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The vivid and graphic diary of a modern-day Frank Harris.
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This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.
In his book, Origins of Art, the psychologist, Dr. Bruno Hirn devotes a chapter to the power of pain as a means of arousing the libido. “If we take into account the powerful stimulating effect which is produced by acute pain, we may easily understand why people submit to momentary unpleasantness for the sake of enjoying the subsequent excitement. This motive leads to the deliberate creation, not only of pain sensations, but also of emotions in which pain enters as an element. The violent activity which is involved in the reaction against fear, and still more in that against anger, affords us a sensation of pleasurable excitement which is well worth the cost of the passing unpleasantness.
“It is, moreover, notorious that some persons have developed a peculiar art of making the initial pain of anger so transient that they can enjoy the active elements in it with almost undivided delight. Such an accomplishment is far more difficult in the case of sorrow... The creation of pain-sensations may be explained as a device for enhancing the intensity of the emotional state.”
Dr. Hirn corroborates what most sexologists have learned: that the libido becomes powerfully aroused and made more intense when one inflicts pain-sensations upon his partner. To the confirmed sadist, cruelty must be performed in order for the libido to be aroused at all. Without the prelude of pain, the sexual urge becomes impotent!
This bears up Krafft-Ebing's interpretation of sadism by calling it “the impulse to cruel and violent treatment of the opposite sex, and the coloring of the idea of such acts with lustful feeling.”
The sadist craves power. In power, through subjugation via cruelty, his potency and libido are invigorated. Dr. Erich Fromm, in his notable book, Escape from Freedom, writes: “The word power has a twofold meaning. One is the possession of power over somebody, the ability to dominate him; the other meaning is the possession of power to do something, to be able, to be potent. The latter meaning has nothing to do with domination; it expresses mastery in a sense of ability. If we speak of powerlessness we have this meaning in mind; we do not think of a person who is not able to dominate others, but of a person who is not able to do what he wants. Thus, power can mean one of two things, domination or potency.
“Impotence, using the term not only with regard to the sexual sphere but to all spheres of human potentialities, results in the sadistic striving for domination; to the extent to which an individual is potent, that is, able to realize his potentialities on the basis of freedom and integrity of self, he does not need to dominate and is lacking the lust for power. Power, in the sense of domination, is the perversion of potency, just as sexual sadism is the perversion of sexual love.”
Here again, from Dr. Fromm's analysis of the relationship between sadism and potency, we can see how cruelty acts as a stimulus to the libido, overcoming impotence, creating a powerful sexual emotion. Unfortunately, most sexologists and psychologists in general have overlooked the extremely widespread phenomenon of what must be called, for want of a better term, “consensual sadism” as an adjunct and stimulus to sexual activity. Here the vicious, cruel, bloodthirsty and vulgar elements are completely absent; and “sadism” is vised to refer only to the form of the activity, not to its content or intent. Domestic spanking, as a form of recreation, the delights of which seem to have been largely overlooked by professionals—but not in real life and in fiction—is certainly given its due in the present volume. I would hope that Sex Is All will do much to correct the impression that most psychologists seem to have that corporal punishment is all bizarre, murderous, and grim.
Havelock Ellis in his Psychology of Sex points to the powerful influence whippings have upon the sexual libido. Says Ellis, “The spectacle of suffering itself is, to some extent and under some circumstances, a stimulant of sexual emotion. It is evident that a number of factors contribute to surround whipping at a very early age with powerful emotional associations, and that these associations are of such a character that in predisposed subjects, they are very easily led into a sexual channel.
“Thus, from several reliable quarters I learn that the sight of a boy being caned at school may produce sexual excitement in the boys who look on. The association of sexual emotion with whipping is, again, very liable to show itself in schoolmasters, and many cases have been recorded in which the flogging of boys, under the stress of this impulse, has been carried to extreme lengths.” (The good doctor would have been interested in Derek O'toole's account of his own experiences in school!)
“Even when no sexual element can be distinctly traced, scenes of whipping sometimes exert a singular fascination on some persons of sensitive temperament,” concludes Dr. Ellis.
