Kevin: A Man of Discipline (For Adults Only)

Kevin: A Man of Discipline
By Patricia Green
Copyright ©2015 Patricia Green
All Rights Reserved

Sweat runs down my bare chest and back as I finish my workout, and I’ll have a bruise or two on my ribs tomorrow, but I’ve been boxing since my early college days and it’s a sport that makes me more comfortable in my own skin. Now, at forty-two, it is harder to do what I did as a twenty-year-old, but I am also more savvy, wily, and just plain stubborn. As in other aspects of my life, I take control of the situation and turn it to my advantage more often than not.

Some people call me a “control freak” and I admit, there is some truth to that. I’ve been that way for a long time and seem to have a natural tendency toward taking charge of chaotic systems and ordering them, changing them into something managed and reliable. I am the sort of guy whose clothes have to face the right direction in the closet, but I don’t line up the pens in my desk drawers.

That’s the way I behave, and the way I want others around me to behave: disciplined and reliable. Growing up, I found myself allied with my taciturn father more often than with my unpredictable mother. I suppose I learned to prefer strength of character over whimsy. My mother was an artist, and although I loved her, her fickleness often grated my nerves.

Both of my parents are gone now; killed in a small plane crash. My father piloted the little Cessna, but I don’t blame him for the accident. He was a rock-solid guy who got me through some difficult moments growing up. Randolph didn’t say much, but his actions were loud and clear.

I remember in high school, how I was the smart guy to whom people turned when they couldn’t understand the homework or needed an answer to a problem with a girl. I guess I was like Cyrano de Bergerac, writing love letters that would bear another man’s name. It was an awkward time for me. But eventually, I found a girl who wanted me for me. Teenagers that we were, there were constant issues to be dealt with. After a while, I had to step away from that relationship because her behavior was too emotional and erratic and began to be something I had to manage more often than I liked. I took control of the situation, but I was still pretty green, and my ham-handed arm chair psychology left us both unhappy and alone.

But in college, I tried a few new things with the girls I dated. After a while they weren’t so callow, and there was more order than chaos.

I had a lovely girl my sophomore year. Her name was Tasha. She was a beautiful woman, with soft, light coffee colored skin and bright sloe eyes. I thought I was in love with her, and maybe I was. At the time, I didn’t know what love for a woman really meant—my parents were fractious and sometimes distant with each other. My mother got a wild hair up her ass one year and adopted my baby sister, Loretta. I was thirteen at the time. It was a crazy, emotional decision, but my father went along, so there we were, suddenly a family of four. That took some getting used to, but I adapted.

After I got into Princeton, Tasha and I spent more than a few hours babysitting Lori as she moved beyond babyhood, and I have to say, if I’ve ever loved anyone, truly loved a person for everything she is and the potential she has, I loved my baby sister.

That kind of love came more naturally to me than the kind of love Tasha was trying to find, and although I felt some emotion for her, I don’t know how I’d label it—or for that matter, whether a label is even necessary.

Tasha was a very sensual person. She loved sex—everything about it. And, with a young man’s raging hormones, I was ready, willing and able to indulge her. There were things I’d seen during a trip to Amsterdam with my father, magazines and adult comic books, that left a lasting impression on me. I was drawn to the Sadomasochistic stuff the most—not blood and destruction, but the expressions on the faces of the participants pulled me in. I wanted to try some of those things with Tasha, and she was more than willing to accommodate me.

The first time I spanked her, she took to it like a sea turtle to water. Even though it made her cry, she was wet and ready for me to fuck. Her breasts were firm, the nipples hard and, before I took her, I pinched rather roughly and found that, not only did she react with enthusiasm, but I enjoyed it immensely. Her moan, the arch of her spine, the suffering on her face, and the way she bit her lip as I slowly twisted those nipples, turned me on so much, I nearly came right there on her belly.

I tested other aspects of Sadomasochism, gently at first, then with a little more force. I found out what I could do that gave her sensual pain, and learned what would cause bruises—bruises that I felt guilty about afterward. I didn’t want to go that far. It wasn’t sexy; it was brutal. My morals and my sense of self-control kept me from doing things I would regret later. Giving Tasha a spanking, pinching here and there, wouldn’t harm her, and always made her come harder. Me, too.

