I have a few hot adventures I mean to write up in the semi-near future, but first some questions from readers, today. I solicited my Twitter followers for queries about sex, sexual politics, advice, and whatever was on their mind, and they obliged in spades; I’ve chosen a handful for today, and promise to get to the others.
If you’re not following me on Twitter, by the way, you should. I don’t tweet with the regularity of a hyperactive teen girl or the leader of the free world, if you can tell the difference, but I’m there regularly. There’s a link to my account in the sidebar.
This is embarrassing because I’m a long-time follower and reader, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t post my name with the question, but I’m 22 and still a virgin. I obsess about guys and watch a lot of porn but I still haven’t taken that step. How late is too late to lose your virginity? I guess I’m asking when is the ideal right time?
I’ve had this question before, and I think I’ll be answering it in exactly the same way I’ve done in the past—but it bears repeating. There are men like myself who lost their virginities at a very early age, who were ready to shed it, and for whom doing so was the right choice.
There are men who lost their virginities in high school, or in college, or in their twenties, when they had more of a sense of self and more of a feeling for their own desires—and doing it then was appropriate for them.
There are men who lose their gay virginities late in life, either from not realizing what or who they truly were, or from fear of facing that fact. My opinion is that it’s a pity it took them so long, when they could’ve been having fun during all those years of self-denial—but at least they come to their senses in the end.
As for those men who live in fear and never allow themselves to take an easy step that might bring them happiness? Well, if you haven’t lost your virginity, gay or otherwise, by the time you’re laid out in your coffin . . . I’d say then it’s too late.
Look, you’re 22. Obviously it’s not too late for you. You could get laid this afternoon and have a great sex life for the rest of your life, if you really wanted. If you’re balking today, though, why not take some time for self-exploration and ask why? Is it body issues? Because guys out there with all kinds of looks and bodies are having enjoyable sex.
Is it worry that the first time will be kind of a disappointment? Well, quite honestly, if you were to poll everyone you know about their first times, you’d probably get a general consensus that they were, on average . . . average. Might as well get the first time over with, and enjoy the better sex that comes after.
Are you concerned that any sex you have won’t be as blistering hot as the porn you watch? Dude, no one has porn star-level sex. Porn stars don’t have porn star-level sex. World-famous sex bloggers don’t have porn star-level sex except about seventy percent of the time. (Well, sixty-five.)
Or is it out of fear? It’s okay to be fearful—we all have our anxieties. Engaging in sex means having to get out and talk to people, sometimes even to talk to strangers and make yourself vulnerable in front of them. For some people it involves admitting one’s sexual orientation—whatever glorious form that might take—not only to oneself, but to others as well. Is it fear of your parents? Of the religion that’s corroded your pleasure center? Only you can answer this question, my friend.
If you’re scared, recognize that your unease is totally normal, and think about surveying your inner landscape in order to figure out exactly from where it springs. Consider identifying, overcoming, and eliminating fear—or at least reducing its influence in your sexual decisions.
You deserve pleasure. You don’t want to reach the end of your life and regret never having experienced one of the most joyous things we humans share with each other. Turn off the porn, get out from behind your computer, and fuck for real. You’ll thank me.
Besides sex, what are you passionate about? What in the universe fills you with joy?
I love this question, even as I grumble about how difficult it is to answer.
I had to do some thinking about this issue in my middle thirties, however. I’d reached a point in my life at which I wasn’t really enjoying much of anything. I occupied a university position that I’d held for years; I’d show in the morning, sit behind my desk, shut off my brain, and proceed through a series of appointed tasks and problem-solving. Six p.m. would roll around. I’d stand up from my desk and be astonished to find I’d been there for eight hours—yet I couldn’t really remember much of what I’d done at all, or why any of it had been important.
I lived in a fog for years. I wasn’t happy. It showed. My family life suffered. My health wasn’t fantastic. I wasn’t a treat to be around.
Sitting at a desk pushing papers and drafting emails and—god—attending endless staff meetings deadened my soul. I knew something had to change, so I spent a long time figuring out exactly what.
Eventually I confronted the certainty that I wanted to do was stop stagnating and create.
Ever since I was a kid, I loved the act of creation. I loved imagining things, then bringing them to life. I loved the goofy process of writing silly plays starring my friends, of writing terrible limericks with unpredictable punchlines. I spent hundreds of giggly hours staring down at notebooks or poised over my dad’s old-fashioned manual typewriter, putting thoughts to paper. In college and grad school I wanted nothing more than to be a writer—to channel all those creative energies onto the page.
