gentlemannonconformist

[gentlemannonconformist]

How could I not like these statements....?

Two brilliant people - 1931 Check this blog!

[gentlemannonconformist]

Wonderful....

❤

[gentlemannonconformist]

Rediscovering these wise words after a looooooong time....

For the full post, complete with quotes about writing from various authors, visit www.sarahperlmutter.com

Advice for Writers

One of my readers on Wattpad recently asked if I had any advice for writers, and while I feel unqualified to give advice on many aspects of writing, I can certainly relay advice I’ve taken to heart and add my two cents. So here goes…

1. You’re a writer starting right now. Own it.

I have tried writing before and could never get into it until a couple of years ago when I decided that I would share my journey as a writer with the world via social media. You don’t have to go crazy with it, you can begin slowly so as to ease yourself into the world of writing like I did with a few mild tweets, but you have to do this. This is step 1.

You have to own your title as a writer. The best piece of advice I got on this matter was to write an affirmation. Post it somewhere where you will see it every day. Mine is on my desk at work, and it says, “I am a writer. Writing is my art.” I look at it when I’m having a rough day or when I am feeling stressed about writing. It’s a kind reminder that I not only CAN write, but I can write beautifully.

2. After you label yourself as a writer and you receive your inevitable first few rejections, don’t beat yourself up.

For a while I wasn’t sure if I could really pull off calling myself a writer, because I hadn’t been published. I felt like I was writing good stories (and I still do), so I wasn’t sure why no one wanted them. I began to wonder if I was really a writer, and started asking myself, “Can I really call myself a writer if I don’t have any readers?”

The answer is YES. You can. One day you will have readers, but you won’t ever get there if you stop writing. And maybe not every story you write will be published, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make you any less of a writer, in fact, it’s more like a rite of passage.

I read once, and I really wish I remembered which author this was, that a famous author kept all of his (or her) rejection letters on a wall in his (or her) apartment. At first I thought, “Well, that’s depressing,” but then I got to thinking about it… If you have rejection letters, that means you’re trying. You’re writing and you’re putting your writing out there, which I think is incredibly courageous.

So don’t lose hope. Rejection happens to everyone. Keep writing.

3. All first drafts are crap.

One of the most freeing things I ever learned as a writer was that all first drafts are crap. Once I learned this, I felt free to just write and write and write. I wasn’t caught up in my own head, and I wasn’t getting down on myself for not being the most amazing writer in my first drafts.

My readers on Wattpad always ask me how I can be such an amazing writer, to which I tell them, “I’m not. I write my books and then I edit the crap out of them.” Literally.

I am currently writing the 3rd book of The Deathless Trilogy, and my readers are dying to read it. But there is still no way they are looking at my first draft. It’s a mess! But I allow it to be a mess. I allow myself to work through the story. Your first draft is never going to be the draft that’s published (nor should it be), and that’s okay.

4. Just write.

Stop waiting for the right time or the right idea. There’s no such thing. Just do it, and it will come to you, even if you’re just writing short stories in a journal each day. Writing is a muscle, and if you don’t work it, you lose it.

Don’t worry about what others will say or whether or not it’s good. Start writing just for you, and once you start to feel a little more confident, start considering your audience. But at first, write for yourself first.

Try keeping a diary. You can remember situations and feelings you can use later for characters WHILE you write for only yourself. I kept a diary all through middle and high school, and you know where I go to for inspiration now? You got it–my diary.

5. When writing any story, have an ending in mind.

Having an ending in mind allows you to insert some of those deeper, richer layers into your writing, like foreshadowing. It also helps you develop your character arc, and plot. An ending is a finish line, a goal, and having it in mind–even if you have nothing else planned–will be like an anchor, pulling you deeper into your story as you write it.

For my first book in The Deathless Trilogy, all I began writing with was a first scene image and a final scene image. With those in mind, I filled in the rest, but having my final scene in mind helped me figure out everything along the way.

6. Speaking of endings, finish your writing.

You have no idea how many unfinished manuscripts are posted on Wattpad right now, and many of them have fantastic concepts that were never carried through to an end. Think of all the potential!

Endings are hard, I get that, and writing takes some serious stamina, but you have to do it! You can’t start to understand storytelling without writing endings. Besides, once you type the period of that last sentence of your manuscript, you can sit back and marvel at what you just accomplished.

So seriously, finish your writing.

7. Protect your writing time from others and yourself.

Obviously you need to go to work or school, you need to have some sort of social life, and you need to have some time for yourself. But if you want to be a writer, you also need to carve out a time for yourself every day just for writing.

I remember hearing this piece of advice when I first started writing, and I thought, “Oh my goodness, every day? I’m not sure if I can do that.” Fast forward two years, and I can’t imagine a day without writing.

I go to work Monday through Friday, and come home and write after chores. Saturdays are my writing day. I fiercely protect my Saturdays and my time after work. I go away from everyone (sometimes this even includes my cat, because she is nonsense), and I write for all of that time.

