Tuesday, December 31, 2002

Lord God, Heavenly Father, God who creates me, God who has redeemed me, God who sustains me...

Give me strength, give me wisdom, give me courage, give me skill. Fill me with your love, your boundless love. As your Son Jesus took up a whip to cleanse the temple, driving from it all that was not of you, be with me tonight as I take up the whip.

Be with r. Give him strength, and courage, and fortitude, and charity. Give him the trusting heart he will need to allow me to take him to the center of himself. Guide my hands and my heart to be for him the one who will lead him on his journey.

I am only a man. I am beset with fear and doubt and trouble. Anything I build is like a castle in the sand, it will pass away. But you are the Eternal One. Anything you do through me will never fade away. For awhile tonight, let r. and I step outside of this world of sorrow, toil, and woe. Let us dance with angels. Let us see your face in each other. Let us drink from springs of living water, so that we will never be thirsty again.

Thank you, Lord God, for the gift of your love, for the gift of myself, and for r.'s great gift to me. With each gift comes a task. Let me bring your love to others. Let me be more fully who I am, the child of God that you created me to be. Let me do honor to the great gift that r. will give me.

Blessed be God.
Blessed be his Holy Name.
Blessed be Jesus, the only begotten son of God, our Emmanuel, God With Us.
Blessed be the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete, God's Help For Us.
Blessed be the Holy Angels.
Blessed be the Communion of the Saints.
Blessed be the earth, God's own creation.

I am persuaded to believe that nothing can separate us from the love of God. Neither heights, nor depths, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor principalities, nor even the efforts of the Evil One.

This I pray in Jesus' name.

Even though all sorts of warning bellls and whistles are going off in my head ("You could be at this for hours!"), I think I'll do a Year End Wrap Up of 2002

Best Movie Why, XXX, of course.
Best Musical This of course was the year that I saw all the musicals I've seen in my life, and Hairspray certainly was the best of the four.
Best Roadtrip Hands down, heading north on the New York Thruway with Past President as navigator to play in a softballl tournement (We came in Third and earned the Bronze) with my team, Ty's Ballbreakers; followed by a trip to Michigan to attend Inferno XXXI.
Best Transformational Event This would be me getting whipped by ARt. Yowza. Changed my whole outlook on life. First Runner-Up here would be taking a whip to a man's back for the first time that balmy night down in Fort Lauderdale, and Honorable Mention goes to spending an evening in Aubrey Sparks' cage in Seattle.
Best Romantic Entanglement Special Guy. *sigh* I'm flooded by warm feelings.
Best and Most Rewarding New Endeavor You're soaking in it! SingleTails was born in June, 2002. Honorable Mention goes to signing up to play softball.
Best Cup of TeaTaylor's of Harrogate Special Rare South African Kwazulu Ntingwe Estate. Hands down.
Best Meal Prepared Although Honorable Mention goes to Thanksgiving dinner for my family, I think the Indian Summer Fish Stew I made for Special Guy wins out.
Best Moment With My Dog When he provided an objective correlative moment and peed all over the floor at the house I was staying in on Fire Island.
Best Wardrobe Acquisition Not the chic Almost Prada suit, but the leather superhero-esque flight suit made for me by David Samuel Menkes
Best Acquisition Overall The Joe Wheeler-made bullwhip/signalwhip hybrid presented to me at my Inferno Ritual by ARt.
Most Fun I Had All By MyselfSunrise On The Beach in the Fire Island Pines

So overall 2002 certainly had some great things happen. But, to be sure, the year overall was mixed. Regrets, I've had a few...

"What was I thinking?" Moment of the Year Raising my hand to volunteer to take on the role of Treasurer of GMSMA
Decision That May Very Well Re-Shape Events For The Worst Going Forward Into 2003 Leaving my job and going to work for Senator Sunshine
Most Problematic Shopping Spree. Maybe. I bought a condo in Fort Lauderdale, that sufficiently lowered my bank account to prevent me from visiting Fort Lauderdale. But hey! It's an investment property!
Most Quixotic Decision "I'm going to learn vietnamese!"
Least Favorite Moment of the Year Having to announce to the staff at my last job that because of an inexplicable delay in receiving checks from the New York State Department of Health, we did not have the money in the bank to make payroll.

Wow! What a year it's been! Pretty dramatic. My life has changed so dramatically over the past year, that I can't help but wonder if this trend of change will continue into 2003. My way of checking in with myself is to silently ask myself, "Where would you rather be?" When things are bad, the answer comes, "Anywhere!" Often, the answer serves to re-focus me: "At home" or "Alone" or "On the beach" or "Not with this person." But with more frequency than I've known in my life, the answer during 2003 has been, "Nowhere else. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. This is where I belong."

I'm brought back again to the awakening I had at Inferno. I didn't expect to find so much love there. And I decided that that was what I'd live my life for: for love. That will be my priority. For transcendence and transformation, risking it all in the pursuit of joy, for connection and intimacy. Next to that, nothing else really matters. This outlook has taken me to places I never thought I'd see. And it adds to my life a level of uncertainty that I need. Among the reasons that I left a relationship of seven years duration in 2001 was because I could see the rest of my life stretched out before me, like a study in perspective in a Renaissance painting. Next this, then this, then this, then this, then I die. My Ex got a great deal of comfort from that. I felt like I was being strangled. And, that was largely what got me out of my last job. What would the next five years look like? I knew. Same problems, same issues, same achievements. Week in and week out. Where will I be in December, 2003? I have no idea? New York City or a monastery or some Master's dungeon or Fort Lauderdale or Los Angeles or Pennsylvania or Nepal. Anything is possible. Who will I know? What will I be doing? Who will I love? Who will love me? What pieces of the furniture of my current life will still be standing? I have no idea. And I like that. Even if a year from now I'm sitting here in my den, blogging away, I don't know that I'll be disappointed, because that won't be the inevitable and foreseeable outcome. Let the mystery be.


Monday, December 30, 2002

Had dinner tonight with Almost Bruiser. He's a totally sweet guy. He's good in the sack. He's submissive and reportedly pretty experienced (he was a slave to a Master for a few years). Here's a weird thing: when I'm with him I feel like I'm stuck in a relationship. And we're just dating. What's that about? Maybe it's that I feel as though he has a role he wants me to play, and I'm sort of resisting that role. Does that make sense? Apparently, he has been fantasizing about me for a long time before we met. I'm kind of his ideal. That should be hot stuff, no? But it just makes me feel put upon and obliged. It's almost like he's too available. And he's very available. He said so. A few times. I open up the collar and he'll jump right into it. It's not neediness I'm picking up from him, as he's not particularly in need of anything. And he says he's drawn to me because he feels he isn't growing, and senses that I'd bbe able to take him on the proverbial journey of self discovery.

But, I found myself thinking frequently about Boy Wonder, whom I'm doing a scene with tomorrow night. There's a wonderfully submissive man. I'd love to have him as a slave. The scene we did was great for both of us. But here's the tricky thiing there: I have to work, and he clearly doesn't. At all. And if he were my slave, I can only imagine that I'd be pretty well taken care of. If nothing else, I'd have a pretty amazing play space in Lower Manhattan at my disposal. I really like him, but I don't trust my motives. It's like, how do I know I'm not marrying for the money? (If and when I spend the night there, there's this room with an amazing huge bed and a fire place right there. He'd be sleeping on the floor.)

Life is like... way complicated.

Oh. Yesterday at the GMSMA Novices Group, we explored shaving. I didn't want to shave my chest (I'd be laughed out of the Dugout; this is not LA!), so I allowed my ass to be shaved. I always thought that was a really hot look. Welll, this is profoundly uncomfortable. And, if memory serves, it's gonna get worse before it gets better. The recommended salve is to apply aloe vera lotion. Sorry, but I think that having a but slick with hand cream would be like having a slice of salami in my shoe.

One other thing before I hit the sack. I was talking to a buddy of mine from Leather Navigator. He has a boy boyfriend. (Not quite a boy, but their relationship isn't quite a partnership of equals, either.) Anyway, boy/boyfriend is saying he's uncomfortable with my buddy playing outside of their relationship. So they're going into counseling to discuss after the New Year. I advised that they should make sure that the counselor they see understands the difference between sex and scene-play. I mean, the issue isn't that Buddy is having sex outside the relationship.

I got a great idea that I passed on to Buddy: why not collar your boy/boyfriend, and make him your boy? Do so in a public setting. Give him a permanent collar. Tell him (proclaim to all who will attend, in fact) that he is your boy, you own him, you are responsible for him, he alone wears your collar, and you will take care of him. That, I said, could give your boy/boyfriend the sense of security that is threatened by your extra-curricular playing. I recommended that he obtain and read David Stein's book 'Carried Away,' that presents a reality-based love story of the genesis of a Master/slave relationship. After we talked, it occurred to me that part of the bargain might be that Buddy is not ready to own his identity as a Sir. (Master, Daddy, whatever.) It's a lot he's taking on. But, I think that it would definitely be a good thing for their relationship.

Time for bed. 'Night.
After the GMSMA Novices Special Interest Group yesterday (topics covered were shaving and hot wax), I had dinner with Past President. Past President raised an interesting objection to the whipping scene I'm doing on New Years' Eve at the Lure. "I'm not sure that I like the idea of doing a scene as entertainment," he said.

I'm not sure how I feel about doing a scene as entertainment, either. It's a profound and intimate experience, and sort of weird to put it on display. But this hadn't occurred to me, and I had to ask myself why it hadn't. I sort of came to the realization that I hadn't been thinking of it as 'entertainment' in the sense that I'll be sitting at the piano and playing one of Chopin's Mazurkas. I've been thinking of it as sort of live pornography. The genesis of this is probably the fact that the guys who asked that I do it are basically pornographers, albeit in a sort of post-modern way. (They are the creators of the website www.allamericankink.com.)

Pornography is something I have no problem with. Mostly. And, I've always wanted to do pornography, so that pushes my erotic buttons as well. At it's core, porn is of course providing the viewer with titillating images so that he (or she) can get off. But, I think that porn is so much more beyond that. In a way, it's instructional. A lot of gay porn seems to be made for men who for whatever reason are not having a lot of sex with other men, whether because of inexperience or some other liability. And it basically annswers the question: So what do two men do together? It becomes really obvious when you're having sex with someone who repertoire is solely informed by their viewing of porn.