When I wasn’t studying or teaching, I wrote short stories and drafts of novels. I even then had some minor work published, but I never seriously thought of pursuing writing as a career. In my unconsidered opinion—and more importantly, my parents’ opinions, despite their academic bent—on the scale of dubious respectability, the only career separating writing from full-time vagrancy would have been something along the lines of professional male cheerleading.
After years of soul-sucking numbness, though, I knew I had to do that thing which filled me with joy. And I have, ever since.
I love the act of playing with ideas on paper. I love taking the materials of my real life and arranging them in ways I control, in scenes I direct, in ways that help me share the ideas I need to share. No matter what the medium, creation is a potent form of magic. It’s assembling insignificancies into something new for others to behold—a something that can be beautiful, or powerful, or startling, or so awful in its ugliness it makes strong men weep. Creation brings me joy.
This, too I love: helping the aspiring discover their own artist within. Helping others tell their stories artfully and thoughtfully. Fostering in the creative a love of playfulness, then watching their excitement when they fashion inconsequences into importance.
And hey. Maybe I’m still not much of a treat to be around—you’d have to ask the people who know me, really—but at least I’m happy.
Do you ever talk about your experience in findom, Sir? I was going to ask how you got started in findom, if it’s appropriate.
For those who think that you, gentle reader, have misspelled ‘fandom,’ and that I’m about to launch into a tale about having dressed up as Commander Riker for a Star Trek Convention (you can see it, right?), I am going to have to take a moment and explain what my reader means here. ‘Findom’ is an on-trend portmanteau word meaning financial domination—a form of erotic humiliation. Think of it as sexual domination not over a submissive’s choices and actions in the bedroom, but over that submissive’s wallet and bank account.
And before we proceed: don’t be all judgmental over someone else’s fetish just because you don’t approve. There are a hell of a lot of white-bread nobodies just itching to turn up their noses at yours. Yeah, some people think it’s weird you want to dress up in athletic gear and call me ‘daddy.’ I mean, don't let it stop you. Daddy likes that one, too. But someone out there sure thinks you're a sick bastard for doing it.
With that out of the way, it’ll be easier for me to explain what financial domination is not: it’s not an exchange of money for sexual favors. It’s not demanding cash, then providing in return one’s own mediocre nude selfies on the internet. That’s an onlyfans account.
When it comes to explaining how financial domination goes down . . . well, that’s a little more complicated. There are probably as many styles of practice between a financial dom and his sub as there are people engaging in it. If you were to troll through the findom hashtag on Twitter right now, for example, I suspect you’d see a lot of tweets that run along the lines of HEY LOWLIFES. This APEX PREDATOR wants to DIG THROUGH YOUR SCUM WALLET while you JERK YOUR PATHETIC DICK to this ten-second murky video of me fumbling in my boxer shorts that’s seemingly filmed in the gloom of a nuclear winter while my filthy bathroom mirror and soiled laundry on the floor is plainly visible in the background. ACCEPTING TWENTIES AND FIFTIES ONLY!!!!
I am not that kind of financial dominant.
There are financial dominants online who solicit donations of fives and tens and Starbucks cash from random strangers, none of whom they know, and none of whose names they ever learn. Some submissives may enjoy the impersonality of that kind of arrangement. I am not that kind of financial dominant, either.
I’ve written many times about the erotic aspects of financial dominance in my life in my blog. My first real-life encounter with it, in fact, is enshrined in an early entry entitled ‘Fag Tax,’ in which I accept a financial tribute simply for having a desirable dick. A lot of so-called financial dominants would’ve simply accepted the man’s first offer of a cool forty bucks via PayPal simply for the privilege of looking at my dick while I exhibited it on a public cam site. To me, that’s not dominance; that’s just me being a cam whore. Per usual.
For me, the erotic charge, the actual act of humiliation over this particular cash sub, was what came afterward, when I rejected his proposed tribute as pitiful and insulting—and turned down his follow-up offers of sixty and seventy-five bucks as a total waste of my time. Forcing him to swallow his pride and cough up a hundred bucks? That’s humiliation. It makes my dick hard.
That particular entry, when it appeared in 2010, opened up a new source of cash flow in my life. In the years since, after dialogue and mutually agreed-upon guidelines, I’ve entered into contracts with select men to exert control over their wallets. I don’t advertise what I do; I don’t go on Twitter with a handle like @BigDickedBreederFinDom and demand Venmo payments for my Frappuccinos. (Though I don’t know. I could go for a Java chip right now, if anyone’s reading this.) I’ve found over the years that the right submissives find me. Together we figure out ultimately what’s best for them—and for my bank account.
