The Fox Den

Stronger Than Myself

To those of you who wrote in with your kind words about this blog, thank you. You made me stop and think further about what I'm writing for. I didn't know that my crazy little life was so inspirational to you out there. I'll work harder to remember that you don't expect perfection from me. Everything I publish doesn't have to be the most beautiful piece of art I've ever written. It's just an imperfect blog about an imperfect life, like all of us.

I still hold myself to higher standards, and when I fail, I take it really, really hard on myself. I do this in every facet of my life, including my relationship to my husband, my kinky friends, my work, my problem with ADHD, my speaking career, my cooking....pretty much everything I do. I was always held to really high standards as a child (one of my weekly household chores was to do the dusting of all the furniature; I remember once getting punished for not dusting the top of the fucking refridgerator in our kitchen). I didn't even know I was doing it to myself.

Flogging is not something I often do, but there are definitely times where I'm feeling some emotions and I just need to let it all out.  I tend to wall up my emotions and just let them build up, in order to maintain a good public image.  The summer was kind of crazy for me, and particularly the past week (for a very, very personal reason I won't be blogging about).  I couldn't sort out my emotions in my head, but I thought being flogged might help, for emotional AND sexual reasons.

I went to Inferno with the Chicago Hellfire Club this weekend, and made an appointment for a session. I stepped up onto the St. Andrew's cross, and I got shackled with my arms in the air on either side. Being flogged is an emotional catharsis. The first few swats don't really hurt much, but then they start to hurt.  Yet you don't ask for them to stop. You get flogged and flogged until you get "broken" and you break down, emotionally, and just let it out and start to cry. For me, that's where the scene typically ends. But I didn't do that this time.

When I got to the point where I wanted to cry and we usually stop, I gritted my teeth and strained against my restraints.  Without even thinking about it, I fought it back. It was tough to hide the tears from my dom and look like I could still keep going. But I fought HARD. It was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life to fight those tears back.  I cleared my throat before I spoke to tell him, "I'm fine, Sir." And on he went, throwing those thuds against my back with his various floggers.

My mind raced.  Why in the world did I just do that?  I pulled hard against my restraints and braced myself for more pain.

It happened again after a few minutes.  Even though I really, really just wanted to cry, let it all out, collapse, and be done, some headstrong determination surfaced and took over my body.  I mouthed to myself, "You're stronger than this," as I braced myself against the wood of the cross and once again, forced those tears back into my head.  I was hurting like hell, more than I have ever hurt in my entire life, but I felt like I wasn't done yet.  I was looking for something I hadn't found yet in this beating.

By this point, my back was red, puffy, the muscles were loosely hanging off my scapulae, and just the slightest breeze made it sting.  And that was just a breeze... Sir asked, "Alright boy?" And again I cleared my throat and tried hard to mask the sounds of my crying.  "Yes Sir.  Don't stop yet."  I wanted to hurt more than I'd ever had before.  I wanted this to be a real punishment for the things I've done that seemed so wrong in my eyes.

He switched his tools again and returned to my back.  I was starting to yell though; each time he hit me, I screamed.  Some louder than others.  As my screams escalated and my back stung so bad I thought my arms were getting ripped off, Sir just picked up his pace and smacked at my back faster and faster. Tears were just streaming silently from my eyes into my blindfold as I screamed.  It had been about an hour of flogging at this point.  When I wasn't yelling, I was mouthing to myself, "Stronger than this," over and over again, telling myself that I can keep on going and not to stop.  

Why?  My mind was racing around.  Why is my body doing exactly what my brain says I shouldn't be doing?

Two exceptionally hard cracks and I nearly collapsed down from the cross, if it weren't for the restraints holding me up.  I clambered back up, fighting with all the strength I had left in my soul to keep on going.  I wasn't able to prevent my crying from being so obvious, but I was trying.  

I held my breath waiting for another strike, but it never came.  Instead I felt Sir in front of me, on the other side of the cross.  "Stop fighting it so hard," he said.  I started to cry harder.  I felt a liquid dripping down my back.  Weird, I thought.  After I realized I was bleeding, my mind finally quieted itself, and there, in that darkest, most painful, bloodiest, tearfilled moment, I felt on the outside how I did on the inside.  In that quiet peace that resulted, I looked to my own heart and found the strength to forgive.......myself.

