Some things I've come to realize in the past twenty seven years... these "truths" I hold to be self-relevant. That means they may, and likely probably don't apply beyond the narrow and shallow scope of "self".

1: I don't want a slave as a live-in sex toy. 

The idea of keeping someone around for the sole purpose of physical gratification is a depressing one to me. Having that kind of gratification available would be lovely, but I want the person, their heart and mind and emotions and all of the beautiful complexity that defines their humanity. If it was just about the sex... well, let's just say I've had that well in hand since I was a teenager.

2: What I do want is complicated. 

I want someone who lives and breathes the role between us as a lifestyle, rather than a weekend bit of fun. I want a minion, a partner in crime (Figuratively). The bedroom fun is nice and all, but there are so many ways to excite and delight me that have absolutely nothing to do with it, it would be a shame to focus only on the cherry atop the cake. 

3: I'll never be good at (or enjoy) sadistic torture. 

There are so many paths in life, but this seems especially true in S&M. Some people like to be spanked... some people want their partner to whore them out in seedy bars, then beat them bloody when they get home. Sometimes, looking at how far people seem to want to go... I feel almost vanilla.

4: I'm kind of a gross person.

Water sports appeal to me, and some of the best sex is sex on her period...  I don't mind getting a little messy, or bloody, or needing a shower after sex. I'm not shy about those kinds of things at all. 

5: I want to improve the person who ultimately kneels at my feet. 

I don't mean that in the "you aren't good enough for me, change!" kind of way. I mean, I want to always see that person learning something new, or improving something about themselves that maybe they don't feel adequate over. Fitness, or cooking... poetry or history, the idea that I could guide and direct someone to do, or to try... to learn and grow and share new memories with me in the process... I would treasure the opportunity.

6: I don't think I'm romantic (but other people say I'm crazy)

Bringing you a rose at work... just to call you five minutes later and ask if you're smiling... watching the sunrise over a cup of coffee and conversation... I don't do it to be romantic... I do it because I never want a day to go by where you think you're invisible to me. I'm not romantic, you're just important.  

7: Confidently Masculine, not macho. 

Honey, those drapes are lovely, but with our furniture? Try these green ones, they'll look fabulous! ... I'm not afraid of my feminine side, of wanting to be cuddled, and touched and held, and loved, and reminded that I matter to somebody. I'm not worried about loving pictures of cute kittens and stuffed animals. I'd be worried if I ever felt like I had to pretend I didn't. 

I am many things, but I am not ashamed. 

Happy birthday, me. You're turning out okay. For the record? I told you so. 

It's apparently my birthday tomorrow. I don't really take notice anymore, but since someone pointed it out to me, I think it's only fair that I offer my thoughts on it. 

I never celebrated anything growing up. Religious holidays, birthdays... these things were for other people. Celebration existed in other homes but was never for me. I would say I regret the lost opportunities, but in truth, I am not sure I do.

I have never believed in saving up happiness for one particular day. I am as likely to buy you flowers because it is Tuesday, or the sun is shining as I am for a birthday or anniversary. Celebrating one day as though it has more meaning than another seems... poorly considered, in my opinion.

But this year, things feel a little different to me, in some ways. Maybe I'm still a little hurt from the latest string of disappointments, or maybe I'm getting a little older, a little wiser. Maybe I just really need that CT scan and psych eval. Regardless, I think I need to say a few words to mark the occasion.

When I was born, I had a life expectancy of seven days. Tubes and respiration machines, lots of doctors trying to console my parents, from what I hear. 

Then it was a month. Two. A year. Apparently I really wanted to live. I had no idea what I was in for. 

I grew up in a house that didn't want me, with parents who didn't love me. Simple reality, no need to turn it into a sob story. Trust me, I don't need the sympathy. 

I had my first job before I lost my first tooth. I "found" work, delivering news papers to rich neighborhoods at 50 cents per day. What they didn't know is that I'd emptied out news paper boxes, twenty or so papers for a grand total of 50 cents to re-deliver elsewhere.  As far as I'm concerned, I've always worked. I don't know what to do with myself when I have idle time. 

Twenty seven years. I can tell you about every job I've ever had. I barely remember all the sadistic things my parents did to me. I can still take apart and repair the printers and copiers at my first real job. I couldn't tell you anything any of my teachers ever told me. Sounds to me like I've figured out my priorities. 

Tomorrow is my birthday, I'll be at work for the first six hours of it, graveyard shift and all. But somehow, I got the night off. 

... and I know I'll be wishing I was back at work, because I get bored when I have nothing to do. 

... it occurs to me that this is a big part of why I want a slave. She would be the project I poured my energy into. The artistic focal point of a mind wired for analysis and a body wired for work. 

Now -that- would make for one hell of a birthday present. 