Most of the porn I see doesn't hold my attention, as the focus is on dicks shooting cum. (I have one of those, and it does that, too.) On rare occasions, I'll see S/M porn that's interesting, but only because I see it as a very creative (i.e., 'that never occurred to me!') answer to the question, "What do two men do together?"

I was mulling this last night at the Eagle. On all the video monitors throughout the bar, they were showing "Fallen Angel: Initiation." The prolog was wonderful. Hot guy is driving along in his big rig smoking a cigar. There in the middle of the highway is this blond guy with black-feathered wings on his back. Trucker-guy pulls to a stop in front of him, dismounts, and approaches winged guy. Winged guy gets down on his knees in front of trucker guy, and is treated to a few puffs from trucker guy's cigar. Then, winged guy, now de-winged (it's not explained how this awkward bit of business transpired, sadly) gets into the truck. Briefly, we see a few black feathers on the ground. Then, we're in a sort of warehouse space. A guy is suspended from the ceiling in one of those full-body-suspension-harness things that I've loved since I first saw it in the Mr. S catalog years ago.

I didn't pay enough attention to suspended guy to see if he was trucker guy, but I decided that it would increase my enjoyment of the film to believe that he was.

Anyway, suspended guy is basically immobile. Three other guys start to work him over, putting clamps on his nipples and the like. Two move away, and it's sort of one on one. Then, suspended guy gets off ("the money shot! now he gets paid!"). But then came the really cool thing: suspended guy is let out of the harness, and enjoys a tender moment with the Top that was working him.

I loved that. (After that, it was just muscley guys ploughing each other. Ho-hum.) So, here was what I thought was the narrative: trucker guy is seduced into the world of kinky-homo-sex by the angel guy. He finds himself powerless and blind-folded, at the mercy of tormenting Tops. After he gets off, the tender moment is sort of a welcoming into the fold, and trucker guy assimilates this novel experience. The experience becomes not aberrant, but who he is.

I thought this segment was good porn in that it was hot, but it was also instructional on a number of levels. To the inexperienced novice viewer was delivered the message: 'come on in, the water's fine! you'll have a blast! accept who you are and join your brothers.' But to the viewer with some S/M experience under his belt was the message: this is what it's all about, it's not just getting off, it's what comes afterwards, the connection and the intimacy and the being a Shaman for one another.


And, that's what I hope to be a part of tomorrow night. For one thing, I'll have sort of a captive audience. It's unlikely given that it's New Years Eve that people are going to wander in in the middle or at the end. They'll have paid their $15 and be there for the whole thing. I don't know how the three other Tops are going to work their scenes, but folks watching me will see me basically seducing my bottom into his restraints, and then the prolonged dance of seduction that is a whipping scene. Every stroke could very well be the last. But the Top continues to seduce consent from the bottom, and the bottom continues to honor the Top with his submission. With every stroke, the intensity and tension builds, as when a juggler keeps on adding balls to those that he's keeping in motion: first three, now four, then five... six! seven! now eight! can he keep going? yes! nine!

And then, there's the part that I think must have stunned onlookers when ARt and I did our scene at El Mirage. Imagine coming into a sex club and seeing one man holding another, then noticing that the guy who's being held has a bloody back.

It's instructional. See? Look at the face of the man that just got whipped. Note the look of ecstasy and transport that lights him up like a Christmas tree. Loook how the man who whipped him there with him. There's a look of wonder on his face: what have I done? what's in me and who am I that this brave and strong and wonderful man gave himself over to me?

This is how it can be for two men together.

I'll blog briefly, I hope, as I'm pretty tired and it's late. But a sort of interesting evening.

Y'see, I was supposed to get together with this guy that... um... I'm pretty much in awe of. Let's just say I'm very fond of the ground on which he walks. I remember hanging at the Lure one night when a glance at the porn video that was playing brought a shock of recognition: Hey! I know those guys! Awe Inspirer was one of the guys. But, alas, he declared himself too pooped to play, and asked for a raincheck. He was interested in doing a scene with me. He plays really, really heavy. I don't know that I'm up for all that he is capable of dishing out. But, it would be interesting to see.

So anyway, since I wasn't going to be meeting up with Inspirer, what to do? So I headed to the Eagle. It was an okay crowd. But not for nothing, I counted six white sneakers (!) and one angora sweater (!!!). So a friend of mine who never goes out was there. We hung for a bit. He was talking to a hot wiry redhead. The redhead was an English professor who taught at a Southern university, in town for the Modern Language Association meeting. After my friend left, the Professor and I started in on each other. He seemed really sweet. So, we decided to go back to his hotel. I guess my first clue that something was wrong was when he dispensed enough Astroglide to float a battleship. I really liked his body, and I was having fun with him, biiting his tits hard, and diddling him up the butt (made very easy by gallons of Astroglide.) And then, he fell asleep. Or passed out might be closer to the mark. He was like, "Oh yeah Man! Yeah! That's great! Damn! Oh yeah! Yeah, work that ass. You wanna--." Mid-thought, he was out like a light. I sort of tried to revive him, and briefly wondered if he had perhaps had some GHB and had overdosed (his regular, deep breathing assured me this was not the case). But he was completely unconscious.

I guess he is one of those people who hold their liquor amazingly well. I would never have picked him out as drunk. So what to do? I briefly considered going ahead with my plans and rubbering up and ploughing him. I was able to resist the allure of non-consensual sex. (I've chatted on the internet with guys who fantasize about knocking out a hot guy and having sex with him once he's unconscious. But, the knock-out is usually pre-arranged, and this wasn't.)

So, I sat down on his stomach and fantasized about ploughing him, and shot a sizeable load all over his chest. Then, I got dressed, cleaned up some, and left him my phone number along with my favorite excerpt from "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell:

"Now let us sport us while we may.
And now, like amorous birds of prey
Roll all our sweetness and all our strife
Through the iron gate of life.
For if we cannot make ourr sun
Stand still hen we will make him run."

Being an English professor, he should appreciate that.

Anyway. Off to bed.

Saturday, December 28, 2002

Flypaper Mind

I have a flypaper mind. Things get stuck there, and they're there forever. Therefore, it might be in your best interests to never ever date me. In 1991 (twelve years ago), I met Bob Smith at the Spike. We went back to my roach-invested studio on First Avenue above four--not just one, not two, not even three, but four Indian Restaurants in my building. He was way hot. Have you ever seen pictures of Israeli army on patrol along the border with Lebanon and been reminded of a Colt Model calendar? That's kind of what was swinging off my dick that night. We talked. We hit it off. We dated. (Back then, it was all about me getting a steady Eddie. Thhis was before I had decided that I was much better off asw a single guy. Although me deciding that I was much better off as a single guy precedes me meeting, falling head over heals in love with, and dating Special Guy. No hard and fast rules.)

So here's what I remember about Bob...

*Before he came to the U.S., Bob was a tour guide in Haifa. At that time, there really wasn't much in the way of a gay scene in Haifa. Men would meet in parks to have sex. The code word was 'tea.' As in, "Hello. It's a nice night, isn't it? My apartment is nearby. Why don't we go there and have some 'tea?'

*Bob explained to me why Land For Peace was such an unsettling idea for Israelis. Israel, you see, is largely coastal lowlands, and it's a narrow country. You can drive from East to West in a few hours. The lands that the Palestinians were after constituted a sort of Piedmont region: the mountains. Militarily, it's a lot easier to defend a mountain stronghold than it is a plain. Especially when you're fighting with the sea at your back. Look at the history of Poland and Belgium and Switzerland. So, giving the folks that have pledged themselves to your extermination such a military advantage made Israelis edgey, to say the least.

*Bob worked for a travel agent back then. He answered the phones. He was married for green card purposes.

*Back then, Bob and I shared a sort fascination with what might be called the Leather Community. Neither of us copped to being kinky, but we met at the Spike, we had some experience, etc. Bob once said to me that a friend of his had told him about an upcoming event called the Black Party. He described it as 'many hot leatherey men' and asked if we could 'go' to that party 'on a date.' I explained that tickets to the Black Party were pretty high priced, like $80. He was incredulous: no way! so much?!! Bob considered, and suggested that we spend the evening outside of Roseland watching the hot leathery men going into the party. "What are you saying?" I asked, "You want to set up lawnchairs on the sidewalk or something?"

*I made Bob lambchops with prunes and Armanac, cous cous, and roasted baby lima beans. He was blown away.

*Bob loved my cat Ned. So much so, that he went out and got a cat of his own. Only he got a Russian Blue. People often would think that Ned was a Russian Blue, but he wasn't. He was a Chartreux.

*Bob onced copped to being kinky. Sort of. He told me that he was interested in wild stuff with sex. I asked him what specifically, and he started sort of giggling goofily (No, no, no. I can't tell you those things. Oh no. No no. Hee hee hee...) Despite the fact that I pointed out to him that I was the person that he was having sex with, and that I wouldn't be adverse to doing some of that 'wild stuff with sex,' he wouldn't relent. The 6'2", 205 pound Israeli stud persisted in quietly giggling to himself and wouldn't spill.

*One of the most charming things about Bob was he was forever coming out with this "Americans are soooo crazy!" reaction. "You have really wild hair!" he'd say to the punk rock kids hanging out on St. Mark's Place. Or asking the woman all done up in couture waiting to use the ATM if which famous Hollywood star she was.

*Bob has this beautiful, fat, cut dick. One of the most beautiful penises I've ever seen. I actually would come out as being opposed for foreskins. I remember my high school health teacher telling us what 'smegma' was and deciding then and there that I would have as little to do with it as possible.

*Why did Bob and I stop seeing each other? Because we stopped having sex. He inscrutably opted for this vow of celibacy or something in the middle of our dating. I think it might have been, "Until we know each other better" even though we went at it like llamas in heat the night we met. I wanted it bad. I would sort of strip and lube up my butt and sit there drooling at his pretty penis and he'd just blush and giggle and say, "No no no. We need to wait." I was a man. I had needs. I guess what might have really been going on was that Bob was steeling his nerve to ask me to tie him up, gag him, hood him, and fist him. Those were his needs.

