Tuesday, October 29, 2002

Got wonderful email from Does Mean Well that I only read briefly this a.m. before I ran out the door to get to work. Among the pearls of wisdom poured out for my benefit: "You don't train slaves; slaves train you, Babe." I called my Dad and step-mother to receive their birtday greetings. My brother had a hernia operation and is recuperating at home. I've decided that I'm not talking to him. We were doing really well, and then he told me that my softball team winning the division championship wasn't that big of a deal, because after all, you're playing with 'a bunch of fairies." I was sort of stunned. I'm wearing the near-Prada suit today at the office, so I'm feeling cool-as-hell. A got a really nice card from everybody at work for my birthday. Therapy tonight, and then I'm meeting Past President for dinner.

When I worked for Boss the last time, one of the few perks that came with the laughably low salary was the opportunity to get free tickets to the Big Apple Circus. Once, attending as a lowly aide, I was mistaken for the Boss himself, and got the VIP treatment backstage--or behind the big top or whatever--meeting all the performers and such. Well, I'm going to the Big Apple Circus again this Friday night. Which is perfect. Baron von Philadelphia will be in town, so that will be a delightful thing to do with him. I wonder if the Museum of Natural History still hosts "Legislator's Night." They open up the place for an evening for legislators and their staff. We get to basically have the place to ourselves, frolicking amongst the fossils.

Well, back to work.

Well. Back to work.

Monday, October 28, 2002

Oh Man. Just got home. After work, I went with Boss to a fundraiser for the Anti-Violence Project. Ran into several people I haven't seen in years, and Boss introduced me to a lot of people I'll probably be getting to know over the coming weeks and months. We only made an appearance, then it was off to a fundraiser for Democratic candidates. Again, bunches of folks I haven't seen in a long long time.

(I almost feel as if for the past five years I've been on an island, dealing with folks in the world of harm reduction and syringe exchange. In many ways it's an isolated community. I forgot how smoothely and effortlessly I move through the wacky world of New York City politocos.)

And then, in the door came New York State's Junior Senator, Hilary Rodham Clinton. She made a brief speech, and then went around to each and every table in the room, greeting folks warmly. I was in the middle of some witty and risque anecdote when She Of The Black Crepe Pant Suit appeared at the table. I gave a curt 'Hello' and told her my name, and it was over. I didn't lose control of my bladder. I had a great time paling around with the two staffers who put together the event, currently on leave from Boss' office to work on a campaign on the East Side that's something more of a challenge. Boss is apparently very buddy-buddy with Hilary. He was singled out for special recognition in her brief speech.

Politics: it's weird and soulless, but it's soooo much fun. The personalities are so much larger than life. Political enemies are skewered for fortunate wardrobe decisions. (I remember well a city council hearing after which we talked for months about the fact that the Commissioner of the Human Resources Administration seemed to be wearing garters done in surgical glove material that came to just above her knees. For months.) It's full of wit and irony and gallows humor. There was a fifteen minute battle about whether a certain politico would be asked to stand and say a few words, although she's generally viewed as being ineffective and not a team player. Her election is pretty much a mystery, especially given the eminently qualified candidates she defeated handily. But, the point was moot when she left after about five minutes. In the door and out the door.

-----------------------------------

Got an incredibly moving email from ARt today. It seems that the experience was as moving for him as it was for me. And, he liked the apples.

Oh. Maybe I didn't mention the apples. I wanted to give ARt some small token of my appreciation. I could not figure out an appropriate gift. Then, eating eggs after church, it hit me: apples. Apples are in season and they're wonderful. And, the whole thing about giving an apple to the teacher, and ARt is and has been in so many ways my teacher. So I found a nice bowl made of mango wood, bought some locally grown apples, found a card picturing a flexing Charles Atlas (shot from behind, showing his back), and left it with ARt's doorman. It felt so good to do something so heartfelt, and it was great to learn it was appreciated.

----------------------------------

One thing I wonder about this new job: am I ever gonna get laid again? I mean, my schedule has just gotten so incredibly busy. I've got to high tail it home after therapy tomorrow to do some grocery shopping. I'm just about out of dog food.
Yo. I'm blogging from my new desk at my new job.
I'm about to venture out and get some lunch, stop at an office supply store, and register for the gay roommate service.

Oh. And I have to cancel a event that I was invited to this evening by Mr. Lure 2002, because I'm going to a fundraiser for the New York State Senate Democratic Committee. Hilary Clinton is expected to be there. Dang. I mean like... Dang.

-----------------------------------------------

Sunday, October 27, 2002

No, it's not an experience of deja vu. I typed out this entry, and clicked on , and it didn't show up on my blog. So I copied the entry, pasted it, and hit again, and this time both of them showed up.

Tomorrow is The Big Day. First day at the new job. I am as ready as I'll ever be. Sadly, I don't remember anyone's name. And they're all like twelve years old, so if I did know their names, I wouldn't be able to tell them apart anyway. I should have made up mnemonic devices for all of them. Oh well. Mebbe I'll be able to fake it. I'm wearing my brown cordroy suit by Joseph and a black shirt. It'll be pretty chic.

Here's great news! Just talked to Does Mean Well. He's comin to visit December 7th through the 11th! I'm pretty thrilled. He had to get off the phone because he said his 'slave just showed up and we're gonna spend some time together.' I'm pretty envious.

The MAsT (stands for Masters and slaves Together) meeting today was really wonderful. All the panelists were superb, especially the last guy, Master Jeff. There were some way hot boys in the audience, too. So it's kind of got me thinking. If these twenty four year olds can plunge into owning a slave, and if Does Mean Well can have a slave, maybe I should get a slave. When I'm on AOL, I get approached all the time with, "Looking for a slave?" I always say, "No, thanks. I can barely manage to walk my dog three times a day. Training a slave would be out of the question. But, that said, I could make time to check in with my slave several times a day. It would be wonderful to go to MAL, or LeatherFest, or even the Lure with my slave on a leash. Just sublime. He'd be shirtless, showing whatever I've done to his back lately. I think I'd be a pretty good Master. I have insights and guidance to share, I'm naturally caring and nurturing, I'm sexually dominant, I have a sense of humor that I bring to bear on everything in my life, it would do wonders for perfecting my technique. And best of all, he could tidy my apartment and look after my dog when I'm traveling.

Yeah. I definitely want to be open to the opportunity to collar a slave.

--------------------------------------------

Gosh. When I wake up on Tuesday, I'll be 38 years old. Half way to 76. I think that my life expectancy might be a little bit past that, so I'm not half way there yet. Good thing, because I love my life, and I want to see at least as many turns of the seasons as I've seen thus far.

---------------------------------------------
And now, I'm late for church.

---------------------------------
[edit]

[10/27/2002 10:57:31 AM | Drew Kramer]
I love Daylight Savings Time. Yeah, I remembered. I stayed longer at the Lure than I normally would have last night. Drove home. Set the clock in the jeep back an hour. Set my watch back. Got in. Stumbled around the block with my dog. Set the alarm. Went to bed. Got up this morning, having slept through a half hour of the alarm. Damn! Only a half an hour to get out the door. (It takes me about fifteen minutes to shave my head.) Shaved, showered, got dressed. Put on my watch. I forgot to set my alarm clock back an hour. I have an hour to kill.

And that's so nice. Long walk with my dog this a.m. Then church. Then brunch. Then the MAsT presentation at the Center on Young Masters. (I'm sort of giggling about that. I'm thinking of Young Master Theodore, Young Master Aloysius, Young Master Brattleboro... a panel comprised of eleven year old spoiled brats, the eldest sons of English gentry... "I don't see why I can only have Christmas Pudding at Christmas. Cook is perfectly capable of making Christmas Pudding at any time of the year. Mother is being completely unreasonable on this point. I want Christmas Pudding every day!)

No no no no. The program will present a panel discussion of several men in their twenties and thirties, who define themselves as Masters. Presumably, they'll talk about the challenges they have with credibility given their relative youth, both among other Masters and among boys and slaves. I find that pretty compelling. I don't know that I've faced a similar 'credibility gap,' possibly because I've always looked older than I am. (When I was an 18 year old freshman in college, I used to buy liquor for 20 year old seniors.) I'm actually more interested in coming to define yourself as a Master, rather than as a Top. I think of myself as being a Top. Noted Author at Inferno asked me, "Are you Top-wired or Master-wired?" I believe he discusses this in one of his essays. Beyond questions of 'what makes a Master?' I sometimes wonder if Tops are viewed as being lesser beings in the great S/M Chain of Being. I don't see it that way. In fact, I've considered writing a book, along the lines of Jack Rinella's The Master's Manual called, "The Way of the Top." It would discuss the ethos of being a Top, the spiritual, intellectual, sexual, and physical aspects thereof. I really like Cain Berliner's take on the subject: "Someone said to me, 'So you're calling yourself a Master now, huh?' and I said, 'No, my boy is calling me a Master." When I was involved in ACT UP, it irked me the way people tossed around the word 'Activist.' I hesitated to call myself an activist, as my own efforts seemed rather dilletante. But, when people whom I admired and respected referred to me as an activist, I didn't quibble.

Is one born a Master and come to discover this identity? Is being a Master something you aspire to, with a sort of requisite set of accomplishments? Is it a vocation? A destiny? Or merely a descriptive term applied by others who understand the power of the title?

I actually don't think I have a problem with someone defining himself as a Master. On the complicated map of the leather world, it helps to establish what territory you've ventured into. "Oh, so this is Master Chuck I was just introduced to. This tells me that Chuck tends to be sexually dominant, he desires submission, and owns a slave or seeks to own a slave." If I'm meeting "Chuck," and I notice that Chuch is wearing his keys on the left and has a black bandana in his left pocket, then my assumption is that Chuck is a Top. (Chuck is sexually dominant. He's a skilled and accomplished player, who enjoys S/M play where he takes the role of orchestrating the scene, whether it be bondage, flogging, dog training, electricity, cock and ball torture, ass play, or whatever. He enjoys the intimacy of men surrendering to him. He may play with one other man, or with several other men, or as many men as he possibly can.)

