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3… 2… 1… BLAST-OFF! The Countdown to iBLASTinside’s Birthday (1 of 3)

3-2-1-blast-off

Forty-Five Random List…

…for Mark Bentson’s Forty-Fifth Year (Part 1 of 3)

To mark this moderately important milestone in my lifetime — halfway to 90, which means I’m most certainly over the hill and speeding toward a furnace to turn me into ashes that will then be scattered here, there and everywhere to celebrate the clandestine debauchery of my life. But let’s focus on the here and now, the hedonism of the moment. Here begins part one of three of my Forty-Five Random List.

45. Fuck a porn star

I can’t begin a list without the wish that continues on despite repeated tries. I want to fuck a porn star. Please. This past year has seen promising moments with opportunities that has come close including promises from two, rather significant big-name porn stars.

One with whom volunteered to take my load but fell in love and moved off to be with his new boyfriend. The other I bribed and he took the gifts and ran off to be with his new boyfriend with whom he’d just fallen in love.

Now  that I’m traveling to Northern California and the San Francisco Bay area, I’d hoped that perhaps I might just luck up on an actor or two. Nonesuch. So my desire goes on.

44. Get Medallion status on Delta

Okay, what an odd goal, but I’ve been flying so much and I’m stuck in steerage with everyone else. And so far, I have yet to sit by anyone hot or even a decent looking straight guy. Every plane ride seems to be another female, another old sixtysomething retiree with his golden-age wife, a mother with her four-year-old or a school mar’m. Why can’t I get one hottie?

I doubt Medallion status will help much with that, but it will at least help assure I get a little more legroom and a possible upgrade or two. Long-time readers will know I’ve been hoping for this for a while. I will achieve it (for sure) this year. But if anyone has the inside track on helping me get upgrades, show me some love!

43. More fucking on travel

As simple as that. I attempted something in Las Vegas that didn’t work: I solicited someone to be my regular cum dump. And while I had no trouble finding ass to fuck, sometimes the pursuit of ass gets boring. Good thing Vegas brought a stock of tourists and locals worth breeding (and even enough with whom to have an orgy).

Yet, still, I crave an easy come-over-bend-over-and-be-bred kind of guy. I’ve got a couple of men who I can contact if I’m ever in a lurch or a dry spell while at home. I’d like that on the road.

42. & 41.  Yoga & Weight Loss

I am not someone to goes to the local Y and signs up for a class. I don’t hit any old gym. Teaching me anything physical requires a special talent and I seek out people. Like my trainer late last year (as seen pictured here). I expect people helping me to be in shape themselves (yes, I’ve seen trainers who need a bit of help).

My former trainer was great, if not tragically straight. And despite some of my own misgivings, I signed up with him. But I have a few things that just do not work for me. First, he must keep me motivated. He did so, to a certain extent. But he never really followed through on additional promises to keep on me outside the gym (for which I paid him extra, I might add).

Second, he’s got to be the example I look up to every day. And when he started posting unhealthy things to his Facebook, I had to take a step back some. He stopped motivating me. It all came crashing down.

And my weight came up after losing so much.

But here’s what I learned about myself. The nutritional diet he put me on required a lot of psychological fortitude, which I somehow managed. And while my body didn’t always obey, it did provide some form of willingness to begin getting in shape. Shape which I have not lost completely.

And so, with both those, I want to step more into a yoga situation. But I want someone to work with me individually to set me on the right course for success. I’ve become convinced of the mind-body connection…

40. Stop chewing my nails

I know. Bad habit. I’d just about stopped it but some bumpy flights of late got me started again. I guess a nervous habit. Or I’m just nervous.

39. Upgrade my iPad

Have you seen the Retina display on the new one? (Although it’s not called an iPad 3, that’s basically what it is.) It makes my iPad, bought the first day of the original launch look like a low-resolution, piece of crap.

38. Massage me everywhere

When I lived in Washington, D.C., I had the hottest Filipino with the best muscle body who would come over once or twice a week and work out the kinks. Then in Georgia, I found a spa that had a lovely little Asian boy who helped me out too. Those two both gave great massages and both provided happy endings.

Love a good massage with a good happy endings.

Then I ended up with a great massage therapist but he was a straight Latino. Although very cool with the whole Gay thing, he wouldn’t bother to touch my cock and, no matter how much money was promised and how much goading. Nonetheless, I kept going to him and enjoying the massage part. It was therapeutic.

But he’s moved out of the area and now I’m without a decent massage therapist.