So it all works out well in the end. I'm filled with images of what I'm going to do to that big sweet hot man. He was all ears and had a big goofy grin when I was telling him about the sublime joys of the singletail whip. One fly in the ointment though: Bob mentioned the 'M' word. As in, 'Monogamy.' Remember: No prescriptive relationships! If it happens, it happens. I have more than a few boys and men on my dance card at the moment. I'm not gonna have time to brush my teeth down at MAL, not to mention Inferno next year. We'll need to negotiate that.

Yo. Wait a minute. Is this the blog of the guy that seemed to be on a submission trajectory mere days ago? Well, yeah. But spending the evening of December 25th whipping Boy Wonderful has sort of cleared my head and focused my erotic energies.
* * * * * * *

Important Announcement!

Yo. Dig. You looking for somethiing to do on New Years Eve?
Cool. Oh. Oh, yeah. You never do anything on New Years Eve because NYC is
such bedlam. Maybe this can get you to stir from your hearth...

I'm part of the festivities at the Lure that night. Round about 1 am, I'm going to be doing
a demo with a really wonderful boy. Specifically, I'm going to whip him. If any of the
energy between the two of us sort of emanates about the Lure, then it ought to
be a wee window onto a transcendent reality.

So get over your bad self and come spend the night at the Lure!

* * * * * * * * *
Meet Bob Smith

Now here's a fascinating development. After spending a day tooling around Manhattan and meeting up with Master Ivan (from Leather Navigator) at the Dugout, I ended up at the Lure. The Lure wasn't bad for a Friday night, a fair amount of eye candy. One guy in particular. He was about as tall as me, all leathered up, really interesting facial features. He was talking to some twinkie or other every time I happened to run across him. And then he wasn't. I went up and introduced myself, and we talked for all of thirty seconds when we realized that we had dated ten years ago. He's an Israeli. When we dated, he had been in the U.S. all of a few months. Interestingly, his name--not his anglicized name but his actual name--does not sound Israeli. He's not a Chaim or a Itzak or a Dovid. He has this really middle-american sounding name. We'll call him, 'Bob Smith.' Bob and I compared notes on what we've been up to in the intervening decaded. Me: series of boyfriends, got into S/M, joined GMSMA, found my calling in singletail whips, registered as a Republican, worked in politics, then ran a non-profit, now back in politics, moved to Jersey City. Him: developed a crystal meth problem, got into kinky sex, stopped using crystal and got clean, got laid off in April, currently awaiting going to school to become an massage therapist, moved to Brooklyn. Then, we established that we were hot for each other. I mean, he's porn star hot. And, he's a bottom. A bottom into kinky sex. We couldn't make it happen tonight, because I had to walk my dog, and he had to feed his cats. but we wexchanged numbers, and we're both sort of intent on fiinding a time and day to get together. Soon.

This could really be cool. How cool? How about dese apples. While Bob and I were talking, who should walk in but Schlitz. Schlitz and I basically exchanged pleasantries, and then I went back to talking to Bob.

This could be an interesting start to 2003.

Thursday, December 26, 2002

The morning after a whipping scene, I feel like some paleolithic guy who just discovered he could make fire. It's difficult to put a stopper on my ego. I want to fill up a blog entry with the likes of, "Look what I did! Damn, I'm good!" But, in a fundamental way, it's not about me. I have a policy of sorts about not dating actors or musicians. The actor thing is obvious, I hope. (Once I went home with a guy I cruised at the gym who turned out to be an actor. He made me a post-coital cup of coffee and asked how I wanted it. When I said 'black,' he replied, "Mmm. Balzac died from drinking black coffee." "Oh I'm so sorry," I said, "Were you very close?") But why the beef with musicians? It's like this. Most of the musically gifted that I've met are just so impressed with themselves, and get all fidgety when the attention in the room drifts away from them. Say, towards discussion of the coming war in Iraq or whtever. But often, they're sort of middle-of-the-road people, not particularly well-read or well-rounded as they spent all that time practicing. But, the experience of bringing a room full of strangers to heights of ecstasy leaves an impression on them. They think they did that. In a way they did, but in a way, they didn't. The music was Haydn's. The piano was a Steinway. The musician is just a sort of window through which we glimpse the Sublime. It helps if the window is more or less perfectly transparent, but that transparency leads the musician/window to think that it's all about them. Like Chantacleer thinking that he was the reason that the sun rose. (Musician-readers won't catch that allusion because they were practicing instead of reading Chaucer.)

So to with me. The bullwhip-signal whip hybrid I was using was made my Joe Wheeler, a master craftsman. It is a wonderful instrument, capable of turning a mediocre whipsman such as myself into a near virtuoso. My technique--at this point in my career--is wholly derivative. I've observed and studied every master and stolen... uh... appropriated liberally from them. I am but a vehicle. It's not about me.

But let's be clear... It was fucking fantastic! You should have seen that boys face! (And, if you happen by the Lure on New Years Eve, you might get your chance.)

Anyway. Gotta go move my car before I get a ticket.

Oh yes, Virginia. There is a Santa Claus. And he got my letter.

On Christmas Eve, I drove down to Bucks County to visit my parents for the holiday. I stayed through this afternoon. It was wonderful to have the snow, although that made getting back a wee bit long. (Three hours to make a drive that usually takes me one hour.) The time with my parents was... well... y'know... time with my parents. My Dad encouraged me to stay over tonight because of the snowstorm, but I was determined to get back to the city. You see, I had a man to whip.

On New Years' Eve, I've been asked to do a whipping as part of the festivities at the Lure. When my comrades at All American Kink asked if I'd be interested and available, I said, "Sure, love to!" But, I cautioned that I didn't know that I could scare up a bottom on such short notice. On New Years Eve. Sort of a tall order, no? But, All American Kink was happy to help, and soon I got email from a potential bottom. I suggested that we meet up, check each other out, and if the energy was good, do a scene, so we'd have a feel for each other before next Wednesday. And tonight was the night.

So, I got home, changed, showered, practiced a little, and headed under the river to Manhattan.

This was all pretty amazing. The bottom is a wonderful guy. He's just winningly submissive, given to saying things like, "The hair on my head is your for the taking, Sir." And, I was pretty astonished by the digs. He is also apparently wealthy beyond belief. His penthouse features a rooftop hot tub, an incredible view of the Empire State Building, and two incredible play spaces. He's also sort of a genius engineer. The place was completely wired. Wired like I've never seen. I would hate to be paying his electric bill. I opted for the larger of the two spaces. While he selected some music, I laid out my gear. He came downstairs wearing a wrestling singlet ("I don't have any real clothes at this point.") with the top part bunched up around his waist. He knelt down before me, and I put on the wrist restraints. Then I secured him between two posts in the dungeon.

I started with my standard flogger, and moved up to a heavier flogger. His back reddened beautifully. I planned to use my ever-popular braided cat to step up to the whips, but he didn't like the cat, so I moved directly to the whip. He just responded beautifully. Since we'll be playing a week from tonight, I didn't want to open up his back, so I held back to just giving him some welts. He was great. He went right into orbit from the endorphins and stayed there. I concluded wiith a final five count. After the final stroke, I came in close and enfolded him in my arms. "You are a warrior," I told him. "You are strong, and brave, and beautiful. Warrior strenght, warrior bravery, warrior beauty."

Then, I spritzed down his back with hydrogen peroxide and witch hazel (while he moaned softly). I released him from his bonds, ordered him to turn and face me, and then we both lowered ourselves down to the floor. I held him, caressing him gently, while he sobbed, giggled, and told me I was perfect. I drifted in and out of sleep a few times, curled around him.

It was just sublime. He was beautiful. And strong and brave. I felt like a god, being able to do that to him, take him on what I now know is such an amazing trip.

Only one throw was off: once my whip wrapped around his shoulder. I pointed it out to him while we were on the floor together and apolgized.

I don't know what else I could have gotten for Christmas that could have made me happier.

Tuesday, December 24, 2002

Huh. Something goofy is happening with my blog. Two entries elide into one, and one has disappeared altogether. In the one that disappears I wish you all a Merry Christmas. (Even if you're not of the Christian persuasion, just do what you can to make merry tomorrow, huh?)

And, I give a website of the guy I want to be when I grow up. Here it is: www.hard-master.com. (I tried to do the whole imbedded link thing, but it just isn't working for me. Alas. But I've got a book on html. And I'll read that book.



Today, I wrote. Let me be clear. I've had in mind for months this essay I wanted to do concerning whipping. It took shape in my mind slowly. Elements would occur to me while I was in the shower or sitting in the Factory Cafe having a latte. I did a rough outline probably three or four times. With my time off over the holidays, I thought, "Ooh. You can write that essay now." And I got out of bed this morning, and I did. For several solid hours, I sat and I wrote. And wrote and wrote. (Pith and brevity are wholly foreign to me, but that must be obvious to even the most casual reader of my blog.) And it's done. Finis. I emailed it off to ARt, who figures prominently, for vetting, and to Past President, who has written some wonderful things in a similar vein, to see if there are any edits he can suggest.

Can I say I love the experience of writing? When it all comes together like that--ideas that have been percolating for weeks and months all come together, and reading over what you've written has an element of surprise ("Gosh! Did I write that?)--it's just wonderful. I always envied my Ex, who was an artist. His vocation involved periodically sealing himself away in his studio, and just letting his subconscious run rampant in the materials at hand, namely large format photographs of architectural elements, fragments of the human body, vegetation, and the like. When I was but a lad, I wrote poetry. It was sort of the same thing. Riding the bus, a poem would come. And that's truly the apt verb. It would come. The words would come out of nowhere. Each one was like a piece of hard candy, a rootbeer barrel, that you'd roll around on your tongue for a while. But not quite like a root beer barrel, because each one would suggest another. They'd all sort of come out of the abyss, holding hands, each one pulling the next out of the well of the subconscious. (If I were writing seriously now, I'd be pruning these metaphors, believe me. But I'm not.)