"Thank you, Sir," I bawled as he held me.  I just cried and cried as I stood there, frozen, bleeding.

There's no reason for me to be so tough on myself. Sometimes I screw up, sometimes multiple people screw up and something goes wrong, or something hurts. That doesn't always make it my fault. Moreover, imperfection does not equal failure, and I don't need to constantly beat myself up over that. I'm worth more, and I can stop this endless cycle of self-depreciation.  I know I can.

Because after all...

Missouri is Trying to Kill Me

Every time I go back to Missouri for a visit to family, or otherwise, something goes wrong.  

So I packed up my car and left town on Sunday after work.  I drove halfway to St. Louis, stopping in Iowa City on Sunday night to sleep at around midnight.  Monday I rolled out of bed and drove the rest of the way to St. Louis.  Around 5pm, I noticed my transmission starting to slip just a little and thought, "I should get that looked at before my return trip."  6pm, I get off the highway at the exit off Highway 70 just a few blocks from my house.  I wait at the traffic light for my turn to go and press the gas pedal.  The engine revs, the car doesn't move.

Repeated attempts weren't fruitful either.  I took a deep breath and attempted to NOT panic.  I turned on my hazard lights and traffic started moving around me.  I called the police who put me in touch with Motorist Assist to help me get a tow truck.  

Let me back up for a second.  I'm back and forth from Rochester to Minneapolis every other weekend and I travel a lot with my bondage gear in my trunk.  This happens so often I will sometimes just leave it in my trunk for a week and not even unload.  It's just one of those things, you know?  Even if the trip I'm going on is completely not kinky, I just can't travel without SOMETHING, just in case.  I think most of us kinksters are like that.  For the past couple months I'd been ridiculously lazy about unloading my car.  So in my trunk was bondage gear, rubber gear, leather gear, spandex, and an assload of sex toys.  I didn't want to unload it all before I left because I was in a hurry, even though I new damn well that taking that much crap with me would be overkill, even if I DID find a kinky hookup.

Back to the highway.  Priority one was to call the police.  Priority two was to get out of the car, tear through the back seat and pick up whatever is laying out, and then open the trunk to survey the damage.  Of COURSE my bags had exploded everywhere so it was like a mad dash to put everything back away in the bags because I would need a ride later on.

I finished stuffing random sex gear in bags just in time for the motorist assist to arrive.  Of course I just don't have a place for some of the larger things, specifically, my E7 Mickey Mouse boots and Waders. While we wait for the tow truck, I called my Dad to please come pick me up from the shop, after of course, explaining everything that happened.

You know what's coming next.  I need to get to my parents house, and my car has to stay at the shop.  "You need any help with your luggage?"

I figured saying No would be a bit awkward, because I had such an ungodly amount of it.  "Sure."

Dad comes around to the trunk of my car.  "What'd you do, pack for a two week excursion?  You look like you're getting ready to trek across the Sierras."  Keep in mind my trip to St. Louis was for five nights, which clearly doesn't require five bags of luggage.

".....................just gotta be ready for anything."

One of my bags is a huge green bag, it's a little smaller than a hockey bag.  That's the one I keep most of the bondage gear in, the ropes, the rolls of tape, etc.  It's heavy.  Dad picks it up.  "What the hell do you have in here anyway?  Bricks?"

".....................don't worry about it."

THANKFULLY he just let it go.  We move a few more things over to the trunk of his car without him saying very much.  We drive home and make small talk about what could be wrong with the car.  At the house, we unload the trunk into my bedroom.  Like I said before, I couldn't fit the boots into any of the bags.  I am NOT an outdoorsman.  I don't fish or hunt or anything like that.  My dad knows this.  "You've got waders in your car?"

"Yes."

"Why?  What do you use those for?"

"............................the snow gets really really deep."

I don't know if he believed me or if he was being nice, but he laughed and just went on helping me carry bags into the house.  As soon as he leaves I wipe the sweat from my brow.  All the bags and gear reach halfway up the wall in my bedroom. Then my mom sees it.  "What, are you moving back in?" she asks.

