The Hole Ch. 01-03

Chapter One

How did I get here? That's the question I'm exploring in this Historical record today.

My inclination is to say it started when I joined the Cult, though that's really just a part of the story. It's not like we were tricked or manipulated into it. It's more like we were born for it.

Most cult members don't realize they are in a cult. My girlfriend Abigail and I, on the other hand, knew exactly what we were getting into. What we didn't know was whether it was going to cure our ills or not.

Abby already had a more obvious propensity for such things. We met when I was 24 and she was 21. We'd both graduated from college and moved to the city. We hooked up through online dating, and on our first date, as we walked through a park downtown, Abby told me about her hardcore Christian upbringing. "My best friend was gay and I thought he was going to hell," she said. Apparently he repeatedly pointed out the contradiction until it dawned on her how twisted her beliefs were. Between that and spending four years in college away from her parents and community, she broke herself free from the dogma.

"Yeah. And then I really started having fun," she said with a gleam in her pretty brown eyes and a devilish grin. Suffice to say, between her sexy body, her incredible ass hugged in tight jeans, the shape of her perky tits visible through her bohemian white top, her silky hair done up in a Dutch braid, and her milky smooth skin, I was not only already smitten, but turned on as hell. That date went on for hours, and after we'd had a few drinks at a local bar I figured I had it in the bag.

"Want to come back to my place? I asked? Have some fun?"

"I'm sorry, but no."

"Oh."

"No! It's not a rejection! I've already had my fun in college. I've had my share of one night stands. It's time for me to find someone I like and take it slow. Let's take it slow."

My ego was a bit bruised, but this was nice to hear. So we called it a night and I snuck in a kiss on the cheek as I said goodbye.

She really did make me wait. It was three months before we got naked together, and it was another month before she let me fuck her. After hearing about her fun times in college, I might have taken this as a sign that maybe she wasn't all that attracted to me. After all, she admitted to sleeping with no fewer than ten guys in college, and many of them on the first night she met them.

"Did you make any of them wait?" I asked.

"No. They were all such hotties and they just took what they wanted. These weren't the kind of guys you leave waiting."

"What kind of guys do you leave waiting?"

"Sweet boys like you," she said, and then with that devilish look she leaned in for a long kiss. Again, a hit to my ego mixed with a loving sentiment. It's almost like she gave me a choice on how to see it. I could take it as an insult or a compliment. At the time though, all I could see was a gorgeous girl giving me a kiss, promising something more with a little patience, so my brain sorted it into the compliment category.

That's one of the ways we miss the truth. A crush. Attraction. These are glasses that make us see only what we want to see rather than what's really there. This is one of the many things He has taught us.

It's been four years since then, and I only officially lost my privileges to Abby a few months ago. Only now am I starting to see things clearly, and I feel like I can tell this story without emotion shrouding my judgment. Only now do I think I'm prepared to write down the truth of how I got here.

Radical Honesty. That's a core tenet of His philosophy. In order to have true relationships we must be truly, sometimes brutally honest with one another. And in order to do that with another, the first step is radical self honesty. We must fend off that which blinds us. We must strip away the ego and get at who we are, to see through the murk of the deep ocean within us.

-----

How did I get here? The honest truth is that I'm the main reason. About two years ago I joined a cult literally called The Cult. Before that, I would have told you I'd be the last person to ever join one, that I was too skeptical and too smart for such a thing. Cults were for the weak, the stupid. I was the sort to question everything and to trust no one. These are qualities one must not have or one must somehow discard to join a cult. Or so I thought.

As disgusted as I was by cults, I was equally fascinated by them. In my early twenties I ravenously consumed every documentary and movie and tv show and podcast and book I could about the subject. It was all trainwreck entertainment for me. It made me feel better about myself in comparison to those fools. Who in the world would put so much faith into one individual? How could they not see it wasn't going to end well? What a bunch of idiots they are. I am so glad I'm not one of them. Those were my thoughts.