And now, I've sent my piece--my child as Anne Hutchinson described it in her poem--out into the world. What I'm hoping for, of course, is recognition and accolade. "Yo. Dude. That's really good." There's a thrill that goes with publishing. And it's not just the a swig of the heady brew of seeing what you've written in print. It's also the knowledge that people somewhere, many of whom you haven't met, are now reading it over. It feels risky and dangerous. Like having sex in a truck stop men's room. You could get hurt. ("I had no idea what you were saying." "I started it, but I didn't finish it. But I will. Promise.") Or you could get caught. As in, like telling your dreams, you could be giving someone--a complete stranger in this case--knowledge about you that you yourself don't share.

But I love to do it. I really do. I think that writing is what I really want to do when I grow up. You know the big reason why I keep this blog? Because of all of these pleasures, to be sure, but beyond that, because it's my secret hope that someone will read this and send me email that begins, "I run a small press publishing company, and I've really liked some of the things I've been reading. I was wondering if you would be interested in..." I bet for you reading this, it must feel like your trick that you've spent such a great night with has revealed himself to be a hustler and is now discussing his fee. But here's the thing. It would be such the great gig to get paid for writing. Did you know Andrew Sullivan just did a pledge drive to support his blog and made just shy of $80,000? My hopes are much more modest.

Now, the sin of the writer is Pride. You never know how good you are, or how bad you are. I've read some really crappy stuff in my day written by people who thought they were on their ways to being Leo Tolstoy. (Not if you can't figure out when to use 'that' and when to use 'which,' Bub.) I like to think I'm aware of my limitations and shortcomings, and that I work to correct them. And, "People Who Know" have said good things about my writing. At my church they have this sort of parish newsletter. Letter from the Rector, The Parish Social Life Committee Plans an Exciting Advent, Meet The New Members of the Choir... that sort of thing. So the editor, who was an actual editor, as in one who keeps a roof over her head and food on the table by editing, once asked me to do an article for the newsletter. I did. She loved it. More assignments followed. I interviewed the new Director of Grounds and Facilities. I did a book review and interview with the author. I started calling myself 'Scoop.' And a decade ago, I met a guy who was an editor of this East Village Anarchist Newsletter called 'The Shadow.' He asked me to do an article on AIDS activism. I did. It was not brief. It took up the entire issue. More articles followed. If you do google search on my name, I show up (ya gotta page down) under 'Shadow Staff, Writers.' I love that. The shadow was a newspaper. I was a writer for that newspaper.

So maybe that will be my new years resolution: become a writer. Or rather, write and get paid for it. Just once.

* * * * * * * * *

Oh. By the way. This amazing man is who I want to be when I grow up: http://www.hard-master.com. Also. And be a writer. Be him, and be a writer, too. Be him writing. But mostly be him. Only he's a writer.

Word. Merry Christmas. Yo.

Monday, December 23, 2002

Here I am at work. Alone. Spoke to my boss a few times, and he seems to be over whatever prompted the shouting match on Friday. Just about finished the project that I'm working on, and then I just have to send out a press release and I can begin my vacation in earnest. Meeting with a boy tonight for coffee to talk about the wonderful world of whipping, and perhaps, giving him some first hand experience. Then, it's back to Bucks County tomorrow, and coming back into the City on the evening of the 25th. Or the afternoon. Like, whenever I can get away.

(Yo! No whining!)

I went to the Lure this past Saturday night. When I got there, around 1 am, it was hopping. And the energy was great. I ran into A. and A. (...Double A... let's just call them The Batteries). They were talking to a couple of fierce looking men decked out in leather. At one point, I suddenly felt very much like a fifth wheel, and as I was trying to figure out if this was 'real' or if it was 'just me,' it dawned on me: The Batteries were going to do a foursome with the Decked Out Couple. Now that kinda makes sense. When I was with Special Guy, whenever we would run into The Batteries, they would be suggesting that all four of us get together. I thought they wanted to go to the beach or something untill Special Guy clarified that they wanted to do a four-way. Since Special Guy dumped me--and now that I'm keenly interested in a threesome--I sense that The Batteries are less interested. I guess that that's how they play: with other couples, rather than with a third. And that kind of makes sense. A. is a fisting bottom, and A. is a fisting Top. So if the third were a bottom, although A. would have a good time, A. would sort of be left with watching and replenishing the Crisco. Now it all makes sense. So, I just need to find a partner in crime who's a fisting bottom and I'm good to go with The Batteries. Cool.

Saturday, December 21, 2002

Okay. I'll fess up. I've been holding out on you. Something big is brewing. It's been brewing for a while, and for whatever reason I've been reluctant to take it here. I don't know that I could begin to set forth all the streams of thought that lead in this direction--because believe you me, they were varied--but here's the skinny: I've decided that I want to be collared. Be owned, possessed, have a Master. Some readers may remember the Interlude of Servitude segment in the archives of Singletails, and it might not come as too much of a shock. Here's an interesting thing, though. I don't see this as a major departure for who I am. And, who I am is a Top. And, this is pretty much reality-based, outlandish as it may seem to the uninitiated. I'm thinking of a year at minimum. The genesis of this was an offhand remark that Does Mean Well made to me when we were lying in bed talking. I forget the subject. Possibly I was asking him about what it was like to own a slave, as that was something I was interested in as well. He said, "I think at some point you need to deal with your deep down desire to submit on a longterm basis." And then he went on to say something else. Now, keep in mind that I have never mentioned to Does Mean Well that I had a deep down desire to submit on a longterm basis. In fact, it would be unlikely that I would say such a thing, as I wasn't aware that I had a desire to submit on a longterm basis. Well, outside of erotic fantasies, but I have erotic fantasies about a lot of loopy things.

Here's what I'm thinking of as far as "Terms and Conditions."

I have a dog. He comes with me. He’s fifty pounds, house trained, and he
never barks.

I smoke. I’m not saying I’ll never quit, but I’ve tried and it’s really hard.
I would really advise you not to be thinking that you’ll ‘help’ me quit or
‘make’ me quit. Thus are sewn the seeds of destruction.

Remember how Superman had the Fortress of Solitude? Well so do I. It’s in
Fort Lauderdale. It’s a condo. I’m going to want to go there on a fairly
regular basis to recharge my batteries. Like a long weekend every two months,
and maybe a week solid in the winter time.

I have parents in Southeastern Pennsylvania. I see them about every six weeks
or so. My mother’s health is not good, and I’ll probably need to spend some
time with them when she passes.

I’m a Top. I like to fuck and fist and piss on and punch and dominate and
flog and—especially—to whip. This is not saying that you are a bottom. (In
fact, I would prefer that our relationship be all about me submitting to you,
although I have no problem if you submit to others.) But, I want to continue
to play and improve my skills as a Top. This can be in the capacity of
assisting you, or solo. And, I want to go to Inferno in September to play.

Here’s what my debts and obligations look like:

Car payment: $575
(I’m 14 months into a 48 month term. Long story.)
Car Insurance $216
Student Loan $87.40
Mortgage $370
Maintenance $112

And, I have about $7,000 in credit card debt. I’m getting a home equity line
of credit to consolidate some of my debts (car payment, maintenance on the
condo) and to cover any extraordinary expenses.

Health-wise, I’m in good shape. I’m HIV negative. However, I have vasculitis
(causing bruise-like purple blotches on my shins and ankles) and I’m
hypo-thyroidal. The vasculitis is totally benign. The hypo-thyroidism means
I have to take a pill every day.

That about covers my liabilities. Here are my assets. (Or at least the
things that I would consider to be assets if I were looking for a slave.)

I’m pretty well built. But here’s the thing: Time and again over the past
decade that I’ve been going to the gym, I work like hell and manage to bulk up
to 188. I can never break that threshold. Interested in working with me to
really develop my body and be your trophy-slave? You’ll find a high level of
commitment to this goal from me.

Not only would I have no problem being your slave in public, I think it’s
really hot, and I look forward to being collared and leashed down on the floor
by your boots.

As I came to understand recently, a skilled and empathetic Top can take me
just about anywhere he wants to take me. That’s not to say that I’m a pig,
because I’m not. It takes work and patience, but I’m open to just about
anything. In fact, what I’m really seeking is increasingly deeper levels of
submission, like easing into a bathtub. Why? Because on those rare occasions
when I’ve been able to really submit, it’s made me a better Top, and a better

I’m a pretty upbeat guy. I’m not subject to depression. I don’t use drugs
beyond alcohol, nicotine and caffeine. I’m flexible, resilient, good in a
crisis, and wit and insight tend to be important elements of every
conversation I have. I don’t like to be mean to people, and give people the
benefit of the doubt. I generally like to think well of the motives and
actions of others, and when it becomes clear that their motives or actions are
venal, I assume that if I knew the whole story I’d be forgiving. I am just
about incapable of holding a grudge.

I’m a really good cook, and I love to cook. I especially love to cook for
other people. And, I can hang drywall, plant trees, iron shirts, install a
dimmer switch, defrag a PC, unclog a toilet, grout tile, paint interior and
exterior, analyze a poem, change the oil, write a grant proposal, paddle a
canoe, pick up a foreign language well enough to communicate with the natives
when traveling, and dance.

I like to play softball, ride horses, hike, camp, drive long distances, throw
whips, hang out in bars, work out, swim, converse, read, eat, and learn new

Now, the challenge before me is finding a Master willing to take me on. I know they're out there. I've met more than a few. Hopefully, I'll be able to get beyond 'approach-avoidance' games. And, when the opportunity does present itself, I hope I'll be able to just take that Leap of Faith.

So we'll see.

This just in from Pennsylvania... Me! Just got back. It was okay. Not the family part. That was grueling. A storm of anxiety and insecurity. I thought that I had pullled off a major coup with my present to my parents: I goot them Ken Burns' History of Baseball on VHS. They liked it a lot, and it's right up both their alleys. But their VCR is on the fritz, so we got back from my brothers, popped in the tape, and got static. Before I head back down there Christmas Eve (What was I thinking???!! Why did I say I'd come back down for Christmas???!!) I'm going to buy them a new VHS. My stepmother asked about my dog about thirty times, and only asked about my Ex eleven times, so I guess I got off easy. My favorite family moment was when they were gushing about my step-nephews' new baby, that he had brough by this morning. "Aren't babies wonderful? Don't you love babies, Drew?" To which I replied, "Absolutely! I love babies. But I doubt I could eat a whole one." There was silence for about a minute after that.