I didn't have anything witty to say.

Long story short, my car's transmission blew up.  The mechanic said that when he opened up the transmission pan, where the transmission SHOULD be, all he found was shrapnel.  Fabulous.  It would have been $2500 to put in a new one in a car that has a bluebook value of $325.  Not worth it.  Even though I drove that old girl for 7.5 years and she was my baby, it was time to put her out to pasture and let her lay down and die.  I called a scrap yard to have them pick her up.  This fox is now temporarily car-less.   

Now the attention shifts to how to get back to Minnesota.  I bought a plane ticket on Southwest (BING!).  But clearly I have a lot of luggage.  Dad says, "You want us to mail some of that up to you?  We could put it all in smaller boxes."

"(staying calm)................................no, I don't think that's a good idea. I don't want to leave it here at the house and it's stuff I kind of need."

Mom chimes in, "Well, at least we could help you redistribute things and pack it all up better."

*gulp*

I really do appreciate the attempts at being helpful.  I really, really do.  Please imagine how much I'm squirming at this point on the inside, it's all I can do to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs.  Maintain your composure, Tynan, find a graceful way out of this.  "Oh, that's alright, I think I can do it myself okay."

Mom asks, "What, are you transporting drugs or something?"

No Mom, but if you knew what was in the bags, you'd probably wish it were drugs instead.  "No Mom, I just spend a lot of time on the highways to and from Minneapolis, and I didn't unload.  If I had known this would happen I wouldn't have even brought it down."

"Oh."

*phew* Dodged a bullet. 

Don't get me wrong, if I HAVE to come out as a twisted kinkster to them, so be it.  That doesn't mean I'm not deathly afraid of the day we actually have to talk about it.  And if I can put that day off, I'm going to for as long as possible.

My original plan was to drive back up here on Christmas Day, because I have to work a day shift on the 26th.  Instead, I flew into Minneapolis tonight and Pup Trigger was not only kind enough to pick me up and drive me all the way back to Rochester, but to bring Christmas dinner along with him.  And despite my holiday auto woes, I have a lot to be thankful for this year.  Particularly that I still made it under my family's radar.

Whatever you did on this holiday, I hope at least some aspect of it was kinky.  And hopefully somewhat more enjoyable than MY version of a kinky holiday!

~Tynan

Transition

I spent some time as a sub this weekend.  Back to Detroit, to visit my stud of a master, YngMstrDetroit.  I haven't spent a lot of time as sub lately - I've been really busy with work and other projects, and when I have gotten to play, I've been doming lately.  A lot.  I think I've only really subbed once since MAL in January, and that was for a short scene at IML in May.  I didn't realize how long it's been until I got here.

It took me a few minutes to get acclimated with what it means to be a sub all over again.  It felt weird at first, to be restrained without any choice as to how or why.  Whoa.  Those are some words I never thought I would type.  It only lasted a few minutes...but still.  I think I felt the transition from person to submissive, in slow motion.  I feel completely different as a boy than I do as my usual self.  It's a different mindset, from the words I choose to the actions I take.  

YngMstrDetroit is actually two Masters; there's Master A and Master R.  Master R loves anal play, something that never interested me fully.  I remember being 18 and seeing porn of a naked guy in a sling getting his ass stuffed with enormous toys, fists, etc.  Anything he can really fit in there.  I remember thinking to myself, "That will never, ever, EVER be me."

That's the thing about being a sub.  You don't get to choose whether that will be you or not.  Master R got to make that decision for me.

After I spent some time cleaning, he put me in a leather straightjacket, a rubber gas mask, and then put me in a sling.  I spent the next three hours there getting things shoved up my ass I never thought would be put there.  Ever.  The thing that surprised me is that in the building moments leading up to the scene, I was looking forward to it.  Kind of reminds me of when Master A flogged me.  Why, why am I doing this?

I got a plug in my ass larger than anything that had ever been there before.  Well, that is, Master R got a plug in my ass that big, not me....