The extremely powerful influence of flagellation as a stimulus to the libido is also described by Dr. Eulenburg in Sexual Neuropathy. The doctor explains that, for instance, even when a female is being whipped, and no sexual connotation is present, it is quite influential upon the libido of many who watch the scene. “The sight of naked feminine charms and especially—in the usual mode of spanking—of those parts which possess for the sexual epicure a peculiar esthetic attraction; the idea of treating a loved, or at all events desired, person as a child, of having her in complete subjection and being able to dispose of her despotically; and finally the immediate results of whipping: the changes in skin-color, the to and fro movements which stimulate or anticipate the eventual coitus—all these, points out Dr. Eulenburg, are very stimulating to the libido.
Let us remember the words of Matilda Wesendonck's poem:
If only Pain brings ecstasy —
Thanks, thanks to Nature, yet again,
For having given to me such pain!
Guenter Klow, Ph.D.
Philadelphia, August, 1969
Meet a happy misfit, me. I could have been at home in an earlier era when ancestral man swung through trees by his tail and took his tail where and when he found it.
In the Rome that was, I could have taught the emperor much about orgiastic rites, and livened the parties a great deal. Perhaps, on the other hand, I was meant to be born five hundred years from now when church-oriented morality has been flushed down the sewers in the shower of shit it deserves.
Whatever was intended, it was my fate to be born in twentieth century North America, of God-fearing, priest-fearing, ass-kissing Irish Catholic parents who made much of the importance of the soul, at the expense of the body and mind.
I discovered early in life, as I shall relate in frank detail, the joys of sexuality. Having done so, I hungered and thirsted to learn more. I did so.
At an age when other young males were trembling on the brink of manhood, I had screwed more women, sucked more cunts, and experienced more other such pleasures than I could possibly have counted.
Before I was old enough to vote, I was more sexually experienced that all of the blue-nosed old bastards who attempted to court my vote by being in favor of motherhood and against sin.
Sin! Sin, glorious sin; sex, glorious sex. The one favor ever done mankind by all the perverted theologians in the perverted course of humanity, was the conception of the word sin. It became a signpost along the road of life. If a thing was labelled sin, then there was fair promise that it would be enjoyable. My road was well marked and I have followed it well.
Of course this made me a misfit in the society into which I was born. It well may be that in my passage from the womb, I paused long enough to see and feel the supreme delight of cunt. I say this because from puberty, I have devoted much of my waking hours to returning to cunt, or indulging in other fleshy pleasures.
I am told that I am immoral, sinful, a dangerous influence to the innocent, and many other things. I accept all such statements as tributes to the fact that in my outlook on life, I am right and my society is wrong.
Those who would disagree must ask themselves some questions before I would respect their argument sufficiently to refute it.
To begin with, my morality is based on my ability to think, to reason. Theirs comes out of the dark ages. The old testament, on which much of it was based, was invented by Moses as a handy set of ground rules to use while leading thousands on a long journey. On that basis, they made sense. To continue to apply the rules after the trip ended, to enshrine them as morality, is to enshrine trash as gold, the babbling of idiots as wisdom.
When the new testament came along, it was prepared by a flock of superstitious pheasants. Of the lot, perhaps old Saul, later known as Paul, was the most dangerous. While boasting that he got his jollies out of flogging himself, he preached constantly on the evils of the flesh.
His hated and fear of women is recorded even in the history of his church. Even to this day, women must cover their heads before entering a Catholic church, an admission that they are inferior, evil creatures. One considers his distaste for the female, and realizes that there are many men today who feel that way, and who express their sexuality by blowing the joint of another man, or taking it up the bum. I wonder how old Paul blew his load after flogging himself until his bone throbbed for action.
And yet, it is from men such as this that society has accepted what it calls morality.
I consider it a great gift of fate that I was born with a mind capable of seeing through this dishonest screen of clerical crap, to the clear, delightful fact that man was born with senses to be gratified and with the ability to achieve that end.
Sex is all; all else is dross. Money is important because it permits us to more frequently and easily enjoy sexuality on a wider and more delightful scale.
Love inhibits; love in the accepted sense, that is, since the partner expects such idiocy as continence. I love every person, female or male, with whom I am enjoying sex, but this is love on my terms, a love that says this is great and I love you, but when I finish with you, there will be another partner to warm my bed and drain my balls. I may see you again, I may not, but I doubt that you will ever forget me.
By now, the reader well may be prepared to consider me a boastful man. Not so. Like Popeye the sailor man, “I am what I am and that's all what I am.”