But, what made the trip so wonderful was I always forget, and every time I go home I remember, just how much I love Pennsylvania in the winter. The moon was full and glowing in the sky; Orion was riding high; the air was cold, but for no good reason that I can determine, you don't mind it; there was frost on the fields glistening in the moonlight; the palate of colors in the winter is like a Turner canvas; the stars were so many there, they seemed to overlap; the moonlight dancing on the Delaware River made me want to weep. Y'know that exhilirating feeling you're supposed to get walking through New York, that "Gosh-here-I-am-in-the-greatest-city-in-the-world-and-if-I-can-make-it-here-I-can-make-it-anywhere-and-I-feel-the-very-heartbeat-of-this-great-Metropolis feeling? Well, I haven't felt that in years. But walking from my parents back door to my jeep parked in the driveway and I want to dance and burst into song and my eyes tear. Just like when I'm in the desert; just like when I'm wading in a stream in Multnomah Gorge; just like when I'm paddling a canoe through the Okeefenokee Swamp; just like when I'm on the beach; just like when I'm swimming in a swimming hole; just like when I'm walking with my dog along the edge of a cornfield; just like when I smell the inside of a barn; just like when I find a barbeque on some dusty back road; just like when I'm sitting at Dilly's in Centre Bridge having a hotdog and a coffee milkshake.

"Greeeeeen acres is the place to be!" Let me put on my muu-muu and climb a phone pole.

Friday, December 20, 2002

What a day. Things were going so well, and then the Boss had this sort of psychotic episode. We were chatting, and everything was groovey, and then it was like he turned on a dime, and before I know it, total dry drunk rage. I couldn't quite believe it. Followed by the office holiday party (which I was truly not in the mood for), folllowed by last minute Christmas shopping (bottle of Drambuie for my Dad and a box of Clementines for my probably-soon-deceased stepmother. And now, I'm chilling a little bit, and then I think I'm just gonna pack up the car and head to Pennsylvania. Driving is a great way to unwind. And, although everybody else in the office will be on vacation on Monday, there I'll be, making sure our newsletter gets out.

I know. I'm whining. And I said I wouldn't do that any more. Perdonna me.

Monday will be one day out of twelve. That's almost two solid weeks. It will be great to see my parents. I'll be able to get back to the gym and really spend some quality time there. Maybe I'll even get laid! Everything will be just fine.
Blogs I love. And so should you!

The other day, I mentioned blogging to my boss, and that drew a blank look. I explained briefly (omitting mention of my own humble blog) what a blog is and how the whole phenomenon has sort of taken off. I'm going to email him with a list of blogs that I love, and tend to check in with everyday. My html ignorance prevents me from having a list of blogs on the template for my page, but if I did, they would surely include the following...

As I've said over and over again, Girls Are Pretty is blindingly brilliant. Everyday, some incredible new Dada excursion.
Reading this blog informed so many of my ideas about what I wanted to do with mine. Smart, honest, and incredibly well written. And he's adorable.
A Texas boy documenting the goings on of the chic nightlife set in Gotham? Impossible, you say? Nah, he has a blog. And it's always worth reading.
Three Women Three. I have no idea what the connection is, as one is in Albany, one is in NYC, and one is in Maryland, but they're all sharp, ironic, dry, and hilarious on their blog. The street fair run amok was priceless. Love this blog.
He's sweet, and he knows how to work on cars, and I like his blog so much. So much. Breezy and poignant in turns, and always a good read.
I like this blog for the name alone. Sometimes, I have no idea whatsoever just what he's talking about. And sometimes, he's talking about me I swear.
Oh yeah. She totally rocks. This is something of an Ur-blog, I understand. I'm in awe of her technical proficiency, and her content deserves a Pulitzer.
I am so ready to quit my job, put all my stuff in storage, and start stalking this guy. Criminy. He rocks. He totally rocks. When his blog is good, which is often, it's luminous. And I kinda hate that, because I sort of want to hang it up as my efforts and abilities just pale in comparison. He's awesome. It kind of tortures me that he never mentions having a boyfriend.
And, for political insights, I rely (just like everybody else in the world) on Glenn Reynolds. And I also check in with Andrew Sullivan. FYI: Sullivan just did a fundraising drive of a weeks duration to subsidize his blog and raked in $80k. How about them apples.

In response to my recent blog about the stress and strain of living in NYC, Past President sent me email reminding me that there are many New Yorkers who live placid, quiet lives, and that the pace and pressure and lack of free time I experience are the result of choices I have made. Soooo true. In other words, 'Quit whining!" So that's my new mantra: Quit whining! I was lamenting last night how I love Christmas, it's one of my favorite times of the year, but this year I'm being such the Scrooge. I interupted myself and said outloud, "Stop whining!" No more whining. Whining is never okay. Ever.

Wednesday, December 18, 2002

Thinkin' 'bout the war

As someone who supports war with Iraq (whether or not evidence of weapons of mass destruction are found by the investigators; my goal is regime change), I have had more than a few conversations (and some heated arguments) with folks who disagree. It dawned on me that while I put forth what I hope are reasoned arguments (Saddam Hussein is a credible threat; his belligerence is destabilizing to the entire region; putting in place a democratic, free-market government would do doubt spur other progressive developments in the Moslem world; the Blair government in the UK has established to my satisfaction the links between Saddam and Al Quaeda; given the diminished capacity of the Iraqi military, the war should be brief), and I take into account what I consdier to be credible counter-arguments (the US should have taken Saddam out the last time; unilateralism is bad foreign policy; tens of thousands of Iraqis have already died; it's all about Bush getting re-elected; and--this I hear no one talking about--Baghdad is one of the most important archeological sites in the world), what I hear back are basically personal statements about how people feel about going to war. (That was a long sentence, sorry.) Things like, "I'm opposed to war."

Well, I'm opposed to war, too. I'm also opposed to people getting stabbed with knives, unless it's a surgeon who is wielding the knife in order to save, prolong, or better the life of the person getting stabbed. Often, blood must be spilled and lives lost because ultimately, the benefits outweigh the risks. And, ushering Saddam Hussein off the world stage would be good for the U.S., good for the Iraqi people, and good for the Middle East and the world.

During the Viet Nam war, opponents of the war put forth not emotional appeals, (well, they put out a lot of emotional appeals), but also lots of credible arguments about why the war was wrong for America and didn't serve our foreign policy interests. Over time, their arguments undermined the rationale for the war in the popular mind, and that brought about our pulling out of the war.

So, "I'm for peace, not war!" does a disservice to your cause, O Dovish Ones.

Oh, and corollary to that, assertions about the venality of the U.S. government, or Republicans, or the Bush administration, or George Bush, or whoever, are separate and apart from the question of whether or not we should take up arms against Saddam Hussein.


Tuesday, December 17, 2002

I really really really really want to get out of New York. My farflung readers are encouraged to disabuse me if I'm wrong about this, but the pace of life here in Gotham is just frenzied. After work today, I was just in a fog. All I could think about was, "Nothing planned tonight. Must go home. Must do work for GMSMA Board Meeting tomorrow." When I got off the PATH train, there was a message from my therapist. We had a session tonight. I plum forgot.

I remember when I lived in Philadelphia, and before that in Reading, Pennsylvania, the challenge was finding interesting things to do. Failure meant a night at home, where after making myself dinner, I'd sit around reading or watching television or whatever. Failure was not infrequent.

What I wouldn't give for one of those 'Failure evenings' now. And, I remember how once a week I'd be sitting in a laundramat watching my clothes spin around in the dryer, reading a book. Unimaginable. Anyway. GMSMA work beckons.

Today, the New York State Senate passed the Sexual Orientation Non-Discrimination Act (SONDA) by a vote of 34-26. The bill has been introduced for the past 32 years, and has been repeatedly passed by the State Assembly. This year, for the first time, it was allowed to come to a vote in the State Senate. Unfortunately, the amendment to include protections for people of transgendered experience garnered only nineteen votes, not enough to pass. But, it was certainly cause for celebration, and celebrate we did.

Well, let me be clear. It was cause for celebration in that it was a political battle fought and won, but I actually am of the opinion that in most cases, civil rights legislation does more harm than good. Employers in particular are much less likely to hire someone who is in a protected class, as firing that person is much more difficult. If there's anything short of theft or gross insubordination, they'll probably be forced to keep the do-nothing clockwatcher around because if they terminate the employee, they're just opening themselves up to litigation. And, they'd rather not do that, so they just avoid hiring members of a legally protected class in the first place if at all possible. And, maybe just because I live in New York City (well, Northern New Jersey), but I frankly have no worries at all about discrimination in housing, employment, or public accommodation because I'm a homo. However, the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom reports that last year they assisted 73 people who were prosecuted or almost prosecuted for practicing consenual alternative sex practices; 461 parents who had their custody challenged or taken away because of their alternative sex practices; and 392 people who wer fired, demoted, or lost promotions because of their alternative sex practices. That's pretty much where I feel vulnerable. In Massachusetts, a S/M house party was raided by local police, and a wooden spoon was indicated as a 'weapon' used in an assaultive battery, even though the 'victim' of the battery was among those arrested, and even though the victim explained to police and anyone else who would listen that it was perfectly fine with him that the wooden spoon was being used on his balls. So, y'know. In fact, although the provisons of New York law that outlawed homosexual sex went out the door in 1973, 'deviate sex' is still a Class B Misdemeanor.

Anyway, I'm sure not gonna let any of this stop me from having some fun.

The 50 most loathsome people in the country can be found here. Did you make the list? Gosh, you did! Hey, wait a minute... so did I...