I was screaming at the top of my lungs and it hurt, but not really.  It kinda hurt.  But it felt good.  I loved every second of the whole scene, much to my own surprise.  What was I afraid of for all of these years?  Was I really not turned on by the idea of that scene?  Did I really never want that to be me?

Or was I just afraid to unleash the true fox inside me?

This is a boy in transition.  Gotta run now, Master A wants a foot rub before we go to the airport.

~Tynan

Jumping In

For the past few months, I've been encouraging guys, through this blog and online, to go to the Eagle for Gear night every 2nd Saturday.  I've always thought to myself that guys need a "jumping off" point, so to speak, and this would be a great event.  It's been busier and busier for the past couple of months, and I'm happy to see some more socialization return to the leather community in Minneapolis.  (This past Saturday, of course, was no exception.)  It's also brought me to consider my own involvement, and my own "jumping off", so to speak.

I've been being tied up since I was 18 years old.  I guess I got started early, but living in the middle of nowhere in Missouri for college somewhat put a damper on my exploration.  Now I'm 25, and when people ask me how long I've been into kink, I say seven years.  Seven years can mean a lot, or it can mean only a little if its movement has been at a glacial pace.  Has mine?

In means of practical, hands on experience, I would say "no".  I think I can pull my own weight in that department (but that's for another post I'm working on).  In terms of history, knowing who is who, reading the works of others, and my own socialization?  I would say "yes", the pace has been rather glacial.

I am forever impressed at the amount of leather I learn about in the world around me.  Just yesterday, while in Minneapolis, I picked up the latest issue of Lavender Magazine.  One of the main articles featured on the front cover caught my eye: "Leather Life becomes Leather Bound".  Upon further inspection, I found that apparently, the magazine has been running a column on leather lifestyles for the past 15 years.  And in a triumphant move by the columnist, he's finally publishing highlights of it into a book.  It looks promising, and like something I would actually read.  But how could I not have known about this sooner?  Seriously, 15 years??

Some days I feel I need to open up my eyes, look around, and dive more into the history of our community.  Perhaps I should pick up a copy of the Leatherman's Handbook and read it, even if just for historical purposes.  There's so much I feel I don't know which I should know if I'm going to continue to write all the time.

Anyone have any suggestions?

In other news....My catsuit ripped.  Again.  

But it was worth it.  I've had the pleasure of getting to know RankInSF better, and had the opportunity to dive into some more hardcore rubber play.  That's really not something that's easy to find, even on the coasts where the population may be more plush with rubberists.  But I found it, right here in Minneapolis.

After a couple drinks, we started to loosen up.  I was looking at some of his gear.  It was no secret that either one of us was horny - clearly, I was there with a purpose that night.  I can't remember if it was his suggestion or my own drunken horniness, but at one point, I lubed up and slipped into my catsuit.  What came next is somewhat of a blur.  And not because of the alcohol (completely).  I don't quite remember what order things went on in, but I do know over a slow course of the next hour or so I was gradually placed into progressively more bondage than I have been in in a long time.  The best part about it?  Nearly all my restraints were made of rubber.

I've never been encased like that before in my life.  It must have been about seven or eight layers without breaking a sweat.  The hoods, the boots, the gags, the strips of latex, the cuffs, the binders...and all of this while somehow suspended to the ceiling?  Seriously.  A blur.  

It hasn't been any secret to myself, or to others, that I love rubber.  I fell in love with it the moment I ever first laid eyes on pics of it on a website.  And to finally have all of this?  I entered a new kind of subspace I haven't been to yet.  It was a very "comfortable" place, to be sure.  I remember whimpering quite a bit as he abused me in various ways, but never really a whimper to stop.  Maybe out of.....gratuity?  It was certainly different from the time I described when I got flogged, but still, very, very submissive.

And somewhere along the line, my catsuit ripped.  Fortunately, RankinSF said he could fix it for me, for which I am ever thankful.  Still, it may be cheesy and symbolic, but I think the scar from this repair will be one which I am not likely to forget.

~Tynan

Masculinity

I've never really considered myself to be much of a "manly man", if you understand my meaning.

As I'm constantly reminded by my friends in this kink world, I've got plenty of "manhood" in between my legs. 