--------------------------------------------------

In the shower this morning (brief and hurried as it was), my back had a really wonderful sort of burning, smarting sensation under the stream of hot water. If I get the opportunity, I'd like to buy ARt some small token of my appreciation.



At the Lure last night, when I was hanging with Mr. New Jersey Leather 2001, Mr. Lure 2002, his partner, Mr. Hillside Leather 2003, and a few other great guys, I had a glimmer of what I felt so profoundly at Inferno. "There's so much love." Among Leatherfolk, there is so much love. This wonderful, sweet, kind, playful, heartfelt, warm, enfolding, supporting, sustaining, enduring, free-flowing love. And love is the only thing worth living for.

Special Guy gave me a great book, "Sister Wendy's Book of Meditations." Sister Wendy is the art lovin' English nun. ("Rubens has given her such lovely and fluffy pubic hair!") In this book, she offers meditators, the jumping off point of which is some piece of art. One section deals with meditations on joy. She makes an interesting distinction between Joy and Happiness. Happiness is selective. We decide to be happy. It is a function of focus. Seek out rainbows, duckies and kittens, conviviality, chocolate, down comforters, health, and things that are nice to look at, and you'll find happiness. Joy is different. We find joy by opening ourselves up. Joy is the whole ball of wax. The pain and the pleasure, the love and the heartbreak, the agony and the ecstacy, the beauty of the created world and the widespread suffering that is found therein. Embracing all of it, taking every stroke, that's how you come by joy. It seems to me that this is intrinsically understood by Leatherfolk. I've heard that the first fundraisers for gay men stricken by AIDS were held among motorcycle clubs and in leatherbars, as there was a long-standing tradition of doing so. Love means embracing the inevitable loss and grief that will come with separation from that which is loved. The skull beneath the skin. Life more abundantly.

Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once out Time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r.
Let us roll all our Strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one Ball:
And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,
Through the Iron gates of Life.
Thus, though we cannot make our Sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvel
To His Coy Mistress

Enjoy your day, Dear Reader.

---------------------------------------------------
And now, I'm late for church.

---------------------------------
I love Daylight Savings Time. Yeah, I remembered. I stayed longer at the Lure than I normally would have last night. Drove home. Set the clock in the jeep back an hour. Set my watch back. Got in. Stumbled around the block with my dog. Set the alarm. Went to bed. Got up this morning, having slept through a half hour of the alarm. Damn! Only a half an hour to get out the door. (It takes me about fifteen minutes to shave my head.) Shaved, showered, got dressed. Put on my watch. I forgot to set my alarm clock back an hour. I have an hour to kill.

And that's so nice. Long walk with my dog this a.m. Then church. Then brunch. Then the MAsT presentation at the Center on Young Masters. (I'm sort of giggling about that. I'm thinking of Young Master Theodore, Young Master Aloysius, Young Master Brattleboro... a panel comprised of eleven year old spoiled brats, the eldest sons of English gentry... "I don't see why I can only have Christmas Pudding at Christmas. Cook is perfectly capable of making Christmas Pudding at any time of the year. Mother is being completely unreasonable on this point. I want Christmas Pudding every day!)

No no no no. The program will present a panel discussion of several men in their twenties and thirties, who define themselves as Masters. Presumably, they'll talk about the challenges they have with credibility given their relative youth, both among other Masters and among boys and slaves. I find that pretty compelling. I don't know that I've faced a similar 'credibility gap,' possibly because I've always looked older than I am. (When I was an 18 year old freshman in college, I used to buy liquor for 20 year old seniors.) I'm actually more interested in coming to define yourself as a Master, rather than as a Top. I think of myself as being a Top. Noted Author at Inferno asked me, "Are you Top-wired or Master-wired?" I believe he discusses this in one of his essays. Beyond questions of 'what makes a Master?' I sometimes wonder if Tops are viewed as being lesser beings in the great S/M Chain of Being. I don't see it that way. In fact, I've considered writing a book, along the lines of Jack Rinella's The Master's Manual called, "The Way of the Top." It would discuss the ethos of being a Top, the spiritual, intellectual, sexual, and physical aspects thereof. I really like Cain Berliner's take on the subject: "Someone said to me, 'So you're calling yourself a Master now, huh?' and I said, 'No, my boy is calling me a Master." When I was involved in ACT UP, it irked me the way people tossed around the word 'Activist.' I hesitated to call myself an activist, as my own efforts seemed rather dilletante. But, when people whom I admired and respected referred to me as an activist, I didn't quibble.

Is one born a Master and come to discover this identity? Is being a Master something you aspire to, with a sort of requisite set of accomplishments? Is it a vocation? A destiny? Or merely a descriptive term applied by others who understand the power of the title?

I actually don't think I have a problem with someone defining himself as a Master. On the complicated map of the leather world, it helps to establish what territory you've ventured into. "Oh, so this is Master Chuck I was just introduced to. This tells me that Chuck tends to be sexually dominant, he desires submission, and owns a slave or seeks to own a slave." If I'm meeting "Chuck," and I notice that Chuch is wearing his keys on the left and has a black bandana in his left pocket, then my assumption is that Chuck is a Top. (Chuck is sexually dominant. He's a skilled and accomplished player, who enjoys S/M play where he takes the role of orchestrating the scene, whether it be bondage, flogging, dog training, electricity, cock and ball torture, ass play, or whatever. He enjoys the intimacy of men surrendering to him. He may play with one other man, or with several other men, or as many men as he possibly can.)

--------------------------------------------------

In the shower this morning (brief and hurried as it was), my back had a really wonderful sort of burning, smarting sensation under the stream of hot water. If I get the opportunity, I'd like to buy ARt some small token of my appreciation.



At the Lure last night, when I was hanging with Mr. New Jersey Leather 2001, Mr. Lure 2002, his partner, Mr. Hillside Leather 2003, and a few other great guys, I had a glimmer of what I felt so profoundly at Inferno. "There's so much love." Among Leatherfolk, there is so much love. This wonderful, sweet, kind, playful, heartfelt, warm, enfolding, supporting, sustaining, enduring, free-flowing love. And love is the only thing worth living for.

Special Guy gave me a great book, "Sister Wendy's Book of Meditations." Sister Wendy is the art lovin' English nun. ("Rubens has given her such lovely and fluffy pubic hair!") In this book, she offers meditators, the jumping off point of which is some piece of art. One section deals with meditations on joy. She makes an interesting distinction between Joy and Happiness. Happiness is selective. We decide to be happy. It is a function of focus. Seek out rainbows, duckies and kittens, conviviality, chocolate, down comforters, health, and things that are nice to look at, and you'll find happiness. Joy is different. We find joy by opening ourselves up. Joy is the whole ball of wax. The pain and the pleasure, the love and the heartbreak, the agony and the ecstacy, the beauty of the created world and the widespread suffering that is found therein. Embracing all of it, taking every stroke, that's how you come by joy. It seems to me that this is intrinsically understood by Leatherfolk. I've heard that the first fundraisers for gay men stricken by AIDS were held among motorcycle clubs and in leatherbars, as there was a long-standing tradition of doing so. Love means embracing the inevitable loss and grief that will come with separation from that which is loved. The skull beneath the skin. Life more abundantly.

Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once out Time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r.
Let us roll all our Strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one Ball:
And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,
Through the Iron gates of Life.
Thus, though we cannot make our Sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvel
To His Coy Mistress

Enjoy your day, Dear Reader.

---------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------
(What am I doing blogging when I should be sleeping? Anyway...)

Just back from the Lure. Ran into Lolita, which was cool. I got to take off my tank top and show her my back. And I also showed off my back to Coyote, Mr. Lure 2002, Mr. Leather New Jersey 2001, and whoever else I could corner.

Y'know, what is it with me? Why can't I pick up guys? There was this amazing looking man there. Wearing chaps, with his butt hanging out the back and his 00 gauge PA hanging out the front. No really. And he was flagging right. And he had a nice, unblemished back. No. Scratch that. He had a beautiful back. First, a way hot Dad in a latex MC Officers uniform was putting the moves on him. "Oh well, I thought." I sat and watched for a while, then made another tour, finished my beer, and headed for the coat check. And who was right ahead of me at the coat check? Beautiful Back. It actually crossed my mind to say, "Hey, Buddy. Nice back." What would be the harm? Where's the risk? What's he gonna do? Whack me with the chain hanging off his PA? Unlikely. But no. I silently watched him collect his clothes and move to the corner to dress. Admittedly, I was kinda distracted by coat check boy. He had a nice smile (and a nice back), and he called me 'Sir.' But, that's the Eternal Bartender Fallacy. Of course he's gonna be sweet and flirty: he's working for tips!

On the other hand, the chances of connecting with a serious bottom at the Lure are vanishingly small. Even though they were showing a video that actually featured S/M. Albeit a pretty lame and harmless variety. I'm going to go buy the Fallen Angel series and donate it to them. Maybe GMSMA should do a video dungeon demo series, since doing live dungeon demos seems to be no longer an option since the closure of the dank, mildewed, airless, grimey, cellar that was previously the site of those festivities.

It's been months and months since I did whipped a man. Well, not true. It's been seven weeks. But still. I'm due. I suppose I should be more attentive to the guys that approach me on AOL or Leather Navigator. Set up coffee dates to interview, see if there's a connection, and if so, schedule a scene. Uh. So much work. Just like Past President's post-Inferno resolution: Play more. Must play more. Maybe I need an agent. You can get a rep for just about anything in this town (personal shoppers... think about that). I should hire some guy to circulate at the bars, talking me up, take a polaroid and get a phone number if he gets any bites, and I'll sit home eating Tollhouse Cookies. "Hi, Titus. It's Drew. Who do you have me whipping this Friday? What's the file number on him? Got it. How tall is he? I can't really tell from the picture. Oh, perfect. Experience? Been flogged a few times, huh? Well I can work with that. He's okay with marks? No boyfriend or anything? Good, good. Did you ask if he would prefer restraints? Okay, no problem, I'll take care of that question when we negotiate. Wait a minute... I don't see the contact information for aftercare... Oh, right. There it is. Okay, we're all set. Friday at 10pm. Call him and tell him to eat about 2 hours before hand. Light supper, heavy on the carbs, easy to digest. And you briefed him on the substances policy? Good. And he's okay with that? Perfect."

