Smokes your problems, coughs fresh air.

Category: Tribulation (Page 2 of 2)

The digital sauna.

Jock itch: my cock itch

Ok, so according to the family doctor it was never a fungal infection (which a jock itch is), but really eczema. Nobody knows what that is. Whatever. I’m not a doctor. It itches and it affects my cock, so I am just going to refer to it as my cock itch.

I hate doctors. Really. I can’t stand them. Or, at least: I fear them. Which is probably the same. Anyway, doctors are truly useless. Why would I want some jerk-off to finger my privates, glancing only ever so slightly and proclaiming ever-so-authoritatively what it is that is affecting my nether regions? I forgot even when I went to the doctor. It was in one of those positive bouts where I suddenly thought it’d be a good idea to seek treatment for a number of ailments that I was growing accustomed to. None of these ailments were remedied by following the doctor’s advice; here I am, years later, still suffering the same stupid symptoms. Fuck you, dear doctor! (She’s a lady and, no, I would not like to fuck her, especially with my sex organs all itchy and sore. Neither would she; she’s actually seen my sex organs. 😯 )

My toenails (another story, which will be much better with pictures) have deteriorated and my “eczema” has only continued to conquer fresh, virgin territory. Yeah, ok, maybe not completely “virgin”, but not far off either. I have gotten laid precisely once in the past nine years and (apart from my general awkwardness) the sensitivity, shame and soreness at the time led to an experience so horribly traumatizing that I have been seriously wishing for my cock itch not to go away. It won’t.

I’ve actually been worried for a bit that I might have infected that girl with some kind of fungal goo. Should I have told her? I worried, but the doctor had told me only months before that it was just eczema. I had even been given prescriptions for some ridiculously ineffective and unpleasant hormonal creams (another rant altogether). Then, my shame somewhat subsided when I learned that my girl had been getting it on with anyone confident enough to treat her unfriendly while I was “dating” her and that she did have to seek treatment for an actual STD just before and after we dated. The cunt! And that bitch had me worried for her health! Fuck you, bitch! Yeah, I guess I’ll have to call you bitch; I can hardly refer to you as my “then girlfriend” because I have only been allowed to call you that for like 10 minutes, bitch! How did these other guys call you then? Surely, you must have been their bitch. (Just be glad I don’t post your full name in this post; I’m good with Google. Bad with privacy too.)

Ok, this rant to hide my feelings of sexual inadequacy has gone on long enough. If you want to hear more juicy details about my sex life, you’re out of luck, because, unless you count masturbating wildly in front of a mirror, I don’t have one. (No wonder.) The only thing that is satisfying about my sex-life is the size of my dick, which is pretty meaningless because where am I going to stick it? Surely not in miss STD again; she broke up with me precisely because of my broken sexual performance. Otherwise, my doggish stupidity would have kept me all dedicated to appreciating the scraps of love she threw me in exchange for my desperate advances. The cunt!

No, wait: the rant hasn’t gone on quite long enough. That sex-experience might have been horrible either way, but I’m sure the only-just-barely-recovered skin that would increasingly hurt with every minute of intercourse didn’t add up positive to the already negative, frightful mood. What do you expect with a soul craving for affection, after surrendering my trust only to be continuously discarded as some kind of nuisance, a distraction to the fast life you were living? And where had the tenderness and playfulness gone? And how could either of these occur without some bloody time and peace? Yeah, yeah, sure. I was taking too much time already. Maybe that’s why you had to announce to your friends in fucking public that we were going to have sex for the first time. What the fuck?! And they say men are insensitive! You’re surprised I take it public now? Cunt. No, the whole debacle can not wholly be attributed to me. Surely you knew no mercy, although you could consider your toleration of my mechanic, cramped up and down movements a form of tenderness too. It was fucking horrible. I was completely paralyzed by fear. Fuck it. There’s no way to be politically correct about this. I’ve been fucking humiliated. Humiliated, fucking! I hope you have some aggressive testosterone-ridden rhino doing you now, someone who accidentally stumbles upon this blog and attacks me and—Ooo, that would be such a relief. Come and kill me, wankers!

The benefits …

There are upsides to penile itch, although it’s not the penis but the scrotum where these benefits are best felt: scratching. You should never scratch when you suffer from eczema. They say. Sure! Why won’t I just enjoy all the drawbacks and none of the benefits, eh? Scratching is great. Scratching is divine. Scratching is the glimmering gift of God to the scabby mammal. Fuck them! And hooray for scratching!

I have to admit that I’ve gotten better at it too. I can usually scratch quite thoroughly without actually worsening the injury. This is especially satisfying when there’s a soft layer of whitey “pseudo-skin” on the loose. You can really put your nail into that stuff. Then, with practiced and applied, steady pulls, you can gather quite a bit of tissue that’s not doing anything useful anyway.

