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Breaking the Silence: Seeking Sufficient ROI from My Friends

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So where have I been?

Some of you might have seen me on Twitter with occasional posts. Not much elsewhere. As I’ve struggled over the last few months, exerting myself upon multiple fronts to find an occupation for myself, the results failed to be fruitful. Each provided a life lesson for me. And I sit upon the precipice and ponder the path I’ve taken.

I use people, most specifically bottoms for my own pleasure. As I have ventured a little further in recent times, I’ve opened myself up to a little more sensation but still, my intention is to mark my territory. I won’t settle for a condom, insisting that my cock slide raw into an ass and spray my DNA markers in that most intimate of places to say I was here.

I’ve never been delusional about how the world works as well. While lacking the literal fucking and breeding, I’ve been proverbially bent over and marked through my life in many ways. And I let it happen. Perhaps my own need to breed back is my response to how society decided to use my intelligence, creativity and good will.

Now approaching eight months of unemployment, struggling with comprehending why my talents are overqualified and too advanced for today’s workforce, I find myself questioning much. And then comes the sexual side of it all. The other night, I lay beneath a young man just making out. And a sensation came across like someone flipped on a switch I’d not felt in eons. Of course, we all feel it on occasion.

A lunch arrangement and then when the time comes, it’s postponed and finally cancelled with a stinging “it was a mistake” to even suggest meeting. A sudden flash of anger and hurt then returned to calm as I’ve been here before, kicked to the curb for dropping my guard and giving humanity hope for a moment.

If only I’d bred him when I had the chance. My territory went unmarked.

A realization came over me about the number of people who use me as well. My so-called friends who only use me for their benefit and return so little back. Karma?

Funny because I’ve been cutting some people out of my life. If I don’t see enough Return On Investment from my friends, well, they’re getting kicked to the curb as well.

As a result, I think Karma has kicked my ass-supply. I’ve found it dwindles some, of late. I’m sure some cum-hungry sluts find the ass use a mutually beneficial relationship, but my one-off, use your ass as a masturbation device doesn’t often work that well.

Part of me still hopes for a buddy in Atlanta who can fuck, hang out, bareback, etc. I don’t see it happening. And that occasional need for affinity comes and goes. But perhaps I should stick to an equation, a simple mathematical value of what I get for what I give.

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August 10, 2011 No Comments MarkBentson Short URL
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A Funeral I Did Not Attend

I did not go to a funeral this weekend.

My molester finally kicked the bucket and finds himself in descent to hell or whatever suffering in afterlife the asshole deserves. Truth is, I’m not sure I believe in much of an afterlife anymore. But nonetheless, he’s gone.

The funeral was yesterday and family friends attempted to pressure both me and my sister to attend.

Now you must realize most people do not know what this man did to us — more especially, what he did to me,

Today I was speaking with a friend who said he was “floored” by what my sister told him about this wonderful outstanding citizen of the community. My sister refused to attend the funeral because of inappropriate touching of her. This came from the friend as to scold me for not attending the funeral, not in an understanding way.

I then went ahead and gave a brief overview of my abuse. At first, there was disbelief, but I think the margarine incident clinched it.

He broke down into tears and asked me to stop talking. And I was forgiven for not attending the funeral.

But tell me why I cannot sleep tonight. Tell me why it is on my mind?

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March 20, 2011 5 Comments MarkBentson Short URL
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Dark Passenger, The Return: Rage

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rage

I need to admit the truth. After all, I occasionally run a Confessional here and this is a space for me to be myself.

When I heard of the impending death of my molester, I felt something not unfamiliar: Rage.

For a moment, time stood still, I heard my heart and the moments of my abuse — the pleasurable and the horrible — all came together. That evening, as I wrote, pouring the adrenalin rush into the typing, I wanted desperately to fuck out the bad feeling. I needed a bottom to abuse back. Someone to pummel.

Truth is, when I fuck, it is rare for me to lose  control. I control every movement. Very few men have ever experienced me unleashed. No. Unleashed is the wrong word. The word is unhinged.

If you are a bottom, you may be thinking how hot it would be to experience what might be a Rage Fuck from me. Knowing that physically, I am without the physical prowess to bench-press much or chin-up myself . I don’t have abs or pecs or guns or anything like that. I am not muscular. You’re thinking it wouldn’t be a big deal, especially if indeed you are muscular yourself.

But with almost 30 years of pent-up Rage, if I allowed that to pour out, my system would be overloaded with chemicals that would blind me. Wikipedia remarks that a person experiencing rage “is capable of doing things that may normally seem physically impossible. Those experiencing rage usually feel the effects of high adrenaline levels in the body. This increase in adrenal output raises the physical strength and endurance levels of the person. One’s senses become extremely acute due to the high amounts of adrenaline in the body, and, on the opposite end, this also reduces one’s sensation of pain. People in rage may also experience events in a sort of slow motion. An explanation of this ‘time dilation’ effect is that instead of actually slowing our perception of time, high levels of adrenaline increase our ability to recall specific minutae of an event after it occurs. Since humans gauge time based on the amount of things they can remember, high-adrenaline events such as those experienced during periods of rage seem to unfold more slowly.”