Saturday, October 26, 2002

Oh. Happy. Day.
Tech support at Earthlink has solved my long-standing problem with Microsoft Entourage. I'm in business. Finally. I can send and receive email with ease.

By the way, I also figured out how to use my digital camera. Let's see if I can:
Figure out how to get pics from my camera onto my iBook
Figure out how to get pis from my iBook onto my blog.

That could just take us all to a whole new level, huh?

-------------------------------
Well. Y'know. I wussed out.
It was over in about three minutes.
























Damn you! You believed that, didn't you? I can't believe you believed me. Sheesh.

What can I say. It was amazing.

First off, the site was perfect for our purposes. I've got a great St. Andrew's Cross myself, but I sort of feel goofy playing at home. About four feet from the cross is my messy desk. Should I clean my desk before I have a boy over? Will it be distracting to him to be reading through my printouts on 'How to Configure Microsoft Entourage for POP Accounts' and the like as I'm securing him to my cross? But having the whole thing go down at El Mirage was perfect. I didn't have to worry about music or lighting or anything. The semi-privacy (as opposed to privacy) worked pretty well. Props all round.

The narrative was much the way I imagined it would be. ARt employed some truly daft (daft is Scots vernacular for stupid; the kids say 'stoopid' to mean something that's smart, sexy, and done well; I bet that 'stoopid' will soon be going the way of 'fly'; I'm going to start using 'daft' to mean 'stoopid'; when the check out boy at the Wawa tells you what your wearing is 'Way daft, Dude!', well then you can just thank Singletails for keeping you ahead of the curve on the the verbal hijinx of American Youth Subculture) change-ups. He did a really cool thing with his flogger, grasping the handle in one hand and the ends of the tails in the other, and pulling it taught so it snapped against my back. Really effective. I'm boosting that move.

The transition from floggers to whips was accomplished by way of a nice quirt. It worked really well. I use an amazing braided cat I picked up at Letherwerks in Fort Leatherdale. The guy working in the store when I bought it said 'That looks so mean! Don't come near me with that.' Wrong. It's truly been one of my most popular implements, even with first timers. And it leaves these great cat-scratch-like marks.

So what was the whipping like? Here's something that never occured to me... I don't know which was more intense: when the whip connected or when it cracked harmlessly behind me. Both worked to get my endorphins pumping. When the whip connects, you feel the sensation a split second after your brain has registered the sound of the crack. In the midst of a scene, that split second seems... well... you could be reading a paragraph of Proust in that time according to your cognitive clock. Thus, a crack is as good as a cut, as both cue your brain. ARt was totally (wonderfully) unpredictable, too. There was no pattern, no crack-crack-crack-connect.

I was really, really, really noisy. ARt referred to this as 'responsive.' I bellowed. I wailed. I would feel the next sound sort of percolating up from deep within me (here comes a 'GaaAAAWWWWWW!, now a 'YOoooooOOOooOOOooOOO!'). These sounds came from deep, deep within me. Sounds that I always wanted to make, but never did.

Oh I cried alright. Heartily and mightily. Heaving sobs. But with no proximate cause! It wasn't like, I would flash on missing my sister and start to cry. Not a bit. I would just start to cry. For nothing and everything. I've never cried like that. When I was a little boy, I would cry mostly to signal to the adults around me that something was wrong. I remember once my Dad hit me in the head (accidentally: mine was not a Great Santini upbringing) with the door of the refrigerator. He opened it, and I was on the floor. it didn't hurt, but then he said, "Well, he should have moved." I started wailing and made for the open arms of my sister. My father was mortified, he thought it was the dog's head he had hit, and not the fruit of his loins. His mortification and contrition were what I wanted from him, and my crying was how I got it. This was not only without cause, but it was without any message I was sending out to the world. It was just pure release. Laughing and crying are the same thing. I would weave seamlessly between the two, often not sure which was which. Amazing.

I didn't want it to be over. I hoped every stroke would be the last. ARt came up close and said, "Are you ready for your final ten?" I said, "Let's go on a some more and see where we end up." In other words, "No." Then, he started.

I've never used The Final Ten. I always thought it was a little gimmicky. Uh uh. It works brilliantly. The Top tells the bottom, "Ten more. You count. And only count the ones you want to make count." So it's a challenge. Just like in games boys play ("Punch me as hard as you can. You call that a punch? That's not a punch. C'mon. Punch me.") But, it gives the bottom an opportunity to demonstrate his fortitude, and the opportunity to reclaim that is important when you've spent the last hour tied powerlessly to a cross while another man beats you bloody. In other words, "I can take it." Similarly, it's a way of regaining control at the same time. I could have shouted out "Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one! Thank you, Sir!" and it would have been all over. FYI: I didn't.

Did I ever feel the endorphins! Like an electric current flowing through me. They have the added benefit of shutting down higher brain functions. So I just was. Present, and in the moment. Probably a rare--and possibly a unique--time in my entire life on this plane.

After he cleaned me up (the application of rubbing alcohol was by far the least enjoyable sensation of the entire evening), ARt asked me what time it was. I truly had no idea. Were we at it for twenty minutes or four hours? I couldn't say. It had been two hours. ARt said, "It's time that you just offer up to the Universe." Yeah, but not quite. It's two hours during which I was the Universe. I was the spinning of planets on their axes. I was the slow rotation of planets around stars. I was a comet moving through the void. I was the timeless forward movement of photons through space. I was a solar flare. I was sheer happenstance. I just was, even though I could very well not have been. The radical contingency and absurdity of Being.

Will I do it again? Probably. Not for a while, though. I'm grieving a little loss today. Sort of like the loss of virginity. I've compassed a great mystery. I've been there. I've done that. Never again will I have the opportunity to stand on that threshold and without word or thought just step through. I worry that 'Next Time' will bring with it the Imp of the Connoisseur, that I'll compare and contrast, and I'll be right back in the barren realm of of the Cogito. Or worse, go on the endless quest to 'up the ante.'

Here's the alternative: it's about connection and intimacy. Even though ARt is in many ways a stranger to me, he and I have a bond. I remember in the workshop, he looked at me throwing his signal whip for the 16th time in my life, beamed, and said, "You're a Natural." Watching him, the ken of how to throw found it's way into my muscles and sinews. Throwing a whip is something that your body learns how to do. I can see someone do a throw, and then I'll know how to do it. I couldn't describe the 'How To' of it. Suddenly, you just can do it when a minute ago, you couldn't. ARt gave me that gift. And, after the workshop, he checked in. We met up for dinner. He examined and admired my newly acquired whips. I emailed him about my trepidation when, after months of punishing shrubbery, I wondered if I was ready to whip a man. Or if I would ever be. When I did it for the first time, that beautiful evening in the eternal summer of Southeast Florida, in the garage playspace of a guy I had chatted with on AOL, ARt was right there with me (not physically present), cooly commenting and cheering me on. At Inferno, he introduced me to men who were the best in the world. And during my Initiation Ceremony, he opened my hand and put into it the most incredible whip I think I will ever own, then gently closed my fingers around it. I can't pick out the moment at which my back belonged to ARt, but that certainly came to be. By luck, I also like him. He's smart, honorable, sexy, admired by men of substance and worth, intuitive. He knows who he is. So, if and when I meet another man with a whip, with whom I feel a similar depth and sweetness, and if I decide that I want to have that man become a part of me, inextricably woven into the fiber of my being, then yeah, I'll do it again.






Huh. Four voice messages on my cell phone. One from a 646 number. Could it be Schlitz? I shouldn't get my hopes up.

Friday, October 25, 2002

My prayers for the friends and family of Senator Paul Wellstone.

Now, doesn't it rest to a Governor to appoint someone to serve out a Senator's term. And isn't the one seat majority by which the Democrats control the Senate essentially voided as of now? (Although the Senate is in recess.) So doesn't the question of the majority in the Senate, and, ti could be argued, 'the Fate of the Free World,' rest on the shoulders of Minnesota Governor Jesse 'The Body' Ventura?

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It's Whip Day!

Nice night last night. After my volunteer shift at the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center, I grabbed something to eat, and then went to Ty's to watch the latest installment of the California Civil War, aka, the World Series. 16-4 hurt. I am really liking the Angels. Donnelly, their pitcher, is kind of what I want most for my birthday. You could plant a flag in his chin cleft. But anyway, after the series, I hung out with this guy from my softball team, who was really, really chatty after his eleven vodka and sodas. Really chatty. Very chatty. Eventually, he wandered off into the night and presumably back to Queens. So I hung out talking with the bartenders and fellow softball players, Tommy and Joel. At one point, I got up and got ready to go and whaddya know, there was another O'Douls that I couldn't let sitting on the bar. We sat there shooting the breeze for a while. I wasn't home until almost 3 am.

Left me reflecting this morning as follows... My brother and sister are 15 and 13 years older than I was respectively. So they were prettty much out of the house when I was growing up. Thus, I was raised as an only child. Which I loved! All that attention! I've never really recovered from that in many ways. But anyway, I've always cultivated solitary pursuits. Not only do I not mind being alone, I love it. Reading, traveling, eating dinner, doing crossword puzzles. Often, when I'm in my own space and a friend hales me in the Factory Cafe (or wherever) I have to suppress a feeling of 'Damn!' to greet the person.

But that seems to be changing. My pursuits over the past year (softball and whips) are inherently social. You can't do them alone. You can't have a catch with yourself, or practice batting; and whipping works best if you have someone you're throwing with, or whipping, or being whipped by.

