As a dog returneth to his vomit.

...I return to the two separate follies of writing explicitly about my personal life, and Benny.

He was good though. No headgames; I think he'd actually missed me. He kissed me a lot, and we fell asleep cuddling after. And, not to deny what this is really about, I spent a whole lot of the time in between hogtied and with toys in both ass and pussy getting the holy hell beaten out of me. But that's just another type of cuddling really.

He made me cry a lot. In the good way; I'd be crying and coming. He was hitting me with this thin horrible plastic rod, and I thought I couldn't possibly take one more blow, and then he'd do it anyway and I'd burst into tears and he'd start fucking me. I don't always know if he likes that for good reasons, but I like it and my reasons are no more coherent so let's just call it a good time.

I've been reading Mary Roach's book Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex. There's a passage in there about Alfred Kinsey measuring men's ejaculatory distances; three-quarters of men have basically none, and among the other quarter, it traveled "anywhere from a matter of inches to a foot or two away." (p.35) Which is an awfully complicated windup to me pointing out that I got Benny to hit himself in the face. He's a little over six feet, and I figure his dick is about halfway up, so... the champion!

I know sometimes in this blog I've painted a picture of Alan as the good boy and Benny as the bad boy, Alan as love and Benny as sex. It's not that simple in either direction though.