You have to have that time for yourself to write, otherwise you’re not going to get anything done. And after a while, it will get to the point that not writing will make you feel anxious. When I can’t write for a while, I start to actually stress and just start jotting down notes in my phone or on scrap papers. It’s a little ridiculous, but it’s because I love writing so much. Even when it kills me, I love it. I have to do it otherwise I shut down. Force yourself to write every day until you feel like that (or perhaps until you feel something a little less melodramatic after a day of not writing).

8. Believe in your writing.

The piece you’re working on right now could be the piece that changes everything for you. Writing The Blast and The Deathless Trilogy has honestly changed my life. My characters have helped me understand myself better, as well as others in my life. I have learned what is most important in life, and I have come to find strength in myself.

If I didn’t believe in my writing and share it confidently, I wouldn’t have ever discovered those things. Believing in yourself and your books is key. You don’t have to be self-promoting or arrogant, in fact, please don’t do that. But you do have to love what you do, and love yourself for doing it.

Are there any other pieces of advice about writing that have helped you?

[gentlemannonconformist]

One controversial, yet great, man of science...

“I gave a demonstration of one experiment, which I think is the most beautiful I have ever tried. I think if I live a long life and work all the time I shall never have a more beautiful experiment than that. I had a boat without crew or captain, which I controlled merely by the force of my intelligence. I would will ‘turn,’ and it would turn, ‘go to the right,’ and it would go to the right, ‘to the left,’ it would go to the left. The beautiful thing about it was that it seem to be instinct with life, and, as a dog obeys the commands of his master, so this machine obeyed mind. And yet, it was governed simply by the electrical waves striking upon a receiver. And so which any machine.

“Why I could make an automaton in the shape of a man that could walk, move, perform all the motions of a man, except wherein the fact of it not being an organic being would make a difference. All this theory is developed from my idea that the actions of all inanimate beings are governed by impressions from outside objects received upon the eye.

“My idea is that people are simply automata, governed by the transmission of circumstances surrounding them upon the eye. This is the greatest idea of the age. The relations of nations will be affected by it. It will revolutionize thought. It may take years, but it will gradually come about. Men of science find it difficult to accept this idea. They cannot comprehend it. It is stupendous, and yet it is very simple.”

–Nikola Tesla

“Nikola Tesla Experiments In The Mountains.” Mountain Sunshine, July-August, 1899.

[gentlemannonconformist]

This is technically or esthetically not even such a great picture. Yet what it depicts somehow really gets me...

[gentlemannonconformist]

The dawning of a D - part III

Life has a tendency of playing tricks on us. Not just on me, of course. I mean on all of us. Just when you least expect it, perhaps because things are going too well or simply because a lady butterfly flips her fragile colourful wings somewhere in Asia, things may suddenly turn into turbulence of some sort. A chaos, an important change. Of course it’s never simple or straightforward. Chaos theory certainly isn’t. Somehow it also really doesn’t matter if you believe in the randomness of coincidence or rather lean towards causal reason. However it may be, the ominous writing on the wall is usually there long before we - the ones directly concerned - actually notice it, let alone understand it. Instead, those very same things our subconsciousness works overtime to keep out have a mean tendency to be quite obvious, even trivial, to outsiders. I have reflected on this more than once, but probably the first time was when Kristin and I took different roads. We were doing good, but we were also young. We had met when I was twenty, she about the same. We quickly understood our military careers were to be brief. That was okay, as none of us had any regrets. In my last year of service I was flying on the Awacs, watching adversaries from high up in the the sky, keeping an eye on how his troops were moving, if there were any missile launched, if his bomber planes had come uncomfortably close again on one of those long-legged sorties along the coasts of northwestern Europe. It was a good school for a guy in his early twenties, and it made me comrades from the entire western alliance. It sort of felt cool to be part of the early warning chain, keeping a sentinel’s watch on Europe while regular folk were blissfully asleep. It mattered, somehow. But in the end it wasn’t the endless tug-of-war with the big eastern bear that got - or kept - my interest. It was the technology, the plane, the rocket, and where you could go with those things. Into deep space, for example. So, even though I literally had my wings in that period, I wanted to explore. I didn’t want to sit inside a machine built by some smart guy, using crypto-technologies and techno-talk I did not know and would never understand. No, I wanted to be amongst the few who could actually create those wonderful flying machines. Enthusiasm got me. It was a calling. And I knew that if I didn’t go that route I would regret it for a lifetime.

Kristin, on the other hand, was different. Duty in a far-away place had made her miss her family more than anything. They were close she said. She told her mom everything, and she missed her little sister. Her dad was missing his little girl, he said it many times, also in my presence. Countless hours on the phone turned into a different kind of longing. In short: she wanted to go home, back to her roots, and again be part of her local community. She started looking for courses at the nearby university. Whereas I was dreaming ever more of far-fetched stuff like fancy airplanes or satellites flying to the  moons of Jupiter. I came to know all too well that this was a type of curriculum they sure as hell did not offer in our area. There was nothing like that in the whole country, for heaven’s sake, so who was I fooling. It was clear: I was in for an international adventure. And it felt weird. It gave me energy - lots of it - and a deep craving for a bigger context, far bigger than myself and my own nucleus world.