When I was 17 years old or so, my Great Aunt Helen died of colon cancer. Not long before here death, I went with my father to visit her. She basically cursed me from her deathbed. She told me that I was selfish and self-centered. She sort of struggled to raise herself up on her elbows and said to me, "No man is an island. You can't live alone." I remember thinking, "I can. I will." So, my uncle and my dad sort of hustled me out of the room ('she's getting upset'). I had recently gone to France with my high school French Class, and one of the many places we stopped on the trip was Lourdes. Where I collected several bottles of holy water. I had brought one for Aunt Helen. I presented it to her, and she started to cry, saying she was sorry, thanking me over and over, and saying she 'took back' everything she had just said. Uh huh. I of course, was agreeing with everything she said, and I hadn't had her in mind specifically when I filled up the water at the grotto at the foot of the Pyrenees where the Blessed Mother appeared to Mademoiselle Soubirou. And bringing her one of the bottles was not quite an afterthought before I left the house with my dad to visit her in Enola, Pennsylvania. ('Enola' spelled backwards is 'Alone.')

Intimacy. Connection.

(Incidently, this was the second time a dying relative had pointed an accusatory finger at me. When my second step mother was essentially racked with cancer, her hip broke while she was cleaning my room, calling me to come and pitch in to join her in the effort. While she was propping herself up against a book case of Junior Encyclopaedia Brittanica, she told me that with that break, the cancer had spread all through her body, and it was my fault. I kind of knew that this wasn't the case, and knew even though I was only eleven years old that it was sort of her cancer speaking and not her. But, her hip never healed. She had a sort of slit in her thigh where they had inserted a metal pin. Her leg was swollen and would usually ooze pus. I would help her wipe it away, and give her back rubs. She was essentially was confined to a wheelchair from that point until the time she died, on the eve of my twelfth birthday. That would be twenty six years ago on Monday.)

In therapy last Tuesday, my therapist posited that I had never known intimacy. I responded by saying I thought it was over-rated. And, when I was at the Lure on Wednesday with Past President, he questioned whether my heart had ever been broken. I was going to say, "No, it's titanium steel. No need to worry." But we were interrupted, and given time to consider, I said that the death of my sister has left me changed, as has the experience I had as a young'un with a boyfriend of mine in Philadelphia who, upon receiving an AIDS diagnosis, split town, leaving me only a brief note saying that he didn't want to subject me to being his 'care giver' or whatever. He also said that if I ever saw an AIDS Quilt panel with his name on it I was to do whatever was necessary to destroy it.

One more in this chain of rambling thoughts. After my sister's illness (primary pulmonary hypertension) took a turn for the worst, I drove down from New York to visit her in the hospital. On the way back, I played the Bruce Springsteen box set and choked on sobs the entire way. Then I got home, and my Ex was waiting for me. As I was cruising around looking for parking, I decided (!) that I would allow myself to cry and be comforted by him when I got in the door. And I did, sort of. He responded to the best of his abilities, given his intense narciscism (I may be self-centered, but I'm not narciscistic). So I sort of faked it.

Lolita sent me an email about the whipping and said that 'after you cry, it really gets good.' I responded by telling her that the last time I cried was when I was 12 at my mother's funeral, and I faked it. This is pretty much true. When my mother died (yeah yeah yeah, she was my step mother, but my mother died when I was three-and-a-half and I have no memory of her, and Ruby was a lot more than a 'step mother' to me), it was after a long and terrible convalescence. I had ample time to prepare myself. And, I was incredibly re-assured by my father's love for me. She died on the eve of my 12th birthday. All of my relatives (grandmother, grandfather, Aunt Helen, Uncle Devoe) were there for my birthday. So it was a full house. I heard commotion in the middle of the night, and woke up to see what was going on. The local volunteer ambulance corps was taking my mother to the hospital. I went back to sleep. The next morning, I was sitting at the breakfast table. I sensed every eye was on me. I had this weird feeling of trying to figure out what was expected of me, what reaction they were looking for. I decided (!) to appear to be sort of preoccupied and distracted, pushing my food around on my plate and eating very slowly.

Then came her funeral and burial. She was buried out of St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, the church where my brother and sister and I had been baptized and confirmed. She was reared a Scots and Presbyterian, and would have had a lot to say about that, I remember thinking. And, at the funeral, I decided (!) that I should cry. Again, it came out of that weird feeling of performing for an audience of my family. They would think it weird if I didn't cry. I didn't quite fake it. The tears came easily enough. But I just as well could have not cried.

So tonight, I'm going to meet up with ARt at 10pm. I'll be wearing these sexy new leather pants I bought. They're sort of fashion forward: low hipped, and flared at the cuffs. They make me feel trashy and loose . We'll talk briefly. Possibly establish safe words. Then I'll take off my shirt. ARt will restrain me to a St. Andrew's Cross. He'll move in close behind me. I'll feel his hands running over my back. I devote an entire session at the gym to my back, alternating with a session where I do chest, biceps, triceps, forearms, and legs. I do this because my back is naturally fairly well developed anyway. My Dad would refer to my 'strong Polish back' when we'd be doing yard work together. Doing back at the gym is easy for me. He'll say some comforting words. (In the Anglican Tradition, there is a segment of the liturgy called the Comforting Words. I think it's the part where the priest says, "Draw near with faith.")

Then, he'll back away. I'll wait. Quietly. A small thing, like a dim, lonely star in the evening sky. First I'll feel the sweep of the flogger. The strokes will slowly build in intensity. The blood will rush to my back. It will redden. I always love that when I'm flogging. It's like watching the dawn. My body will begin to process the trauma. I'll do my best to still my mind. To just react. To feel, and not to think. The blows will come with more and more force. Then, there will be another pause. Stillness, and calm. Perhaps more comforting words. Then, I'll hear ARt give a few preliminary cracks of his whips. I'll possibly jump at the first one. Then, he'll begin to throw in the direction of my back. The rosetta of muscles between my shoulder blades. He'll at first be far away. Beyond the reach of the whip. He'll inch closer. I'll start to feel the little bursts of air on my back where the whip is cracking. it will be tantalising. Then the whip will begin to crack on my back. I've only experienced this through a denim jacket, when ARt and the Master of Mirage (who will also be present) taught me how to throw at the GMSMA workshop on singletails. it will be painful. I wonder like what? Like a wasp sting? Like a hard slap? Like a burn? Like a pinch?

I don't know what comes next. I have no idea. I've never, ever known anything similar. Will the pain be a searing white-hot ball, radiating out from between my shoulderblades, consuming all thoughts, all feelings, the future and the past? Will my higher brain functions shut down, leaving me in some more primitive, fundamental state? A frightened, tortured animal? Will I feel the incredibly high from endorphins that my friend St. Louie Woman described in recounting her experience giving birth? (As soon as the baby was out, all the pain was gone, but the endorphins were coursing through her veins and arteries and capillaries. She felt rapturous joy and incredible peace, felt her body rise and float out of the saddleblocks and off the table.) Will it be awful? Will it be a terrible experience that I will do my best to endure? Will a worm of hatred for the man that did this to me, seduced me into this, be born and grow? As when I was flogged by Does Mean Well, will it become tedious?

Will I cry?

And then it will be over. When ARt decides it's over and not before. My back will spritzed with hydrogen peroxide. (I remember. I'm a little boy. I've skinned my knee. My grandmother moves in to spray it with bactine. "No! It will sting! I don't need it!") ARt will be busy releasing me from the restraints. He'll hold me. At this point, I imagine the club where this will all take place will start to fill up. Men will be wandering in, stripping and checking their clothes, coming from the lounge through the curtain into the back. And they'll see us. Probably not what they were expecting to see. What would be the response of Joe Sex Club Patron, parting the curtain, stepping through, seeing a small group of men in jock straps in a lose semi-circle. He positions himself to see what all the fuss is about. ("Huh. Looks like things are getting going already.") Instead of some hot boy in a sling getting his kitten punched by s fierce Daddy, there will be two men. Sitting on the floor. Whispering and holding. Maybe I'll be positioned so that he can see my back. "Hamburger back," I've heard it called. Like a Jackson Pollock canvas, done in deep, rich red. Glistening and wet in the dim light. How will he respond when it clicks what he's looking at? Wonder? Repulsion? Fascination? "Dude! That is fucked up!"?

Then I'll get something to eat. i hope that ARt will be available to join me. If it's anything like what I've seen in my bottoms and other men's bottoms, I'll have a big, stupid grin on my face. "Yow! I kinda forgot just now and sat back in my chair. Guh-huh-huh-huh. Guh-huh. Dang. That hurt." Then I'll find someplace (probably the Factory Cafe) where I can sit on my own. My back will be visible behind the tank top I plan to wear. That should keep people away so I can be by myself in the midst of the Friday night crowd. I'll find my way up to 43rd and Broadway and go to the Tom of Finland Dance. I'll find someone to dance with or I'll dance alone. With my shirt off. I love moving to music. I love to dance. I'll work my moves. Exhausted and starving, I'll leave at some point in the wee hours of the morning. Get something to eat. Maybe work on the New York Sun crossword puzzle while I eat my eggs. Then head home. Get a good look at my back in the mirror. Sleep on my stomach.

When I wake up on Saturday (probably not Saturday morning), will I remember right away? Or will it occcur to me, "Oh yeah. ARt whipped me last night." Nothing planned tomorrow. Shopping. Vacuuming (finally!). Lunch. Gym. Dinner. The Lure. Home. Bed.

It will be a Saturday like so many other Saturdays. But it will be a Saturday like none I've ever known before.

I'm standing on a threshold. Like Alice through the looking glass, I'm about to step into a universe I've never known. And when I return, I will be forever transformed.

Lord God, Heavenly Father, Abba... Be with me. Help me, guide me, let me say 'yes' to your love. Give me strength, give me faith, give me courage, give me love. Let me be a light in the darkness. Let me be an instrument of your peace. You who have knit me in my mother's womb, who knows my going up and who knows my coming down.

Show me myself. Teach me to call you by this new name that I will soon learn, your Winter Name.

Help me to be open to Andrew, to strip myself naked, to approach with my hands open at my sides, defenseless. Be an axe to break open the ice that has trapped me.

