What follows is not the complete me; it’s not the totality of the person writing these words. Rather, it’s simply just one of many dimensions of my psyche and personality.
It’s the story of the addicted2ceara persona. Who he is. And how he got to be this way.
How did this happen?
Some of you may be wondering how much input Ceara Lynch has into this blog. Fact is, she has very little. Before writing each entry I run the proposed subject pass her, more as a courtesy than for approval. Other than that, she doesn’t know what I’ve written until it’s posted. She gets no advanced draft copies, makes no pre-post edits. Occasionally after reading, she may offer a short comment or two, but that’s about the extent of her input and feedback.
Following my last posting, I mentioned that unless she had some other ideas, I was thinking of doing a futurecast piece speculating about what her persona might be like fifteen or twenty years from now. I hadn’t put much thought into that subject and, in retrospect, it probably was just another one of my frequent brain farts. Anyway, she replied that I might want to write about something a little more personal, like the separate lives I lead – everyday me versus financial slave me. Or more specifically, I should write a bit about my persona.
Well that suggestion was a bolt from the blue. First, it’s not in keeping with the main theme of this blog. Second, I really don’t think I’m all that interesting. And third, a persona is how other people perceive you and how could I possibly know that?! Still, I guess I could write about how I wanted other people to perceive me, which is probably the closest I could get to answering the “What is your persona?” question. And who knows, maybe someone might find my story interesting enough to read through the crap I’m about to write. I mean, if Ceara thought it might be something worth writing about, who am I to argue.
So here goes.
Did you ever notice how men describe themselves in terms of what they do or what they’ve accomplished? An extreme manifestation of this phenomenon is the military. If you’ve ever been in the military, you learn to quickly surmise a person’s career and accomplishments by “reading their chest” (those rows of ribbons over the left pocket on their uniform.) Each one of those ribbons means something – campaigns participated in, medals received, awards conferred. These ribbons, along with other uniform devices, insignia, patches, shoulder tabs, and accouterments tell a story. To the lay person, these things are meaningless. To the service member, they tell the tale of a person’s career. Read a person’s chest and the sum of a person’s military experience and accomplishments can pretty much be taken at a glance.
But a person’s experiences and accomplishments are only one dimension of their identity, and a fairly shallow dimension at that. A list of awards, a curricula vitae or resume, the size of their bank account, what kind of car they drive – these things miss the deeper more interesting dimensions that make a person who they are. Things like their motivation, their values, how they think and express themselves, what they fear and what they’ve overcome, their character, their dignity, their compassion, their selflessness, the things that give them joy, and the joy they bring to others. None of these things can be inferred from a listing of accomplishments. None of these things can be deduced from a string of experiences. And yet, the default way for men to describe themselves is by their job, their career, and their achievements. I guess it’s a way of measuring success or, more idiomatically, a way of competing in the dick-measuring contest that pretty much defines male competitiveness.
So, except for a few relevant facts, I’m going to dispense with the list of significant accomplishments and life experiences. Not only are those things not particularly important, but by not disclosing them, I am able to retain a modicum of anonymity. What remains is this attempt to flesh out my online persona using as few uniquely identifiable traits as practical.
Who Am I? (The Short Answer)
I’m retired. Over 60 years old. Have an annual income well into six figures. Not married. No children.
That’s probably enough information for you to stereotype me; to begin to make some judgments. For some, you’re probably not going to read further. You’ve already got me figured out. And that’s fine.
But for those others, I’d like to round out my persona a bit. To tell you a little bit about who I am, how I got here, and what my relationship with Ceara Lynch is all about.
