Category Archives: Dark Passenger

Q&A: Are You Happy?

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)
@NickVGreen

 

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:

[alert style=”green”]”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”[/alert]

Happiness occurs, whether it’s something we influence, project or by divine providence 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.

 

Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Weaving a Cocoon

We all bleed. And it’s all pink on the inside.

That explanation came from an asshole I knew at university. His misogynistic ways stuck with me somehow — surprise, surprise. Still an impressionable young gay man, a small group of elite intellectuals sat in a circle discussing something about authority. Liberal arts education at its best.

My friend, who explored women with the subtlety of a great white shark on a feeding frenzy, spoke of how women — no matter their race, religion, size or texture, should put out at the end of a date.

The females in the class expressed horror, although by that point, most had taken a ride on his cock and experienced his tongue on their clits. We’d discussed this is detail. We both had mutual interests. His interest — curiosity about fucking ass, even men, since he figured it would increase his chances of getting some at the end of the evening. Mine was the mind of a straight man. So we’d dined together and discussed our respective sex lives.

As he spoke of women putting out and the incredulous women screamed in dismay, the room came to a silence that happened naturally. One of those odd moments that just seems to happen.

“I really don’t know why you expect women to put out all the time,” I told him, in front of everyone. “You’ve been to my apartment. I’ve fixed you dinner. You’ve never put out for me.”

There’s this moment sometimes when “silent” isn’t a sufficient enough word. It’s as if the entire world has had the volume turned down and everyone has gone deaf. It only lasts for an instance, but in that moment, there’s an eternity. And if a pin dropped somewhere across the planet, it would sound as if a thousand cymbals crashed to the floor simultaneously.

Then the room erupted and my friend dropped his jaw like he had dick-suckers cramp. Girls from my class piled on me in appreciation for delivering the blow that shut him up.

But the truth of the matter in all that fun and discussion of sex and food, misogyny and dating, I was alone. For all the fun, support and wit, the professor could see what was going on.

That evening, as we each headed off to our dorms and apartments or to whatever drinking destinations, the hairy, disheveled poly sci professor took me aside and imparted some wisdom that here, years later, I don’t recall a fucking word.

And so, on a Saturday evening, more than two decades later, four months to the day after I watched my Mother die, I’m drowning my sorrows in Diet Coke. I’m wishing it was something stronger. It’s been a shitty week and it does no good to explain in detail here.

I started this blog to explore my sex life. I didn’t intend on making friends. I didn’t have any intentions. I just wanted to explore. Then, when my Mom got sick, I crossed into a place I didn’t know how to escape. How do I explain that I didn’t feel like fucking. That my cock could just fall off and I didn’t care. I’d have given up fucking forever to see my Mother get well.

That didn’t happen, of course. And I returned to fucking. But something hasn’t been the same for me. I debated whether to tell you all. And for a while, I didn’t.

Can you say that pain inspires you? Maybe you could give up your grieving easily. But now I feel utterly alone. Some of you probably couldn’t give a shit. I don’t blame you. I don’t much give one either right now. Not that I’m going to off myself or something stupid like that.

So the shitty week actually isn’t inspired by my Mother, my birthday or anything else. It comes from a crappy boss. I’ve worked for this person for years and to get a single pat on the back is close to impossible. A promotion has been dangled out in front of me but in order to get it, yours truly needs to become submissive.

Being that I’m a Dominate personality, I’m not one to back down. I’m in Georgia and let’s face it, being out, being gay and being visible has its detractions. In a professional environment, the prejudice can be overwhelming. One person at my current company — a person of significant stature and in a position of power — told me because I was gay, he would do whatever he could to assure I was not successful and would fail at every task I attempted. I informed my boss of this. I was told this was a “personality deficiency” that I would need to overcome.

So I am deciding if I can be a cum-collecting pussy. If I can suck it up, literally, in order to get a promotion. Is it within my personality to be submissive and bow to the Master.

What, again, I’ve not told everyone is just how many people in my life rely on my income. I am the majority breadwinner for a lot more people than most would realize. So flipping off my boss and walking away seems like a good idea if you’re on your own for your own principals. But when others rely on you, you can’t do it so flippantly.

So what am I to do. To be honest, I have gone against my nature by writing this. I shut down Thursday night and barely did anything. But I decided tonight to write this. To tell the world. I’ll get some shitty responses (which I probably will reject).