Be with Andrew. Hold him close. Guide him. Enlarge his heart. Let your love flow through him. Let him be open to your love.

Your son Jesus was scourged at the pillar. With a whip Jesus drove the money changers from your Temple. You know the whip.

Deliver me.

In your light we see light.

Dying, Christ destroyed our death. Rising, Christ restores our Life.

I pray through Christ, your Son and my Savior, in the name of the God who created me, the God who redeemed me, and the God that sustains me.

Amen.

Thursday, October 24, 2002

Here I am, blogging from my (former) desk at my (former) job. Shockingly, they all seem to remember my name.

A few things:
1. Heard from ARt today. We're on for tomorrow at 10pm. He's bringing the restraints and his whips, so I don't have to. I'm nervous, in a giggly kind of way.
2. Went to the Lure last night, met a sweet guy I've previously played with at El Mirage. He actually came across the river to Jersey City and spent the night! I'm a little fried as he had to be back in the city at 11am, so I only have about 5 hours sleep.
3. I had the address wrong for the gay roommate place it's on 22nd Street, not 20th as I had thought. So, I'll stop in tomorrow and give them $150. A woman I worked with let me know that there's a place available in her building. It's $850, located on 16th Street between 6th and 7th. It's an SRO, with a sink and a microwave in the room and a shared bathroom. Now, not that I ever cook, but I like to have the option to do that. And my preferred method of making tea in the morning involves a stove. I currently do not own a microwave. I'm thinking of letting it pass.
4. I bought some more clothes today (leather pants, black dress shirt for work, Nasty Pig neoprene pants) and picked up the the pants for my new suit from Joseph.
5. I managed to stop at the New York Sports Club at 8th Avenue and 16th Street. I'm now a member. Or at least, I'm soon to be.
6. Because I worked at the Tom of Finland Erotic Art fair a few months ago, I'm comped for the Tom of Finland Party this Friday night. Who knows whether I'll be up for tripping the lights fantastic with a hamburger back, but spending a night tripping the lights fantastic could be just the thing. Issue: where do I park? The thing is at Broadway and 43rd Street. Park somewhere downtown and take a cab? Will I be able to get a cab back to my car at 4 in the monring? Image flashing through my mind: there I am on the 9 train, wearing chaps, blood still flowing in places from the whip marks in my back, nonchalantly doing the New York Sun Crossword Puzzle.
7. I now turn off the lights in my apartment with my bullwhip. Remember the Simpson's episode where Homer buys a gun, and starts doing everything with the gun (like opening the door)? Kinda like that. It's a pretty neat party trick. I mean, anyone can blow out a candle, but flicking a light switch?
8. Baron von Philadelphia has confirmed. He's winging his way northward next Thursday for Halloween.
9. Five shopping days left until my 38th Birthday.
10. I love my life.

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

How did I do with my To Do list today? Let's review.

Vacuuming! Nope. Not today.
Call insurance guy. Yeah, but he's on vacation until Friday.
Pay bills. Did that.
Update GMSMA Trearurer's Report No. I'll see if I can't bang this out tomorrow after vacuuming. Tomorrow night is the GMSMA meeting, and it would be great if I could email it to The President, and be ready to review (briefly) any issues at the meeting tonight.
Buy a new leash for Prosper my dog Nope.
Make some futile attempts to contact someone... anyone... at tech support at Apple Central.
Anxiously await return phone call from Schlitz. Cancel all plans with Special Guy if Schlitz suggests we go to the Guggenheim. Or out for coffee. Or to Queens to watch the Department of Sanitation do pick up in Sunny Side. Or put the eleven pounds of change he's been filling up cigar boxes with when he empties his pockets into rolls. Or clean his bathroom. Uh... that point is moot.

So today, I'll do vacuuming, the Treasurer's Report, but a new leash, visit TekServe, and stop by at the Gay Roommate Service and give them $150 of my hard earned money to see if they can find a place for me in the West Village or the southern end of Chelsea for about $800 per month. I need so little in life. Just a room large enough for a desk, a bed, and room to swing a four foot whip.

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A good day overall. I paid bills, met up with Special Guy and went to see an amazing installation of Medieval and Renaissance Spanish Religious art at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, then had therapy, had dinner with Special Guy, went to Crunch for a workout (back, I love doing back, I walk out of there looking like Jean-Claud Van Damme), then went to the 30th anniversary party at Ty's. And that's a lot!

There was an incredible San Sebastian by Rafael and an El Greco of the Death of St. Joseph that almost brought tears to my eyes. And, some great Ecce Homo pieces. Just fantatastic. Therapy was good. Real good. Dinner with Special Guy was sort of odd. When you're in love with someone, you are either blind to their shortcomings or else forgiving of their shortcomings because you love them. But, having been intimate with someone, and finding out their allllll of their shortcomings, and not having the benefit of rose colored glasses, it just get's a little annoying. Capisce? But anyway, it was a nice time.

Hated Crunch. What are the chances of getting a handjob in the steam room? Nil. They don't have a steam room. It's also pricey. Like $100 a month. You'd think for all that money they would be able to keep all their lockers in good working order. But the thing that really sunk them was this stoooopid mural they have. It's just so bad. The onloy reason that I was sort of interestedin the place is because a really hot guy I've talked to on-line goes there. And, he said that he usually can pick up some hot boy, take him home, collar him, beat him around a little, and introduce him to the wonderful world of watersports. Well, there was definitely no eye candy there tonight. Maybe one guy. But most of the pickins' were along the lines of 'pretty,' and well groomed. Not my favorite flavor. Everyone there could get a job at the GAP just by walking in the door.

What do I mean by that? Years ago, when I was living in Philadelphia, I briefly dated this guy whom I called Gregory of Fort Lauderdale. He was so great in bed. Total pig. And did he have a look. Alabaster skin and blue black hair. He could look like a movie star from the Forties if he wanted to go for that. But he didn't. He wore tight black tee shirts, tight black Red Label Levis, boots, big silver skull rings, a dangly cross earing, reallly long bushy sideburns, and, not infrequently, mascara. Anyway, Gregory had been fired from the GAP. When you work there, it's a policy that the clothes you wear are (in the memorable phrase) "GAP or GAP-like." Gregory was accused by the store manager of not looking GAP or GAP-like. He pointed out that he was wearing a black tee shirt from the GAP, and black jeans, and... like... the GAP sells black jeans. Nope. Didn't cut it. So to the extent that I have a type, that would be it: would never be able to get a job at the GAP. So, I guess it's NYSC after all. I'll take care of signing up tomorrow.

Ty's was fun. Well, no it wasn't. I mean, I love that bar. I play softball for them. The manager, John, is soooo good to the team. Incredibly supportive. One of the bartenders plays on the team, and another is the team manager. And it's pretty much a bear bar, and we like that a lot. They totally did it up for their 30th Anniversary. So where did things go awry? Well, Game Three of the World Series was on, so my focus was on the screen. During the commercials, I was scoping this guy, 5'7", sort of a beard, black leather MC jacket, flagging left with his keys. It was more of a "Hail Fellow and Well Met" sort of scope. After all, he's a Top; I'm a Top. What are we gonna do? Play Parchesi? But he saw me seeing him and pretty quickly I had my tongue massaging his tonsuls. But then he erred. Gravely. First of all, he was drunk. I don't have a lot of tolerance for drunk. Especially when I'm not because I'm the designated driver. Mutual drunk sex can be fun, but when only one person is sloppy, it just doesn't work. And then, this little inebriate asked permission to work my tits. I said 'sure,' but told him to go easy as I just had them pierced. I might as well have asked him to grow six inches while I watched. Finally, not reading my cues ("Ow! I said 'Go easy,' Dammit!"), I put him up against the wall and said, "Listen, if I have to spend a week cleaning pus out of my piercings I'm gonna come looking for you." And then he made the fatal error. He responded by saying, "Really? And what are you going to do when you find me?" When he said this, he sounded exactly like Fenton Pangborn. Fenton was a character actor from the Forties and Fifties who would play officious and flirty hotel desk clerk. Far be it from me to be condemning of fay behavior, but I just don't want Fenton Pangborn swinging from my dick under any circumstances.

And one other thing. I've had this sort of odd feeling lately. I thought up what I think is an apt name for it: Top Fatigue. I wanna get laid, but it just seems like so much work, having to orchestrate everything. But at the same time, I don't want to bottom and let someone else do all the work. If I could sit on my sofa watching 'Rebel Without A Cause' while my bottom assembled my cross, tied himself to it, had someone come in and flog him while I paused the DVD, and also had that someone take care of the aftercare, I'd be cool with that. Top Fatigue.

And, I especially want to get laid because Schlitz didn't call today. All I want is to bed that hot man when I'm not exhausted at 4 am. That's all. But, I think if I had some disruptive interference of pounding some (never-gonna-work-at-the-GAP-lookin) hot boy into the mattress, I'd be able to deal with the apparent inequity in the desire to have at it again, me and Schlitz, a bit more philosophically.

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Monday, October 21, 2002

I hate Mac OS X. It's made my life incalculably more difficullt. I just took my (formerly trusty) iBook to the Factory cafe so I could work on my Departure Memo whilst I got some dinner. And I made significant headway. And then, a window came up that said, "You have no power left in your batter so we're shutting down right now." I clicked on the Save icon just as the screen went black. Now, not only did it apparently not save, but I can't open up the damn document. I hate Mac OS X.

I guess I'll have to find some Mac Guru to come to my house and figure out where I screwed up and, if possible, set things right. Do I dare take it to the folks at TekServe? Yeah, I guess I dare. Damn damn damn damn.

Also tonight, I went to the New York Sports Club at 8th Avenue and 16th Street. Careful readers of Singletails will remember that I paid $29 to become a member of NYSC at their Christopher Street branch. Since then, I've been foundering on the shoals of indecision as to whether to sign up at Crunch on Christopher Street or at New York Sports Club. I decided that the only way to resolve this dilemma would be to get a day pass at both places and see which one I liked better.