So, it went the way it had to. We didn’t shed tears, and we didn’t fight. We were sad but the drive to pursue our dreams gave us all the determination we ever needed. There were serious talks, sad love-making, but no attempt to fool ourselves - or each other. The absence of hypocritical effort to change minds sealed the agreement. By the day she told me she would quit the force, I had already decided where to go. Kristin just looked at me with her familiar wonderful eyes, ran her hand across my face, smiled, and planted a kiss on my lips. ‘Fly’, she said.

I landed in the Netherlands. Strange choice, many said, considering that I had never even been there before, didn’t speak the language, and had never even smoked a joint. But the choice was actually a cinch. Like all big choices in my life, it was made without too much consideration for those damned things called options. In fact, I never quite understood the attraction of spreading your attention over numerous options for everything. I prefer to go for the single thing that feels right, and that alone. Straight, and with the perseverance to follow it through. Either win or you learn, as Mandela said. Having too many options, on the other hand, even eliminating a few along the way, means you are willingly accepting compromise from the beginning. How’s that for a man’s dedication, his passion?

University kept me busy, of course. I got a degree, a very good one actually. And as I developed my own sense of place, I soon grew to become more than a soldier and gentleman knowing his rank. The day I graduated the dean took me aside, said they wanted me to stay for a PhD, and to set me off to a good start he offered me the possibility to travel. And so I did. Research visits, joint lab work, conferences. It was on that kind of a trip I experienced one of those nights, the kind we all just hope we’ll never be too old to forget, that it - or rather she - seriously struck me again. She was a lady with wings, too, in many ways, and the most beautiful one I had ever seen. A night with colleagues and fellow conference participants was about to become a stellar, life-changing event for a humble viking far away from home. She went by the name of Mona.

Mona knew absolutely nothing about space technology, but she had a curious mind. She liked the psychology of space travel and had studied the life (and sometimes death) of those tasked by president Kennedy to conquer the Moon. I had noticed her dark long hair at the venue, we’d spoken over a few cups of the terrible Americano coffee they usually serve at this kind of meetings before I had the nerve to invite her for a real cup of coffee in a bar. Now a lengthy restaurant dinner with five or six others had drawn us closer, building on some inexorable need we had vainly tried to ignore for days. We were in Boulder, and this was really my first far-away space conference. Conversation had been funny, sometimes revealing, and as the hours passed I realised that the other delegates at the table were becoming a mere sideshow. Perhaps they sensed it somehow because by the end of the evening they’d all drifted away to their own things. Somehow, by chance and strange attraction we were left alone. We had some more wine, we talked and we laughed. I really liked this girl, and so I said.

‘You are beautiful, Mona. In any and all ways I can think of.’

At that moment those brownish curls paired with soft dark brown eyes and the befuddling scent of her skin certainly had me tipsier than the wine. She didn’t answer, instead lowered her gaze, run her hair through three fingers before she caught my eyes again. I won’t easily forget what she said:

‘Perhaps our real meal is only just beginning?’

How a few simple words can put a smile on a man’s face, and raise morale. That huge grin on my face probably said more than I was  even remotely capable of uttering at that very instant. With no lack of neuron activity anywhere in my body, I reckoned that sometimes it is better to act than to talk, so I suggested we should walk.

Boulder is cold in winter, though probably it wasn’t really as cold as we pretended. Mona shivered as we walked back through the empty streets. It gave me the perfect chance to put my arm around her shoulder and with gratifying eagerness she snuggled close. My smile obviously isn’t as great as hers, and never will be, but as we continued down the snow-covered lane I just couldn’t get it off my face. Something important was about to happen. More precisely, it had already begun.

As we got to her hotel room she didn’t fumble with her key or hint about any darned night cap. Instead she just rotated her face towards mine, and kissed me lightly on the lips, murmuring something about the sadness of a cold bed far away from home. This was a smart girl. I respected her and certainly didn’t want to fuck it up on our first night where we accidentally ended up alone together. But there’s also a limit to how much feminine grace a man can take. I grabbed her head, kissed her long and hard, lifting her arms above her head, squeezing her against the hotel room door. It wasn’t a galant offering, by any means, it wasn’t soft at all, but it was the best way I could think of to make her feel comfortable. It made no sense to hide my intentions. Within a microsecond of catching breath she took my hand, quickly opened the door and pulled me inside. I vaguely recall noticing a typical American three-star hotel room, pick any chain, before we were entangled again. Fully clothed we sank onto the big bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, shoes still on, before she pulled that thick feather duvet around us. My hands moved beneath her thick woollen sweater under the pretext to warm her up, but firm target target was rather to undo her elegant bra. With growing fervour, literally, I discovered two soft breasts and a pair of much harder nipples, stiff and eager.

