he did like when the Doctor put him on display for important people to look at.  And the most important people were going to be at THIS party.  The Doctor was to be given an award for research in cybernetics.

 

“Ya,” the Doctor said, his Austrian accent thick as he bent forward to check the oxygen flow on the special mask he’d designed just for this purpose, “You will be a good boy, and swim during the party, hm?  Just do not swim close to Matilda, no?”  He motioned towards the giant lifeform in the far end of the tank.  It looked like a sea anemone crossed with a giant black octopus had become stuck to the glass wall of the tank.  The thing was almost the size of Svensi.  “She is a, how you say, very sensitive girl.”

 

But, truthfully, Svensi wasn’t really listening.  He was just imagining how marvelous he would look swimming in the tank.

 

 

On the day of the party, Svensi beamed the entire afternoon.  He’d already had two test swims, both without incident, and even he was amazed how quickly he’d taken to the water.  Before the shark, he’d loved the water.  Once in the tank, he eagerly swam to and fro, doing flips and spins, dashing from one end of the tank to the other.  It was an amazing vantage point from which to watch the party.  Occasionally, people would stop in front of the tank, conversing and motioning towards him as they sipped their champagne, almost always giving him a smile before turning away to mingle some more.  The chill of the water had his nipples hard, and they weren’t alone.  Thanks to the Doctor’s modifications, Svensi didn’t really experience shrinkage from cold water.  No, quite the opposite.   He was aware, of course, that the Doctor could, by a small, hand-held remote control, activate sexual responses in his body, but he had no idea what was what was going on that evening.  And even if he did know, Svensi would not much have cared.  He would have done anything for the Doctor, anything for the man who gave him back his arms and the ability to see in both eyes again.  If the Doctor wanted him to swim around with a raging erection, then that is exactly what Svensi was prepared to do.

 

Still, it appeared to shock a couple of older women as he swam past them.  They turned red and laughed a little behind their hands as he waved, and then did a backflip, arching backwards in his terribly tight white latex pants, causing his groin to become just that much more pronounced.  One of the women almost snorted her own drink, and her two friends ended up fanning her and alternately giving Svensi dirty looks and inquisitive ones.

 

The excitement kept him going, but once a downward dive caused his left nipple to brush against one of the gently glowing stalks of seaweed, it was all over.  A yelp, and a flinch caused a pressure-flattened bubble to escape his mask and mosey its way to the surface.  The seaweed was, it seemed, just the faintest bit abrasive, like extraordinarily fine-grained sand-paper.  But the edge of it, oh, the edges were sharp things.  And so when Svensi dove again, in an attempt to feel that titillating scrape of abrasive seaweed against his nipple, he instead caught the edge of the thing, causing a slight cut, no worse than a bad papercut, but oh so painful upon such a sensitive spot.  The blood that leaked from it was so very little that it immediately dispersed into the greater body of fluid.  Nonetheless, as Svensi brought a hand to his chest and whimpered, the sound distorting in the water, he had no idea of what was happening behind him.

 

Black tentacles with violet tips extended rapidly towards Svensi as Matilda detached from the wall of the tank and shot through the water, sleek as a bullet.  One of the women watching the display screamed, dropping her champagne flute.  The resulting sound of shattering glass drew many eyes towards the tank just in time to see the Doctor’s strange sea creature wrap dark tentacles around Svensi.

 

“Oh my GOD!” someone screamed, “That thing is trying to EAT that poor boy!”

 

Within seconds, however, it became abundantly clear that Matilda intended to do no such thing.  Thick, pulsating tentacles sought out any orifice they could find, and when they couldn’t find any, they slithered and groped their way into those latex pants.  A specialized tentacle with an opening at one end fit itself around Svensi’s cock and began to pulsate.  The cyborg, terrified, flailed and thrashed, but Matilda was having nothing of it.  She forced down his mask and shoved one of her thicker tentacles into his mouth, immediately releasing the same chemical she used to paralyze her prey.

 

“No, no.  This is not eating,” the Doctor said as he come over to stand next to the horrified women.  “Matilda, she is ready to become mother, no?  But, there are no creatures like her.  Is very sad, so…I engineer Svensi to carry seed, hm?  This is not eating, this is mating.  This is miracle of life.”

