Trust, mania, fitness, and porn

So by mistake, I recorded our last two sessions. (I often record Zooms for work-related reasons, and my settings left me recording, oblivious.) I apologize for having done that without your ok. I deleted the recordings as soon as I realized I’d done it, since I didn’t have your permission.

But then, it occurred to me – if you’re willing, I would like to record with your permission. I’m going away [next week]. And I would love to have a couple of sessions recorded (I won’t be able to schedule sessions while I’m there) so I don’t backslide while I’m gone. And when I’m back, it’s helpful for me to be able to stretch more rather than less often. I promise, I won’t use the recordings in lieu of an actual session I possibly could have with you.

If that’s okay with you, I’ll record our session tomorrow. If not, no worries – just let me know.

Thanks.

N.

I sent this to three separate trainers, for all three of which, it had been, essentially, true. I say “essentially” because – as I’ve written – I worship at the altar of Freud, and one of my nearly theological beliefs is that there are no mistakes, that when we/I do something, even seemingly unintentionally, there is intentionality behind it. In retrospect, I can see with a clarity that a sort of in-the-moment dissociation deprived me of, that it was intentional. Or maybe more precisely, that there was some disavowed intentionality within it.

And that is deeply uncomfortable, even shameful, for me. (When I wrote this post the other day, it was because I learned that one of the three – who initially had responded very nonchalantly to my disclosure – in fact was completely rattled by it. So much so that she asked me to sign a contract promising to keep secure, or destroy, what she’d sent me. And, having procured my signature – which, of course, I gave instantly – she told me she never wanted to see me again. She was nice about it, but made reference to “ruptured trust.)

Surely, I wanted the recordings not just to motivate me during my trip, but also because – well, my “training sessions” are pretty fucking hot to me. They generate real-time porn of the sort that I really, really like. So the prospect of being able to revisit them at some point? That’s super-hot to me. And, too, I’ve always wanted to be a porn director. 😉

Related…. when I resumed dating women in the open (or something like it) about a decade ago, there was no Snapchat. Many of the women I interacted with sent me photos or videos. By e-mail. They did so knowing there was no way they could do so without giving me their pictures, without conferring on me a certain degree of trust. Snapchat allowed women to share images and videos while trusting me less. Trust makes my cock hard. I fucking love the mountain of porn that sits in the (now three) e-mail accounts that I’ve had since starting this blog. I don’t, generally, go back and review it. But it makes my cock hard to know that all these women have entrusted me with so much porn. And I hated (and still do hate) Snapchat. I don’t want the images you send me to vanish. I want to be able to have them forever.

It makes my cock hard to keep what you send me secure. To abide by my own code of conduct. To be at least as trustworthy as all those women who have send, who do send me orgasms, photos, videos, recordings of their voices, believed me to be.

And somehow – deleting photos, porn, feels like an almost unfathomable loss to me. I don’t, generally, go back and look at all the porn my various exes have sent me. Shit – I could spend years jerking off to nothing other than Sofia’s copious contributions to my collection. But deleting even one single picture, one single video, hurts me. I’d like to explore this more, and perhaps I will in a subsequent post. I’m not sure what it is that I imagine I lose when I delete a picture or video I never look at. But I do lose something. And it hurts. (Very short hypothesis: I think it has something to do with death, with impermanence, with putting me in touch with my own mortality, which I’d prefer to avoid.)

Anyway, back to the contemporary situation….

The interlude described at the top of this post took place before I began my Seeking Arrangement trainer quest. I sent that e-mail to three women I had procured with an explicit confession that I wanted to watch them, but with whom my interactions were most definitely not explicitly sexual. They were playful. Maybe slightly sexualized? But there were boundaries. And I (wanted to) respect the boundaries we’d implicitly agreed to. They signed up for a gig in which their looks would be part of my motivation. They didn’t necessarily sign up to engage in explicitly sexual banter. And they definitely didn’t sign up to be recorded.

Years ago, I wrote about creep shots – about the practice, in which I engaged for a period, in a fun project in which I engaged with a couple that T and I were dating, of surreptitiously taking photos of women (and a few men) in public. That was in my heyday as a blogger. This blog had multiples of the readers it enjoys now, and there was a robust flow of comments in response to many of my posts. My posts on this subject were controversial, and my thinking evolved. Executive summary: I stopped taking creep shots, increasingly convinced they really were, well, creepy. Even if I never quite subscribed to the idea that they were wrong (let alone, harmful).

But now, here’s where I am: I’m recruiting a couple of women to help me get in shape. To stretch with me, bend over with me. Put their asses, their pussies, in my face. To dress for me, to titillate me. And they’re fucking hot. And you know what? I want them to give me their videos in the same way all those other women over the years have sent me theirs – most recently, Alexandra, but starting with the historian, stretching all the way to Marina, with Sofia, V, and countless, countless others along the way. I probably have a terabyte of consensually provided porn clouding my dutifully secured (all behind at least one, and sometimes even two or three levels of two-factor authentication and code-of-conduct-codified) digital life.

And I want some stretching and yoga videos, directed by me, cast by me.

And there’s this truth: it’s really fucking easy to capture video. I did it “by mistake” a bunch of times. It’s ripping my heart out to delete them, but I’m doing it. (I’ve deleted all but two; I haven’t removed them yet, but I will by the time I press “publish” on this post. It pains me, though.)

I’m not a sociopath. In this instance, it actually feels very clear to me (in a way it never really did with creep shots): I’m paying women to stretch with me. If I take a video of them doing it, I’m taking something that has a value to me, from them, without either telling them, or compensating them. I’m not so moved by the concerns about “security” or “safety” or “intrusion” – for all the reasons I wrote about ad nauseam when I wrote about creep shots. These women are putting their asses in my face. I am free to remember that, to jerk off to it, if I wish. And I’m not sure I understand how, why, my capturing it in perpetuity is any different to them except for that previous reason I said: it has value to me, and I’m not compensating them, and in order to compensate them, I would need to disclose it. But I know, in my bones, it’s wrong. [And, I know, in my bones, that I’m actually a pretty unusual dude: the vast majority of guys who might want to have this kind of porn could take it, and no one ever would know. So somehow there’s an additional loss in all this: I’m protecting the women I work out with in a way others with whom they might do the very same thing might not.]

Anyway: here’s my dislosure, and my promise:

Disclosure: I want to record every stretching or workout session I ever have. Much more than I want to record the actual sex I have. It’s a powerful longing. I want to be able to look at your ass again and again; at your pussy, again and again. At your pretty face, at your cleavage. I want a mammoth collection of workout videos starring YOU.

And promise: I won’t. Fucking. Do that. UNLESS…. you tell me I may. In which case, as they say, “Yahtzee!”