‘It’s getting really hot’, she whispered while she endeavoured to to wiggle out of her skirt, flattening her lower body against the bulge in my pants. My hands moved downward, went from hands squeezing boobs to fingers pressing between her thighs. I soon found she had a soft fleshy bulge of her own - a discovery made by letting first a finger, then a full hand, slip over the smoothness of her satin knickers. I could feel the heat in her growing moment by moment. I took this as a encouragement. She pulled her lace underwear aside and it very much seemed she sought to fill her pussy with my cock - she said her pussy was aching for it. She wanted to fuck - there was no doubt about that.

I obliged, of course, obliged and then obliged some more. It quickly became apparent to me that to satiate this girl was almost beyond human possibility but, such was my fixity of purpose, that I resolved to try all night if need be. At around 5 a.m., she finally declared herself “completely fucked" and promptly slipped into a deep and contented sleep on my shoulder. I held her close and listened to her breathing, even and serene.

My first thought at eleven o'clock the next morning was not of the conference we were missing. It was that I desperately wanted to do it with her again - to do it with her all day and all the following night too; to eat her and drink her and breathe no air that was not filled with her scent. I suppose, being a guy, my inclinations were predictable, my needs inevitably lacking in nuance. Moreover, my equipment certainly seemed to support my thinking. I was about to discover, though, that there was no subtlety lacking about Mona’s needs.

"I've done something terrible."

She was sitting on the bed near me. She was wearing my shirt, but that was all. I couldn't imagine what terrible thing could possibly be troubling this erotic angel. I hoped it was nothing that would prevent me from fucking her to sleep again. I urgently needed to do that and I was prepared to start right now because I knew it would most certainly take all day and all evening at least. I started to investigate.

"We only missed the session on future planetary missions,” I said reassuringly. "What the hell - they'll all think we're in some splinter group.”

"It's not that," she said gravely. "Though Maria will know exactly what I've been doing and she'll tease me, but I think I can take that. I'm sure I can. Maria’s really mean when she teases. She can make me cry and she probably will, just out of jealousy. But it's not that."

"Well, what then?"

She looked so deliciously vulnerable with her brown curls awry and her pointed breasts shaking. Her nipples were erect again - they seemed permanently excited - and she was sitting cross-legged which my shirt revealing the contours of her curves. Whatever the problem was, I had to solve it soon. My cock was so hard it was beginning to hurt. The tensions she awakened all through my body made it difficult even to breathe calmly.

"It's Mom."

"Whose?"

"I promised her." She looked at me and a deep blush transformed her cheeks. "I feel ashamed of myself."

"What did you promise?"

"She's so afraid I'll go wild." She lowered her eyes. "She was a little wild herself when she was young. She knows I'm not a virgin but ...when she found out, she made me promise to be…eh…restrained."

"I have to admit you weren't what I could honestly call 'restrained.' But neither was I."

"You don't have to be - you haven't promised your mom. I've been naughty - I know it. I've broken my promise. I've behaved wildly and...and the worst thing is..." Her lip trembled as she went on. "The worst thing is...I want to do it all again."

"So do I..."

"I want it desperately."

"Mmm...me too."

"What am I going to do?" she wailed, letting herself sink into my arms.

"Perhaps we should just do it anyway. Maybe something will occur to us like...shit, I don’t know. I need to make love to you and then I promise I'll think of something."

Then our hands were all over each other but suddenly she drew back. Almost shouting:

"No...you must punish me first, my darling, my love. You must beat me - without mercy."

I had not, until that moment, thought that my cock could get any harder but, at her words, so much of my lifeblood crowded into that one pulsing manhood, so distant from my brain, that truly I thought I would faint.

"You understand, don't you?" she asked anxiously, her eyes flickering hungrily over the disturbance in the sheets that covered me from the waist down.

"I ... I think I do," I nodded, still a little dazed but quickly coming around to the idea.

"I must be very thoroughly punished. Promise you will or I can't...you know...let you fuck me." She lowered her voice in shame. "Breaking a promise to Mom - for a girl, it's a terrible thing to do."

"Of course," I said, with all the seriousness the situation seemed to demand.

“Yesterday, " she continued, "you made me forget to keep it, but today...today I'll be breaking it deliberately. It'll become more wicked with every kiss, every touch, with every time I take you in my fingers or my mouth or push your big beautiful cock up into my slit. Will you be able to punish me enough so that I can do those things all the rest of today?"

"You might have to take it in installments."

"Yes! Punish me, then fuck me, then punish me again. I want to be a good girl - while I'm being bad. Let's start now - before breakfast."

Our chances of getting breakfast at this hour were nil, but it seemed irrelevant. My appetites were all for her anyway, and I knew we could send out for lunch after twelve. I balanced myself on the edge of the bed and waited for her to stand up. When she did we accidentally embraced passionately - which wasn’t the original plan but demonstrated that the laws of chance were still in play.

She proceeded to disentangle her body from mine and prepared to present herself for chastisement, a simple matter made slightly more complicated by the intrusion of my rampant cock. Politely, she moved it out of the way as she laid herself gracefully over my lap.