I am considering a significant life change. Not just with my job. Now that Mom and Dad are gone, I have more choices. People may rely on me, but I don’t have to be here in Georgia to assure they get the help they need.

 

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Making Him Cry

Compassion sets us apart. I do possess that emotion. But I found myself in an interesting place with compassion and other emotions as I sorted through myself.

Begging to submit to a top is probably nothing new but this young man made it seem like what I expected of him would be child’s play. I explained that my experience in the realm tended to be relatively new. He wanted to play along.

I’d gone shopping. I’d been to Mr. S Leather (http://www.mr-s-leather.com) and purchased a few items of interest. He’d clearly outlined his interests (and limitations), telling me how much he liked getting fucked and humiliated and sucking and — this one’s important — tit torture. So I took it upon myself to see if I was cut out for the game.

His instructions were simple. Upon arrival, he would strip naked, put on a blindfold (a real leather one), clamp his nipples together with the provided tit clamps (pictured here) and kneel. He was to wait, patiently, until I arrived to give him further instructions.

I was downstairs on the computer when I heard him come in upstairs. I didn’t rush, instead letting him get ready and I took my time, completing my tasks before finally walking up to find the pale white boy in his late 20s in my living room. He had a broad chest, muscular but not beefy at all. Very lean with nickel-sized peach nipples pressed into the rubber-tipped clamps.

He’d adjusted them to his liking, as I’d put them at a looser setting (and they were brand new, but I’d made sure they were cleaned and disinfected — I’d heard horror stories of masters who never cleaned their toys and tools).

I didn’t speak as I inspected the almost hairless boy. His cock was completely flaccid and for such pale skin, the dark epidermis of his prick seemed almost unnatural with its blossom of brown hair around it. I walked around. He could hear my foot steps. I was wearing new boots — another of my acquisitions as I indulged myself into this new world.

His ass wasn’t clearly visible since it was in the shadows. So I simply lifted my foot, placed my boot on his back and pushed him onto the floor — not forcefully, but it did surprise him. He started to get up, like doing a push up.

“Stay the fuck down there,” I said.

He relaxed, his naked body on the cold hardwood floors. His back and cheeks were equally smooth. I couldn’t see into the crack well, so I used the toe of the boot to part it. Not much hair.

I walked around a little more, taking my time.

“Sit up,” I said.

He got up to his knees.

“Yes Sir,” he said.

I slapped the back of his head, not hard mind you. But shocking to someone who’s blindfolded.

“I didn’t say you could talk,” I said.

He opened his mouth, probably to apologize, but then thought better of it and closed his mouth. I unzipped my jeans and pulled out my half-hard cock.

“Open.”

He did. I shoved it in his mouth and started fucking. Something came over me as I started this process. Fully clothed. A naked man submitting to me fully. A naked, good-looking, muscle-boy calling me “Sir” and doing anything I wanted.

As this man was restrained in front of me, something unleashed inside of me. I let loose. For all the years I’d been blown, let me suck me, even face fucked me, this felt different. Very different. An enthusiasm overtook me and I really started skull fucking this boy as he struggled to find breath and my cock swelled.

I’d had enough oral and I wanted more. I pulled him off my cock and pulled him up, grabbing the hair on his head to make it clear what I wanted. He stood.

The next thing I did got a reaction.

I grabbed the chain in the middle of his pecs and pulled for him to follow me.

The scream that followed — well — I never heard anything like it, before or since. A cry of sheer agony. The clamps stayed on and he followed. His hands darted up to his nipples but I ignored it. I had entered a zone and even his screech of pain didn’t knock me out of my mission.

I took him into the spare bedroom, dragging him by his tits. You better believe he followed, trying to keep slack on the chain. I positioned him. He complied with every subtle movement I suggested. I didn’t much notice the whining or anything else. I just unbuckled my jeans, shoved my pants down and spit on my hand and couple of times, slicking up my cock. I shoved it in his hole.

He flinched. A little. The whimpering continued but I ignored him. I kept him on his back, knocking his hands out of the way and jerking on the chain occasionally. But I didn’t much notice, just in the place where my cock mattered, where the only sensation or sound or touch or any sense focused selfishly on me. And I enjoyed myself.

His ass, with the light hairs around his tight little hole, never clenched much. His cock flopped around, never getting hard. He didn’t thrash. He didn’t struggle. He didn’t go limp. I continued to fuck, in my own mindspace, a place where I enjoyed the domination, the use of this tool to get me off.