I’ve been looking and trying out a few people. Not a lot of luck so far. I’ve had decent results but nothing remarkable.

Moreover, when I visit other cities, am finding it very difficult to get therapists there to respond and be accommodating.

If you’re a therapist in the San Francisco Bay or Atlanta area (and you’re good), please let me know. Happy endings appreciated but not required. However, I do prefer good-looking non-smokers.

37. Better shoes

I need some. Hard to find. Right now I’m still in two-year-old Old Navy top-siders and six-year-old Rockport sandals.

36. “Read” more for work

Notice I put “read” in quotation marks, as my long commute to work allows me a lot of time to listen to books. Unfortunately, since getting my new car, I’ve been listening to Sirius XM more than anything (my favorite channel is Raw Dog comedy, Channel 99; coincidental it’s got “raw” in the title, huh?). I should be listening to more books.

35. Speaking of Sirius XM, please stop Derek & Romaine

They’re on OutQ, the Gay channel. They attempt to dispense advice to the masses about sex and gay life but neither of whom is qualified in any way, shape or form. Derek is just a prude. And he’s an asshole prude. Sometimes he’s so rude to people I’m amazed anyone bothers to listen to him. Both of them wouldn’t bother to even entertain the concept that barebacking is truly an option. I’ve even heard Romaine have a fit about men with hairy asses being horrible.

Additionally, they barely plan a show and talk about their personal lives as if anyone really gives a shit.

Please, they’ve been on the air too long. Get that shit off the air.

34. Going strong on no jacking off

Every load I’ve shot in 2012 has gone in someone. It’s gone in an ass or a mouth (and it’s rare for it to be a mouth).

33. It’s been 420 for me, finally

In my list of 43 Arbitrary Things when I turned 43, number 21 mentions I’ve never tried the infamous 420. Pot. Mary Jane. Wacky tabacky. Weed. And because of my opposition to smoking, I’ve never smoked pot. I still have never smoked pot. With research and some experimentation (hint to the right), I finally got to discover what the big deal was all about.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Made me even more convinced that (sorry for a little politics) that the stuff should be legalized.

32. More rollercoasters and amusement parks

It’s already been a good year for it. I want to make it a great year.

31. Did you read this?

Why haven’t my readers been commenting? I’m still getting almost 1,200 visitors a day but lately, you fuckers have been quiet. Speak up!

Don’t miss the next part… 30 to 16…. tomorrow.

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April 29, 2012 3 Comments MarkBentson Short URL
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Did I Fuck? No. No Birthday Breeding. Just Blue Balls for My 44th!

60

Someday, when the cash is flush and the time is right — perhaps when I turn 45 — I will get to have a birthday bash someplace interesting with warning and get a few more guys to show up.

Fuck.

Get someone to show up.

No one came up to me, if anyone who knew me was there. Now I might not have expected it, but it would have been nice to meet someone. Maybe next year, as I said.

Alas, I still had a terrific time at Swinging Richards, as is my thing. I think it’s the mindfuck of it all where these straight guys all pretend to be interested in gay guys. That’s not the mindfuck mind you. It’s where they’re fooling themselves that they really don’t enjoy guys.

I just imagine them, twenty or thirty years from now, married, no longer gorgeous, paunchy men in these loveless marriages, teenage kids, jerking off in their mancaves late at night, bored with their lives, wishing something would change, watching porn on those huge-ass virtual screens.

Then they wonder why they’re paying more attention to the cock going in the va-jay-jay.

If they don’t start molesting their sons, blessed with the same beauty they had, they’ll seek out cocksuckers at first. Not finding too many, they’ll start sucking the cock themselves.

And they will like it.

The secret enjoyment of those moments in the VIP rooms with strangers who were decent looking will fuel jerkoff sessions and even more.

Of course, a few of the men there “get it,” including one of my favorites, who legitimately seems to be bi leaning on the gay side.

Oh, and for those of you who might recall I started a bit of fiction a while back. Last night, after years of visiting, I met the man upon whom the elusive character Djon is based, which just might cause me to resurrect writing The Company. Who knows?

After my time at Swinging Richards, I went to Inserection.

Double fuck.

The place was packed. Filled to the brim. With tops.

For more than two hours, I wandered the halls and rooms and booths only to get a bunch of nothing. I think two men touched my cock. No blowjob. Nothing. I went home, a burrito from Taco Loco next door and crawled into bed around 5:30 a.m.

The funny thing, I actually had a great time. So I’m building up a big load. And a case of blue balls.

Anyone want it?

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May 1, 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

rage


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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