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A Full-Moon Headache… No CumUnion for Me

A Full-Moon Headache… No CumUnion for Me

As I considered heading the 35 miles downtown last night for CumUnion, the headache medicine just didn’t kick in and couldn’t see myself hanging around for more than the time to find an ass or two.

You see, I work 10-hour days Monday through Wednesday with a 50-mile commute each way. Wednesday is essentially my Friday. I should end the week relieved, but I’m all tense after my asshole boss screams like a fucking banshee at me about bullshit. In his world, the sky isn’t up and water isn’t wet. For some reason, it’s my fault.

My week doesn’t end in relief. It ends in stress with the thought, “I’ve got to find a way to get the fuck out of here.”

Any optimism is sucked from my world as I sit in a windowless office and slog through mindless tasks. What friends I do have in the office would be scolded if they visit me to relieve the monotony. And then there’s the two “straights” who are scared I’ll out them.

It’s a glimpse into the strange world of my life.

My trapezius muscles on either side of my neck and upper back seem to tighten over the week and just create a stress headache I cannot relieve.

After the commute home through terrible traffic, picking up a PowerBall ticket (I lost, of course) and having a quick dinner, I settled in for a little news and just didn’t get to the point that I wanted to get up, shower, groom and head back downtown.

It’s nothing personal guys. Absolutely. I have ambitions on going but I just lost momentum at some point. Even two or three hot guys with whom I chatted bowed out saying the expense of getting into the venue made it less likely for their attendance.

In my mood, I would have made a beeline for the best and first ass, bred and it bolted for home. With a 70-mile round trip and the entry fee, it wouldn’t have been worth my time. I need to fuck a LOT more ass, spend a lot more time and breed at least a few times. Don’t you agree?

Today, I’ve got my cute, bisexual massage therapist lined up to work those traps and see if I can feel a little better for the weekend.

Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: How Should I Feel?

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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