My Rage did not emerge. I did not fuck. I have not released my cum and likely, I won’t let myself release it except in controlled amounts.

I can smell my rage right now. It’s a smell. I can see blood pulse through my eyeballs. It’s returned now. It’s here. Now.

A blog on Men and Rage says, “Rage is commonly brought on by fear a threat to some part of yourself. When you are threatened, your brain instantly reacts with a fight, flight, or freeze response. Rage can also be a reaction to protect deep, deep shame.”

Maybe all of that is true. Maybe I am shamed. Does my shame come from the fact I want to dance on this fucker’s grave?

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February 12, 2011 3 Comments MarkBentson Short URL
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Dark Passenger, The Return: How Should I Feel?

Old man's hand

Tonight I sit with a weird feeling creeping up my spine. I find myself reduced back to a boy, curled up in guilt and a little confused.

Long-time readers will know my story but I imagine most won’t, so I should set the stage with my original Dark Passenger. The man who launched the twisted fuck I would become. In a very real and unusually strange sense, that man indeed is the genesis of a myself, out and very comfortable and confident in my skin. While I would like to think I’d eventually maneuvered my way out of the closet, I doubt seriously if I’d ever become as tolerant of others or even admitted to myself or other what a barebacking sleaze I can be.

As a youth, I was molested by this man. Most of the entries regarding him and what he did can be found here, if you choose to read:

If you choose not, it’s fine. Know that from some point until around 18, I had sexual encounters with this man — a neighbor and trusted friend of my parents.

So the reason for my odd sensation is the call today to notify me that my molester is in hospice.

The call to me is not unusual, I guess, since he and his wife were friends of my parents and, now that both my parents are dead, the community feels as if someone in my family should be notified and, technically, I am the head of the family. The local community is not aware what this sleaze did to me or countless others.

I spoke on the phone in an even tone, thanking the person for the notification. It wasn’t a time to be emotional. But now that I sit alone with the thought of him dying, I feel something. Perhaps it is the last of my own childhood finally passing away with the man who stole it from me, since so much left me when my parents left in the last few years. Perhaps it’s a kind of happiness or vengeance, knowing the fucker is finally suffering and will befall his own fate he promised me — that one-way ticket to hell. Or maybe it’s my own fear that I might be closer to death as well.

Or is it the fear that I might become the molester like him. The other day, a 14-year-old on Twitter solicited me. Now he had been posing as a 23-year-old. And when he admitted to being 14, I blocked him. And as I wrote, I volunteered at times for my own molestation. I wonder if the world were wired when I was 14 what I might have done.

So I sit, quietly contemplating a big-dicked old man as he teeters at the edge of the abyss. And I wonder why I give a shit and I wonder why I even care.

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February 10, 2011 5 Comments MarkBentson Short URL
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Q&A: Are You Happy?

Q. Your latest blog entry is on happiness and the perception that you apparently aren’t happy; what, beyond breeding*, elevates you to happiness? (*this is assuming that breeding in itself makes you happy)

A. Nick, I could turn philosophical all over this question regarding happiness.

Let’s first take up whether breeding makes me happy. In general, I’d say breeding is nothing more than a bodily function. Some choose to relieve themselves into plastic or their hand or a pussy or some other place. I personally think my spunk belongs in ass.

So to answer your assumption, breeding does not make me happy. It satisfies a biological need and an instinctual compulsion I have to spread my DNA.

Let’s now consider the term “happiness” itself. Is that a state of being in which one exists or is it just a moment that’s fleeting?

I would suggest that since “happy” has a diametrically opposite state — sad or sadness — that it is an emotion that occurs. It is temporary.

If it is an emotion is it something that we have control over or is it something for which we are subjected? More questions.

So many questions arise that, I regret, an answer cannot be given. However, I will provide you with one of my favorite quotes from a movie:

“I remember one morning getting up at dawn, there was such a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling? And I remember thinking to myself this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there will always be more.

“It never occurred to me it wasn’t the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment. Right then.”

– Meryl Streep as Clarissa Vaughan in “The Hours”

Happiness occurs, whether it’s something we influence, project or by divine province or sheer luck happens to us. An experience that can fill your resistance and give such promise and joy and optimism and make you perceive an invincibility about life. But for every bridge, there’s a tunnel.

My journey now takes a different path.

Part of my reflectiveness on my Dark Passenger series has been to acknowledge those times when the negative influenced my existence and turned me into the creature I’ve become. My reflections on these virtual pages have, honestly, given me insight.

This journey now is fresh, raw, unfiltered through time. I wonder whether any insights will come. So, it too stands as an experiment.

Ask anything. I’ll answer.

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May 22, 2010 No Comments MarkBentson
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