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acceptance

How would my life without this fantasy, my attitude? What would my future life? I've been wondering all the time and I can not deny that, in my heart, I would never have had any strange sexual predilection.

I do not like self-pity, I find it very stupid, I do not like either, however, pretend to myself: why show off the pride of the high diversity of the first to suffer when we are the ones "different"? Certainly does not suffer, at least not exclusively, for ourselves, but in relation to others. But how can we deny that we would rather want to have more "affordable for everyone," more accepted and more easily satisfy them? I can not silence the discomfort for my situation, I can not silence my pain.

Although convinced that the most important step to take is to accept for the way they (and I, now, I think I made this step), there's no reason to deny their desire to never be born (or increased) as well, are two things, in my opinion, are not mutually exclusive with each other.

Personally, I've learned to accept my sensitivity as a special gift. Adversity hide the formidable opportunities, such as pain hidden behind the most moving beauty.

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I was a sweet child

I was a sweet child, sometimes shy but ever so introverted by starmene alone in a corner for hours. I made friends, yes, and often cheerful, joking and I enjoyed a bit 'like everyone else. Not hardly ever went out of the house, maybe I did not need to have fun, so I spent my afternoons in school books, toys and cartoons.

I remember those long afternoons when I was a child, the smell that filled the rooms of my house, the eerie silence in the long corridors in darkness. I remember the sad echo of laughter, and my dreams get washed every day, every day more confused, as I became bigger and bigger.

remember the embarrassment, my embarrassment when a cartoon in a child was spanked by his mother, or when I read a similar scene on a comic or a book. I was shaking, my cheeks turn red and I just could not understand what was happening to me, I looked around the corner of my eye and I hoped that no one would notice me, no one saw me at that very moment.

loved curl up in bed at night and, after the goodnight kiss given to me by mom and dad, imagine trapped by algae in the sea, or lying on a car lost, getting lost with my ass in the air. Relived scenes of cartoon characters, so that I it were the protagonist. I loved the thrill of the constriction, apnea and pain of loneliness was my little, innocent ecstasy.

I opened the dictionary and search for spanking, and its synonymous. Then they closed again and I was afraid that those who had open after I have discovered my secret all too easily. A secret, so was my shameful secret. I did not understand and that's it, I was too young to understand what it meant everything. A few years later also tried the English and the word spanking new worlds opened to me when I had the courage at last to search for images and web sites dedicated to the subject.

When including sexual nature of my strange interest in all of my suspicions proved to me, like shadows around the bed of a child at night when every object transforms his features into those of a monster: my fears took shape, and I understood that I would not never had a life like any other, simply because I was certainly into something different.

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The art of ambiguity

I've always found it very rewarding and very exciting sex "traditional" I have always loved the subtle ambiguity of certain positions and certain behaviors, the boyish theatrical role-playing game. There is a passage, it Immortality by Milan Kundera, who exemplifies well all this:

"He brought in front of him to shield up to fifty years, and then turn it into a shield and take her mother on her knees young men. And this situation was a wonderfully ambiguous: forbidden erotic intent suspect's mother to his son and for this reason the young man seated position (although in the figurative sense of the word) on the knees of an older woman is full of erotic meanings that are more effective as a covert . I would say that without the art of ambiguity there is no real eroticism, and that the stronger the ambiguity, the more powerful the excitement. "

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His knees

His knees are an obsession that takes me by the hand since I was a child, a place where even wrecked all my senses and my memory: the place where whenever I want, I can return the child.

We are the knees, on which the child sits and swings his legs in the air and lies down his head in the lap of her mother, who strokes his hair with velvet hands, then there are the knees where the baby is lying face down and receives the spanking as he tries to wriggle out of the hands of strong and determined mother, and sobs and cries and gets all red. In these two poles, one of which is necessarily complementary to each other, these two poles swings the charm for me play his knees.

His knees are a symbol of maternal strongly evocative: situated near the womb, are an accessible area so inaccessible to the child as an adult. I am the light of childhood oasis, where the child finds comfort in the caresses of the mother or is punished (but then pardoned and consulate) for his pranks; a gray area for the man: for he is no longer a mother on whose lap sit (or lie) to release their emotions in a cathartic way to find comfort under his warm caresses or atone for their sins in the most innocent, that is precisely what the children.

Beware: it touches the sphere of sexuality, which does not exhaust the subject, being only a part (albeit important) of it. I consider myself to have the charm that the age of the child and the figure of "mother" as something absolute and abstract, in my sexual fantasies are an appendix. These are perhaps my desire to make concrete and present those ideas so distant and untouchable, like memories shrouded in the fog of nostalgia that becomes tangible when we meet again an old friend and is recognized on the face of the old smile.