 

Svensi’s eyes grew wide as he saw the Doctor come into view, and look not at all panicked or even remotely inclined to remove him from the situation.  Rapidly, onlookers gathered, intrigued by the show, watching through the pristine glass as the tentacles manipulated Svensi’s limbs, ripped at his clothes, roughly milked his cock and fucked his ass.  The pain was phenomenal, and Svensi writhed, humiliated to have so many people watch as the strange sea creature violated him over and over, relentlessly, until she had extracted what she desired.

 

And Svensi?  Ah, Matilda liked him so much it was days before she released her mate.  And by that time, the cyborg was so traumatized that, sadly, they had to reboot him.

The Menagerie of Malphas

Those Who Live in Cages

Truly, his menagerie was large.  Not the largest.  No, it was said that Lucifer himself had several planets to house his whole collection.  But Malphas certainly had a great many pets.  They were kept in the caverns below his estate, in darkness lit only by phosphorescent algae lining the underwater streams.  The imps employed to tend them all had their tongues cut out, and moved in silence and shadows from cage to cage, feeding the beasts, washing them.  The caves echoed with the din of soft crying, for anything more would attract attention, and attention tended to end in Malphas’ wrath.

His newest acquisition was Emmett, an angular, malnourished looking brunette one would mistake as harmless.  He had the sort of androgyny young men to lose by their college years, which he’d tried desperately to conceal with a rather half-baked mishap of a goatee.  Usually, Malphas chose them because of the eyes, but Emmett?  He chose Emmett because of his calves.  To supplement his meager college finances, Emmett had been a bike messenger.  His legs were upsettingly well-toned.

Malphas had a great many enjoyments.  Games he liked to play with his menagerie.  They tended to start off fairly mundane and end…poorly for the captive.  The two cages closest to Emmett’s were testaments to this fact.  The first contained a woman on her hands and knees.  She had been caged in such a way that her head was outside of the bars on one side, and her lower legs were hanging out on the other, with her upper thighs bound to the bars.  This pretty much held her completely in place for whatever malicious torment one might have in mind for her face or her nethers and, indeed, the imps took great delight in stuffing any orifice they could find full of stinging nettles, jagged caltrops, or on the rare occasion, hot peppers.  The man on the other side did not fare much better, considering that apparently, his extraordinarily small cage carried some sort of electric charge which shocked him whenever he touched the side, something impossible to avoid unless he stood in one place with his hands in a very certain position.

Malphas paid no attention to either of these as he strode towards the cage containing Emmett.  The man had not eaten for days, Malphas was aware, until just about an hour ago when the imps delivered a rather sumptuous meal to the fellow.  Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, some sinfully buttery green beans.  The metal plate was licked clean by the time Malphas arrived.  Two imps put an armchair in place just a few meters from the cage.  The demon, dressed in black, his heavy horns causing him to move his head more slowly and deliberately than most, sat and grinned, a wine glass in his hand containing wine as blue as the center of a glacier.  He raised it to Emmett and sipped.

Emmett’s distress was obvious.  None of the beasts were afforded any clothing, so it was quite easy for Malphas to see the blush that had spread over his upper torso, causing faint freckles to become all the more pronounced.  Fingers that would make a pianist cry wrapped around the bars tightly, straining so hard they’d become white.  “What…did you do…to me?”

“Is it true you murdered your own parents?  With poison, even?  What a cowardly way to go about things, but then, I suppose they just couldn’t accept who you were.  Those camps are supposed to beat the gay right out of you, but I think you just went because you liked the beatings.”

“What?  No!  I’m not…”  There was a groan, and a tremor that seemed to ripple through the whole of Emmett’s body.  “I believe in the Bible!  I believe in…man and wife, and…”

Malphas tilted his head as he watched Emmett struggle.  Eventually he did what they all tend to do.  He tried to shake the bars loose.  It never worked, not in the whole of the history of humankind.  “How did they do it?  Those beatings?  Did some quiet young pastor bend you over his knee?  He always seemed so sincere and so kind, but when he started to beat you with the righteousness of the Lord, maybe you saw a different side of him altogether.  Oh, he worked so hard to cure you, his hand smacking against your ass over and over.  He could probably feel your cock against his leg, getting so frustratingly hard.  And he told you, of course, that it was nothing to be ashamed of because it just meant the demons were afraid of the power of the Lord, and were tempting you.  And maybe his hand slipped once or twice and you felt his fingers brush against you in a way you still dream about, even now.”