Sunday, December 15, 2002


Last night, I went to dinner with Past President, and afterwards, we stopped in to Ty's, then headed to the Lure. We seemed to have been part of a general migration from Ty's to the Lure, as there were several faces that were familiar when we arrived at the latter. Among them was this sort of mean looking little guy. Not Bruiser, but close. We started talking, and despite the fact that he was full of non sequitors, we hit it off. He mentioned at one point (not to me, with whom he was a little more cagey) but to another guy he was talking to, that he had been a slave to a guy in Boise, Idaho, for several years. That got my attention. I managed to talk him intoo taking a trip with me back across the river. I said, "we don't even have to have sex, but I just want to spend some more time with you." Although that was the truth, we were pretty hot for each other. Things that got me even hotter: he retrieved my coat from the coat check at the Lure, and assisted me in putting it on; when we walked to my car, he kept two paces behind me; at my apartment, he took my coat, and hung it up in the closet. The little things mean a lot.

And then, kerrr-POW! What a hot time in the sack. It was incredibly satisfying. Definitely deserves a repeat. Or two. Or ten.

I got into NYC (with him in tow) just with enough time to grab a muffin before heading to the GMSMA Novices SIG. (This week: mummification.) After the SIG, by prearrangement, I met up with a muscular blond bottom who's interested in having me whip him. I am certainly going to do my utmost to make sure that happens.

Then, after I grabbed some dinner, I stopped off for a final O'Doul's of the weekend at Ty's, and there made the acquaintance of this very hot man I've had my eye on for at least the past six months. And, he owned up to being into watersports, although just now crossing the threshold there. I gave him my card, and said I'd like to get together with him.

Trifecta! A good weekend overall, despite the slow start I got on Sunday night.

Saturday, December 14, 2002

The Hanky Code

I think the Hanky Code is the most brilliant invention of the 20th Century. (Interestingly, I've heard that Albert Einstein felt that the most brilliant invention of the 20th Century was compound interest.) Beyond having dress codes for leather bars, there ought to be mandatory handkerchiefs worn by patrons. I wouldn't at all mind bellying up to the bar next to someone in flipflops and a puce v-neck marino wool sweater if his back pocket announced that he was into fisting. I'm not an expert, and there are plenty of places on the internet that offer a complete and detailed roster, and I remember reading one of Lolita's columns (www.leatherpage.com) where she made a pitch for an addition for Mommie Play hankies. The roster is growing all the time.

Here are the basics, off the top of my head:

Color - - - Left Pocket - - - Right Pocket
Black - - - S/M Top - - - S/M bottom
Navy Blue - - - Likes to fuck - - - Likes to get fucked
Yellow - - - Pisser - - - Pissed Upon
Red - - - Fister - - - Fistee
Hunter Green - - Daddy - - - Boy
Gray - - - Bondage Top - - - Bondage bottom
Brown - - - Shitter - - - Shat upon
Orange - - - Up for anything - - Nothing right now
Robins Egg Blue - - 69 - - - 69
White Wants a blow job - - - Wants to give a blow job

And so on. Some of them seem sort of unnecessary. I mean, who doesn't want a blow job? And never in my experience have I run across anyone flagging Orange Right. And more than a few bondage Tops I know simply have a coil of rope in their left pocket. Sadly, there's no hanky code for either whipping or for flogging. I guess wearing a flogger or a whip works alright, although there really exists no good way to secure a whip or a flogger to your belt. Believe me on that, as I've spent a night crawling around on the floor of the Dugout to retrieve a signal whip. But is it fair that tit torture gets its own color (fuscia I believe, although you'd have to special order a fuscia bandana, I bet) but flogging doesn't? Oh, and wearing a hanky tucked into the back of your pants dead center means that you're versatile. Or looking for a game of pick-up flag football. And of course, given the dim lighting in bars, it sometimes requires flying off after someone in hot pursuit in the hopes that their meanderings will take them under a spot light. And black is something I've only seen worn on the left. And I guess for good reason: "S/M" covers a lot of territory, from flogging to electro play to dog training to (I guess) sissy maid. Although the Top who's flagging left probably has a good idea what he wants to convey, most bottoms probably would not want to open themselves up to spending the next twenty-four hours in heels and a bustier serving Cosmos to some Top, unless that was exactly what they were after.

So the hanky code is not without its flaws. But it's so damn hot. I used to see a couple at the super market when I lived in the West Villlage. One would be wearing gray right, and the other one gray left. Or some other color, depending, I liked to imagine, on what they had gotten up to the night before. I still occasionally jerk off thinking about a personable couple I chatted up last year at Santa Saturday in New Hope. One guy, older, well built, shaved head; the other guy, in his twenties, slim and muscular, looking great in his cowboy hat. At one point, they turned around, and I saw that Shaved Head was flagging red left and that Cowboy Hat was flagging red right. I might as well have been watching them go at it in a sling. Total turn on. Whatever the case, I just think that there's something so hot about wearing your sexual predilections on your butt for alll the world to see. "Hello, World! I'm a piss pig!" Too, it's such a great device for an opener. "Like what you're flagging tonight" and you're on your way. And, absent any cue about what my fellow leatherbar patron is looking for, I basically look him over, and decide whether he's physically appealing to me, and what's more, whether he's so physically appealing that I just have to go over, chat him up, make small talk, and finally get around to asking him, "So what do you like?", and risk hearing, "Sissy maid scenes, Sir!" A man flagging yellow right is always going to get my attention, and probably the next time I have to piss, he's going to have a nice warm beer bottle pressed into his hands when I emerge from the restroom. (Especially in this holiday season, I look for opportunities to spread a little joy.)

Of course, wallet chains, arm bands, and keys are also Top/bottom indicators. I usually have my heavy duty wallet chain on the left (which is inconvenient, as I'm right handed, and I had to switch that when I decided to incorporate that into flagging). Lately, I've been keeping my keys on the right, since I'm going through this 'exploring my submissive urges thing,' I want to indicate that you've got a chance of taking me down.
And today, I want to get laid.

Wrong Wrong Wrong

Interesting night at the Lure last night. Lots of folks there that I know, but didn't have a lot of time for chit chat as I met up with a hot man in leather. We spent a while getting each other all hot and bothered, but then came the chill: he lives in Yonkers, I live in Jersey City. I hate when that happens. Got my boots serviced by a freaky boy who was drunk off his ass. And then I met Them. I had met Them briefly at Walt's 50th Birthday celebration, but I didn't think much of it. Half of Them is a bartender. He's a really big guy with long hair. The other half is equally grand. We are talking aspects and physiques that would make a Colt model feel inadequate. To be sure, I've seen them around. And hated their guts. I assumed that they'd be assholes: snide, just waiting to make me feel less than they were, scanning the room over my right shoulder for someone they'd rather be talking to, a motherlode of attitude and self-regard.

Uh-uh. Really nice guys. Friendly, out-going, askers of questions, complimentary. I guess it was junior high school residue. Those feelings of inadequacy were coming from me, not them. Now, it's not like I'd have a chance of hooking up with either one of Them. They're probably the bedmates of porn stars the world over. (They mentioned that Al Parker's real name was Drew Oken, and that the first time he had man-sex was with a Hell's Angel in the back of a hearse at Woodstock, probably something they heard from Al/Drew himself.) But, I don't know that I'd be so inclined as they're not what I'm after. So that's a draw.

But I should have known better. They're leathermen, and kinky people in general are the best you'll find anywhere.


Friday, December 13, 2002

Congratulations to Walt Weis, Mr. Lure 2002, on both attaining his 50th Birthday and a wonderful benefit for the fledgling organization he and his partner Robert Napolitano are spearheading. Walt apparently took the obligations of being a leather title holder (vaguely, 'doing something good for the community') very seriously. He and Robert started Teens Prepared for Life, which basically offers self-defense classes to LGBTQ teens. I think this is great. Support groups and the like seem to me to be really unsuited to narcissistic teen agers, but self-defense instruction is both empowering (hate that word, but it fits) and instills some good values. The room was packed. I don't doubt that thousands were raised for a worthy cause, and... I met a guy. A feisty little bruiser. Not sure if he's one who imparts bruises or one who is wearing the bruises the next morning, but I like his energy a lot. I definitely want to get with that man. Tragically, he lives in Queens, which makes for a tricky commute from BDJC (Beautiful Downtown Jersey City). I've seen him a lot at Ty's, so I'm pretty certain our paths will cross again. The whole time we were talking, or standing next to each other, or catching each other's eyes from across the room, I was hard as a rock. So, Dear Readers, I'm hoping I'll have more to tell you about Bruiser. Also saw Lolita there, and bunches of other NYC leather luminaries. Definitely an Eagle crowd (wearers of leather) as opposed to a Lure crowd (experienced players who wear leather), but it was a good crowd overall.

There were drag queens. As in, dressing up like Barbra Streisand and lip-syncing to recordings of Barbra singing. Now, I wouldn't say I was a fixture in the East Village drag scene of the late Eighties and early Nineties, but it certainly had an impact. That was biting, satirical, wild, and hilarious. Watching a Barbra simulacrum, I sort of feel like I'm spying on someone dancing around their apartment with the stereo cranked up singing into a feather duster. I don't quite get it. "Being held hostage to his dreams" is a nice turn of phrase that comes to mind. Not that I'm against it or anything, but once you've heard Varla Jean Merman belt out one in her own voice, or heard the petit mal seizures that pass for badinage between Lady Bunny and Mona Foot, it seems sort of lame.

Anyway, I'm off to the Lure. Or maybe the Eagle. Or who knows where. Hopefully, I haven't seen the last of Bruiser for the night.


Thursday, December 12, 2002


I don't want to be alone tonight. But I am. That was almost not the case. When I was walking up Newark Avenue from the PATH train I spotted a big man with a shaved head and a thick goatee ahead of me. Couldn't pass that up. I made sure he saw me clocking him, doubled back, and met up with him. So we talked for a bit. Damn hot man. Things were looking good when he said he's a fisting bottom. But, then he told me he's been in a relationship for fifteen years. He and his Dad don't live together, but I could see him doing relationship calculus. I saw that the equation wasn't balancing in my favor, so I gave him one of my cards and maybe he'll call.