As far as actual masculinity goes, however, I can't say I've ever had much of that.  Ever since childhood on forward, it's been tough for me to "be a man".  I've always found more pleasure in doing things with girls or whatever else.  Even now, I consider myself to be more of a "gay boy" than anything else.

But ever since I posted about being flogged a couple weeks ago, I've gotten more comments that I'm more of a "man".  But I've always been amazed at how all of the kink, leather, and bdsm lifestyle is considered so "masculine", since at the root of it all, it is a rather gay experience - that is, men having sex with men.  But is that "manly"?

Why not?  Why shouldn't it be?  As my partner will testify, I've always thought that two men having sex with each other is and always will be the ultimate display of masculinity.  To be so much of a man that you can actually love have sex with one and love it.  Perhaps even more than just the sexual end, but also the emotional side.  To be so much of a man that you can love one.

Perhaps it was a rather "manly" moment for me.  To be reduced to those primal urges and be forced to yell, etc.  But on the surface, I'm still more of a "gay boy".  I still watch Project Runway.  I still don't have any facial hair or wear any leather (although the latter may be because I just can't afford it). 

So what really makes a man a "man"?  Am I a man?  A boy?  A gay boy?  A young man?  A guy?

Is what makes me a man also what makes me a fox?

~Tynan

Broken

So this weekend, I'm visiting two doms in Detroit, whom I've known for over a year and trust very, very well.  They've been very kind to me during this time and have introduced me to a lot of new things.  And they're very talented at it to boot.  :)  Last night was one of those nights where I tried something new.  I didn't know it would end up being EPIC. 

After seven years in the bondage scene, and after doing some reading, and talking to some friends about it, I finally decided to break some new ground.  I asked my Sir if he would flog me.  The grin on his face made me a bit nervous, but something in me was pushing me.  This was something I just had to do.  I needed to prove it to myself that this was something I CAN do.  For the life of me, I don't know what drove me to that conclusion, but I just had to do it.

We went to The Detroit Eagle.  Nice place.  It happened to be the night of the Detroit Bondage Club's meeting, so there was a decent crowd, at least, decent for this place from what I'm told.  I was rather nervous about it, because if you've read my blog or looked at my profiles, you know that I'm really not much into pain.  After a couple drinks, I took my clothes off except my spandex shorts, went over to the St. Andrew's Cross there, and one of the rope doms tied my arms in the air, facing it.  My Sir slipped a a cloth blindfold over my eyes, and my heart was pounding.  I was nervous.  But my Sir was very kind to me, he told me that I would be fine, I wasn't gonna be killed, we would get through this together.  It was very reassuring, but still, I was nervous.

Then it started.  He took the flogger and began to whip it against my back.  He started slow and worked his way up.  At first, it didn't hurt much, which was sort of a relief, but after the first couple swipes, I knew that it was going to become painful very shortly.  Sure enough, I was right.  My back was on fire before long.

It hurt.  He would stop once in a while and rub his hand all over my back, which just enhanced the tenderness.  After a few more swipes, it was really starting to hurt.  I began to moan a little with each hit because the pain was too strong for me to stay quiet.  I wish I could say this was a sexual thing for me, but in that moment, horniness couldn't have been further from my mind.  This was test of endurance.  I had to do this.  I HAD to.

At a certain point, my moans became yells.  The yells weren't a stereotypical gayboi twink yell.  It sounds stupid, but I rather surprised myself.  They were really deep toned, basal, earthy yells.  The kind that churns up from deep inside you, bypasses your vocal cords, and projects out from the force of your lungs.  My mind was racing.  The thoughts I had tumbled down so fast that I couldn't pinpoint any one of them.  I was thinking so fast that I just stopped.  My actions were no longer calculated, they were just instinct and reaction.  At this point, my Sir started to untie one of my wrists. Imagine my own surprise when my voice said, "Sir, please, don't.  I want you to keep going, Sir.  Please."

I was scared, but I didn't want it to end.  I think it surprised him too.  "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes.  Please Sir."

He went back and started flogging again, but harder now, and faster.  My wrists were still pulling against the rope and my back was tensing up as hard as I could get it too.  And my yells kept getting progressively louder, louder, and closer together.  Finally he landed one well timed crack on my back which made me yell louder in pain than I probably ever have in my life.  A few softer but still very painful cracks came after, which I took.  Then he stepped in an ran his hand over my back again. 