Mona’s back was, without exception, the most elegant expanse of human anatomy I have ever beheld. Even over my knee, she seemed effortlessly to hold perfect poise, delicately curved and rounded. A drop of sweat ran down her convexly curved spine. Between her legs and her back, both marvellously toned, were sculpted hips and a neat firm fleshy bottom, naked and entirely hairless. It seemed it was just begging to be smacked. Gazing avidly at her wildly inviting buttocks, quivering slightly in anticipation, I couldn't imagine why I hadn't thought of this myself. It wasn’t the first time a girl had eagerly offered her butt-cheeks for correction. How could I have spent an entire night kissing and caressing this same willing flesh without having realised how desperately it needed to be spanked? I decided to make up for my oversight immediately and decisively.

I raised my hand and gave Mona a good hard smack on her right buttock. She bounced. This wasn't so much her flesh, which was very firm, but rather a shudder, which passed through her whole body. I gave her four more, alternating right and left, and realised that the shock I felt in her body was renewed with every slap. There was something enormously satisfying about the immediacy of her response. The reward came from the unfathomable sounds that escaped from her mouth. I redoubled my efforts: resounding slaps echoed around the room. Mona yelped each time my hand smacked. She was really feeling this but that was as it should be, I was convinced. She felt she had been naughty and, clearly, a half-hearted spanking was not going to suffice.

"Ouch! Ouch! Ow! Ooh, yes," she squealed. "That's right...Ow! Ow! Yes, I need it. Yeow!"

“Mona,” I said, pausing for a moment. "I'm going to pull my shirt aside.”

"Oh, yes," she mumbled, struggling up. "Smack my bare bottom."

I suppose I could simply have grasped the sides and tugged but somehow it was not to be. Accidentally, I happened to run my fingers up the inside of her thigh several times, getting a little closer to her pussy each moment. I could feel her holding her breath. Realising that was not a situation that could endure for long, I caressed the delicate mound of her pussy. Immediately, she began to breathe again - in fact she began to breathe deeply. In appreciation, I let the back of them brush the folds of flesh that covered her slit. She breathed more - in fact she almost panted. She was also dripping wet which I in fact thought naughty of her since she was supposed to in a state of penitence. I think she realised from my happy frown that she was not behaving as her mother would have wanted.

"I think I'd better get the hairbrush," she breathed, although she didn't move.

"Wait a moment," I murmured, even though she wasn't showing any signs of going anywhere.

I continued to stroke her pussy, pressing my knuckles into the slippery wetness; with the other hand I made sure her cheeks got redder for each stroke. She moaned, her body shifting with the discomfort of desire.

"Now," I said. "The hairbrush."

She moaned again, but hurried to her bag. She looked so pretty with her bottom bare and rosy. From her bag, she took one of the finest wooden hairbrushes I have ever seen. It was an antique from an age when, clearly, the true purpose of hairbrushes was better understood than today.

"It was my grandmother's," she mumbled as she brought it to me. "She used to spank my mum and my mum's cousins with it. Now I use it to spank myself when I'm naughty. And to brush my hair."

"Show me," I murmured, my mind immediately filled with images of Mona lying on a bed, spanking herself red-raw and crying.

She slowly raised the hairbrush and rearranged her hair, brushing it back out of her eyes. I suspect from the sparkle in her eyes that she knew this wasn't quite what I meant; but it was charming, so I let it pass.

"Bend over, my darling. Give me the hairbrush."

She didn't do it immediately. Instead she pushed the tip of its handle against her soaking pussy and then, with very little manipulation, up into her cunt. She pushed it right up, gasping and shuddering slightly and, for a few moments, she gave serious attention to carefully working it in and out. There was a wonderfully distant expression on her face as if she was listening to a voice from long ago and far away. She must have used her hairbrush this way before. And often. Finally, she took it out, licked it clean and gave it to me.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I forgot to tell you that I masturbate with it, too."

It was delightfully sticky to hold. 'All the better,' I thought. 'That will help to keep a good grip.' Mona bent and placed her hands on the bed. It made her bottom very round. Her breasts were pointed directly downwards, their nipples like tiny arrowtips. I stood and from behind, I let my eyes rest on the glistening inner lips of her pussy, on the sweet puckering of her anus and the round pinkness of her buttocks. She really was enough to make even the best of men quite giddy. I stepped to the side of her and, without further ceremony, smacked the hairbrush on her nearest buttock. The intense and instant satisfaction of it steadied me. She screeched nicely, but not as loud as the screech she gave when I did the same, twice as sharply, on the other side.

I set to with a will. A really firm will and determination.

It was the fact that she had asked that made it so enjoyable. Giving it to her now - firmly - meant that she would always remember to ask whenever she needed a thorough spanking; she only had to get on the phone and there would be someone - me - willing and strict who would give her one. And there would be the bonus of endless fucking. It made me feel as if, with every smack of the hairbrush, I was offering her a lifetime of dedicated service; with every agonised cry, she was accepting it. I whacked each buttock over and over. Screeches became wails. I feasted my eyes as her agile passionate writhing exposed her pussy to me over and over again and showed me the little trail of moisture down her inner thigh. Both cheeks of her ass were more red than pink.

Finally I could bear it no longer. I dropped the hairbrush and grabbed her buttocks, pressing my cock between her thighs. Hungrily, she stuffed it into the endless wetness of her cunt.