Another kind of satisfying exercise is playing with the soft crusts. Sometimes, if you haven’t scratched too hard—scratching too hard will lead to real (bloody) crusts—you will get these kind of crusts that are really more like hardened skin fragments. Really great to tackle, these are. The pleasure of peeling these off cleanly, without serious harm, can only be compared to getting a nice, stubborn crust of snot out of your nose without enthusiastically causing a nose bleed. These crusts are especially good when you have to be truly, really extra, super careful because you’re quite sure that if you’re going to pull it a little bit more in this direction—oooe, don’t scratch that bit there!—you know you’re going to cause one hell of a bleeder. It’s like digging your nose, but so much more satisfying. Hell, any excuse to play with your dingly-dang is satisfying.

There’s all kinds of crusts too. Every variation in between basically just a dry shard of skin and a very tough, nasty patch of dry blood in one of the seems of the ball sack. Sometimes I find myself trying really hard to remove a bump that’s really just a big white scar. ‘Wonder how that got there.

… to being dysfunctional

I made up all kinds of whack-job theories about my cock itch. They all revolve around personal development and blockages and fears and all that. The truth is: I like it this way. My cock itches. I’m twenty-six year old, so my cock would be itching either way. At least now I don’t have to contemplate the impossible, the unfathomable: having to actually please a woman. The very idea! It’s frightening as hell, and becomes scarier every day of every year. This year it’ll be ten years since my first and last pleasurable sexual experience. That’s a long time, and a lot of scary.

But who am I, complaining? I’ve been celibate for years, celebrating the great special power that this would give me on an purely energetic level. My cock only started itching after I had gradually given up the idea that masturbation and sex would cost me my vitality and life force. If only catholic priests would be stricken by the same irony, life for choir boys would be much more pleasant. (Yes, I actually thought that abstinence would make me a better stronger person.)

I’m a bad loser and I don’t like to take the blame for my own awkward stupidity. It’s not easy to miss how, by complaining about the lack of empathy of an eighteen year old girl, I try to drive the attention away from my own pathetic self: “Don’t look at me! I’m scared! Don’t touch me! You’re a woman! Look at me, please! Don’t! No! Do!”

Thank you, my cock, my friend. Thanks to you and your condition, The Scary People can’t touch me. You saved me from the witches’ clasp.

Lame excuses (times 2)

Posting this blog post made me concerned with the privacy of the girl who allegedly humiliated me a couple of years ago. It shouldn’t. From my ramblings above it must become absolutely clear that I’m an inexperienced, frustrated, frightened kid who has barely grown beyond the emotional maturity of a toddler. A toddler with an ego that’s so big and sensitive that you need a map and a team of European diplomats to avoid collisions. The only thing you prove if you choose to dislike said girl after reading this is that you’re even more pathetic than I am. Seek help. Or, instead of flaming her, flame me. I like being flogged. It’s what I’ve always been avoiding, scared as I amwas of you and your cute, little opinion. But not anymore. Time has come for practice. Bring it on!

If you still don’t understand, let me simplify: “Pushy, needy guy with emotional issues doesn’t want to hear ‘no’ and thinks it so romantic to open up and give everything anyway. He is then disappointed when things don’t go his way. Sooo sad. Also, his dick hurts, but not so much as his ego.” If this reflects badly on anyone but myself, I do apologize, because, although I sure as hell do mean it, it certainly isn’t justified. Now, fuck off and let me play with myself!

Hi, My name is Witchbane and I like witches

2017-12-30: The below post was my first post on, a project I abandoned in the form it was then intended to take: a series of blog posts and hopefully videos to enthusias young people about wilderness. Here, for posterity’s sake…

My name is Rowan. The Rowan tree is a common tree carrying small red berries of a bitter taste. Because the tree got ascribed many magical properties in the past, it used to be planted in front of farms as a protective from witches and other evil things. Hence, the old folk name witchbane. Myself, I can better identify with another folkloric name for this tree: witch wood. Druids used to lean on their witch wood staffs for support and power. Similarly, I want to support the growth of a new generation of witches by promoting the world of wilderness.

The Rowan Tree: From the misty coils of morning / there rises on the hill / In hesitating sunlight / and tendrils clinging still / Crowned it is, for power / and magic drapes its lee / In all the hues that red may show / the Rowan-berry tree

The Rowan Tree: From the misty coils of morning / there rises on the hill / In hesitating sunlight / and tendrils clinging still / Crowned it is, for power / and magic drapes its lee / In all the hues that red may show / the Rowan-berry tree

Witches to me are a symbol of unkempt wilderness, their repression a symbol of the illusion of the tamability of our wild nature. When I think of witches, I think of women—of course, enough witches are men but, as a male, I prefer to think of witches as (preferably sparsely-clad and sexy) females—women who live in the periphery of our neatly combed culture, beyond the edge of our cultivated fields and forests, in the realm of the unknown where they’re performing their unfamiliar rites and rituals.

Different and deviating from the known, witches are repressed, because, for long, there has been just one right way to think about and to perceive the world in which we live. But, the world has been shrinking lately. Also, increasingly, time has been compressed and we’ve been shown that people have lived long before us, all of them in different ways. We’ve even been shown that some people are still living independently from the authoritarian belief structures which we’ve built. The evidence against the divinity of our species keeps piling up and it gets harder and harder to keep believing that anyone’s particular version of what is right and what is wrong is correct.