Now, maybe, as I experimented cautiously, I was hard on her. Her nipples were my playthings and I was rough with them. She could come from my pulls and twists on that tender flesh. I let her, exploring the limits of my sexuality by observing her reactions to the strength of my pinches and twists. She’d arch into my hands and say encouraging things. “Yeah, baby, harder. That hurts so good.”

Tasha was a talker in bed. There was never any doubt in my mind what she liked and didn’t like. In that way, she was perfect for a young man with minimal experience with sex. “Do it, do it, do it,” was her mantra more often than not.

But the more eager she became, the more I wanted to control the situation and parcel out the treats in my own time. I loved to listen to her beg for orgasms.

I’d fuck her hard and fast, sometimes to the point where the head of my prick would feel a little battered the next day, but if she was near to coming, I’d withdraw. She’d beg me to continue, plead with me and coax, so I’d relent. She learned to say thank you for each and every orgasm I allowed her to have.

There’s a strange scent that wafts from a woman in sexual pain, and I found out that it shoots right to my hindbrain.  I absolutely loved the perfume of her pain when we delved into Sadomasochistic territory. She smelled like wet female, clean sweat and something else—something subtle and sublime. It turned me on, and as I look back on it now, if anything could be pointed out as central to the evolution of my sexual sadism, it was that fragrance, and the effect it had on me. Even today, nothing makes me hard as does that special smell.

All of our play was consensual and I knew she’d back me up on that, but sometimes she’d beg for more than I was willing to give, and I had too much to lose. I was knee-deep in schoolwork, trying to make the best grades in order to get into the economics program at the Chicago school. Coming from Princeton, if I could manage the highest grades, test scores, and class placement, I had a decent shot at it. Any kind of legal hassle would put all of my plans in jeopardy. So I avoided bruising her at all costs—should a routine medical visit put her bruises in view of a medical professional, my academic career would have been in serious jeopardy.

I gave her most of what she wanted, but not all of it. We’d live out some of the fantasies I cherished from those Amsterdam books, but within the limits I set. Tasha would pout and cajole, but my limits were hard limits.

One day, she begged me on hands and knees to slap her. I’d spanked her more than a few times, and, at her request, slapped her breasts and pussy. The pain excited her to a very high degree, so high that I realized she’d be as excited by my rough sexual practices as if I was to truly harm her. Harm her, I would not do—that’s not the way I was raised. Not only did I not want to cause harm, I felt strongly that it wasn’t right to do damage to another person that way. Seeing her in pain excited me, but there’s a certain point where the idea of going past harsh into something sick makes you pause and take a step back.

She knelt there, begging me to slap her, her eyes were glistening, all deep purple-brown and excited. Her hands were on my denim-clad thighs and her freshly spanked bottom was resting gingerly on her heels.

“Don’t make demands on me, Tasha,” I told her. It irritated me when she tried to take charge of the situation. She knew I would take care of her needs within limits and yet she constantly tested the limits.

“Slap my face,” she said. “Slap me and make me feel like the naked bitch in heat I am.”

I was definitely not going to slap her face. That was way beyond what was reasonable, and it suggested she had some kind of emotional problems. To slap a person in the face—especially a woman—was the lowest form of disrespect. I told her no firmly, and turned to walk away. She grabbed me by the leg and begged.

“I’m a cunt; I’m a whore; I’m shit,” she said wildly. “I need you to teach me a lesson. I want to be better.”

It took a lot of self-discipline to disengage her from my leg, but I was so disgusted by her behavior, I knew that I had to pull back, pull away emotionally or be sucked down into the riptide of her illness. For illness it was. It was beyond a sexual need to be roughly stimulated and deep into the realm of self-loathing. She needed help, not sadomasochistic sex play.

Once I’d disengaged her from my leg, I pulled her upright and held her in my arms. She cried, sobbing and begging me to strike her, make her clean again. But, of course I wouldn’t. I held her and told her how beautiful she was, how perfect and fresh and desirable. I tried to counter all of her self-hatred with affection and respect. After a while, she quieted and apologized.

I accepted her apology, but that was the end of our relationship. I talked her into seeing the campus mental health professionals, and stood by her through the difficult first two weeks of her therapy. At times, her doctor would stare at me curiously, and I knew she’d told the man about our sadomasochistic sex, but he never said a word to me. I guess it was telling enough that I’d brought her for help and tried to be supportive while she was getting it. I might have been sexually sadistic—I was; I knew it—but I was not a monster. I had morals and a sense of right and wrong.