But now I see something else was going on deeper down. An attraction. A secret wish to have the courage and ability to let go of myself, to give up control to another. A wish to be a part of something bigger than myself, to live with devotion and passion toward a cause. Of course I never desired to end up a murderer or to drink deadly kool aid or do some other horrible thing, as always happens in the cults we are presented in modern media.

But on some level I admired the joy and love I saw in the earlier days of those cults, before things inevitably turned dark.

I was blind to this part of myself, and He helped me understand this. To deceive myself, to think I was above such human needs as community, to feel like I'm in the right place, was to deny myself a life I deep down knew was best for me.

-----

How did I get here?

A lot of it has to do with the progression of my relationship with Abby. We fell hard for each other. Or so I thought. Now I see that she loved me but felt conflicted, while I had no discernible doubts that I'd do anything for her. In any case, we fell in love pretty quickly.

First we got to know each other. Over dates, hikes, dinners, and mostly chaste sleepovers, we talked and talked. We shared our stories. I learned of her strict Christian upbringing. I learned of the pain she carried when her parents disowned her for leaving the church. She showed me her intelligence, her depth. And I shared my own. I shared that I had my own trust violated as a child, and how that had made it difficult for me to love.

We had some of those experiences that bond you as a couple. During one hike on a mountain, the weather turned, and we hid out under an outcropping of rock for several hours, holding each other to stay warm. That one pretty much sealed the deal.

Then we started to fuck. Like the proverbial rabbits. New relationship energy. Several times a day. I was proud. I'd never before thought I was a particularly good or bad lover. From the high school days in the locker room I knew I was rather small compared to others, both in stature and in penis size.

Jane, my high school girlfriend of two years turned out to be cheating on me with a football player who happened to be rather huge, in both ways, as I also knew from the locker room. (During which I never took off my underwear, by the way, for fear of being found out, which of course was its own way to be found out. The truth is there whether we try to hide it or not.).

In any case, my libido was at an all-time high and so seemed to be Abby's. She said as much at the time, though she admitted to having similar marathon experiences with several of those college guys, and of course I've since come to find out that she's really just an irascible slut down to her core.

After a couple of months of that, the energy started to shift. Having suffered the trauma caused by Jane's promiscuity, this made me nervous. When I'm nervous I ask questions. Abby didn't like the questions. She said she was mine, and it turned her off that I was insecure about it. Now of course she realizes I was merely expressing the truth about my feelings, and I realize she was only expressing hers.

Nonetheless, it started a vicious cycle. I'd feel anxious. Ask questions. It'd turn her off, making me even more anxious. More questions. More repulsion. Etc. So I learned pretty quickly to keep it all to myself.

Left to my own devices, I overcame my insecurities enough to chalk some of it up to life circumstances. Abby started going to therapy to confront the pain of her alienation from her family. She'd come back from those sessions emotionally spent, and her moods would swing pretty wildly compared to before she started therapy.

At the same time, I was starting to have troubles at my job. I won't bore anyone with the details, but I'd been working at a tutoring service since I graduated high school, and I loved the job. The money was all I needed and I liked working with kids. The company was bought out though, and the new boss was an asshole. I pushed back on some of his micromanagement, and as a result my hours started to wane. I was suddenly coming perilously close to not being able to pay all of my bills.

Not only did this stress me out and send me on a pretty perpetual tailspin, but it also meant I couldn't pay for many dates. Since her work as a manager's assistant at a reputable marketing firm paid pretty well, Abby started footing the bill for a while, but eventually we just stopped going to nice restaurants.

I realize I'm making it sound like we were ready to break up. To the contrary, our love was running strong through all of this. Sure, we were having much less sex. Sure, the dates weren't as fancy. But we were really there for each other. We shared our stresses and our pain. She cried on my shoulder about her family. She listened to me and supported me when I complained about my boss. Our dates were more hikes and picnics in parks. Things were solid between us.

So about a year after our first date we decided to move in together. It was Abby's idea actually. She liked my apartment, and she thought it'd relieve my stress if we were to split the rent. I'll never forget that first night after we'd moved all of her things in and returned the Uhaul. We fucked for the first time in at least a couple of weeks. On my bed. Our bed.