“Will you spank me again?" she panted, thrusting back earnestly.

"Yes...of course. Later."

"No, do it now. Please..."

She had said "please" So I couldn't refuse. In time to our wild cavorting, I raised my hand and slapped her flanks as hard as I could. She squealed and bucked. She was weeping and moaning, consumed with desire and the gratification of desire. I could see what her mother had been afraid of. I slapped harder, admonishing her to think of restraint, which predictably by now had exactly the opposite effect. She thrust herself back on my cock so hard that I had to grasp her hips again to avoid falling. By this time, she was beyond noticing. She came, with a series of gasping cries, her body arching against me. I kept going more softly, keeping her orgasm alive until she wept and said she thought she would go crazy. Then I came inside her, which felt like drowning in warm honey, there, deep in her body. We collapsed onto the bed.

For around five minutes, we lay still. Then she licked my fingers and let me taste our juices from her lips and tongue.

"Will you be my partner?" she murmured, finally.

"Forever?"

"Maybe. I think you're the one who can keep me from going wild."

"You could have fooled me."

"I know. That's not difficult."

I like a girl who doesn't put me on a pedestal. I like a girl who is prepared to bend over the pedestal instead and bare her backside. Be herself. I like a girl who needs things like that and uses them to generate a desire to fuck that could power the international space station. The problem is that girls like that are hard to find. It may be, in fact, that Mona is the only one - and she's beautiful and funny and believes in the kind of chance that led us to collapse over that bed that morning - so I pulled her close once more. What clinched it for me was that, five minutes after having proposed to me, she found another astonishing coincidence.

"You have a leather belt in your pants, don't you?" she murmured.

"Yes."

Her face clouded with sweet shame.

"About an inch wide?"

"I think so."

"It's just that...my pussy's been really naughty and...an inch is perfect."

I cannot say how deeply and eternally grateful I was that, at that moment, I could just reach down and grab my everyday calf leather belt. Right there, right then, it was the only relevant motherfucking leather belt on Planet Earth - or in the entire universe for that matter.

I had met Her. She was definitely little, but she more than deserved the capitals in her name. Lovely Mona. And the odds that I would ever meet Her had been just as great as the chance of that Asian lady butterfly creating chaos in my life years ago  - long before my space adventure started.

[gentlemannonconformist]

With summer fading in the northern hemisphere here’s something to warm our hungry souls.

I’ll leave it to your imagination to figure out the ending…suffice to say that she probably got what she was looking for….and perhaps some more!

I am quite sure that unless we continue to play we all grow old and grumpy rather quickly.

[gentlemannonconformist]

The Dolomites (and the Marmolada) right now.

[gentlemannonconformist]

The dawning of a D - part II

I chose the air force. Though it wasn’t much of a choice, really: either sixteen months of compulsory, brain-dead foot-soldiering, taking crap from airheads, or two years at the academy, paid, going places and with a fair chance of learning something. I chose the second. In all honesty, those were two eventful years, and in many ways a good school of life. There were also girls, in fact many girls, around. To those who are blissfully unaware and at the risk of generalising: the armed forces exert a powerful attraction on at least two kinds of women. I’m not thinking about those who simply fancy a handsome guy in uniform. No, on the inside of every base I have seen there were, first, those whose presence was merely to attract the attention of higher-ranking officers. Gold-diggers. Wannabes. Climbers. The wrong kind of sluts, if you ask me. You wouldn’t want anything to do with them, and to be frank they also didn’t have much of an eye for fresh guys like us either. But there was also another type, much more interesting. Strong-minded, really smart girls with an iron will to push themselves, to try something unconventional. Usually in the top five percent of their class, and not yet ready to simply enrol into a conventional university curriculum. Those who thought their academic degree could come later. Kristin was one of them. She was petite, curly and blonde, with blue smiling eyes and she spoke a dialect which clearly revealed where was from. She wasn’t physically strong at all, in fact she looked absolutely helpless upon arrival, but slowly, slowly she got fit. I watched her struggle every day, she wasn’t afraid of anything, and I admired her spirit. One day night, while all regular folk was asleep, we were woken by a god-awful lieutenant banging on a huge bell in our dorm. We all knew all too well what was coming: ten days of hell! This was the final test which would separate the men from the boys. And indeed, some girls as too.

Boot camps are in many ways just like you see them in the movies, except they don’t take place in a camp. Screaming sergeants, ice cold and usually very wet. We were bussed for a few hours, then dropped in the middle of nowhere, with no map, but they were kind enough to leave us a compass. Nobody was allowed to bring a phone. You don’t get to eat either, but that’s not the worst thing. The absolutely shittiest thing about boot camp is that after a week or so without virtually any sleep, you are so freaking tired that even the simplest of tasks feels like climbing the K2. Physically I was okay, so for punishment our captain kindly offered me a three-kg chunk of granite, which he carefully signed in permanent ink and before ordering me to hand back to him when - one day, and nobody knew when - we would return to base. It doesn’t sound much, but carrying that damned thing - on top of the thirty-something other kilos - for some hundred kilometres on foot really makes a difference. When he dished out his order and handed me that stone, that’s when I instantly understood what true sadism was…