I have no need to boast. I am no better or worse than other men. My cock is only a fraction longer than six inches and functions, as do my balls, in the same manner as all others, more or less.
If I was given a mind that was able to perceive that which inhibits other men and women, then it was a gift from fate, not something for which I can claim credit. I had no more control over that than I did over the color of my eyes.
No, friend, you will find no boasts contained in this, the story and philosophy of my life. In the vernacular of our time; I tell it like it is.
In doing so, I make no attempt to win converts to my way of life, my philosophy—far from it. The world is filled to gut busting overload with those who preach the message that we must neglect our normal bodily desires since they are evil.
My role, as I see it, is to illustrate the other side of this loaded coin, to say to them and to those who accept their brand of perversion: you are fools, all of you.
Life is to be lived. There is only one rule— don't hurt your fellow man. Even here, I am prepared to make an exception if my fellow man happens to be a charming lady who would like me to spank her nicely rounded bum or to paint bright red lines across the smooth expanse of her white cheeks with a cane, a riding crop or a light whip.
The proof of my philosophy, as I see it, is in the fact that I am a happy man and look it. Happiness is a positive fact, not merely the absence of unhappiness as the Christians would have us believe, neither is it a belief that after death one will go this vague place called heaven. Happiness is a here and now thing.
To me, virginity is a sad state. If I am ever inclined toward sadness in my happy state, it is at the thought of the dear, disillusioned women who go through life as virgins so that they will go to heaven some day. To think, the first thing ever to ender those neglected cunts will be the worms, soft and slimy, that will devour their rotting flesh after death. When the worms get at my sexual organs, my cock, tongue and fingers, they will be welcome to them and will, I trust, find them well seasoned and filled with the flavor of flesh, the sweet smell of sex.
* * *
In producing this, the story of my life, I have no diary or other such recorded notes from which to work. If I err from time to time, it will be slight and unimportant to the overall story, a matter of a forgotten date and little more.
Also, I hereby swear and declare that at no point will I ever utter a boast. I have had sexual failures, and I shall not hide them. It will be, in effect, the story of every sexual thing that has happened to me, the good and the bad, but mostly my life has been good, so my story will be heavily weighted in that direction. On rereading the previous sentence, I must make an amendment. It would not be possible to fist all my sexual experiences; among other things, the story would become repetitious.
I have two assistants with me in producing this work. Both are young and beautiful, with lovely faces and perfectly formed bodies. They take turns at the two tasks involved—transcribing the tapes on which my story is dictated, and playing naked with me to keep me amused and aroused so that I do not become bored and thereby run the risk of boring the reader.
Now then, I shall take the red-haired beauty to the couch and pull her eighteen-year-old body onto my face for a little session of cunt lapping and fingering of her arsehole. After that, with the perfume of her sweet young twat filling my nose and clearing my brain, I shall commence to dictate the story of my life, the basis of my claim that sex is all.
Until the age of about eleven, I knew little or nothing about sex. I had heard stories from other boys, but even then I suspected that they knew very little more about it than I.
One of the things I did know was that some day my dick would change in some mysterious way so that I would be able to pull myself and shoot cream. I tried often, but at that time, my dairy was not yet in business.
When my sex education did commence, it came on with a rush as though ordained by fate.
I was lying in my bed one evening, my mother being away from home for a few days, when I heard a slapping sound that was followed by the cries of a female whom I took to be Angie, our maid, a woman in her early twenties.
Curious, I hurried from my bed and crept quietly along the hall. Detecting that the sounds came from the parental bedroom, I crouched at the door and peered through the big keyhole.
There I saw my father, wearing a bathrobe, sitting on the edge of the wide bed. Angie lay across his lap, her skirts tossed over her back, her pink bloomers down around her knees, as my father spanked her bare arse.
It was my first view of female anatomy and it I was a most exciting experience. Although I liked Angie, I felt no sympathy for her. Her bum was big and smooth and very beautiful. The parts around her hips that had not been spanked were creamy white, and the big cheeks were between pink and red from the slapping of father's hand, which was continuing.
They were positioned so that I was able to look up the back of Angie's legs, and to see the crack of her big arse. She was heaving and bucking as she cried and kicked her legs, and I hoped that I would be able to see what she had between her legs.
The boys had told me about cunts, but their descriptions were always vague. I peered intently, but could not see the region between her thighs, so I returned my attention to her arse which was still being slapped.