A Moment of Clarity
I can go as far back as you want. Even as far back to my Catholic grade and high school years. I mean, it’s all part of a life’s trajectory, right? Still, maybe the best place to begin is after college. It was 1976. The economy was just beginning to recover from the stagnation of the mid-1970’s, but it was still near impossible to find a job in the profession I educated myself for. I was young, single, and strong, so eventually found work roll-slitting steel on the second shift at one of the few steel mills left in the region. Aside from work, I was mostly bored. I had a few dollars in my pocket every now and then, which was okay because when I wasn’t working I was just wasting time and partying. I lived on Chicago’s south side. It was blues and bars, and the bars didn’t close until 4 AM. Bottom line: I was just another fearless kid too drunk and stupid to see that I headed down a long path to a crappy life. “Loser” wasn’t my name but it could have been.
Late one night I was sitting in my usual spot at the end of the bar, nursing a 12-ounce draft of Old Style and listening to the jukebox. I happened to gaze at the old man sitting a couple stools away and I realized that guy was always there. Every time I came in, he was there. Sitting alone. Drinking. Nursing his beer. And in that moment of clarity, I saw my future. If I didn’t do something, that was going to be me 25 years from now. I had to get away from the booze. I had to shake things up and try something … anything … different. I had to get off that dead-end track to Crapsville. So I up and joined the military.
Pay for Play
My first duty station was Guam. Where America’s day begins. In the middle of the Pacific ocean. 5000 miles and 10 hours by air from anywhere close to familiar. And what could a young man with a few dollars in his pocket do on Guam during his off duty time back in 1977? Well, aside from snorkeling and sports, the main entertainment option was … drum roll please …. drinking. Bars and booze. And blues on the jukebox. Yeap. I ran right smack dab into what I running away from. Funny as hell, and just a little ironic!
And, lest I forget, there were the Guam strip clubs. For a dollar tip or two (or twenty) you could drink and have some female company for a couple of hours. The more money you spent, the more money you tipped the dancers, the better their company. Sometimes I wouldn’t have enough tip money for after hours companionship, so I’d masturbate when I got back to the base. But sometimes I did. Payday was lay day. And I’d get laid. Money and sex were linked. That link was reinforced by alcohol.
I probably should have gotten a girlfriend, but it was Guam, and I was only going to be there for a 18 months before being assigned to another overseas location. Getting serious (or even semi-serious in some sort of dysfunctional relationship) wasn’t something I wanted – I rationalized it by thinking such a relationship wouldn’t be fair to either of us. But more important, I liked playing. I was sowing my wild oats. I was that guy – the one good girls would never dream of bringing home to meet the family.
Though it may have started on Guam, it didn’t end there. During the next 28 years of military service, I moved 15 times. I had addresses in the United States and addresses in foreign countries. The longest I was ever in one place was 27 months. I deployed; I traveled. And I got my shit together. My arrogance-filled youth gave way to humility; humility enabled by the cultures I experienced and the people I met. I met women that I fell in love with, and I met women that fell in love with me. I went to graduate school; earned two advanced degrees; got promoted regularly; adopted the military’s code of ethics, honor, and behavior; strengthened and refined my character; matured; became dependable; and, in short, stopped loathing myself and became proud and sure of who I had become. I gave the military my life, and they saved it.
Somewhere along the line I throttled back the drinking so it no longer contributed to the mental and emotional anguish I had when I was so much younger. I still hadn’t married. (Through all those years there was only one woman I ever wanted to marry but the circumstances of life kept getting in the way.) But the link between casual sex and money endured. There were still strip clubs and, though I found myself in them less often than before, old habits are hard to break. Besides, giving an attractive woman money in exchange for their company and time is much more certain than trying to meet women in bars, clubs, and other traditional venues. It’s not a lifestyle I would recommend for most men, but given my circumstances, it worked for me. As it has worked for countless of other men throughout the ages.
Then came the 90’s and the AIDS epidemic. Casual sex became riskier. ELISA tests became part of my annual physical exam. With each negative test, I sighed relief and vowed to curtail my sexual activities; vowed to find a safer way. That safer way turned out to be pornography and masturbation. The internet explosion was still 10 years away, but video cassette tapes were popular, and adult pornography shops could still be found if you wanted to find one. And I found them.