So I'm alone tonight. And I don't want to be alone. I want warm body. I want some man working my tits, kissing me hard, feel the head if my cock pressing against his rosebud and then slipping in. Then having his body next to mine as we sleep. I don't want to be alone tonight. But I am.
Y'know, I made the decision not to discuss specifics of my job here, but I wish I could. There's this shitstorm, and it's needless. And, as soon as the dust settles, I'm going to see to it that we bury the folks that are causing it. I will be shoveling dirt on the casket, so help me God. And, the prime culprit is actually someone I like a great deal. But, that's my job. It's nothing personal. It's just business.

Huh. Never thought of this before. Every time you have sex with someone, it changes you. It's a profound experience, and one that affects you deeply, and rewires your circuitry to a greater or lesser extent. I don't know if this is true for everybody, but it's certainly true for me. All experiences in life alter your thinking to some degree, but usually, after sex, I'm thinking about the world in a different way. 'Change' might not be the verb I want here, because I tend to believe that in terms of behavior and psychology, people really don't change.

Wednesday, December 11, 2002

Criminey. Don't that beat all. I didn't like Broadway, but now I do. Last night, Does Mean Well and I went to see Hairspray. I like, went on the internet, bought us tichets, and they turned out to be pretty good seats. We were in the orchestra, five rows from the stage, albeat at the far left side of the house. It was really really cool. Really cool. The performances were so good, just outrageous. I loved the songs, loved the dancing. Fun fun fun.

Afterwards, Does Mean Well and I went to a restaurant called Thalia. We had the oyster sampler as an appetizer. How did I forget how much I love raw oysters? Why don't I have oysters at least once a week? If not daily.

It's been so great having Does Mean Well here. So easy and fun. It felt soooo no pressure, relaxed, and I could be totally trusting and at ease. Now, it's sort of the calm before the storm. After this weekend, I'll be plunged into Family Christmas and preparations therefore. Y'know, I think I'd definitely like to get down to Fort Lauderdale (especially if it means I get to pal around with Lolita who will also be taking in the sun), but I'd also like to spend some time here in New York, not going anywhere, not being on a plane, not living out of a suitcase, not having eating be an ordeal because I don't know any of the restaurants, not driving around endlessly because I'm unfamiliar with shortcuts. Just being home. I like home. Home is good.

And, spending some serious time at the gym would be a great thing. MAL is coming up, and I have (employ Arnold Schwartzenegger voice) arms like a tvelf yeer ald girl. Gotta rectify that.

MAL, MAL. So many backs, so little time. This time, I will play. Last time I sort of met a guy I liked on the first night and hung out with him, mooning the whole time. He lives on the Upper West Side, but lost a lot of interest (like, all interest) as soon as we were both back in the city. Nope. Play play play play play. That's what it's all about this time.

Monday, December 09, 2002

Oh yeah. Does Mean Well and I went to see 'Chicago' tonight. Now that was fun. Lots of fun. Great singing, great dancing (I like it when the boy dancers are really built... ...guh-huh-huh-huh...), and the libretto--or I guess that would be 'the book'--was pretty dark, when you think about it. Wonderful escapism, such a good time.

It's looking like I may have a mid-winter break worthy of a public school teacher. We might close the office from Friday, December 20th and not open until Thursday, January 2nd. I wonder if I should hop on a plane and go somewhere during that time? Fort Lauderdale looms large. Does Mean Well proferred an invitation to San Diego, and I was invited to go to Chicago for New Years. Although, the CHC play party is (I think) on New Years' Day, so that wouldn't do me a lot of good as I'd have to be at work the next morning. And I tried to do the red-eye-followed-by-a-day's-work coming back from Seattle and that didn't work so well. So it will probably be Fort Lauderdale. I'll be living in a construction zone, but that shouldn't be too much of a problem. The bathroom and kitchen will be untouched, and I could probably sleep in the enormous walk-in closet. I'll check on flights.
Christmas List
Or, “…And then I’ll be Happy All of the Time.”

1. An apartment in the West Village.
2. A home equity line of credit.
3. Three-day weekends.
4. Fielding skills.
5. A condo in Fort Lauderdale (got that!) worthy of an Architectural Digest spread.
6. Dungeon space in lower Manhattan.
7. Chaps that fit.
8. A boy.
9. Mastery of HTML and web hosting.
10. 195 pounds of lean muscle mass.
11. A job as a bartender in a leatherbar.
12. Graduate studies in architecture, or physical therapy, or construction project management.
13. A wardrobe equal parts Armani and David Samuel Menkes.
14. A month in a cabin in the desert to write a book and howl with coyotes.

…yeah, but who doesn’t want those things? How pedestrian!

How about…

1. A starring role in an award winning porn flick.
2. An appointment as Ambassador to the Czech Republic.
3. An iPhone (C’mon, Steve Jobs!).
4. Holy Orders.
5. A place in the Richard Meier Perry Street Towers. With parking.
6. A dungeon space in the Starrett-Lehigh building.
7. A job where I get a paycheck, but I’m not, in fact, expected to do anything or be anywhere in particular.
8. First blog to win a Pulitzer.
9. A personal trainer/nutritionist and chef/softball coach. Named Dieter.

And of course, how could I leave out…

10. Vin Diesel, chained at my feat, drenched in my piss.

* * * * * * * *
Oh. It's 19 degrees in New York City today. I wanna be in Lauderdale pronto.

Does Mean Well and I are well into our New York City Theater Experience. On Saturday, we saw Thoroughly Modern Millie, and last night was Les Miserables. 'Millie' was fun, all that singin', all that dancin'. Les Miserables was pretty slow in parts (a lot of parts, blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-blah-blah-dee-blah), but it had that Longtime Companion ending (you get to see all your dead friends again) that I'm a total sucker for. I was able to keep it under control for the miserables, but Longtime Companion has me wailing and choking on sobs no matter how many times I subject myself to it.

Tonight we see Chicago. That should be fun. Tomorrow Does Mean Well is going to chance hypothermia by waiting in the line to get cancellation tickets for Hairspray. Now, this is all very new to me. I've never seen a Broadway show in my life. Off-Broadway, Off-Off-Broadway, and hole-in-the-wall performance spaces on the Lower East Side where there are more people on stage than in the audience... yes.

These shows are fun, but not the way that I'd spend really big bucks. And y'know what's weird, Millie and the miserables were not so far beyond the productions put on my my college and high school. I mean, the sets were better than the set crew of either was capable of producing, and the singing was better, but in lots of ways, Alvernia College's 'Brigadoon' and 'Anything Goes' and the Central Bucks High School East productions of 'Once Upon A Mattress' and 'Carousel' were not quite out of the running. And that's kind of odd. By way of comparison, the best opera I've seen by amateur companies was tiers below the shabbiest performance by the New York City Opera (we're not even talkin' the Met). And, in the same way, in those hole-in-the-wall performance spaces on the Lower East Side, I've seen some really electrifying stuff that's stayed with me for weeks on end. I remember this adaptation of a Jean Genet thing that used all of these Malinowski approaches to performance that was absolutely riveting. And, these were way beyond stuff I've seen at the Bucks County Playhouse or whatever.

So what's up with Broadway that it's not a stratospheric kind of thing? Maybe it's just that shows sort of peak in the first weeks after they come out, and after that it's all about going through the motions. But who are all these people that are happy to plunk down $100 to see a bunch of kids going through the motions?

I guess I just don't get it.

Still, I feel as though I'm earning a Gay Merit Badge or something, so that now when people are discussing musical theater I won't have a totally blank look on my face.

Anyway, it's a hoot hanging out with Does Mean Well.

Friday, December 06, 2002

Les peches de la mer parlent breton

* * * * * * * * *
Egad. Good thing I stopped in to Ty's last night, as I was reminded that tonight was the night of my softball team's Christmas Party. Should be a total liquor-fest. Now, I've somehow got to get an ornament for this shindig. And the ornament should 'say something about our team, something about softball, and something about Christmas.' Well I'm stumped. And, if I'm going to be on time to Newark Airport to pick up Does Mean Well, then it had better be a damn quick trip through Macy's on my way to the PATH train that results in the purchase of said ornament. Why must holiday fun always be so complicated?

* * * * * * * *
Back at work. Much stacked up on my desk, and Big Political Battle brewing. An interesting thing happened last night at Ty's. There was this guy there who I remember seeing a lot of in the past, but not recently. We got to talking, and he told me that he had moved to France last June, and was now living in Bretagne. So he invited me to come move there with him. This is actually the second invitation I've received in my life to chuck it all and come live in Europe. The first was when I was 18 years old and was delivered by an Egyptian I met in Lausanne, who broke my cherry. I don't know how serious the guy was last night, but it's certainly daydream fodder. Alas, though. I'm boycotting France because of all their blather about American unilateralism and imperialism and such. And it probably wouldn't be the best career move. But still, having spent the past week in Seattle, I'm reminded of how I could really leave New York City at the drop of a hat if a good opportunity elsewhere arose.

Criteria for 'Elsewhere'

1. Proximity to an ocean you can swim in
2. Good leather community
3. Easy access to rural splendor
4. Affordable real estate
5. A diverse economy

I think I could be somewhat flexible on all of these points. Places I've given a lot of consideration to include Los Angeles (all 5, I believe), Albuquerque (good on 3 and 4); Asheville (also 3 and 4); Portland (all except 1); and Fort Lauderdale (sadly, all except 5). I wouldn't mind moving back to Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where I was born and reared, but the cost of living there are comparable to New York City. Chicago is just way too far away from the ocean to make that workable, and I think there's something odd about the place--a sort of cultural conservatism that I'm not sure I like.

Places I probably wouldn't consider living include San Francisco (way to liberal and oppressively gay), Philadelphia (been there, done that), DC (all that urban blight, with virtually none of the amenities). I guess that Albuquerque is off the list too, as my Ex bought a house there and I don't need to have to worry about him shrieking at me in the supermarket or something. I know a few people in Denver, but I've never heard anything that would compel me to live there. Atlanta is the South, and I don't think that I'm characterologically set up to live there. And Texas just seems to me to be a weird place. I read an article a while back about how police (in Houston? Fort Worth?) wanted to crack down on drag racing kids. They went to the mall or whatever where the kids congregated, but found no drag racing going on. So, they just arrested everybody that they did find there, for no real reason at all.