When it comes to acting as a financial dom, my focus tends to be on the humiliation—what’s the sub willing to do for the mere promise of my engagement?
Consider this: in person, some men enjoy submissive extremes. When they want to hook up, they promise me things. They’ll dress up for me—in various types of gear. They’ll promise to service my feet, to make my dick and balls the altar at which they worship. They’ll greet me head down and ass up and become a faceless hole to fuck. They want to be called names: boy, son, faggot, racial epithets. They want to be spanked. Slapped. Spit on. They want their nipples clamped. Their dicks caged. Their holes plugged. They want to strap on a mask and a tail and pretend to be my puppy.
Every act of submission . . . each and every of these little humiliations . . . gets me harder. It’s one way I’m wired. They do all these things for my superior dick. And I love it.
From my perspective, my relationship with my cash subs isn’t much different. They’re expressing their submission to me, their desire for my personal attention—yet at a remote distance. Just as with the men kneeling on their mattresses with their holes presented and their faces in the pillow, I find the triggers that thrill them to the core. One of those triggers, inevitably, lies in sending me money—and if I’m to remain engaged, sending it regularly.
Just as I’ve been involved with fuck buddies for long periods of time, I’ve had cash subs serve for months, even years. One of them has been serving me since the day that ‘Fag Tax’ came out, in fact—a nine-year relationship that’s actually among the most intimate and creative I’ve had.
Some of you are wondering what these subs get out of it, though—other than the privilege of sending me triple-digit Amazon gift cards and electronic cash? Just like I pay my real-life subs a lot of attention when we meet, my cash subs score a decent amount of my time. I like to set personal goals with my financial subs. For one it might be a goal of dicks to suck at an adult bookstore for the week; for my longest-term sub, for several years, I set a weekly goal of loads to take in my name, with the requirement that he send me daily emails detailing the real-life encounters.
Men I meet in person love taking orders from me. How to present themselves. What to wear. What to say. How to address me. They like being told what to do, what position to take, when they should suck my dick and when they need to get ready to taking a breeding.
My cash subs enjoy taking orders, too. I’ve had some enjoy being directed to wear fetish gear or women’s underwear beneath their business clothing. Some subs have requested ‘brainwashing’ orders in which they view a certain amount of bareback porn per day, or watch poppers training videos, or submit themselves to subgenres of porn (piss play videos, for example) to which they desire exposure. Some have begged for forced masturbation sessions, while others have asked me to order their genitals locked in cages, the keys to which they’ve ceded control to me. For many I’ve set up schedules: when they’re supposed to hit the poppers, the times of day they’re permitted to eat their meals, the hour each day they’re supposed to text and remind me how grateful they are that I’m their cash master. (And for the record, I notice when those texts are late.) I find out what makes them tick, and I construct my orders from the information.
Subs show their obeisance to me many ways. The men I meet in person? After the fuck, when they’re sated and happy, they share their secrets—sexual and personal. So do my cash subs, through their confessional emails.
The men I fuck enjoy the thrill of exposure—of being discovered naked in a hotel room, of sucking dick in semi-public or public places, of being photographed with my dick in their holes, and of having those photos appear in my online sex profiles. Some have given me keys to their apartments so that I can arrive unannounced at a moment’s notice. My cash subs? They expose themselves to me in different ways. Many send me videos at regular intervals in which they masturbate, praise me by name, and defile their holes with toys. A few send me their bank statements or give to me the passwords to their online financial accounts, knowing that I can violate their privacy at any time.
No one cash sub does all these things. None of the bottoms I meet in real life do all the things a submissive bottom can do, either. (Though some have tried.) I suppose my point is that to greater or larger extents, the partnerships I have with my cash subs are indeed very much partnerships—a back-and-forth, a mutuality of expression. I don’t just take. I wouldn’t just take. Taking doesn’t excite me. Discovering a man’s buttons, pushing them, relishing the responses, then claiming my reward? That excites me as much as it does with a bottom kneeling before me.
My attentions don’t come cheap. If someone’s only going to tribute the amount of a Manhattan movie ticket per month, they shouldn’t expect the amount of time a movie might take—only about as much as it would take for the counter clerk to print the ticket. As with all things in life, you get what you pay for.
I haven’t written explicitly much about my involvement in financial domination for much the same reasons I don’t write much about my home life. I’m protective of intimate relationships that might be misunderstood; I won’t allow them to disparaged or ridiculed or devalued. Financial domination has been a part of my life for nearly a decade, though—a significant amount of time. It’s not the reason I get up in the mornings, but the connections it’s helped me make have gotten me through many a tough day.