And that thought did it. I released my cum into his bowels. I let my babies leave my balls and enter him. I pushed them in deep. Again. Burying my cock into his ass, pressing my pubes against that pale skin and yanking once more on that chain.

That moment, I heard the sound — really, I listened to the sound. It registered in my brain. Not as a whimper, but as a sob on top of the cry. I looked closer as I released the chain and looked at the guy’s face.

Around his eyes — although still covered by the blindfold — the red wetness seemed visible, like a glow. But maybe — just maybe — this was what he wanted. I maintained the scene. We hadn’t discussed a safe word but I hadn’t violated any of the limitations the bottom had put on me. Moreover, he’d never said stop.

I stood, zipped up and started to leave the room. I turned around and, just before leaving, I said the following: “You have three minutes to get the fuck out of my house.”

He never saw me.

He was gone within two-and-a-half minutes.

When I returned upstairs to find the chain and blindfold on the spared bedroom bed, I confirmed that the blindfold was wet. Wet with tears.

Later that evening, we chatted via IM online. He admitted that only he had ever really administered his own so-called “tit torture” and he’d never used tit clamps on himself. He never expected it to hurt so bad. He apologized for crying. I apologized for hurting him.

But was I really sorry?

This opened a new place for me. I walked into a world, a headspace where I could be free, where I could open myself up to new pleasures. I found myself in a world where the only thing that mattered was my pleasure. And you know what? I liked it.

Fuck. I loved it.

Then that little voice spoke inside me wondering what the hell was I thinking. I mean, I’d actually hurt someone. That someone actually cried because I’d done something to them physically. They didn’t enjoy me fucking them. They didn’t beg for my cum. They didn’t get hard. I just used them and tossed them out.

This conflict would reign throughout my experience in the Leather Community. And I have only been able to enter that headspace a few times. Few bottoms will ever let me go there. I may seem physically slight and not-at-all threatening, but there’s an animal inside me leashed up.

As you read my description of my sex, you may notice some of the lack of normal details I infuse in my writing. That is because when I unleash the animal, I cannot recall everything. I do not know how long I fucked the guy. I don’t know how many times I yanked on the chain, whether I fucked really hard or really deep or what. I existed in a pure place where memories are clouded by my own brain’s chemicals. I didn’t even do poppers or any other substances at all.

I still feel guilty I made a man cry. And I feel proud. It is a conflict that gives me pause for every man who claims he can truly make me happy, can satisfy me and can be the bottom I really crave. Can you? Can you really? Can you exist in the darkness with me and endure?

I only spoke with the guy one other time. It was almost two weeks later. He said his nipples were still tender and that the bruising had healed. I also noticed on his profile: tit torture had been removed as an interest.

 

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Unassuming

My venture into the Leather Community required study, but I’m more of an “on the job” participant. I explored some of the basics including tying men up and spanking. At the time, the Washington, D.C., area contained multiple men who allowed me a more academic learning experience where I could indulge any and all interests.

One of these boys indulged me repeatedly. However, his ultimate fantasy turned out to be one I could not grant. He wanted to be a “puppy.”

Just put “puppy play” in quotes into any search engine and you’ll come up with plenty of results. I had a dog at the time and, well, I treated by real canine well. I would say a human companion of the puppy persuasion needs more attention and discipline than what I was willing to give.

Moreover, puppy boy wouldn’t indulge me in my particular desire — barebacking. Even then, the barebacking movement seemed in its infancy. While I got plenty of raw ass — some of which I wrote about in the “Deceptively Fun” series — the darker side of my sexual nature couldn’t be divulged. Even as I experimented with this world, I had not yet reconciled my true urges when it came to fucking.

While I fucked plenty of submissives, I found most focused on their own fetishes and desires. As much as the submissive man would tell me it was about the Dominant, I found compatibility tended to be required.

“What are you into?” may be a standard question, but in the Leather world, the question seemed to be, “What are your limits?”

Limits turned out to be plenty among these so-called submissives. “Scat” and “blood” were understandable. Others not so much. I loved hearing, “No permanent marks.”

And for every ass-wipe that said he had no limits, a few questions later I’d discover what limits truly existed. And there were usually plenty.

For those of you unfamiliar with some of the nomenclature of this realm, I’ll give you the basics.

