Making it slowly into the gay mens leather scene seeing as the womens crowd isnt working out for me and hasnt been for a year whether its because leatherdykes are predictably difficult to break open or because Im just unlikeable is regrettably beyond me at this point so is the lesbian politicized melodrama I just want to lick leather boots in the club ... still have yet to meet any testosteronized leatherbutches my age a demographic which I think is the only one Ill ever truly be swayed by and the absence of which is another reason why I feel bizarrely isolated in the womens scene even surrounded by masculine old dykes something just doesnt mesh meanwhile fleeing to men's spaces means Im at least running into transmen regularly enough that I can almost approximate the feeling of sameness Im looking for but its a shallow replacement. I think I got too spoiled at international ms leather and now Im adjusting poorly to the lack. Im starting to worry that nothing will satisfy me in the end but something discouragingly specific

Getting drunk on rum straight from the bottle stripping down and putting on my chaps and self-disciplining with the black flogger that has the strip of leather tied around the handle, the one that fell off Xenon's own hand-made one during his self-collaring, which he presented to me full of adrenaline in front of his elders, the back of my ribcage stings for you tonight

For once in my life Ive decided to be responsible about the way I deal with this boy who is four years younger than me and whose shyness and latent vulnerability seem to beg to be taken advantage of but to me hes like a small animal that needs to be cared for during a formative time and I feel like Ive caused enough psychosexual damage in the past and this time I should just stick to my original good intentions, which are to guide him into a similar lifestyle to mine, which he clearly wants very badly, but lacks the advice and mentorship of someone a little older than himself to train some self-assurance into him. But his wide eyes and open face make me want to slowly maneuver myself into his life in a way that will cause him to need me like a handler. I fed him in my apartment after the leather meeting which I invited him to and during which he stayed almost completely silent and watching him lean over strawberries reading my Drummer magazine trying not to take up too much space could only feel like a predator staring at his sweet skinny acned shoulders and thinking God hes so young

Pathetic but texting the most perfect old butch I've ever met who goes exclusively by her last name and remembering the look she gave me when we ran into each other in public the last couple times shaking her head saying God you look so good, I wonder what was that emotion I detected on her face? no idea but I know how much she appreciates that I seem to be as compelled by her as she is me and I can barely sit still with the phone in my hand god Fogel I would do anything for you and your tattooed bicep and grey flattop haircut. Losing her contact info when my old phone died was more devastating than losing my pre-transition self photos but she recognized me on the street during the dyke march. Do I perform as butch for an elder dyke who clearly needs to see one amongst my generation for her own peace of mind. Does it even matter anymore seeing as the butch identity is so fragmented and subjective - if that's what she sees me as then who am I to take that away. And besides I ontologically require the presence of an older butch in my life, I just can't be without it or else I'll wear down to nothing

I need to be whipped again soon so bad Im thinking of doing it to myself so grateful for the cruising party in two weeks because otherwise Id be lost with nothing in sight

Pulled twisting and kicking across the asphalt by the collar of my leather jacket 135lbs of harness gear and body dragged like nothing by muscles pumping with lust and adrenaline until he lets go and I collapse into the dirt and try to struggle to my feet but theres nowhere for me to go and we both know it, kick sends me back down, and now theres a scuff on the elbow where the jacket took the impact of the cement for me that I still look at and lick and shiver over

All I want to accomplish in my life is publish lots of erotica leather archive job and surround myself with butches

Men on grindr inviting me to the leathergear social

Im trapped in a constant state of distracting want so desperate it makes me nauseous

Sorry I tried to switch blogs and then realized it wasnt worthwhile ignore that

All I need now is a leather jockstrap or chest harness and to get gangfucked in butch daddy's hotel room, I wonder if him and all his friends have it in them to use me the way I want them to, in leather military hats and tall black boots and opaque police-glasses with thick jaws and heavy hands, smokers' voices and dirty staches. My near-nakedness is made even more inferior and provocative in contrast to their dense, black biker jackets which leave no skin exposed and no vulnerability whatsoever so when they push me to my knees, grab my face roughly, force me to look up at them, all I see is impenetrable leather and them grinning, completely secure in their dominance. The only visible flesh is their hard packers pressing out of their unbuckled leather jeans, tapping cruelly against my lips, my teeth, my tongue. From the expression on my face they can tell that my reverence and my anxiety to please will let them take advantage of me, bruise me first and then use me, desperate for the sadistic fuck they'll force me to take as a reward, or as punishment, or just for their own pleasure, and although I struggle to pull myself out of their fists when they finally grab me we all know that whining and refusing is futile and I don't stand a chance, thirty pounds less at least than any of them and pubescent in comparison to their broad shoulders and arms, but when they bring out the leather cuffs and their intentions become obvious I put up a fight like a cornered animal just to feel those hands on me, pushing me into place, slapping me into exhausted submission. By the time I've been pulled open, face down and restrained, and the thick strap pushes in too fast, all it takes is the realization that they're ignoring my strain of discomfort, that they're going to do it anyways even when I flinch and gasp, and suddenly my resistance is gone and they thrust in like punching a hole in the wall. I need to hear butch panting and groaning above me in exertion and satisfaction at the fact that when he looks down he sees a boy pinned and writhing underneath him gritting teeth against moaning or crying or begging, at his complete disposal, watching his own cock come out glistening before shoving it back in, absurdly permissive hole at odds with the facade of refusal. They know I love it because despite it all I eventually stop struggling, and even more telling I suck on it when they force their fingers into my mouth down to the knuckle, I'm so good for letting them use me like this, just once I need to hear a big butch say the words to me and I promise I'll behave forever.