Tasha was embarrassed by the entire episode and there was no way I was going to get back into the same situation again, so there was no place for us to go as a couple.

I found other women while at Princeton, and had vanilla relationships. I was attractive enough, I guess. They tell me my gray eyes are appealing and that I have a good smile. I was boxing regularly, so maybe they saw physical strength, too. Those vanilla relationships were much less satisfying, but I had been burned by the fire of Tasha’s unhealthy masochism and didn’t think I would likely find a masochistic woman who didn’t have deep psychological problems. I limited my behaviors to spanking during sex, and slightly rough fucking. It was hard to keep my hands from wanting to tug ungently on nipples and labia, and I really had to work to lave a swollen clit with my tongue gently and not nip at it. But I kept myself under tight rein.

Eventually, I graduated from Princeton, and to my delight was accepted right into the PhD program at University of Chicago’s school of economics—the most prestigious program, some said, in the world of economics.

I was twenty-four and had the world on a string, as they say. It was a lot of hard work, but I knuckled down and did it, letting much of the rest of my life wait while I ground through the economics program relentlessly.

It took me five years, but I got my PhD, and, having graduated at the top of my class, was recruited by some big economics consultancies and brokerage firms. I took the one with the most potential for networking and prominent projects. The money meant less to me—money is part of my family heritage—but I was happy to live in Manhattan and rake in the bucks that were offered.

I was arrogant and believed that it would all keep getting better and better. But I was wrong.

Three days after my thirtieth birthday, I got a call from my father. My little sister, Lori, was in the hospital. Apparently a gang of vicious girls had attacked my beautiful teenage sister and she lay in serious condition at Cedars Sinai hospital in Los Angeles.

I flew home at once, of course. Lori had a fractured skull, pieces of which had lodged in her brain. One of her arms was broken and ligaments were torn in one of her ankles. There were deep purple bruises all over her. She was incredibly lucky to be alive.

My parents and I sat vigil there at the hospital, praying for her survival and hoping with all our hearts that there would be no permanent damage from the attack. The doctors kept her in a medically-induced coma for a week.

When she opened her eyes and began to communicate with us, our hopes were dashed. The bone fragments and brain swelling had caused brain damage. My sweet sister, only seventeen years old, would be crippled for life.

I cried. I railed against a God who could be so cruel and heartless. I found the best lawyers and made sure they prosecuted the girls behind the attack to the fullest extent of the law. One of them finally confessed to the crime. Her excuse for the violent attack was that they thought Lori was “conceited.” Actually, Lori was shy and bright. If she seemed to have her nose in the air, it was likely a symptom of shyness rather than something more egotistical.

I had no pity for those girls, for their difficult, some might say traumatic, upbringings, for their loss of control and mob mentality. No pity. I wanted them punished, and the punishment needed to be equivalent to the damage they’d done.

It took two years, while Lori learned to speak in a slurred voice, minus several IQ points. She had to relearn even simple things like drinking from a cup, as her hands and feet were twisted with unpredictable muscle spasms. She was often in pain and the drugs they gave her for it made her dopey and lost. The little sister I knew as Lori was gone and a shadow of Lori was in her place.

While she was fighting her fight, I moved back to Los Angeles, leaving everything but my network of colleagues and clients behind in Manhattan. Fortunately, I had the distraction of working on a unique economic model that had the potential to make some important people a great deal of money.

I dated, but my heart wasn’t in it. There were plays, parties, always something that knocked on the shell I built around myself. I joined a private, exclusive and most-importantly, low-key BDSM group that called itself Boys With Toys and learned a lot about myself and my place in the world of BDSM. But for all my experimentation with the women at Boys With Toys parties, nothing really affected me—the intensity and intimacy just weren’t there. There was my work, there was Lori, and the rest were temporary distractions that were shallow footprints quickly erased by an incoming tide. Eventually, I finished and leased my economic model and money flowed in. It gave me a feeling of power and success, but it was hollow.

Then there was Margery. Margery was a bright spot, if anything could be said to be. She stuck with me, persistent and cheerful, even if I was moody and remote. She was a nurse at the convalescent hospital where we housed Lori. She treated my baby sister with the greatest care and gentle patience.