Father spanked alternately from cheek to cheek. Each smack of his open hand on a bum cheek made a delicious sound, and it surprised me to discover that the sound of Angie's cries and pleas for him to stop were as thrilling to me as the sound of the spanks.
The spanking came to an end then, and father helped the pretty maid to her feet. Standing with her skirts held up, and with her bloomers tangled around her ankles, she rubbed her red arse cheeks vigorously and continued to sob a little.
Thinking that the show was over, I was about to return to my bedroom. What a performance I would have missed had I done so!
Looking at Angie and asking her how her bum felt, father untied the belt of his robe and removed the garment. Under it, he was bare naked. When he turned and I saw his cock I almost gasped aloud.
The thing looked like a great fleshy pole, as long as his arm. Rather than dangling down as mine did, it stuck straight out and up above his big hairy balls. The skin of his tool was pulled back, and the dark red head looked like an apple.
“Ohh lover,” Angie sighed as she reached out to wrap a hand around the rod, “you're really ready to give me a glorious fuck.”
“You bet I am, Angie,” he told her, “and if your little cunt is as hot as your arse, we're going to enjoy it.”
“It's hot enough to melt that hard prick of yours,” she told him as she removed one hand from her bum and rubbed it between her thighs. “Shall I strip?”
“Hell no,” father told her, “I'm in a hurry.”
With that, Angie threw herself down on the bed on her back. She opened her legs wide and raised them high in the air. I was able to partially see her crotch, but I really saw nothing more them a great mass of black, curly hair.
My view was blocked out then as my father got between her legs and lay atop her. Her clothes were pulled well above her waist, and the smooth roundness of her body was most delightful until he blocked the view.
He fumbled around in her crotch, and Angie told him how big and hard it felt. Father was panting and grunting in a manner that made it seem he was working rather than having fun, as I had been led to believe a fuck was.
“You've got it all now, Angie,” I heard him say.
“Oh yes, lover,” she panted, “I can feel it right up between my tits. Ride me, lover man, ride the hot arse off me.” As she spoke, she wrapped her arms tightly around his bare back.
I understood what she meant about riding when father went into action. It looked for all the world as though he were riding, big arse bobbing, breathing hard.
“I'm coming,” Angie cried out loudly after a little more of the riding.
I found that puzzling. As I reasoned, she was there already, as close to him as she could get. How, I wondered, could she still be coming?
Her long legs went up and around my father's back, her red arse rose right off the bed so that I had another look at it. She made loud, pained cries, worse than her cries while she was having her pretty bum spanked.
At the same time, my father stopped riding and just jerked his body in her crotch. He was groaning and grunting as though he were dying.
For a little while, they lay quietly, then they began telling each other how good it had been. I wondered how anything that sounded so tiring and painful could be good, but they did seem happy.
The cock father pulled out of her crotch surely didn't look like the same one he had stuck into it earlier. It was a small, shrunken, wet, wrinkled thing which dangled like a dead minnow.
He picked up her bloomers and wiped it off carefully. The way he handled it made me think it was sore from all the rubbing it had done inside Angie's cunt. She looked wet too, and when he finished with her bloomers and tossed them to her, she wiped her crotch and big thighs.
“Christ,” she said then, “I did make a hell of a row when I was coming. I hope the kid didn't hear.”
Don't worry, he's sound asleep. Besides, he wouldn't know what it was all about anyway.”
“Maybe not,” Angie said between giggles, “but your wife would if he told her what he saw.”
Jesus,” my father replied with a worried frown, “I'd break his bloody neck if he ever did.”
I decided then ad there that I'd keep my secret all to myself.
Looking down then, I was amazed to see that my dick was sticking out through the front of my pajamas. What really amazed me, was that it was hard and sticking out like father's had done earlier, and my hand was wrapped around it. It felt very exciting and very good.
Seeing that they were getting dressed, I slipped quietly back to my room, my hard little bird still in my hand and feeling more exciting by the minute.
Instinct told me that I had suddenly reached the stage where I was old enough to shoot cream. What a thrill that was.
Because my knees became too weak to support me, I dropped to my knees and began rubbing my pecker in my hand. The thrill grew greater and greater as my hand moved back and forth, my stiff little dick throbbing with pleasure and excitement.