I think the commitment of living together gave me newfound confidence that night. That confidence helped me last much longer than usual. Usually it was about five minutes before I couldn't help but cumming. After all, Abby was and still is the hottest girl I'd ever touched.

That night though I kept going, and she was getting louder and louder. I could tell she was building up to an orgasm, so I told her to turn around, and I took her from behind. As soon as I entered her, Abby had a much bigger orgasm right then than I'd remembered previously. Her legs shook and she let out a huge moan. (She'd told me several times that she's one of those girls who has a really hard time orgasming, something she later admitted was mostly only true with me.)

I too came instantly. We laid there together in our home, our apartment, in each other's arms and sweat. It was one of the happiest moments of our relationship. We were truly together, and Abby made that clear when she turned over and told me how much she loved me. I was usually the one who initiated that, and we didn't say it too often so as not to overuse it. Then she said she was proud of me.

"What for?" I asked.

That devilish grin. "For lasting more than five minutes, dummy," she said. Another one of those painful compliments of hers. And the next thing I knew I was hard again. I pointed at my erection. She laughed and said she was too tired to fuck again, but that she'd give me a handjob.

She started to and then she said, "You're a naughty little boy aren't you?" I instantly came again, only a little bit since I'd just done so earlier. She laughed again, and so did I even though I didn't think it was all that funny and was a little hurt by it. It was confusing to say the least.

-----

Unfortunately, the high of moving in wore off pretty quickly. It was nice splitting the rent, but the stress of my work continued. Her therapy continued to stir up her emotions. Our sex life was really starting to slow down to a crawl.

For several weeks after we moved in, I'd try to get her going with a comment or some touch. She usually turned it down and said she wasn't in the right mood for it. Every once in a while she was, and the sex was back to five bland minutes or fewer. I wanted to want to handle her like I had that one night, but the feeling just wasn't in me.

Then one night I tried to kiss her and she turned over, rejecting me. I was hurt and I lashed out saying, "fine, fuck you then."

She said, "Yeah, I wish you could."

"What the fuck, Abby?" I yelled.

She then got out of bed and sternly said, "We need to talk."

No one ever wants to hear those words, but that's because truer ones are rarely spoken. We really did need to talk. There was a lot happening for her that she hadn't told me. It turns out her last several therapy sessions hadn't been spent talking about her parents, but instead were about our sex life. I was pretty pissed and said so, but then her tone softened.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry if it's painful, but it's important that I'm honest with you."

"About what?"

"About how I'm feeling."

"How you're feeling about how you keep rejecting me, you mean?"

"I don't feel good about that. I feel guilty. I'm sorry. That's why I want to talk." I could see she was not coming from a hurtful place, so I calmed down and asked her to share her feelings.

"Honey," she said. "I truly love you, and I love our emotional connection. But the truth is that I don't feel sexually attracted to you." She paused to see my reaction. I was frozen so I said nothing. "Deep down I sort of knew this from the beginning, but I like you so much, you're such a sweet and good man, my best friend, so I didn't let myself see that."

"So you're breaking up with me?"

"No! God no! That's not what this is. I love you. We live together. I want to be together. But we need to be real with one another."

Relieved I felt emboldened to ask questions. "So what are we supposed to do about our sex life?"

"Well that's what my therapist has been talking to me about. She thinks we should explore things and try to be more adventurous."

"Like what things?" I asked.

"Ok, this part is hard to talk about."

"It's me babe, I won't judge you. You know that." I meant it.

"I know, but still. I grew up totally repressed, and only over the last five years have I started to really understand myself. Admitting I'm into BDSM is not so easy to do."

"BDSM? Like rough sex?"

"Something like that. I think what really turns me on is power. Dominance."

"Ok, I think I understand. So you want me to be more dominant?"

"I would love that, yes."

"I can try. I'll try for you."

"Remember the night we moved in here. You told me to turn around and I had an orgasm?

"I do."

"What if you were to try more of that?"