She wasn’t the most beautiful woman I ever dated—on the outside—but inside she was, by far, one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. We interacted often and the way our relationship grew was organic and natural. When we finally slept together, we were like two friends who had discovered a treasure together. It turned out that she was a masochist to match my sadistic streak. Somehow, I think people like us give off signals that attract each other well before any real intimacy happens. Margery was what I later came to think of as a “natural masochist.” Her body required heightened stimulus in order to reach orgasm. Without such roughness, she could not climax. It was perfect for me. She was mentally stable, somewhat submissive, and our proclivities matched like pieces of a puzzle.

She would moan with pleasure if I treated her harshly. I brought out my riding crop and she smiled as though I’d given her a diamond ring. The little weals the crop left on her backside and inner thighs delighted her. She’d preen in front of the mirror as though robed in silk, not angry stripes.

I remember one night when, laughing like teenagers, we took my Humvee out to Malibu and made out in the backseat. The moon turned the sand on the beach a kind of violet-gray, and the swells and waves had a phosphorescence that, to this day, seven years later, I remember associated with Margery. That night washed away the last pangs of my doubts about finding a mentally-healthy masochist.

We fought our way around the seats until I could position us with her on hands and knees with me, pants around my ankles, fucking her from behind. It was rough, uncouth, incredibly exciting seeing her there. I’d put clamps on her nipples as we’d begun, and I heard them scraping against the leather seat with each thrust of my hips against her. Her moans and little cries of pain and pleasure drove me wild. There was a potent scent, a mix of leather seats, Malibu surf, and the compelling odor of sex in the car. My erection lasted a long time that night, the minutes counted out by each wave splashing on the sand. I finally ejaculated and I felt like king of the world. Margery was my concubine. Mine.

The feeling of possessiveness was powerful and made me want to pound my chest like a gorilla displaying his prowess.

It was idyllic for a while, but Margery started clinging a little. Her submissiveness turned into something more cloying and smothering. And just as I decided to talk to her about it, she said that she wanted to have children together. I knew it had to end. After experiencing the tragedy of my baby sister’s long fall into torment, there was no way I could attach myself to another person that way. It was too much. What if something happened to a child of mine? No amount of self-discipline would be enough to prevent me from tearing the world apart.

I couldn’t go there. Margery was nearing thirty-five and so was I. She had to act now to satisfy her biological clock. And even if we’d continued on without procreating in the usual way, she’d have wanted to adopt children. I was adamant that I didn’t want that kind of responsibility and vulnerability.

We didn’t have a big fight. We simply stopped seeing each other. It was amicable, as far as such things can be said to be.

I drifted emotionally for a time, and then I met Renee. Beautiful, sensual, submissive and masochistic Renee. She was twenty-three when we met. I worried about our age difference at first—after all, I was in my mid-thirties—but after a while, I realized that we were so compatible that the relationship was timeless; age didn’t matter.

When I first met her, she’d had some experience with BDSM, but nothing particularly organized. She had little self-control and a tendency toward a hot temper—a redhead’s curse, I suppose. But the first night, I tested her masochism and was greatly rewarded. She came with my hands on her, giving her pain, hurting her sexually. And Renee was—and remains—beautiful. She has long red hair and blue eyes that sparkle with intelligence. She knew what she was getting into with me and she went for it eagerly. I waited a little while before getting her in bed. I wanted to exert self-control and test her a little more before I took that step. She was not a one-night-stand quality woman. There was much more to be had from Renee and I wanted to explore that leisurely.

Once in bed, though, she was totally submissive. She had already begun calling me “sir” and “master” and as I tortured her nipples and clit our first night in bed, she begged for more. I think she needed the extra stimulus, much like Margery did, and she was willing to pay for that with submission. I also think she realized that she could learn something from me about the mastery of one’s self and one’s impulses, but it took me a while to be willing to truly teach her.

My methods were simple. If she misbehaved, she was punished. Usually, those punishments were non-sexual. I might deny her things she liked, such as her morning coffee (the denial gave her a caffeine headache), or dessert after dinner. I would forbid her from wearing her pretty clothes, or makeup, which made her feel drab. There was no point in rewarding bad behavior with enjoyable sex. I saved our sadomasochistic sexual encounters for the times she was well-behaved. Those times came more and more and our sex life was full and agreeable.