Not to impressed with NYSC. What do I want in a gym? Free towels (check), orderly arrangement of weights (check), not too crowded when I work out (about 9:30pm) (check), open until at least 11pm (check), sizeable gay clientel (check), not too loud music (it was blaring), blow job in the steam room (no dice). And, they had one of those offensive signs posted "Inappropriate behavior will result in the immediate termination of your membership." Not that those Chelsea boys would have deigned to engage in any inapprorpriate behavior with the like so me, but who's hurt if it's done discretely? And what's 'inappropriate' anyway? I once dated a guy who would shower with his gym clothes on then dry them (sort of) in the little centrifuge they had for swim suits. Now that is inappropriate. Not to mention demented. Doing that old parlor trick where you put a spoon on your nose? An impromptu puppet show? A fit of hysterical blindness? Snapping towels? Challenging someone to a catching-quarters-off-the-elbow contest? Baton twirling? Rating your fellow gym goers with Olympic diving style score keeping cards as they emerge from the shower? Displaying your newly whipped bloody back? (I'll find out soon enough on that last one.)


And I called Schlitz. No return phone call. Yet. After the gym, on my way to dinner at Florent, I loitered outside his building. "Oh hi! I called you earlier. What a coincidence running into you." Steady. There are anti-stalking laws on the books in this state. He's really got my circuits fried. What an unbelievably hot man.

And I also (finally) returned Special Guys phone calls. Speaking of anti-stalking laws, they averaged four a day. I'm meeting him and a lonely guy friend of his to go up to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine tomorrow at 2pm. I'll probably have to cut out early as I'm seeing my therapist at 4pm. Then, Special Guy, Lonely Guy, and I will reconnoiter at the Factory Cafe and go to dinner at the early, early hour of 6pm.

Since we're meeting at Big Cup, it might be a good idea for me to take my iBook in and see what they can do for me. Yikes. That will mean no blogging until I get it back. Unless I contend with the homeless at the public library.

How did I do on my to do list for today? Let's review:

Clean my apartment: Sort of. I put a lot of stuff into trash bags. It goes out on the curb on Thursday. I put clothes away. Dropped off laundry. Basicallly everything but vacuuming. Not too bad.
Call car insurance guy: uhhh.... tomorrow.
Check in with the folks at my old job: Check. Left a message.
Work on my Departure Memo: See above. I hate Mac OS X.
Get a day pass and check out the 16th Street New York Sports Club: check.
Call Schlitz: check.

So that's not too bad. What shall I tackle today?

Vacuuming!
Call insurance guy.
Pay bills.
Update GMSMA treasurer's report
Buy a new leash for Prosper my dog
Make some futile attempts to contact someone... anyone... at tech support at Apple Central.
Inquire as to what it would cost to rent a bulletin board on Houston Street and put up a huge sign reading, "I switched to Mac OS X. What the hell was I thinking? Biggest mistake I ever made. I'm such a total loser."
Anxiously await return phone call from Schlitz.
Cancel all plans with Special Guy if Schlitz suggests we go to the Guggenheim. Or out for coffee. Or to Queens to watch the Department of Sanitation do pick up in Sunny Side. Or put the eleven pounds of change he's been filling up cigar boxes with when he empties his pockets into rolls. Or clean his bathroom.

Memo to File: I have got to make him dinner. I fix us a nice Vietnamese Fish Stew and he's mine. BewahahahaHA!
Have sex with wild abandon with Schlitz. Anytime. Anywhere. Anyway.
Thar's golld in that thar Outback, and I struck it. Maybe.

Hooo-eee. So I went to the Lure on Saturday (after spending six hours installing Mac OS X on my trusty iBook. I'm way unimpressed so far. It was a fairly busy night. The scuttlebutt is that the Lure's lease is up in May, and they're looking for a smaller space. Alternatively, I've heard they're closing in December. Hope not, but either way, I'm sort of savoring the place.

But anyway, had a good time as always. Saw a few people I know, including the newly sashed East Coast Mr. Rubber. Or Mr. East Coast Ruubber. Or whatever. He was resplendently sashed. A few hot boys, but nobody that really caught my eye.

And then, he came up and said hello. He is a 6'4" Australian red head with amazing tattoo work. My thoughts (to the extent that what was happening with me could be considered cognitive, and that's a stretch) were 'Bingo!' or maybe, 'Well, so much for church tomorrow.' Because he's Australian, I asked if he did singletails, and of course he said 'yes,' and I said, 'of course you are, because you're Australian.' So we talked about how whips and whip-making are imbedded in Australian culture. And it turns out he knows ARt (who's whipping me in a wee five days), and the Internationally Renowned German Whipsman I met at Inferno. Thus began The Discussion. We talked about spiritual aspecst of S/M. We talked about art. We talked about politics. He lived two blocks away from the Lure (sent by God or what?), and suggested we get out of there, so we went to his place, and talked more about the spiritual aspects of S/M, art, and politics. And then we went to bed. Henceforth (and I'm dearly hoping there will be a henceforth, preferably a long one, the tall, red-headed Australian will be known as 'Schlitz,' as he recalled those supersize cans of Schlitz beer I remember from high school. The art he had in his apartment was great. We talked about hos art in NYC was all about ego, but in LA, it was creative and innovative and playful, and 'worked' more often than not. He grew up on a cattle ranch in rural Australia, near the lake where the world land-speed record was set. He does business consulting for firms seeking to do business in the western half of the Pacific Rim, and this involves a great deal of travel to LA, San Francisco, Sydney, Hong Kong, and the like. Sex was great, though sort of sleepy and dreamy. Sleeping with him totally rocked. We sent out for breakfast the next morning, exchanged numbers, and agreed to 'look for each other' later at Beerblast at the Dugout.

Then I high-tailed it over to the novices' group that GMSMA is conducted. (My rope bondage skills improved about a hundred fold in an afternoon. This should be indicative of how pathetic I was at the whole thing as of twenty-four hours ago.) I thought that the group concluded at 6pm, so I had told Schlitz that I'd see him at the Dugout at 7:30 or so. Alas, it ran until 7pm. And the Holland Tunnel was a parking lot going back to Jersey to walk my dog, and coming back into the city. And so I didn't end up getting to the Dugout until about quarter of nine. Things were still cooking, but Schlitz was not in sight.

Now I'm getting all het up about calling him. Should I wait for him to call? Will I appear pathetically anxious to call so soon and plead to get together? Should I wait for him to call? No, because I efffectively 'stood him up' at the Dugout, right? I should have called him when I got out of the novices group, right? But I didn't because I didn't have my cell phone with me.

Yo. What are you doing in the novices' group? Well there are a lot of things that I'm good at doing (I might even go so far as to say 'reallly good at doing'), but there are big gaps in my repertoire. Bondage, for example. And, like all GMSMA educational programs, it's an opportunity to learn with the best. (The equivalent of 'So you want to not embarass yourself in the upcoming Christmas caroling outing? Take a voice lesson with Placido Domingo.')

I met up with a guy I'm way hot for at the Dugout, El Bronx. We went to dinner and talked about psychopharmacology, evolutionary biology, brain functions, and drug-use related family tragedies. Damn I like my life.

As a side note, I'm really feeling angry at my Ex. Why did I stay in a relationship that didn't work for me for seven long years? Because I thought, he's probably the best that I could hope for. Wrong! Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. How many amazing men--strong, smart, kinky, sexy, and sane--have I met since I left? Innnumerable.

Life is good. However things go with Schlitz (my fantasy: 'Look, there's Drew and Schlitz. They're so hot, aren't they?' says the IML attendee or the Inferno participant), life is good. Life is sooooo good.

Things to do today:
Clean my apartment
Call my car insurance guy and demand he find me a cheaper policy
Check in with the folks at my old job (Uh... I'll clean out my desk when I stop by on Thursday)
Work on my departure memo, preferably while typing on my iBook at some lower Manhattan coffee place
Get a day pass and check out the 16th Street New York Sports Club before I make a decision about signing up.

Oh. And call Schlitz.

Okay, let's get going.

Saturday, October 19, 2002

I didn't go to Mr. New Jersey Leather. The trip down to Asbury Park just seemed way to long and complicated. Instead, I spent the evening installing Mac OS X on my iBook. Hopefully, no more crashes.

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I've done nothing today. How deflating. It's 5:30. I had planned to be already on the road and on my way to the Mr. New Jersey Leather Contest. (All those men in leather, and no irony at all, because this is New Jersey, and we don't allow that here.) Dang. Well, I shaved my head, so I just need to take my dog Prosper for a walk, grab something to eat, leather up, and hit the road. Hopefully I'll miss only the lamest of fantasies.

Tomorrow, I hope, will be a more productive day. Church, followed by the GMSMA Novices SIG, the gym (for the first time in two weeks), food, then the Dugout.

What to wear to the Mr. NJ Leather festivities? I'm leaning towards my David Menkes orange-trimmed black leather flight suit. Or, maybe I'll wear my new motorcycle leathers that I got at Inferno. Or, the standard jeans and vest. Or, maybe go with the proto-look I'm developing, involving leather combined with space-age outdoors wear. The jumping off point there was this shirt I got. It zips up the front, it's form fitting (made for cycling), has a sort of nehru jacket collar. I look great in it. While I was out in Portland, I wore that with my leather pants to go to the drug store to get sleeping stuff to knock me out during my flight home and had to guys in leather jackets almost swallowing their cigars. It's kind of cool, because it looks like sort of hip, euro-trash street wear, but sends all the right signals to... uh... the men I want to signal.