In the right time, Darwin would have been a witch. In this time, to many, I am also a witch because my relation with wilderness is not sterile. You could even call it dirty. It’s an unhygienic blood bond, overgrown with mosses and fungi, a link rooted in ancient times which ought to not even have existed.

Luckily, in this time, there are many who feel that witches are o.k. There are many witches too. So many, that soon they’ll disappear. Soon, we’ll all be witches. According to some, soon, the exploration of the unknown will (have to) move from the periphery to the mainstream. To make this a little sooner, I’m going to convince you that embracing the wilderness within and around us is stimulating and exciting. Yes, exciting! Better prepare yourself for some barely-clad, sexy hexes whom are waking up wilderness together.

And now for one of those sexy witches: (You can look safely; the witch wood wizard’s staff is carefully covered with a cloth.

Rowan is moving sand from point A because he want more flowers at point B

Rowan is moving sand from point A because he want more flowers at point B: The photograph is courtesy of and copyrighted by Jeroen Dekker, 2007

Push the limits

Besides making good music, Enigma also writes meaningful lyrics. A quote from “Push the Limits”, from the album “The Screen Behind the Mirror”, by Enigma:

Don’t submit to stupid rules
Be yourself and not a fool.
Don’t accept average habits
Open your heart and push the limits.

The irony of this is, that while most people agree with this, they don’t really understand it or put it into practice. This was true for me personally as well. It’s all too easy to accept consensus reality without a second thought. But this consensus reality is often misleading and it can be hard to oppose it, mostly because of social reasons.

Anyway, my suggestion for today is: read the quote again and apply it. Allow your doubts to float to the surface and express them, because I know those doubts are there.

Meditating with Iris for the first time

Yesterday evening, I met with Iris for a Transcendental Meditation (TM) session at her mother’s. Today, this night, I’m still shaken up by the experience.

We started our mental journey in her bedroom, after she had created a little atmosphere by lighting a few candles and turning off the electrical lights. Soon after we started—I was sitting against the wall with my knees stretched while she was sitting in front of me, cross-legged on a small sitting bag—my mind started wandering. My thoughts moved uncontrollably while my body vibrated uneasily. My breathing was very convulsive and I found it hard to return to my mantra. (For the uninitiated, a mantra is the word or phrase which you repeat to yourself to quell away any thoughts that occur during meditation.)

Some time passed with my awareness moving around. It moved from the strangeness of this new environment to my unfamiliarity with this strange girl—a beautiful new friend whom I could hardly believe to be sitting there in front of me to share this bizarre, new sensation. I was still in a nervous mind. All the hopes and fears regarding myself and this person kept my mind away from the deep acceptance and love that where present in the moment.

After some time, my breathing did steady a bit and my mind did center a bit (and my legs and my butt started hurting a bit), but it wasn’t until the moment that my watch announced the end of the meditation that I started to realize how deep I had been affected by this session.

When, after 20 minutes, we both reopened our eyes, we started to exchange experiences. I noted that even my belly was wet with clammy sweat as were my palms, my armpits and my back. I noted that, to me, it felt as if this was the result of the enormous tension which I had released. While I said these things and as we spoke further, I experienced a novel feeling of acceptance and peace. I was awe-struck when she told me how her experience had also been so much more powerful than what she was used to. She described to me that, with her eyes closed, she had seen me as an energetic silhouette or shadow with my Chakras visible to her and connected to hers. We continued to talk for a very pleasant little while, in a still somewhat connected state, until we were called to dinner.

The moment, later that evening, that I finally had to let go of her company, I was filled with a lonely feeling of melancholy and sadness, even of despair.

For many months, something under the surface had been causing me a recurring need, but no actual cause, to cry or shout or do whatever else is needed to let go of whatever it was that often made me feel miserably melancholic. Now, that feeling was stronger than I ever remembered it to be. I wanted to cry to let it go but nothing happened. I tried to wallow in the feeling, but that only made it worse.

Two nights before yesterday night had been the first night that I reluctantly, but somewhat seriously, had told myself that I was o.k.. That was a first in my life. I even went as far as to tell myself that I was o.k. the way I was, which somehow, until yesterday evening, was a big thing. It was so big a thing, in fact, that there’s nothing in my life of which I’ve been more scared than simply admitting that there’s nothing I need to do before I am acceptable.

Yesterday evening I felt truly accepted, and it didn’t come from me. It came from Iris. Her accepting presence butchered the possibility of not accepting myself. Now, I’m clumsily crawling back to that haven of peace, because, after we had to disconnect, I was left to my own devices. She was no longer there to accept me for me. Now I have to accept me for myself, and I’m still feeling the healing of a painful wound. Not many days ago this wound was still almost invisible. I could only feel the hurting and not where it was from. Now I know where it’s from. After my experience with Iris, I also know how it feels without. Even though that difference makes the hurting so much worse, it makes the healing so much easier. I can hardly wait for the next session!

(A special thanks also goes to my mom, who, when I arrived at her house after this painful goodbye, patiently massaged the tense tissue of my back, my neck and my shoulders until I felt less lonely and more relaxed.)

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