It took some time, but to this day, Renee rarely acts foolishly. She’s learned her lessons well and I respect that about her. I care deeply for Renee. It’s not in my nature to say the words she might like to hear, but I let her know of my affection in the ways I’m able.

We’ve been together for six years. Last year, I told her of my interest in taking the contract of another submissive masochist, Amiko. Renee had admitted that she was bisexual early on in our relationship. She accepted—no, relished—the times we brought another woman home to explore together. I told her about Amiko and I think she was a little concerned for her place in our world, but as I’ve mentioned, she’s well-trained. She also trusts me, perhaps the most valuable gift she could ever bestow upon me. That trust saw her through that night. I wouldn’t turn away from my Renee. She’s a part of my life, my world, and, unless she betrays me in some way, I expect us to be together for a very long time. Of course, I tease her by “officially” keeping our relationship on a week-to-week basis. So, I tell her that I’ll keep her for another week after she does something particularly satisfying. Sometimes she earns two weeks, but I don’t award those too often. The weeks have consistently been renewed, and they will continue to be so long as she accepts the terms we set out.

They went something like this: she will obey me in all things; she will submit to my will and my judgment in all things; she will act as my independent agent—my representative—if it’s appropriate; and she will accept my sexual sadism without hesitation. She agreed to all these stipulations before I took her on as my…what’s the right word? I suppose she’s my servant, or perhaps vassal is a better term. At Boys With Toys, some people call her my “slave.” That’s fairly absurd, however. Slavery is illegal. Servitude is not. To most of the vanilla world, she’s my girlfriend and Amiko is my girlfriend, too. Having two girls with me when I go out socially might raise a few eyebrows, but at this point in my life, I don’t give a shit. I don’t have to explain my personal life to anyone, so long as I’m not doing anything illegal. That’s how I see it.

Amiko has been with us a year and, although having two women in the house took a little getting used to—for all of us—it is working out quite well. Amiko was tentative at first, and perhaps I spent too much time with her and made Renee uncomfortable. At the time, my thought was to let Renee deal with the changes her own way. She did.

My little Japanese cutie needed a little more TLC. Her previous sadomasochistic experiences left her foundering a bit. I think she moved from Dominant to Dominant rather too rapidly. But I don’t see that happening with our relationship.

I should probably say something about the non-sexual terms of our contract. Both Renee and Amiko live with me and have their own space, sharing whatever is part of our household. I give them a stipend every month to spend on what they like, and their part-time jobs pay them as well. Their money is theirs to keep. I don’t need it and I wouldn’t take it if it was offered. I’ve also put quite a bit of money into trust funds for them. If something happens to me or we break up by my choice, the trust fund money goes to them. I can’t say enough that they are not slaves. They know they’re safe and protected in my household, and their behavior suggests that they’re happy with the way things are going.

Amiko has a mischievous sense of humor and adorable way about her. Renee is charming and witty in her own manner, but Amiko has more playfulness about her. She teases, even taunts. Her eyes sometimes say, “Make me.”

My answer to that is always, “No. Go to your room and think about your behavior.”

Like a teenager (which isn’t much of a stretch for her), she sulks as she walks away. I leave her there, generally for a few hours—once, overnight—and by the time I release her from her room, she’s ready to behave. For a while, anyway. If she outright challenges me, she gets punished. I withhold her orgasms, or use a whip on her in a way she doesn’t like (that’s hard to do as she’s very masochistic). I once figged her, and that offended her sensibilities and dignity. It’s a good punishment, but I reserve it for the times she’s particularly difficult. To make her squirm, we always keep a fresh finger of ginger in the refrigerator. Early in our relationship, I learned that Amiko loves to shop. If I prohibit that for a time, she gets her attitude in shape pretty rapidly.

Playful challenges aside, I find her amusing as well as delightful sexually.

Amiko is as much of a masochist as Renee, but in a different way. Ami likes to show off. If she finds Renee watching, Amiko is much more dramatic with her little screams and moans. At play parties, she wails and cries at the smallest pinch or whack on the rear. When we’re alone, she is more genuine. We were together by the pool one afternoon and I mentioned this to her.

She knelt beside me. “I didn’t realize I was doing that, Master. Does it displease you?”

“I prefer your honest reactions, Amiko. Even if they’re subdued.”