The mail today brought some really, really bad news. My renewal notice for my car insurance. They want $5700 from me. For a year. How horrifying is that? I was hit by a car service guy on December 1, 1998, on my way to work. (I hate Flatbush Avenue. Hate hate hate. Do I make myself clear? I would live down a manhole in a sewer in Manhattan before I would move back to Brooklyn.) When I got insurance last year, I was deemed a really bad driver and was placed in a special really bad drivers' pool for insurance purposes. Last November, a week after I got my brand spanking new 2002 Jeep Liberty, I was again hit by a car service guy. Two accidents within the course of three years was what put me in the really bad drivers' pool. But, since the Brooklyn accident is now four years in the past, surely I can get out of the really bad drivers pool. I hope so. That, coupled with the paycut I'm taking, will leave me in abject poverty. I don't deal well with that. This is further incentive to move to Manhattan. In New York, I can re-sign with the wonderful folks at GEICO. New Jersey's auto insurance rates are just insane. The details elude me, but I think it has something to do with the fact that New Jersey has the greatest concentration of lawyers anywhere on the planet. This is why we need a Republican majority in the Senate, so George W. Bush can finally institute the tort law reforms he promised as a candidate. Anyway, let me get a move on.

Friday, October 18, 2002

Insanity

I breathed a sigh of relief on my 33rd birthday. I once read that the initial psychotic episode for people who will eventually end up psychotic occurs between the ages of 18 and 32 years old. When I hit 33, I figured I was out of the woods on that. Reading that--and I have no recollection of where I read that--gave me this distinct impression that mental illness sort of just happens out of the blue. That it could strike at any time, without warning, at random. I don't know enough about psychology to know whether or not that's true.

I would hope that if the Good Ship Reality when chugging out of my harbor and into the roiling, turbulent seas of psychosis, that being deranged would manifest itself in me in an interesting way. I've run across several many people in my life who were challenged by mental illness. Most of them were simply tedious. Narciscistic, borderline personality disordered, frail, manipulative, prone to psychosomatic illnesses and the like. But, I've met a handful who were pretty interesting.

My first job after I was graduated from college (steeped in poetry and philosophy) was working as a cashier in an A Plus Mini-market on Thirteenth Street in Reading, Pennsylvania. One day a woman walked in. She was probably in her fifties, dressed in Goodwill acquisitions, her hair was somewhat unkempt, but overall she seemed composed. She hunted around the store for a while, then approached the counter. I forget just what it was that she asked if we had (cayenne pepper? safflower oil? lichee nuts?), but we didn't have it. She said that she was looking for it because it had the ability to clear toxins from the body. She went on to explain that when she was in West Virginia, she was living near a train track. She later learned that because of the problems that the Atomic Energy Commission has in disposing of nuclear waste, what they'll often do is load it on to freight trains and just send it around the country in perpetuity. She believed that because she had lived by the train tracks, she had become irradiated. That's why she needed the cayenne pepper, safflower oil, lychee nuts, or whatever it was. And that's fine. And then she went on to say that another thing she did to clear the toxins from her body was to walk a lot. Walk everywhere. Because when you walked in barefeet, the toxins would leave your body through your feet. At this point I looked at her feet. They were swollen and black with grime. She was fairly well put together above the ankles. But there, it wasn't pretty.

I was sitting in a Burger King in Philadelphia having lunch. (Never a good idea.) An elderly woman was sitting at the booth next to mine, so that we were facing each other. She was well dressed, coiffured and chapeaued, wearing white gloves. (I used to see women all the time in Philadelphia wearing white gloves. Mainline dowagers in town to take in a matinee, have a sherry at the club, and shop for more gloves.) Her opener was, "I've been married seven times. I've had seven different husbands. Can you believe that?" I said something I hoped was sympathetic. And she plunged in. "I murdered them all. Every one. The first one with poison. The second one I pushed in front of a train. The third one was also poison. In his coffee to cover the taste. The next one I pushed to his death down a flight of stairs. The fifth one I electrocuted in the bathtub with a radio. People got suspicious after that, so for my sixth and seventh husbands, I used poison again. And now, I'm all alone in the world." Now, between the ages of thirteen and fifteen, I read everything that Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, and Dorothy Sayers wrote. I suspected that my luncheon companion had more than a passing acquaintance with Miss Marple, too. It just did not seem plausible that she would get away with murder seven times. "Do you think if you were to marry again you would kill your eighth husband?" I asked. "Probably," she said, "Once you get over the initial shock it becomes quite easy. Like solving a puzzle really. Do you like crosswords? I adore the Times crossword."

When I worked for the member of city council, I received a phone call from an elderly woman in the West Village (you know the kind: room after room after rent-controlled room). She was calling to enlist the council member's assistance as she was being persecuted by her upstairs neighbor, a young woman who was an asian attorney. She had initially complained to the woman for playing her stereo too loud. The woman retaliated by turning on her stereo with out a tape in the tape deck, and turning the volume up to the max. She had her stereo on like that all the time. The woman claimed that this hissing-humming sound was eating away at her brain. She had begged the woman to stop the persecution, but got no satisfaction. In desperation, she took to going downstairs in the middle of the night and ringing the woman's bell. The young asian lawyer apparently didn't doubt who the perpetrator was, and the next morning visited her dowstairs neighbor and told her to cease and desist or she would get her evicted. Unfortunately, the midnight doorbell ringing continued. I believe I wrote a letter to the asian lawyer, stating that "I have heard allegations blah blah blah" for the council members signature, got it signed, and sent it off. This did not pour oil on troubled waters. the woman called me, very upset. She said that she had been down in the laundry room in her building doing her laundry, and in walked the asian lawyer. They faced each other, neither speaking for a moment. The, the woman said, the asian woman unleashed a prolonged stream of invective. "It was terrible. She called me terrible names. She said I was a bee-eye-tea-sea-atche and an ay-esse-esse and a cunt." This has intrigued me ever since. Didn't she know how to spell cunt? Did she feel that a lady couldn't bring herself to say 'bitch and 'ass' but 'cunt' was fair game? How did the situation resolve itself? Well, the New York City Marathon took place, and I happened to come by one of the silver, shiny plastic warm up things that they give to the runners after they complete the marathon. I told the woman that I had consulted a professor at Columbia University about her problem. He had given me this material ('developed by NASA'), and said that if she puts it in the ceiling directly over her bed, that would protect her from the energy waves from the special stereo. That and earplugs would ensure a good nights sleep and the nefarious asian lawyer would be defeated. Worked like a charm. Well, it sort of was a charm, wasn't it?

So, if in deed insanity is in my future, I hope that the gods see fit to visit that affliction upon me in such a way as to bring a little color into this drab world.

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Oh. My. Dig this.

Her talent is 'Dramatic Monologue.' You and most of the queens in New York City, babe.

And here's a really weird thing. Y'know Two-Face, the Batman villian? Well look closely at the asymetry of Ms. Weible's face. Good side/evil side. The good side compels her to be an anti-drug activist honored by none other than the governor of Idaho. The evil side has her spending her evenings introducing pre-teens to the joys of smoking crack.

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Gosh. All this 'last day' kind of thing.

"This is the last time that I'll get off the PATH at Christopher Street and walk down Christopher to the subway at West Fourth Street on my way to work." That kind of thing.

Today was also the last day for one of our two psychiatric social workers. Never liked her, but I could never quite put my finger on it. Well. Today the source of my misgivings became abundantly clear. We threw her a party. She glanced at the cake, grabbed her gift without opening it, and sort of waved with all five fingers over her shoulder like Liza Minelli in the last scene of 'Cabaret' as she was on her way out the door. All of the psych majors I knew in college were seriously messed up. There is something of the 'physician heal thyself' thing going on in that profession. Or maybe it's the Wounded Healer principle. Whatever. The other psychiatric social worker we had, who left last Spring, was just so off the scale on the Drama meter. Every little thing was a cataclysm. I know people who operate the other way: they find a quarter on the sidewalk and it's like winning the lottery; seeing some Meg Ryan movie is a religious experience. That flavor of overly-dramatic is great to be around. Love that. I always feel as though people like that are living in technicolor and I'm in black-and-white. But anyway.

After La Social Worker bid us a fond farewell ("Alright, gotta run! Bye-B-*SLAM*) on her way out the door, staff bounced back and declared that the cake, in fact, was in honor of my last day. I love staff. They're the best.

Time for me to get back to my Departure Memo. Only 40 more items to cover (I've done 2) and I'll be done. Uhn.

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Thursday, October 17, 2002

Porn Star Names

If I became a porn star, I'd have to change my name. Given the names that porn stars seem to have, this would appear to be the savvy career move. One exception of course, is Donnie Russo. Russo is the name of the funeral home his family runs. Now there's a fun fact, huh? Anyway, here are some possible names...

Zade Bolton
Dieter Forst
Bron Brickman
Titus Blye
Ivan Lasher
Casey Youngblood
Pierce Danton

...and here are some non-porn stars who, if they (had) ever decided to go that route, wouldn't have to change their names...

Ramsey Clark
Rem Koolhaas
Cole Porter
Trent Lott
Dick Armey (am I the only one that giggles when they run across that name?)
Dick Sweat
Brett Favre
Buck Owens
Ross Perot
Lance Ito
Vin Diesel (I keep hoping that's what he had in mind when he re-christened himself)
Branch Rickey
Nick Cave
Sam Champion (Oh wait. He is a porn star.)
Tito Puente
Troy Donahue

Outta here 4 now. Yo.

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*yawn* Tired tired tired. Less than an hour left in my penultimate day at work. Horrifyingly, I haven't even begun to write my exit memo. But, hey, how long could that take? I mean, I'm writing about doing my job. It's not like I need to head to the library to find supporting sources, right?

I was mulling going to Fort Lauderdale next week, but I've changed my mind. Saturday-Sunday-Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday-Friday-Saturday-Sunday. Nine days tooling around in NYC. I'll clean my apartment! I'll take my dog to Liberty State Park! I'll hang out in seedy gay bars drinking beer and flirting with boys.

Oh. And here's an interesting development. Next Friday, I'm going to get whipped.