A “Sir” is a Dominant who will collar a “boy” submissive. One of the most entertaining aspects of this relationship is the sense that a “boy” can be any age. As someone in my mid-30s at the time, I found myself inundated with requests from mid-40s and early-50s men begging to be my “boy.”

As one Sir explained to me once, boys deserve to be respected.

A boy could set limits and the Sir would generally honor those limits. In other words, boys would have rights.

While I did entertain the Sir/boy combination, what I found more intriguing was the ultimate: Master/slave.

Slaves did not get respect. Slaves could not have limits. Slaves served their Master no matter the request.

Over the course of my time, I owned and trained one slave. Moreover, I would train three boys as a Sir and have a wide variety of play experiences, for which I will explore in upcoming entries.

As I reflect on my time in this microcosm of gayness, I’d say that I held back. Even during my Leather experimentation, few men ever saw the fierce punishment I could lash upon their psyche. When you add the underlying violence that occasionally urged my sadistic side, no one went completely into my darkness.

A darkness that still lurks deep within me.

 

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Intellectual Leather

Like everywhere else, Washington, D.C., and Baltimore both included a bar named “The Eagle” (at least, at the time). So the Leather Community didn’t seem foreign. As I emerged from the end of my mourning for an eight-year relationship going kaput, I fucked a lot. And I realized that I loved to bareback.

Condoms bored me. When I would meet a hot guy and then slip that tube of plastic around my rock-hard cock, I noticed an immediate change. While performing never seemed to be an issue, the connection between me and the man I impaled also became broken. The muted sensations just failed to allow me sense the man fully, even from an emotional level.

When the bottom allowed it, I’d fuck raw and it seemed if our pleasure intensified at an exponential value, even with a one-time, five-minute fuck.

Knowing I still lacked complete emotional control, I assessed the situation around my ex-partner. What had brought us to the point that a split seemed his only desire?

I am extremely laid back when it comes to matters of monogamy or other such societal constructs. Despite the intensity you might detect in my encounters and my writing, I could give a flying fuck whether my partner at the time got his ass fucked by one or more guys in a night. Even more, I found it turn on to hear his stories of dancing until the wee morning hours and then getting fucked by a last-minute trick.

As it turned out, he was the one out of control. He felt somehow personally harmed that I would fail to indulge him by spending Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights out on the town. His extroverted tendencies could not be contained and I somehow stymied it by allowing him to indulge while I chose my own quiet fucks at home or in more intimate settings.

His chaos versus my order.

That construct began forming the basis for my venture into the Leather Community, one that I still respect to this very day. Spending time on multiple websites and researching the information available, I knew I didn’t fit any mold or even come close to the perception of what a Dominate would be.

I politely call myself a geek, but in fact, it seems among the most accurate. I could never be a bear. I don’t have enough hair. My muscles are largely for daily use and not worked out with bulk and girth we all seem to find beautiful. The closest I came to Leather clothing probably were a winter pair of gloves.

The Dominate’s strength needed to come from somewhere, though. While submissives admit their place in the world to submit, I knew something would have to put them into their place. I likely couldn’t physically force them. Short of some weapon, I couldn’t snap someone into their place.

Or could I?

I began to think of my brain as my muscle. That I knew was well worked out and could, at a twist of a phrase, snap someone into attention and, with some subtle orchestration, bend people to my will.

When I spent more time studying the Leather Community and, indeed, speaking to those intimately involved, I would discover the truth behind the facade. Many felt the way I did. Leather as a lifestyle rather than the ultra-masculine drag shows with leather chaps, combat boots and bearded bears.

While the code of conduct within the Leather Community enticed me, I also rather liked the control within a relationship. There wasn’t a commitment, there was a contract. This contract outlined the expectations of each party. I would never need to negotiate the conditions of whether someone went out or someone stayed home. The details were clearly outlined.

At the point of my departure, that was my perception. I conveniently forgot that with everything involving humans, entanglements would come no matter how clearly outlined in a document.

But at the time with no-so-innocent intentions, I plunged on at full force.

As with anything I choose to do, I attempt to make an impact. With plenty of sexual experience, I crafted myself into the type of Dominate I wanted to be: Intellectual.

With a few chosen words and finely crafted profile on a website that no exists, I stepped into my Dominating role. As unassuming as my physical stature might be, I let my brain lead. Heart played little if any role. And my cock continued its own hunger for ass. Raw ass. All the time.

Darkness, it turned out, provided perfect cover.

 

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