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SF (Redesign) (Once again, the date this entry SHOULD have been posted...) Please excuse my recent silence. Rather than writing diary entries, I seem to have taken to writing lengthy e-mails, some of which might later crystallise into something I'd want to post here, but that will require some further thought and editing. I've also been spending some time fighting to learn HTML and updating my layout on this thing. As much as I liked it for awhile, the blue-tinted picture of the sun got old for me. I wasn't too fond of the font, for starters, and I grew bored of crediting a designer who has apparently closed up shop (though I liked his designs very much, thanks) for a design which had nothing whatsoever to do with the state of being which one would associate with a creature which calls itself DJRainDog, namely me. Furthermore, certain areas of the page were illegible as the font color blended into the color of the cobalt explosion in the background, though I don't know if that was always the case or if it only happened after I replaced and manipulated the image a bit, so I thought I should make adjustments to enhance the "reading experience." The first attempt was based on the photograph of a beach taken by my stepfather which I use in my banner ad, but I couldn't figure out a way to keep all of the text legible among the tangled reeds with the colour scheme I wanted to use, so I scrapped that and went searching for free images in stock collections on the 'net. After saving several, I determined that what you see in the lower right corner of the screen, a slightly seedy-looking suit without a wearer, with one arm seeming to reach inside the jacket for something (ominous...?), photographed in a strange fisheye-under-a-streetlight style against a brick wall. That's me not wearing that suit and reaching under my jacket for...What? A cigarette? My business card? The piece in my shoulder holster? My ever-elusive keys? Decide for yourself. I'm still tweaking the fonts a bit on this, though, so if you have suggestions, feel free to submit. I think I also need to figure out how to anchor those links in the upper left corner. Ah, well, the more I study, the more bells and whistles this thing might develop. Or maybe I'll do something I've never learned to do in my life and just leave well enough alone. The Title of This Entry: SF. That could stand for so many things, couldn't it? I'm not thinking in terms of San Francisco, here, though; I'm referring to the bastard step-cousins that are "Sexually Frustrated" and "Sexually Frivolous". The former of these should come as no surprise; it's a familiar enough phrase, I'm sure. The latter stems from a conversation I had with my friend Marcus some years ago, when we were both feeling perhaps a little guilty about how much play we were getting, but not particularly liking the prospect of thinking of ourselves as "slutty," so one of us brainstormed the euphemism, "Sexually Frivolous." I think its meaning is self-explanatory; we're both prone to having sexual experiences both of a whimsical nature and on a whim (though not with each other, these days; the early days of our friendship are a story for another time), and we don't really see much reason to apologise for it. Nobody gets hurt, and nobody expects anything to be anything other than what it is: hot, uplifting, satisfying, fun. Lately, though, I've been more the former type of SF, and I cannot understand why. It doesn't seem to matter what I do or with whom, I'm never satisfied; I find myself looking for more as soon as I'm alone again. This catches me all the more unawares since just a few months ago, I thought my libido had slowed down, that I had grown past the constant and insatiable 19-year-old sexual appetite that I'd carried around for several years. I once had a therapist who surmised that the constant "hunting" might be a by-product of my depression, in that I was attempting to use sex to avoid problems and make myself feel better, but at this point, I'm really not avoiding anything, and I'm not particularly depressed. My life is good, relatively secure, and pretty enviable on a number of levels. I have managed to block out nearly everything that is happening in the world community by not reading newspapers, news websites, or watching TV news broadcasts, and thus have ensconced myself in a blissful oblivion which allows me to walk to work in the morning singing or whistling happily, rather than fuming and plotting the overthrow of the government. I've started hanging out with my friends again; I'd failed to realise, somehow, how much I missed them. A more likely option might be the fact that it is (or should be) spring. Of course, we're supposed to receive as much as six inches of snow between today and tomorrow around here, but I think my internal barometer or whatever knows what SHOULD be going on right now. The sun should be shining; birds should be returning from the south; buds should be appearing on trees, blossoms on flowers; stupid happy couples should be walking down the street holding hands; cute boys should be out throwing frisbees & kicking hacky-sacks shirtless and skateboarding with their trousers barely hanging on their cute little asses; and I should be fucking like the dog I am, which is to say, at least once a week, preferably more. A more remote possibility could be that my biological clock ('cause yeah, I think guys have those, too) is ticking very loudly and saying something about a desire to procreate which lurks in the recesses of my subconscious and only occasionally peeks out when someone I know has a child, reminding me that while I'll probably still be able to reproduce for many years to come, oh, yes, I am getting older. So those are the potential causes I can conjure for the incessant horniness. The reason for the sexual frustration is much clearer: My desires aren't being fulfilled. Part of this problem lies in the fact that my desires aren't what they normally are. Generally, I want to find someone cute and fairly young into whose appropriate orifices I wish to insert my erect penis repeatedly until both partner and I reach orgasm and collapse breathless onto whatever surface is convenient. Over the last few weeks, I've found those desires altered; rather than being the dominant force in the experience, I lately find myself wanting to be acted upon. I'm not bothered by this, as I've always claimed versatility, and I'm pretty sure that this particular predilection is a passing desire, which once it's been satisfied, will not resurface for awhile; the trouble is that it's so fucking hard to find someone I'd deem appropriate to fuck me. I'm awfully particular about that. I want someone who can really be the aggressor, someone who could actually force me into submission, were he so inclined (he wouldn't be, of course), and have the stamina to really get the job done. Said person must be at least in the neighborhood of my height, though preferably taller, so I'd say a minimum of 5'10". He doesn't have to be a gym-bunny, but he does have to carry enough muscle to overpower me and little enough fat that the muscle predominates. My typical aesthetic standards still apply, though they're somewhat more open-ended here; he must have at least European-rooted features and must be quite handsome, though here that attribute can have a more rough-hewn quality than I would normally desire. Finally, he must have the Equipment. He doesn't necessarily need to outsize me, though that would be preferable, but he does have to be at least 7 verifiable inches and pretty thick. I'm pretty sensitive in the receiving department, but I definitely want to feel every stroke, and I want my partner to be fully capable of hitting all of the centres of sensation hidden deep inside. A few contenders have appeared over the past few days, but none has yet come through to satisfy this hunger. I suppose one never knows what tomorrow might bring, though. Hopefully, warmer weather and lots of animalistic sex. r
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