Amidst all this I watched Kristin. She was assigned to my platoon, and she wasn’t doing so all too well any longer. She had mud in her face, blisters on both feet, limping, and her footsteps were far from as quick as when we started our long march on the other side of the mountains about a week ago. I could see that she was seriously wondering what kind of mess she had gotten herself into. Especially since there were officers regularly shouting to everybody: ‘You weak, useless piece of shit, calling yourself a soldier, this is too much for you right? If you want a shower, a fine meal and mama’s bed, you just let us know. We’ll have a chopper pick you up in a minute…’

We all knew what that chopper meant. It meant end of career… But much worse, a huge loss of face. As hell went on like this for days, I saw many leave that way, with drawn faces looking down. Nobody uttered a word, there wasn’t even a friendly tap on the shoulder. The chopper showed up several times a day, and the platoons all got slimmer. But not Kristin, until right now. She was about to give up, I could see it in her eyes, and I didn’t like the prospect of that to happen. So I went up to her while we were setting up camp for yet another sleepless night. Put my hand on her shoulder, turned her towards me. She was surprised, not used to that kind of physical contact out in the field. I put my face real close to hers and said, almost whispered: “You are mentally the fittest of everyone here. I see that every day. Look how you have grown since you came. So don’t you take shit from nobody, alright! If you surrender, do it for the right reasons, when you really want to. But remember: you are better than those bastards that dish out the orders here”. Then, without really knowing what struck me, I moved my fingers across her face, wiped a layer of mud away from her lips and chin. It was nearly pitch dark, but I got encouraged by her eyes, so I lent forward, grabbed her head with both hands and planted a long, wet kiss on her surprised lips. I meant it.

Kristin didn’t jump on any chopper that night. She made it home, with a smile on her face, despite her stress. In fact, she did’t quit me for a long time after that. Kristin became a tough girl during the day, and mine at night… I didn’t even noticed it at first, but instead of curling up with me on the couch she soon instead opted for the soft carpet right in front of it. Bent at the knees, with her hand on my thigh and her head resting. She felt quiet that way, she told me. Then one day she looked at me. ‘You rescued my dignity’, she said. ‘It belongs to you now…’.  Then she slid her hands slowly up towards my centre of gravity, with her lips following immediately after, opening the zipper…

None of us had any military career worth mentioning, it really wasn’t our world. But I’m sure we will both always remember how her platoon leader kissed away her fears and pain. It’s not done, it’s against just about any military law one can think of. But right there, right then, it felt so very right, and I never regretted it for one second…

[gentlemannonconformist]

[gentlemannonconformist]

The dawning of a D - part I

My high school sweetheart was a girl named Carita. I shall leave it up to you to decide whether that’s her real name or not. Carita was my favourite classmate and occasional soul mate from the tender age of thirteen until my graduation six years later, when I left town to serve my country. Sometimes she was sitting really close, right next to me, on one of those double desks that filled our classroom. She liked to place her legs and feet close to mine, making contact all the way up to her hip, or higher, and when I looked at her she just smiled. Mostly with her face down in some book so nobody else would notice. Other times she sat a a few metres in front of me, slightly to my left. Carita didn’t talk much, but everyone knew she was smart. She had excellent grades, and all the guys gazed at her when she rode her stallion after school (I’m talking  about her horse, you pervert!). She lived just across a modestly sized patch of pine forest from our family’s house, so I saw her often. In class she set me on fire with her penetrating deep light blue eyes, during very frequent mutual attempts to build rapport, or indeed with her soft legs against mine. She was warm and tender, receptive, and always smelled of summer. The fact that she had beautiful straight blonde hair that reached to her tush made her a princess in my juvenile perception. More than anything, I recall her long hair dancing freely from underneath her rider’s helmet, as long as her horse’s tail, her sensual girly laugh and evident happiness as she galloped passed me on one of those forest tracks…

Carita was what most people would call shy. She actually preferred books to people, most of the time. And her animals, of course. She didn’t make trouble, and always had her homework finished on time. She liked to discuss things she cared about, though, and that’s how we became friends. She cared a lot. It was during one those discussions that our eyes first met, and my young spunky blood was set on fire. The best thing about her was that she didn’t just look for excuses to hang out, steal some time and an adolescent kiss. She was different, she was genuinely interested, hot, and I fell in love.

Then she went off to fuck the biggest schmuck in school. Everybody knew that, within minutes. It was evident, because he paraded with her in the yard, holding her tight with his big arm around her shoulder. She was his prey, that was clear. She was the little chick he could push up against the wall, and do to her whatever he wanted, while literally hundreds of schoolmates were observing. And what buggered me the most was that she didn’t seem uncomfortable at all, there in the arms of that leather-clad punk who knew nothing about absolutely anything. At least, that’s what I thought back then. 

My love finished quickly after that, but in retrospect my dear darling Carita taught me a lot about female psychology. And about myself. Things a young teenager had no capacity to understand, and - from what I only understood much later - probably she neither at that point in time.