"I'll try, babe. You know I'll do anything for you." And with that my spirits lifted and I was suddenly in the mood. "Why don't you get on your knees for me?"

She laughed. And grinned. "Ok, calm down tiger. It's going to have to be more organic than that."

-----

I found out what organic meant over the next several months. It involved books she brought home from her therapist. It involved reading articles. And it involved porn. My girlfriend actually wanted me to watch porn. One day she pulled up a video of James Deen on my laptop.

"Watch and learn," she said. I watched in surprise. I'd never been much into porn. Sure, when I was in middle school and high school I masturbated to girls in magazines. I watched some internet porn here and there. It just never really did it for me. It was all just so fake. Now here I was watching an "actor" on my computer, and boy was he putting the "actress" through the paces.

He didn't ask her questions. He didn't check to see if she wanted something or not. He just moved her around like a toy and talked to her like an object. It was a lot to take in, but I have to admit, it made me hard. Then I looked over at Abby and she had her hand down her pants and was touching herself.

"You really enjoy watching this, huh babe?" I asked.

"Oh my god yes, he's so fucking hot."

"Are you wet?" She pulled down her sweatpants and her panties to reveal her glistening pussy, wetter than I'd ever seen it before.

"Is this wet enough for you?" she asked. And with that I shut the laptop, told her to turn around, and proceeded to fuck her as hard as I could. About three minutes later I was done.

"I'm sorry it was so quick, babe," I said.

"It's ok, honey. I like that you're trying."

The truth is, I was trying, but it was acting. Here's the irony: James Deen, the "actor" did not appear to be acting. Sure, it was fiction, but he was doing what came naturally to him. That was obvious. I was not. That too was obvious.

Here's more irony. That hardon I got while watching the video is not because I found the idea of being like him sexy. It's because I admired his confidence. I was jealous. And that jealousy seemed to turn me on.

-----

I only realize that now, as I reflect on it. How did I get here? In part through not being aware, through not knowing myself. For acting not only to Abby, but to myself.

Over the next several months we'd watch porn together. We'd watch videos of girls being manhandled, throatfucked, tied up and beaten. She'd get really wet. Then we'd fuck. I worked on controlling my orgasms. I'd fuck her for about two minutes, then I'd stop and use my fingers or tongue, then I'd fuck her again. Or I'd think about nonsexy things like my job or taxes.

These things worked to keep our sex going for longer than usual, but it also sometimes disrupted my hardon, our rhythm, or our connection, and though she made some noise, she never seemed to have an orgasm.

One time, a few minutes after I came she had an idea: "How about I finger myself until I'm about to cum and then you enter me?"

"That's a little embarrassing for me."

"Why?"

"Because the only way I can make you cum is if you do basically it yourself."

"It is a little sad isn't it?" she said.

"Ouch. That hurts," I said.

She then got on top of me, sitting over my thighs, facing me. We were still naked. She made a pouty face. "Did I give the wittle boy a boo boo?" I wanted to get angry she was treating me this way, but I couldn't deny the reality that her saying that instantly made my dick hard. She looked at it and laughed again. "Awww. You're little peepee doesn't seem to hurt, does it?"

"No." I wanted her to sit on it and fuck me, so I asked. "Please sit on my dick babe."

"Please? What sort of wimp asks for permission? Nope. Wittle wimpies only get to jerk off." Humiliated and angry, but turned on, I didn't know what to do next. Thankfully she told me. "Go ahead honey. Jerk your little penis for me."

And so I did as she told me. And I came again within a minute, after which she shook her head, said "Cute," got off of me, opened up the laptop, and fingered herself to a James Deen video until she came. Then she gave me a kiss on the lips, and said, "Goodnight, sweetie. I love you." It was a while until I fell asleep. My confusion had my head spinning.

-----

The next morning we sat in bed and talked about what had happened. We were getting good at that. I asked her what that was all about.

"It's all about what I suspected."

"What's that?"

"You're not dominant. You're submissive."

"You think?" I asked.

"I don't think. I know. Think about it, whenever I've ever said something even slightly humiliating to you you've gotten instantly hard, and harder than usual."