Enough! I’ve had it! Too much deep thought. This week I am going to read about chess and engineering and NOT, for the love of God, anything about feminism or sex work.

Last week I made it all the way through Naomi Wolf’s The Beauty Myth — the most approachable-looking book from my latest batch — and cannot face the others yet. For example, Ariel Levy’s Female Chauvinist Pigs, which I might just destroy with scissors if I attempted to read it this week. Or at all. I don’t know why I bought it, unless I thought I needed fuel for one of those marathon over-the-knee spanking scenes. Or a campfire.

On Friday I had the privilege of hanging out with a lively college-age group in Jersey. Despite my pre-shoot moratorium on bottoming (oh, how I didn’t miss that) I enjoyed the party immensely. How had I forgotten how pretty athletic college boys are? I could just eat them up.

Toward the end, I also got to experiment with hypnotism.

I watched a class on “erotic hypnotism” at CV a few weeks ago, and have been obsessed since. I had tons of questions. Anything sexy is worth asking questions about. Why would you do it? What is the reward for the top, even when doing BDSM-esque activities (like virtual flogging or electricity), when the bottom is usually unresponsive? Can you call what has transpired a scene when you’ve merely told your bottom it’s happening, and they tell you afterward that it happened? Did anything really happen at all — and what?

One of the boys who’d presented was there, so… I asked him to try to hypnotize me. He politely obliged.

In my fantasies of hypnosis, it is a force I can’t overcome. The man and his words are magical. Instead of the induction being a cooperative effort to relax me, I imagine it as an irresistable languor stealing over my limbs; instead of polite suggestions, I imagine orders that command my unwilling (or at least helpless) body and mind.

Hot stuff, right?

In contrast, my experience was quite civilized.  Bummer! I always felt — no, knew — that I was fully present, conscious, and in control. More like how I would imagine guided meditation than, oh, sexy mind-rape. I wonder if one could be told to think of it as sexy mind-rape?

But nevertheless, I was doing (and feeling) all the things that I was being invited to imagine. It bent my brain afterward to question whether these experiences were more or less real.

I am coming to despise that word “real”.

Incongruously, it seemed absolutely lucid and mundane while it was happening, because it was — nothing more magical than a boy talking to me, perched on a swiveling office chair with his elbows on his knees. Nevermind that I came. Oddly enough, I can’t recall the exact dialogue now, any more than if it had been a dream.

And on that, I must return to reality: I am off to find clothes and get myself to work. It may be 81 degrees here in Manhattan, and I may have just finished a seven-hour drive, but none of that bothers Mistress Alena — right?

Posted in books, hypnosis, conversio virium