She looked a little disappointed at that. “Yes, sir.”

I tilted her chin up and made her lock gazes with me. “You must always be honest with me, Ami. Even if you think it’s something I won’t like. You need to let me be the judge of what’s okay or not. Got that?”

Her eyes swam with tears. “I’m sorry, Master.”

Amiko’s lips are always so tempting. I couldn’t resist kissing her gently. “I know, poppet,” I said as I leaned back away from her and unzipped my shorts. “Show me.”

That made her eyes twinkle with something very unlike tears. “Yes, sir!”

She moved to kneel between my legs and ran her nails gently down my chest and abs, her full attention on making me happy. I reached forward and drew up her long, black hair, wrapping it around my fist and giving it a sharp tug. “Do a good job, Ami.” I wasn’t hard, but I was definitely interested.

Lips puckered prettily, she kissed my belly and ran her tongue down the thin line of hair that led to my cock. I gave her hair another tug and she cringed. Little movements like that delight me and my prick was an enthusiastic participant.

Amiko licked the underside and swirled her tongue around the head. I was rock hard by this time, and didn’t want to play kissing games anymore. “Suck.”

She didn’t respond verbally, but instead, took me into her mouth, her tongue wrapping around my cock this way and that. Soon I was fully in her mouth, and the head of my cock was against the back of her throat. Ami is not prone to gagging. If she had been, I wouldn’t have bought her contract. That was the one thing I insisted on when she was being demonstrated to me. She wasn’t allowed to do it to me at that first meeting, of course, but she did it for the man who had her contract. Ami could deep throat, and I didn’t need to view more than that. She was mine less than a week later. The price was exorbitant, and the contract negotiations tedious, but I haven’t regretted it one minute.

As I sat there in the deck chair, with her fellating me, I let the sensation pass over me like a cloud shadow. I was in the shade, the sun, the shade, the sun. Amiko had taken the training I’d given her and knew what I liked and didn’t like. My cock slipped deep into her throat and I pulled and pushed on her hair, giving her the rhythm I wanted.

She drew breath through her nostrils, and there were moments I wanted to feel her struggle for air. The stiffening of her spine, tight closing of her eyes and the involuntary fluttering of her hands on my thighs as she fought the urge not to push away told me she was at her limit. Amiko’s mouth moved faster, her hands worked my balls gently. I pressed her head down again and waited for the signals that told me she was struggling. I counted to five and let her up again.

My excitement climbed with every stroke of her mouth on me. It started off leisurely, but soon it was urgent. I wanted to come, and I wanted to draw out the moment as well.

Amiko was excited. I knew she loved having her hair pulled, and she was wet; I could smell her arousal, clean and gently musky. I briefly considered fucking her, but my cock and I wanted her mouth more.

“Faster.”

Her answer was to obey me, moving on me with the speed I wanted. I pulled at her hair steadily and she moaned. The vibration brought me to the brink. I balanced there for a long moment, finally spilling in her mouth.

My girl swallowed and gently milked me with her hand, until I had no more to spend.

I let go of her hair and leaned back in the chair. “Well done, pet.”

She smiled sweetly, proud of herself and truly happy to give me pleasure. That’s so important. If they’re not enjoying it on some level—even when I am rough with them—I can’t enjoy it either. I have meted out punishment as necessary, but that’s not my form of sadism. I like it during sex, for the most part. Outside of that, I do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done, and I get it over with as quickly as I can. If either of my girls needed punishment often, they would not be part of my household for long.

At my nod, Ami padded quickly into the house and brought out a washcloth to clean me before I tucked myself back in my shorts and zipped up.

That was a pleasant interlude. A nibble, as it were, for both of us. We’ve had many such moments together and with Renee.

Memories like that make me smile. My girls are my lights in the darkness that is my sadism. They need it as much as I do. Would I have chosen to be a man less inclined to give pain with his pleasure? I don’t think so. It’s a facet of me. Giving that up would be tearing out a little piece of my soul and blowing it into the wind like a dandelion’s seeds. What else would I lose, if I lost that? What parts of me are attached to that side?

My girls care for me the way I am. They take pleasure in serving me. I don’t give a damn what others might think of our relationship. I’m an aggressive man, a disciplined man, and, as it happens, a sexual sadist. I learned a long time ago not to fight myself, but to keep my boxing in the ring where it belongs.