Thanks, it's been fun to ramble on a bit. Even if nobody really listens, sometimes it's nice to just... talk. A birthday present to myself, I suppose. 

To be my slave is to take up my banner, and champion my cause. To become my right hand, and to devote your entirety to my passions, both in and out of the bedroom. 

It is to surrender all that you are, and all that you think you know. To become unburdened by everything which came before, and instead be given a new purpose and a new direction. 

It is to look upon you place beneath me with such pride and dignity that none could ever question you happiness, your devotion and your loyalty. It is to be confident and secure in the knowledge that you have become absolutely vital to my life. That you are irreplaceable and cherished. 

To be my slave is to accept that I have a plan, and that plan will always include you in it. That every move you make towards our future is never in vain. That every night you spend lost in my dark passions pleases me, and reminds me how far you have gone, and will go for your loyalty and love of me. 

To be my slave is to accept that the collar you wear, in whatever form it takes, exists only for you and I, that none other could ever take it from you. My house may be poly, but I will only ever have one slave. That place in my life and in my heart will never face competition. 

The human genome is about 3,120,000,000 DNA base pairs long, so half of that is in each spermatozoa. That gives us 1,560,000,000 base pairs in a single sperm cell.

Each of those base pairs can be a A-T bond or a C-G bond, and can be aligned in either direction. That means there's 4 ways it can be aligned, and that can be represented in two bits of data (example: 00 = G, 01 = C, 10 = A, and 11 = T).

Now, the average dude lets out between 50 and 500 million sperm with each go. Rough average says that it'd probably be about 200 million. If we take all this information and combine it with the wonders of mathematics, we have 1.56*10^9 x 2 bits x 2.00*10^8. Simplify that down and we have 6.24*10^17 bits transmitted in a single burst.

That's 78,000 terabytes, in what amounts to half a minute at most event.

We could fit a digitized copy of the Library of Congress into my spooge. It'd only take about 20 terabytes.

This also means my dick has a higher bandwidth than any internet connection that has ever existed, and is ever likely to exist within the foreseeable future. Now, imagine a machine that used my saltshaker to surf the internet.

Of course god knows I'd probably just use that power to browse porn.

In 1649 on St George's Hill, England... a group of radical idealists which ultimately would be known as the "Diggers" for their practice of digging and planting on common or wasted land formed under one Gerrard Winstanley of Lancashire. 

This group, which called itself the "True Levelers" were an egalitarian sect, trying to promote unified prosperity in a time when food prices had reached an all-time high. They promoted this sense of unified prosperity by acknowledging man's relationship with his surroundings and environment.  Winstanley

 declared that "true freedom lies where a man receives his nourishment and preservation, and that is in the use of the earth"

Naturally, the higher powers (That is to say, those with money and influence and something to lose) feared and suspected this movement to be something more sinister, and sent troops and hired men to nip this in the bud. Ultimately there would be a trial wherein the Diggers were not allowed to speak in their own defense, they were ordered to disperse, to vacate St. George's Hill. 

The dream of course, hardly died in that moment. Several other colony attempts sprang up, and people organized attacks against them. Wherever they went, it seemed, they would never be allowed to stay. 

They defied the landlords, and the law, to try and dig and sow during a period of economic and political unrest. Their weapons were food, equality, and peaceful defiance of existing social norms. For this, they were beaten, imprisoned, even murdered. But their dream didn't die with them.

To those of a like mind, raise a glass to the Diggers, don't mourn the loss. Celebrate the dream. Celebrate their courage. 

Silence, such a curiously multi-faceted concept. So many interpretations. Today, I intend to paint an image for my dear friends and readers, based entirely around that concept. 

She and I... are of a like mind. We value sound, melody, harmony, music, life and laughter... it is difficult to find a place in the world where sound is not a part of life. Even when sound isn't heard, it is still a sensation. Rich vibrant bass vibrations, light tickling alto ranges. 

So one day I seek to demonstrate something, for her... and in some ways for me.

Without warning, without cause or concern... I place a finger to her lips, silencing her mid-sentence. I stare into her eyes, and she knows I'm up to something, and obeys. Following my hand gesture to seat herself on the floor.

One by one, I turn off every source of noise. Fans, the radio, a dripping sink... the clock on the wall. 

Finally, even I stand still, signalling her to repeat my actions, I hold my breath. 

A close approximation of silence. A minute passes. I breathe, she follows... 

And then I embrace her, hold her head to my chest. The subtle beating of my heart beneath flesh and bone. Constant, persistent. Comforting....

And then a whisper, the point of the exercise... 

Even when I desire your silence... even when I choose to be silent to you, I cannot stop my own heart... it beats, and that sound is ever yours.

Happy Valentine's Day... to the women who remind me of the quiet beauty hidden beneath all of life's grandeur and noise.