It’s 9:30 am on a Monday, my regularly-scheduled time for a workout. Like always, I pad across the floor of the living room, roll out the yoga mat, arrange the dumbbells, and flip open my laptop to find a follow-along strength training video on YouTube.
The algorithm knows my patterns and proclivities. Populating the first row of content is a perfect encapsulation of my weekday psyche: a thirty-minute shoulders and abs video, a fresh episode of The Bald and the Beautiful to listen to while I complete it, and for relaxing afterward, a 60-minute livestream in which a sweet-faced middle-aged mother named Sammie is repeatedly dropped into a hypnotic trance and made to repeat mantras of obedience and servitude by her loving hypnotist and boyfriend.
I love all the sides of hypnotized Sammie: when she is made to be a giggling maid, and when she dons fuzzy ears and mewls like a cat; when she devotedly calls her hypnotist Master and erases her memories for him, and when she freezes, smilingly, into a happy doll begging to be played with. I’ve watched all of her hours-long livestreams in their entirety, some of them multiple times, her vacant, entranced stares and stiff, robotic movements sending my own body roaring into a satisfied climax, sometimes without even touching myself.
But I am not attracted to Sammie at all. In fact, I’m not at all attracted to women. To the extent that my sexuality involves making contact with other people, I’m a gay man, exclusively interested in other queer men. But to even bother with that distinction confuses things a bit, because ultimately my sexual orientation does not hinge upon people’s identities or bodies. Though I can admire the beauty of all kinds of people, and even feel a handsome man igniting my curiosity at times, ultimately I’m just not really “into” human beings at all.
What I’m into is hypnosis. Or mind control, brainwashing, and conditioning, if you like. Hypnosis is the bedrock that holds my psychosexual landscape together; without it any potential engagement in sex slips, and falls apart into nothing. Hypnosis is the anchor that keeps my insatiable libido grounded; without it, any possibility of having satisfying sex floats away, and my mind dissociates from the event as it’s happening.
I’m a deeply sexual person, and I always have been. I discovered masturbation early, at around four or five, and took part in it actively, getting caught a few times as a kid before I learned to sequester into my bedroom for it early in the morning and late at night. Beginning in my teen years, I got into the habit of pleasuring myself for between an hour and a half to two hours per day, and that rate has continued throughout much of my adult life.
And yet, I am also asexual — because as much as my body craves sexual release, and as often as I pursue sex, my drive has no relationship to how other people look, or anything else about them, and my release doesn’t need to involve any specific sexual activities at all.
Hypnosis is sex to me. Even in its most stagey and sterile forms, I find it inescapably erotic — and that leaves sex itself as just some boring party trick. You can touch me, or you can perform a series of backflips in front of me on the floor; either way I’ll tell you that you’ve done a very impressive job and all but it will not make me cum.
areudirty
2087
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
izzy806
prguitarman
amandla