“You’re foul, I….I’m not even listening to you.  I’m going to pray.”  Emmett got down on his knees and pressed his hands together, screwed his eyes shut, but nothing he could do, nothing he could think, nothing he could plead with his God would do anything to quell how hard he’d gotten in the last few minutes.  Especially since Malphas began speaking.

Malphas wondered how long it would take Emmett to figure out his food had been drugged.  One of the strongest aphrodisiacs in Hell.  It drove men to madness, which was, of course, the purpose.  Malphas particularly liked putting chastity devices on people and then giving them the drug, which was known among demons only as “The Want”.

“No!  No, I’m not going to give in to you!  Tempter…evil…disgusting….filthy.”  Emmett did the holy thing he could do.  He hit himself on the offending member, open-palmed, and hard enough to cause the man in the electrified cage to flinch and get a jolt for his sympathy.  A howl went up as Emmett threw his head back from the pain of it.  Grunting, and seething, hissing through his teeth against agony, he tried it again, and again.  Harder, quicker.  Every time, that rapidly thickening organ bobbed, got a little redder, and refused to wither.  For minutes this went on, with Malphas smirking, and drinking his wine, enjoying the show.  Eventually, the demon, relaxed in the armchair, piped up.  Emmett had sunk to his knees, sobbing, quietly asking that question that all over-pious people do when they realize that God has abandoned them for good.  “Why…?  Why…?”

“You know what your sin is, Emmett?” Malphas asked offhandedly.  “It’s not so much killing your parents.  They were assholes, and you probably did the world a favor.  Your sin…was not enjoying who you were while you were alive to do so.  You turned down all the pleasures of the world just so you could feel superior to others….superior in your faith, superior in your righteousness.  But, don’t worry.  Hell isn’t exactly what you think it is and you are going to have another chance to redeem yourself.  So…”  Malphas stood and stalked towards the cage, stopping just in front of it.  He reached in and, with one hand, grabbed the boy by his hair and pulled him up.  Emmett was so surprised that for a moment, he forgot to try to hide his shamefully obvious hard-on, and instead yelped, hands flying to Malphas’ wrists to try to wrangle them free of his hair.  This gave Malphas just enough time for his tail to whip around, and for the pointed black tip of that evil tail to slide up the underside of Emmett’s erection.

The stimulus was too much.   The Want was a powerful aphrodisiac, and Malphas had given Emmett far more than the recommended dose in his food.  When he was dropped again, Emmett collapsed to his knees and proceeded to do something Malphas could only describe as “helplessly writhe” for several seconds.  As he backed up, Malphas watched as Emmett brought both hands around to stroke his cock, two-fisted, the look on his face anguished and miserable, and overwhelmed with lust.

Too bad The Want had the most unfortunate side-effect of causing a complete inability to orgasm.

It was going to be a very, very long night for Emmett.  And Malphas looked forward to watching every minute of it.

What sort of ripe new fuckery is THIS?

Welcome to the newly renamed “Devious Fuckery” blog-type-thing.  I will be your host, Zekkiel Zerundi!  Fabulous prizes await the intrepid, the adventurous, the squishy and the disembodied.  Okay, now it sounds like a game show.

The previous iteration of this blog “Z-spot” was originally at wix.com.  I did not like how complicated it was just to post a blog post, so I moved it to tumblr.  But tumblr’s comment system left me dissatisfied, so like the proverbial Goldilocks, I have switched beds once again.  Third time is a charm?  I don’t know.

So what shall occur here?  What kind of blog is this?  Well, it’s a blog of sexy things, and funny things, and dark things.  Though I like fashion, I’m not really a fashion guru, so I wouldn’t call it an SL fashion or style blog.  I’m not really an event blogger or a store blogger.  I take pictures, but I’m still learning, so I’m not much of a photographer.  What I do, however, is write and RP.  I pride myself on building worlds, be it on SL or through words.  I enjoy deviance, and BDSM, and things of a dark and twisted nature.

So, this will be a blog full of just what it says — a bunch of devious fuckery.  A cornucopia of shenanigans and hijinks and things from SL, from my brain, from the web.  It might be NSFW at times, though I’ll try to keep those sorts of things under “read more” cuts.  Please enjoy, and if you have a great blog to suggest I read, please add it as a  comment to this post.