What's that about? Well, I'll tell ya. I was talking to one of the many world renowned whipsmen at Inferno. I was sort of the blushing, stuttering ingenue, and he was the old pro. He had several helpful suggestions, and we both spoke enthusiastically about mondo singletails. Then, he looks at me dead in the eyes and said, "And you know, you must take the opportunity to feel the whip dance across your back, too." My reading of that line at the time was that he was trying to get some fresh meat. But, as one-by-one, the world renowned whipsmen showed up on the Rialto with hamburger backs, I came to realize that he wasn't just talking turkey. So I thought it through. At first, my motive was purely selfish: Surely more bottoms would be willing to let me have at them if they knew that I had taken what I've dished out. But then I started to wonder, Could I take it? Getting flogged by Does Mean Well at Inferno had a sort of playful, quid-pro-quo aspect to it. Taking a whip will be different. Think of My Fair Lady vs. Turandot. There absolutely is a quality of grand opera to whipping scenes. Showmanship, mise en scene, and, or course, blood and tears. And then it dawned on me: this will be transformative. This will touch the deepest parts of me. Special Guy once told me that he didn't understand what fisting was all about until he took a fist himself. So then it became pretty clear that this was something I had to do.

I decided that ARt would be the guy to do it. He, along with Miragisto conducted the workshop on singletails (seems like yesterday, seems like years ago) where I was introduced to the whole thing. I haven't had much subsequent interaction with Miragisto, but ARt sort of took me in hand after that and was always willing to give his time. So ARt would be the guy. We negotiated the wheres and whens via email, and it's looking like next Friday will be my day.

Nervous? Oh yeah. But not about the ordeal. He whips, I scream, he whips some more, I cry. I feel confident about letting ARt break me, because I trust him to put the pieces back together. No, here's what I'm nervous about. I don't want to be a wuss. Well, let's face facts: I am a wuss. One clothespin bites my tender flesh and I'm willing to give the Commandant all of our troop positions that he wants to know. But I hope that ARt doesn't not have a good time because our scene lasts for all of thirty-five seconds instead of an hour. But again, I trust him. He knows what he's doing. He'll be able to coach me beyond my limits. So I guess what I'm really nervous about is the fact that I'll be seeing the world in an entirely different way.

That's the fact, Jack.

Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Amusing Anecdote

I was in the West of Ireland looking for a wool cap in a gift shop. No Irish gift shop is complete without lots and lots of crystal and glassware. So there was this little boy, maybe nine or ten years old. American. And he was trying to sell his mother on buying a set that included a glass tray, pitcher, and four goblets. The price tag was probably around $400. He was saying something like this: "...and when we have guests over, we can make fresh lemonade, and serve it in these to our guests." Mom had a stunned look of recognition on her face. His future was there in front of her eyes. High school drama club, graphic design major in college, the Thanksgiving trip home when he would announce he was gay, telling the other members of the family, the PFLAG membership, meeting his boyfriends... It was an amazing moment to witness.

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If the Mets vs. the Yankees makes for a subway series, would the Giants vs. the Angels be an I-5 series? I'm sort of sorry that the Twins didn't go all the way. How cool would that be? Going from being slotted for contraction to winning the series? Regardless, I think being ALDS champs should give the good folks in Minnesota room to breathe easy for a while.

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I wonder if it would be worth it to list with a gay roommate finding service? What are the chances I could find a place in the West Village for less than $1000? Oh, and I have a dog and I smoke and yes, that's a St. Andrew's Cross I'm bolting to the wall. And I'd need a broad band internet connection. And lots of closet space. And what the hell do I do with my apartment full of furniture? And my car. How would I deal with having a car in Manhattan? But I could go back to Geico for car insurance and save big bucks. I guess I could haul my furniture down to Fort Lauderdale.

Not that I don't like Jersey City. I love Jersey City. Really, I do. But getting on the PATH train to get over there, particularly late at night, is just getting to be a little much. And especially with my new job and all of those responsibilities. And, do I really need to make my life more complicated than it already is?

On the other hand, I'd be able to get laid more. I could not begin to ennumerate the number of steamy conversations I've had that ended when I said I lived at the other side of the Hudson River. And, of course, His place isn't really an option because I have to walk my dog.

I used to believe that if I lived outside of Manhattan I'd develope what I referred to as a Rich Home Life. For years, that was my goal. Making a nice meal for myself, settling in with a good book, writing letters to friends, working on whatever book idea was kicking around in my head. Long, long did I lament the fact that my apartment was the place where I stopped in now and again to sleep and feed my cat. And then, I got that. Quite the rich home life. Unfortunately, it also came with my Ex. So while I was cooking a nice pot roast for dinner, I was listening to him unload his ever replenished store of rage on me. And there was never, ever time for reading or writing, as his needs and interests had to be attended to.

So screw that. I want a bed and a place for my dog to sleep. If all fails, I'll find some place in Newark to garage my car. And hell, I dealt with moving the car in Brooklyn without too much trouble. We'll see how it goes. Dang it. I think I will sign up. All I have to lose is $150. Good question to ask them: at any given time, what's the ration of people looking for rooms to people who have rooms to offer? I'm betting 80:1. Whatever they answer, I'll double it. And picture 79 quiet, bookish, well-salaried, non-smoking, non-pet owning, recent college graduate with almost no furniture kind of guys standing in line ahead of me.

I wonder if there's anyone in the extended GMSMA universe that would have a room available. I should put the word out.


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Wow. Here's a blog by a carnival geek. I've been reading this for months, but somehow the fact that the author was a carnival geek (in a sideshow no less) had eluded me. I have nothing but fond memories of the sideshow at Coney Island. Brialliant. If you missed it, you might as well just hang it up.

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The Forbes Fictional 15 rocks. Fascinating to learn that Thurston Howell III is better situated than Mr. Burns.

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Tuesday, October 15, 2002

One hundred and fifty visitors to SingleTails. I don't know 150 people. Who... who are you? What do you want here? Feel free to let me know at drrrew@mindspring.com.
Great stuff that I found on Lolita's page. A little context for the un-initiated. Safe, Sane, and Consensual (SSC) have become the watchwords for S/M play. 'Safe' means that though it may hurt, no one will be harmed, as in permanent or lasting physical or psychological damage; 'Sane' is variably interpreted. I've always found this second element problematic. Talk about 'in the eye of the beholder.' And Consensual means that before play, both the partners negotiate what's going to happen, what limits either of them might bring, etc. At the inception, SSC was stunning in terms of brilliance and ingenuity. To the extent that S/M has some legitimacy, it's because of Safe, Sane, and Consensual.

Lately, SSC is rarely discussed without some wag saying something that begins with the preamble, "Yeah, but what about..." and then bringing out a largely valid objection. SSC works in every case, except when it doesn't. But even then, it does. Enlightened?


Here's my bone of contention. And it's a little one, like one of those bones in the wrist or the foot. Last year at a GMSMA wednesday night program, the issue of drug use was raised. As in, "it's irresponsible to use drugs during a scene." Many heads nodded. And someone chimed in and said, "Well, except poppers." And everyone sitting around me said, "Yeah, except poppers." Well, now, it's either a duck or it's not.

Poppers (amyl nitrates, butyl nitrates, or isobutyl nitrates) are inhalents. They are vaso-dilators; they constrict the blood vessels, causing oxygen rich blood to flood the brain, so the user experiences a rush. And, they relax muscles in the butt, making it easier to accommodate getting your kitten punched. But what about that trippy feeling you get when you do poppers? Well, that's a feeling common to all inhalents. Inhalents are substances that have molecules small enough to cross the blood-brain barrier. That's why teenagers huff glue, but not say... Bosco Chocolate Syrup. The odor of Bosco is much more pleasant, but those molecules are so large that they don't go much further than your nasal passages. But the wee little molecules in inhalents go to your sinuses, and basically right from there into your brain. Your brain goes into a defensive posture and starts pumping out norepinephrine (aka, adrenaline), sensing that it's under attack. Adrenaline is what's produced by your body to ready you for the fight or flight response. Your senses are heightened, your pupils dilate to let in lots of light so you can see whatever is potentially hurled at your face, and blood flows to your arms (to hurl something back) and legs (to run and get the hell out of there) and away from less necessary muscles, such as your anal sphincter. Which relaxes. Now, your brain feels that it's under attack because your brain is under attack.

And, poppers knock out your immune system for about the next five days. And, because poppers have disinhibitory effects (risk taking can be a good thing in 'fight or flight' situations, the user may relax his or her safer sex precautions.

And, because poppers lower your blood pressure, do too much of them and you could lower your blood pressure below the level necessary to maintain consciousness. It's a bad idea to use them with Viagra, which also lowers your blood pressure.

And, because distribution and sale of poppers is illegal, you really don't know what's in that little glass vial, and what the dossage is that you're administering.

Okay, so am I being a tight-ass and declaring popper use to be bad and wrong and evil? Nothing of the sort. What I'm saying is that there are risks associated with poppers, just like there are risks associated with using alcohol, shooting heroin, taking a bump of crystal (speed mimics adrenaline and causes a psychoactive response similar, though more intense than poppers), or smoking pot. Being informed about what you are doing enables you to reduce the risks involved to a level that you find acceptable. Crossing a city street involves risk as well, but we do it anyway, but do things to reduce those risks, such as looking to see if there are cars coming.

Overall, I would not go making a blanket statement such as, 'Using drugs during a scene, or playing while intoxicated, is a violation of the principles of Safe, Sane, and Consensual S/M." Because everybody in the room might be nodding their heads, but half the people in the room are doing that most of the time that they play. But, rather than risk social stigma from their peers, they'll just not talk about it. And not get information that could enable them to reduce risks. It's not all black and white, and when declarations create the illusion that it is, people get hurt.

So anyway, on Lolita's page we find this neato essay, concerning RACK (Risk-Aware, Consensual Kink). I think it's an idea whose time has come. I'm just gonna provide the link (here), because Lolita's page is really great, and you should go there and get to know it anyway. Scroll down. You'll find it. Attaboy. (Or girl, as the case may be.)

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Uh oh.

At the bottom of the October 12th entry of girlsarepretty is a notation that says 'dear lord this is getting tiresome.' If Girlsarepretty ceases to be, I, for one, will have a damn hard time justifying all the money I spend for DSL.

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