Then the feeling became different. There was a strong straining in my loins and I wondered if I had pulled too hard and sprained the roots. Still, I couldn't stop, no matter what, not even if I pulled the roots out and my dick fell off.
It didn't fall off, of course, but it went off. I was startled to see the spurts of cream shooting so high and landing mostly on my bed. I can still recall clearly how exquisite I felt at that moment. It was indeed a moment, because time stopped, the world stopped, only my wonderful dick moved as it shot the wonderful cream.
When it was over, I was weak and trembling. I saw that there was a little cream on my bird and my hand, and it felt sticky and rather unpleasant. I used my pajamas to wipe away the sticky cream, then when I pulled them up, they felt cold and wet.
Walking weakly around my bed, I got in it from the dry side and stayed lying on the far edge until I fell asleep. That required some time though, since there were so many things to, think about.
Not just the wonderful things I had seen and heard, but other more puzzling things. My mother had told me it was a sin for a male or female to look at one of the opposite sex without clothes on. That it was even a sin to allow another person of the same sex to look at one's body.
And yet, father and Angie had done a hell of a lot more than just look.
Then too, there were the swear words the two of them had used. If I used a much less serious word like bloody or damn, I would be sent to bed without dinner. I struck me as being very unfair, as though there was one set of rules for children and another for adults.
It was, in fact, my introduction to hypocrisy, and it marked the opening of my mind in a quest for truth.
That first experience happened during the summer vacation. I slept late the next morning and when I woke, I thought at once of all that had happened the previous night.
Then I saw the evidence in the form of my dried come on the sheet and pillow slip. Guiltily, I jumped out of bed and very carefully drew the covers over it. In that way, I hoped, Angie wouldn't notice anything when she came to tidy up my room. She would appreciate, I was sure, my having made my bed and saved her the job.
Shortly before lunch time, when I returned home from play, I discovered how wrong I was.
We were alone in the house, my father being in the city attending to his many business interests, and my mother still away. Wearing a strange expression, Angie told me to go to my bedroom with her. I sensed at once that she had seen the evidence of my masturbation of the night before, and I imagine my look of guilt told her everything.
In my bedroom, the covers had been pulled back and there, looking larger than reality, were the stains on the sheet.
“Some naughty little boy,” she told me with what looked like a small smile, “has been pulling himself, hasn't he, Derek?”
Hanging my head in shame, I pleaded guilty by nodding my head. “I'm sorry, Angie,” I told her. “I guess I'll have to tell the priest when I go to confession, won't I?”
“Yes dear,” she said gently. “But for now, I want you to tell me all about it. Was this the first time?”
“What made you do it? You must have been very excited. Was it the result of having dirty thoughts about girls?”
When I told her what I had seen and heard the previous evening, her mouth fell wide open.
“Derek,” she gasped. “It's very naughty to peek at grown-ups like that. In fact, it's a sin.”
But what about what you and father were doing; Was that not a sin too?” I asked, innocently.
“Yes, I suppose it was, and we'll confess it on Saturday. Still, that doesn't make it right for you to peek.”
Telling her I was sorry, though I was far from being so, I asked to explain things to me, thing about men and women without clothes on.
She began nervously, after making me promise that I wouldn't tell a soul, explaining about the difference between men and women. She used exciting words like tits, cunt, cock, fuck, arse, and come.
When I had pretty much run out of questions, I looked at her and noticed what a change had come over her. Her face was flushed and she seemed to be trembling, her breasts rising and falling strongly.
“How much of me did you see, Derek?” she asked in an excited tone.
“I saw you bum and your legs, and the hair at the bottom of your belly. You're very pretty and it made me very excited.”
“I'll bet it did. Did you see between my legs?”
“Not really,” I told her, sadly. “I wanted to, but I just got a quick look at hair and things. I didn't really see your... you know... your pee hole.”
“You mean my cunt, Derek. Let me hear you say it.”
“Your c... cunt,” I stammered and she made me say the word ten times while she looked at me and rubbed her legs together as though she needed a pee, I thought.
“Would you like to se my cunt, Derek?” she asked, her tone growing more excited.
“Oh yes,” I gushed. I'd like to see your cunt and your bum and your tits and everything. Would you show them to me please?”
“I may, Derek, if you're very nice to me and do all the things I tell you to.”
“I will,” I assured her. “Anything you say.”
“All right, Derek, I'm going to test you and see if you mean what you say. Take all your clothes off.”
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