[gentlemannonconformist]

Just now...

[gentlemannonconformist]

Love music

Not being particularly impressed by the available choice of playlists for the passionate of all kinds, I decided to create one... This is work in progress, obviously, and so the content will change with time...

...said that, my gut feeling is that Enigma will always be on it. It’s hard to beat that osmotic combination of purity and lust that sooner or later swamps every cell in your body...

https://open.spotify.com/user/eronaut/playlist/4tBltB5oRKsTlr5HCjSWJS

[gentlemannonconformist]

ENTP

Back when I did the MBTI I was a bit puzzled. With time it all became much clearer…

[gentlemannonconformist]

In church

I’m in a church for the first time since long. Seated on a wooden bench, just as rock-hard, cold and sturdy as in any protestant place of worship around the world. By convention I’ve hovered to the front row, soberly and elegantly dressed. My tie feels a bit tighter than usual around the neck, but I don’t think for a second about loosening it. A chubby South African lady - she might be in her mid-thirties - stands just a few metres in front of me. She seems to be wondering if it would be appropriate or not to let her eyes cross mine, or anyone else’s on the front row for that matter. At least, that’s what it looks like… Or perhaps she’s just a tad shy? But she has also just delivered the most wonderful and thoughtful interpretation of Gershwin’s Summertime, accompanied on the piano by a tall, skinny local bloke. That performance, in fact, gave me the shivers all over, as if I wasn’t emotional enough already. Tough guy is actually shredding a tear today, I realise. Hasn’t happened in years. No, my mind doesn’t get any calmer from this. My mind isn’t calm at all, in fact. Not today, not for the past week. Not since the day I was told. And probably it will not be for the coming period either. So I really give a shit about drying those eyes right now…

This isn’t my hometown. Truth is, I have travelled three thousand kilometres to be here. My parents moved here after my siblings and I left the nest we grew up in. Moves that marked the beginning of my building my own life, having my own experiences. T-zero, lift-off,  in engineering terms, for a young man to move abroad to get a degree from the school of life, and a PhD on the side. Next came a career and a whole bunch of other things…

By no means or standards could I ever call myself a believer. Religious, I mean. I have many other beliefs though: chivalry, principles and honesty for example, or just plainly treating those I’m lucky enough to have around me just the same way I’d like them to treat me back. But the Creation/Salvation dogma isn’t one of them. On some occasions in life, however, a church just happens to be the most appropriate place to be. Not at all practical, because the bench is hard and unfriendly, constantly reminding you that you are in the Lord’s house for a reason. And you can hear every cough. But today this is definitely the place to be.

My mother lies in the coffin that is placed on a carriage slightly to my left. White, pure, simple, decorated with beautiful ornaments of flowers and last greetings from all those who held her dear.

As soon as the priest raises his hands, and begins to address us in his supportive and fatherly tone, my mind starts wandering again. It’s strange how the thoughts of people in mourning flicker like cray. Last time I was here was about three years ago, when my father passed. Now I am putting my mother to rest right next to him. They were lucky to be together for so long, I catch myself thinking. And I mean that. Perhaps it was a little short, but nonetheless they had a good life together. But I also know that my mother’s life - the state of enjoying a full life, not merely existing or taking care of daily slumbers and chores - actually ceased on that same day, nearly three years ago, when my father was lying in an identical but slightly larger coffin, on that same carriage and in that exact same spot to my left.

Fact, I’m an expat. Successful in life, powerful I reckon. Many people tell me so. Above all they show admiration when they ask around what I do for a living, and how I got there. Through honest work. No shortcuts, wishy-washy deals or brown-tonguing of some corporate asshole. But there is another side to this kind of life, too. You are far from your roots. Far from that wonderful thing called family - parents, brothers and sisters - you sometimes may have neglected just because you needed a week off, or to get that rocket project going. And the worst days in any expat’s life are when you learn that your last parent has passed away, and you honestly and instantly feel you haven’t been enough ‘back home’ recently. Fuck, I didn’t even get the chance to say good-bye. And I had tickets for Christmas…

As we lower her coffin into the abyss I promise myself to take better care of my brother and sister. Not that they need it. They are all grown and fine, with careers, family and friends, just like me. But somehow I think we all need it now. And most of all, I do, the family nomad three thousand kilometres away from all of this. Tough guy finally removes the tear that has been lurking in the corner of his eye, hugs his sister, hugs his brother and suddenly realises: I’m the family elder now…

Postscriptum:  I just needed to say this. I’m grateful for all readers and to everyone who spends just a split second thinking about similar settings. Though most of you don’t and will never know who I am, you will know the reason why my blog has been frozen recently. And why I am not always and only blogging about the little one I still need…  And just to be straight: I don’t write to impress, I write to express.

[gentlemannonconformist]

Well done. Your content resonates with me. Play on. T.

Thanks. I haven't been able to post much recently but hope to bring on some new content soon. Like your blog too, btw.Cheers,R

[gentlemannonconformist]

I usually don’t reblog but, unless it’s a fake, this kid got something right...