I've just created a blog...that's new. I'm not really sure how I feel about that.
There are bloggers I read and respect. I admire their ability to put their lives out there, their ability to record the things they feel passionaletly about. So I guess the question is, what do I feel passionately about?
I intend for this blog to record both my past and present so I guess I should talk about the things that are important to me, the things that have been constant throughout my life. Its an amazingly short list. But my passions did start early. The first time i remember being truly excited about something was seeing both Daphne and Velma tied up and gagged on Scooby Doo. I really did not understand what it was making me feel at the time, but I knew it was important at the time, and that it was going to be important in my life. Later I watched shows like "Johnny Socko and his Flying Robot" and "Ultraman." (I'm probably dating myself here) I rushed home after school every day to watch them. I cared little for the villains or heroes, but I waited with and held my breath once the moment in each episode was finally reached. At some point the hero's sidekick females were bound and gagged. I think one of the first images I remember from TV is that of a japanese woman in a box-tie. Though I could not have told you what I box-tie was at the time.
I just knew that...it was perfect.
Other times it was Bat Girl, tight spandex outfits and lovely white rope around her. For me play was more about using the jump ropes to tie the girls to the tether ball pole than exercise. In middle school, I wrote a story that was mistakenly left out where people could find it. It didn't take long for it to wind its way through our small school. The boys read it and didn't understand. The girls read and I heard them talking about which of them it could have been about. In reality it was about my 8th grade science teacher, but I noticed that the girls all seemed to be excited by it.
So I wrote stories. We were a small class, there were maybe twenty girls in it. That year I wrote twenty stories. Each featuring one of those girls. They were poor stories, more about the sex we barely understood and my limited understanding of rope and torment. But you know what. I wrote those stories on blue paper, and every one of those girls left that paper hanging out of their notebooks. They all looked dreamy eyed at the other boys, hoping it was one of the prime athelets in the school. Not one of them ever though that it was the nerdy kid who played tackle in football, or center in basket ball. Nor did they ever consider the kid who was a freak and played that new game "Dungeons and Dragons." They always hoped it was the quarterback, the running back, or someone who mattered. I dearly wish I still had those stories.
I grew, they grew and we all wound up in high school, the same group of us. In small schools like ours, things were always kind of inbred. The main rule was you didn't date your cousins. The problem was half of them were your cousins. It wasn't uncommon to date a lot of the girls, at least for the popular guys. I only really dated three of them. I got calls from a lot of them when their boyfriends were jerks. I had many of them drop by where I worked on a Friday or Saturday night when their boyfriends gave them the "put out of get out" speech. Guess what, the girl crying on your shoulder about her asshole boyfried can be pretty accomodating when you're the one giving her ride home. Of course they'd never admit to it in public. It was all innocent then, just the typical teenage groping and fumbling. But I always knew what I wanted. I just didn't have the nerve for a long time.
That changed with M. (of course all the names in this are changed in some way) She lived near me and rode horses by my house on a regular basis. Her body had a very distincive bounce as she rode, one that I noted a bit more every year. One Saturday morning she rode by and invited me swimming. I hitched up behind on her on the horse and we rode the half mile or so down to the river and played. It was fun, it was almost innocent. On the way back she stopped at her place, and put the horse back in the barn. She brushed it down and I watched from a hay bale. I remember her taunting and teasing me while she did it. From there it grows fuzzy.
We wrestled, I tied her wrists with a length of rope and used a hoist in the barn to pull her up to her tiptoes. Her shirt was pulled up above her waist and I rested my hands on her, feeling the sweat of her under me and I just looked at her.
She didn't call me a freak.
She didn't scream for her parents.
She didn't ask me to kiss her. She said the words, but it wasn't an "ask" it was a "beg". I was hooked.
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