I gravitated to FEMDOM magazines and tapes. The images and idea of beautiful women with attitude aroused me. So much so that I booked several real-time sessions with now familiar and well-known Dominatrices. In a way it was a different form of the same paradigm I had gotten accustomed to (cash for company.) It was safe in that bodily fluids weren’t exchanged, and it was different. But as things turned out, it wasn’t for me. The fantasy proved more erotic than the experience as I was neither submissive or masochistic enough to let myself completely revel in those roles.
After retiring, I treated myself to a couple of extended travel adventures. When I returned home in 2007 , the internet was exploding. Porn was rampant and I was intrigued. I wasn’t obsessed or addicted to pornography, but I still masturbated when I needed sexual relief. And the internet was like having a porn shop on my desktop. One evening, while looking for FEMDOM images, I stumbled across Niteflirt. The site had a category called “Financial Domination.” I had never heard of financial domination before, but it sparked a line of thought so deeply embedded within my consciousness it wasn’t until years later that I was able to recognize it for what it was. Anyway, financial domination resonated. It was a new twist on an old paradigm, one in which “cash for company” took main stage. As I had grown older, my sexual tastes had changed. In some ways, they became more mature. Financial domination was a perfect storm of appeal for me – it was where money, arousal, dominance/submission play, and virtual companionship collided with all my old sexual habits and desires. As it happened, one of the most striking financial dommes listed on the Niteflirt site was a young woman calling herself Ceara Lynch.
Down the Rabbit Hole
Ceara was cute. And she definitely had that oh-so-sexy-brat-domme attitude I like. But Niteflirt was a phone sex website and I really wasn’t into phone sex with strangers. Sure the photos on the website were compelling enough. The problem was that most of those photos were of professional models. Who knew what the girl on the other end of the phone looked like? Now I know it shouldn’t matter, but somehow it did. I mean, dishonesty is a turnoff and the website was filled with fake profiles. So I didn’t call. In fact, even though I trolled the website often because I found the images arousing, I never called any of the financial domination listings. As I said, anonymous phone sex with strangers just isn’t my thing.
What I did do was purchase a couple of Ceara’s clips from her Clips4Sale studio. I loved how she looked and how she moved. I loved the POV perspective. But the words she spoke, well, they were so far out of my erotica sweet zone that rather than arouse me, they left me flaccid and completely turned off. Turns out that humiliation wasn’t my thing either. Not even close. So I masturbated to the videos with the sound turned off, and ordered some customs from her that catered to a couple of my relatively mild fetishes (edging and tease and denial.) Ceara Lynch was now on my radar. But she was just a blip. I was looking for something more personal, someone more attuned with my emerging financial servitude values which, for lack of a better description, were service with dignity and mutual respect.
So I began in earnest my search online for real financial dommes. The internet was the perfect venue for me. All the elements were there. It was relatively anonymous, easily accessible, I retained control of the frequency and duration of contact, and the time required to establish a masturbation-based relationship with a beautiful woman could be established with generous and consistent transfers of cash. It was my strip club experience (minus the alcohol) with a FEMDOM twist. And it was on my desk top computer and available pretty much whenever I wanted it.
Back in the early years, financial dommes were relatively scarce. The craze hadn’t caught on yet. The traditional BDSM community was skeptical of financial domination at best and outright hostile to it at worst. After some searching, I found another young attractive financial domme whose notion of online financial domination appeared close to my own. It was just play. Edgy but still just play. I decided to give it a go. What followed was a year or two of genuinely trying to establish a relationship. Soon, however, the shortcomings and pitfalls of online financial domination raised their ugly heads. Financial domination was the primary source of the domme’s income, and as her lifestyle evolved, so did her need and her view of the relationship. It had moved from play to a different arena. She wanted a slave, I wanted something much less. Her demands became more persistent. The money I was spending on her was no longer part of my recreational and discretionary income; rather, it was cutting into the income I needed to live on and pay my bills. This was strange and new territory for me and I didn’t like it. I had gained a valuable insight; leaned a valuable lesson. Financial domination may be at the nexus of my sexual play dynamics, but it was also, at its core, wrong for me. As I mentioned earlier, actual submission and masochism aren’t my thing. I’ve no desire to be a slave. I’m a human being with dignity and worthy of respect. So I throttled back and moved on.