Dear You

(Original Post)

Dear you,

Cold and alone, you have shouted into this abyss which is the internet. I am glad you did. And I want you to know that you were brave for having done so. People make fun of cries for help, but there is nothing funny about reaching out, there is no shame in it. There is as much bravery in admitting vulnerability and helplessness as there is in heroically saving a life from a flash flood or car crash. Because the life that you may have saved today is your own, and truly, that is the most important life of all.

In this world, a deep and horrible monster lurks in the shadow of every man, woman and child. It is a silent stalker and a vicious killer. It thrives and persists throughout a person’s life, visiting them again and again when they are in their most damaged, most fragile states. We do not speak of this monster, though we all know its name – Loneliness. Do you know the power of Loneliness? I think you do. It whispers in your ear that there is nobody to hold your hand. Nobody to sit beside you during hard times. And then, when it has your attention, when it is sure that you are listening, Loneliness will tell you that nobody cares about you, the world will be happier when you are gone, and that you should just…end it all.

My friend, do not listen to this insidious monster Loneliness. This monster, this vile, wretched creature, is hard to defeat. But you took the first step in battling Loneliness today. That is brave, and I am proud.

I am not going to tell you some platitude about suicide being a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Whatever it is that is happening in your life? That is happening Right Now, and it is very real, and it should not be so lightly dismissed. And it might NOT be a temporary problem. Sometimes…there are permanent problems. Terminal illness comes to mind. But permanent or temporary, it is a PROBLEM. It feels overwhelming. And it probably feels like you are /alone/ in facing it.

But you don’t have to be.

I’m not going to lie to you, not all problems can be solved. There isn’t sunshine at the end of every tunnel. What you are facing right now? It may not get better. That problem you are facing, whatever it may be, might never change.

A man, facing a problem alone, can have poor chances of not being defeated by it.  But what if…two people faced that problem? The problem is still as big and frightening as before, but now it’s staring down two swords instead of just one.  What if three people were there?  Everyone knows, EVERYONE knows, that you want to get the odds on your side in a fight.  And this is a fight.

But Loneliness will tell you that nobody will stand beside you. It will tell you that you can’t talk to anyone because you are a burden. A drag. You’re depressing. They have more important things to do.

Loneliness is a big goddamned liar and should shut it’s fucking cunt mouth.

Let me tell you a story. Some years ago, I was in a very bad place. I was Clinically Depressed, but I didn’t know it. I just thought I was a sorry, miserable sod. I figured that I was just pathetic and sullen, and that probably everyone felt like I felt but just soldiered on. I’d been depressed for SO LONG, possibly all the way back to my childhood, that I had no idea that life was even supposed to be any other way.

I decided to kill myself.

It was December then, near Christmas. My family always does the holidays quite wonderfully. I knew that it would just ruin those holidays forever for my mother if I killed myself near Christmas. And because I love my mother, and I wanted her to have one more happy Christmas, I decided to wait until after the New Year.

I was on SL then. I think my original alt’s rez day is in October, so I was a n00b. I didn’t know anyone, really, and I was hanging out at this goth club, trying to keep my head above water for the last week or two of my life. I wasn’t expecting much. But in that week…just a few days before I’d slated to Do The Thing, I met…someone.

And oh, he was so fun to be around, Erik was…an eight foot tall goth in pink dreads and hot-pants. He was angry at the world, and hilarious, and a brilliant writer. He introduced me to great music. He introduced me to his friends. He railed at the world with middle fingers extended.  Erik defied loneliness in bold new ways I had never considered…systematically building a group of misfits and freaks as a community. He would literally go into a place and LOOK for people who didn’t fit the mold, pluck them out of their corner, dust them off, and make them important members of his group.

I met Erik. And he was crazy. And I…had to stick around to see what he would do. There were people now, in my life… And so I couldn’t just…go.  I fell in love with him, eventually, and he moved in with me.  Ultimately, it didn’t work out for us, but I wouldn’t undo that experience in my life for anything.

However.  My problems did not get better. They did not get any smaller. I still fight Clinical Depression every single day. But now? Now I’m not alone. And THAT is the thing. THAT is all it takes. Because Loneliness is the only thing that stands between a losing battle with a problem…and having hope.

And today, you took the first step in defeating loneliness. So why stop now?

Don’t stop now.  Never stop.

I believe in you.