And I started to cry.  It wasn't a wince-your-eyes-in-pain, grin-and-bear-it kind of cry.  I started sobbing.  It was a deep, soulful, cry.  One I haven't had in a long, long time.  I was in pain, yes, but I'm sure it wasn't the pain that was making me cry.  I was somewhat glad I was blindfolded, but as my Sir found me sobbing like this, he started to untie me again.  Through my tears and sobs and emotions, I found myself still saying, "Sir, I don't want you to stop don't stop please don't stop I don't want you to stop."

But my Sir was firm.  "No.  This is where we stop."

He untied my wrists, but left my blindfold on.  Then he just put his arms around me and held me against his chest as I sobbed and sobbed.  I didn't know what I was crying for.  It didn't matter.  Still I was telling him, "I don't want you to stop."

"Shhhh.  Just let it out," he said in his deep, gruff voice.

And I did.  For another three or four minutes I just stood in his arms, blindfolded, and crying as my back finally started to cool off. 

I slept amazingly well last night, needless to say.  I kept thinking about it of course.  I've never once cried during a scene before.  In fact, I haven't cried that hard in years.  But apparantly, most guys do if they get flogged until they're broken.  I understand that.  Crying actually felt like a fully appropriate emotion to display at the time it was happening.  Why is it scary to me?

It's scary because of the fact that all of this came from inside ME.  It was my idea.  I asked to keep going.  I didn't want it to stop.  It's not like anything I've ever done before.  It's something I've never wanted to be or do.  It's a piece of something that's hiding within me.  Maybe I'm not really the person I think I am.  I'm scared of the person that I've been denying.  I'm afraid of losing touch with what I currently hold dear to me in the kink world. 

I'm afraid of the Fox I may yet become.

Roots

I was listening to a great new podcast on Dart's Domain yeasterday.  The leatherman he interviewed spoke at length about what the new, younger group of kinksters is having to face in their adventures with all the swirl of technology and new and different views of what is acceptable and what is not.  (On a side note, Dart is one of my most FAVORITE bondage masters/leathermen/kinksters of all time...he's definately worth checking out to drool over.) 

Something that I love about being in the gay kink community is that we're all, in one way or another, brothers.  Bondage, although it can be very social, is a very personal activity, one which requires a lot of trust, work, and respect.  For a younger generation of growing kinksters, this immediately forms a bond of kinship among us, likely because there are so few.  The guys that I have played with are my friends, my equals, and we'd always go the extra mile for one another if one of us was in need.

I will admit that I don't know much about "old guard" leather traditions, but from what I DO understand, there is emphasis on pain/sadomasochism, leather, and heiarchical structures.  You could not command a boy without first being commanded yourself.  "Switching" during a "scene" is not allowed; you have to earn your way and work your way up the ranks.  Looking, acting, and behaving this way is viewed to be one of the most intimate displays of masculinity.  However, in a lot of ways from my understanding, there always was/is a sense of respect, friendship, and on some level, love through this play.

I don't for a single SECOND want to make anyone think that I am a "hater" or that I frown upon this scene.  I am now and always will be a firm believer in that people should really do what they love.  For those people in this scene, if you're happy, then you've probably found more happiness than most people do in their lives.  The point I do wish to make is that the younger generation of kink, at least insofar as I have encountered, does not really have this heirarchical structure.  However, the kinship and brotherhood bonds are still there.

Just last night in fact, one of my kinky friends was on a long, LONG road trip, and had been sleeping in his car for days.  I found out last minute that he was on his way through Rochester, I made him welcome.  I had to work overnight last night 7pm-7am, but even so, I gave him a key to the house so he could put his feet up for a night and take a load off from a long drive.  Welcomed him to my fridge.  Isn't this something anyone would do for their brother?

Although the activities and scenes have changed quite a bit over the years, I don't think we've lost the roots from which we came.  Not entirely, at least.

Comments and thoughts are always appreciated on this blog.  Especially from those with some more insight.

~Tynan