For the next two or three years I was in FINDOM limbo. I was still following what was going on in the community (reading Domme Dose postings, following certain blogs and Twitter accounts, etc.) but not really seeking a FINDOM relationship anymore. I joined a couple of Sugar Daddy web sites but they proved a waste of time. While I was only looking for a casual online “pay and fetish play” relationship, the women I found attractive were interested in something much more substantial. After two successive incidents of credit card fraud associated with the sites, I let the whole Sugar Daddy thing fall to the wayside.
Ceara Lynch Re-Found
As mentioned previously, Ceara Lynch was on my radar ever since I first stumbled across her on Niteflirt. I read her blog and infrequently checked her online activities. It was shortly after my Sugar Daddy excursion that Ceara Lynch took her blog in a new direction. No longer was her persona going to be simply another vapid one-dimensional Princess; she was going to reveal more of herself. She was about to become more complex, more nuanced. Her persona was going to have a personality. It was exciting. And I was instantly attracted. Ceara Lynch was no longer a blip on my radar; she had moved herself front and center. I was about to be slowly drawn into her solar system, about to become another lost planet captured by her pull.
I had learned a bit about myself those past few years of online play. Most notably, in addition to my few fairly vanilla fetishes, I liked to be seduced into not very deep and temporary sub-space. Now Ceara’s forte’ is humiliation and degradation which, you may recall, is not my thing. Fortunately, if anything, Ceara is a pro’s pro. She’s versatile and talented. Her tease and denial and hypnosis clips were in my sexual proclivity sweet spot. So I ordered several custom clips during the next 12-18 months. I usually provided a generous tip with each order so that, hopefully, I would make a sufficiently positive impression to stand out from the pack.
As I read more of Ceara’s blog and watched more of her videos, I began to see something more than just pixels on my computer screen. With her “self-outing” in 2014 on Joe Rogan, at the Mystery Box, and online articles, Ceara’s notoriety exploded. She had transformed herself from the earthbound caterpillar to a beautiful, intriguing butterfly. She had taken wing and was flying free. It was exciting to watch the metamorphoses. And I knew then and there that this wonderfully interesting and so-exotic-yet-so-normal woman had captured me. I may not have been thinking of her constantly, but I was thinking of her often.
So I did what I always do when I want a woman’s attention and time. I showered her with money and gifts. I didn’t ask for anything in return. There was no explicit transaction. The money was given freely with no conditions. I was pretty sure once I was noticed and remembered that my innate charm and good humor would endear me to her. By which I mean she would like me.
My Relationship with Ceara
Some of you will find it surprising when I say that, in all these past years to the present, I’ve only spoken to Ceara on the phone once or twice, and then for what was brief polite and non-sexual conversation. I have never Skyped or cam’ed with her. Aside from the infrequent email, we communicate exclusively by Twitter and DM. Any sexually charged communication between us is one way via custom videos. And, to be honest, I haven’t really ordered a custom from her in quite a while (once again, there was credit card fraud associated with the intermediate website that forced me to curtail my activities there.) What I do is promote her videos and business on Twitter, discuss my observations of her in this website. And I send her money because money has always been part of the dynamic for me.
I’m over 60 years old. Sexually, I’m hardly the man I was even ten years ago. My libido didn’t slow down so much as it ran smack dab into a brick wall. For those who read my blog, I don’t think it’s too hard to read between the lines and find as many observations about myself as about Ceara Lynch. What you don’t know is that health issues, both for myself and for loved ones, now tend to dominate my life. As they say, cancer is a bitch. So for now, until those things are resolved, I write this blog, and nurture my mostly platonic online friendship with Ceara Lynch. Because, even if it’s just an illusion, it’s a pleasant one.
And she makes me smile.