No, I think Fort Lauderdale is the place for me. If only I could solve the problem of what to do for work. I've looked, and there's like nothing. Although, I haven't spent much time there, but something tells me I could be really, really happy in LA. I like the place so much. Great weather, great standard of living, great art. And people there are so nice. I'd actually debate the point about 'an ocean you can swim in,' as it's like, always cold. And for someone who grew up in bathwater-temperature on the Jersey Shore, it just doesn't strike me as workable. Plus, there's that whole Existentialist City vibe that I love love love.

Awhile ago, there was this guy I 'met' online who pretty much offered me a job pouring concrete. Now, that sounds lame, huh? Maybe not. Working out in the sun all day, doing physical work that would keep my body in shape, and doing work that's not abstract (I'll avoid the obvious pun): you work, you pay attention to detail, and at the end of the day, the job is done and the quality of your work is instantly measurable. Soooo different from the work I've done most of my life, where the goals, if there are actual goals, are distant and vague, so you never see your work coming to fruition. If and when I inherit money from my parents, maybe I'll move to Los Angeles and spend a year pouring concrete.

Thursday, December 05, 2002

Adieu, Seattle
(I'm home from Seattle. This was written on my Visor on my last day there.)

It's 3:30 pm local time. I'm sitting in Bauhaus Coffee at Pine & Melrose. There is this wildly hot guy behind the counter. Sort of a beat skinny cowboy with a big belt buckle and sideburns. He got all flirty when I was getting my latte, saying he liked my Buck Rogers shirt. So then, in walks big butch tatoo artist rocker guy with a big bushy bleached goatee and nerd glasses. It's gray and wet, but not raining. Maybe it's not the case that everyone is 14 here, but they just look like that because the weather provides a daily facial. Hot guys at the Eagle last night included a mailman with an exotic name who could easily be a porn star and a sweet bear who taught in the public schools and had a back like an angorra sweater. The music at the Eagle is the best I've ever heard in a fag bar. My favorite name of a local band: Gazebo of Destruction.

I could totally live here. I could totally leave New York.

10 pm Pacific Time

After my latte, I meandered around Capitol Hill. I found a restaurant, the Rosebud (the name was a foreshadowing, a sign from the leathergods), but they weren't serving dinner until 5 o'clock. So I went to a gay bookstore and spent $20 on back issues of Drummer. I think I'll aim to collect a complete edition, a piece of leather history. I had a great dinner at the Rosebud, and I was walking back to my hotel when I thought, "One more beer at the Eagle."

Good instinct. I hadn't finished my beer when a hot man in boots and a leather MC jacket with a cockring on his right epaulet walked in. Brief conversation ensued before we left for his condo where I ploughed the bejeezus out of that hot man, then (almost) fisted him. What a hot, sweet, wonderful ass.

Now I'm on the bus, off to the airport. I'm feeling sleepy, as I always do when I cum, so maybe I'll be able to forego the sleeping pills on the plane.

Aubrey called while I was retrieving my luggage to wish me well. The perfect ending to a perfect sojourn in the Pacific Northwest.

Wednesday, December 04, 2002

I am sooooo tired. And it's only gonna get worse. I've got to bivouac our of the hotel before they charge me for an extra night, and then.... what? I have about 11 hours to kill before my plane takes off from SeaTac. Then, a lush four hours of sleep before we land at JFK, I go home, shower, change clothes, and it's off to work. Egads.

The sort of obvious thing that I'm thinking of is going out and getting something to eat, maybe browsing in a bookstore, then giving Aubrey a call and seeing if I couldn't go spend some time in his cell--sleeping, mostly--before I head to the airport. He's in the southern end of the city, so it would be closer than the hotel. How much sleep I'd get would be an open question, but, even if it was just for an hour or so, it would put me in somewhat better stead to make it through a full day work tomorrow.

Oh. Here's an interesting development. The other day I received email from Nick. He explained that he didn't wait around for me at the Lure as a hot boy started servicing his boots, and he just got some japanese hemp rope that he wants to try out on me. I couldn't respond as I haven't figured out how to configure my email application to send mail (although receiving seems to be working fine). So, that was pleasant and unexpected. Just now when I checked email, there was another message from Nick. He wrote to let me know that Nick was not his name, which I knew, and although I don't use anybody's real name in my blog, unless they're a public personality. For example, I didn't refer to meeting Hilary Clinton as meeting "New York's blonde Senator" or something as she's fair game. And, he told me that he had read my blog and disagreed with my conclusions. Admittedly, maybe I was jumping to conclusions, but when I get stood up, I tend to ruminate maybe just a bit, and perhaps feel uncharitably disposed to the stander-upper. Message to Nick: If we make a date and you show, I'd be happy not only to re-assess, but if I have a good time, I'll go on at length praising you and your skills for all of my thousand-plus readers. Why, you'd be able to refer interested candidates to Singletails for independent confirmation of your expertise.

That said, I'm feeling pretty Toppy at this point. Yesterday I went to REI's flagship store here in Seattle. Among other things (lots of Buck Rogers wardrobe items), I bought some nice nylon luggage straps that bind by fastening. Five of them should have a boy immobilized pretty thoroughly. And... and... here's an innovative purchase I can't wait to try out. I bought PacSafe, your passport to hassle-free travel. What's that? You may well ask. PacSafe is a web of steel cable in which you enclose your backpack and secure with a padlock so people can't mess with your stuff. The perverted application thereof would be that if someone sits with their knees to their chest, I could have them bound in a net of steel in about a minute. I tried to get it around me (all 6'2 of me), and couldn't quite get it, but I think although it might not work so well for self-bondage, it would be no problem at all to stuff someone else therein. At any rate, I look forward to finding out. Think of it as a cage I can fold up and stow in my luggage. It can fit 7300 cubic inches (I got the Large), so I'll have to experiment and see just how big a man can be before he can fit in this nice addition to my toybag. I'm thinking already of a hot bearded boy in NYC that I think would fit perfectly. If'n you can't quite figure out what I'm talking about, their website is www.pac-safe.com. If PacSafe joins the BobbleBall in being a must-have, I hope I'll be remembered as the discoverer thereof. Anyway, time to pack up and get the hell out of the Seattle Sheraton.

Oh! And Friday night will see the arrival of Does Mean Well at Newark-Liberty International Airport. I truly am looking forward to hitting the town with my Inferno Buddy. Sort of felt constrained when we spent time together back in September as Special Guy had yet to dump me, but now I'm single and ready to have some no-holds-barred fun.

Monday, December 02, 2002

Aubrey Hart Sparks is an amazing and wonderful man. What a great guy.

After a light dinner, I took a cab down to his humble abode. First, I got a tour of the dungeon. Just amazing. A security code door rolled away and reaveled a playspace I can only dream of owning one day. We talked briefly, I filled out the paperwork, and then I took off my clothes and stowed them in a locker.

Then I got into the cage. I wasn't taken, beaten, or thrown in the cage. I got into the cage. The door was closed, and Aubrey handed me the Master Lock, telling me that when I was ready, I could put it on. Then we talked. The talking made the experience amazing. Aubrey said that just about everybody who approaches him wants to be abducted and forced into the cage. And that's understandable. His take on it is that people want to get to 'the other side of the wall,' and feel that they have to be taken there. But that's not the case. They can go there on their own.

Like, I can relate. Just like whipping. When ARt whipped me, my first thought when I got up that morning was, "It's not too late to call and say you can't go through with it. You can back out." I thought it would be a 'learning experience,' over in about fifteen minutes. After all, I was a lousy bottom. I'm a wuss. I can't take it. Well, I went to the place I'd never been before, and, more importantly, a place that I didn't think I was capable of going. After that, everything opened up for me. There's nothing I can't do. Especially with a competent Top who can guide me to that place. And, I've seen that in the men I've whipped. That stunned look. Not only did they go there, but they loved the trip.

Aubrey suggested that I spend some time stretching, finding different ways that I can extend my limbs, so that if and when I got a cramp, I would know how I could remedy that, and not have to be writhing around in pain trying to make it work. And, he said that although work and life and money and relationships were outside of the cage and couldn't get in, there might be a dragon in the cage with me that I would have to contend with. Aubrey told me to speak up, let him know what's going on.

And, (this part was amazing), he said that the cage was about holding. He was holding me. Touching me. The cage was an extension of him and his will.

Before I got in the cage, he put his arms around me, kissing me, squeezing me tight, lifting me off the ground. I'm a big guy, but he's a really big guy. Quiet, intent, strong. Talking to him through the bars of the cage was very, very, very hot.

Then, fumbling, I put the Master Lock in place, and clicked it shut. Aubrey got up, hit the button for the door, went out, closed the door behind him, and left me there in the cage. I saw the camera, there, observing me. So I started stretching. And that was pretty amazing. It was like dancing. I felt very much in my body, aware of my body, and the limitations on movement imposed by the cage. I started to sort of exploit the possibilities, finding what I could do. It got pretty acrobatic. It felt wonderful to be in my body. I didn't think. It wasn't about thinking. And, it wasn't about feeling, as in emotions, either. It was just about sensation. Steel is cold, and doesn't warm up with the body. The feel of my butt on the floor of the cage. The feeling of the blood coursing through my veins and arteriers. The air moving in and out of my lungs. I would grab the bars of the cage, flex my muscles isometrically, and feel which muscles stretched, down my arms, my shoulders, my back, the glutes, all the way down to my toes. Musculature is so interestingly connected, in ways that we're mostly not aware of.

"I could be sealed in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite space, were it not that I had bad dreams."

Well, here's the secret surprise: when you're in the nutshell, there are no bad dreams. And you get to be king of infinite space.

The cage was wonderful.

From time to time, Aubrey would descend the stairs, the door would grind open. He'd come in, and we'd talk, or he'd reach through the bars and stroke the nape of my neck or my cock. At one point, he came down the stairs and said, "Here's the fantasy. Maybe instead of letting you out as we agreed, I'll keep you. Maybe there's a magic wand I could wave and all the things that would stand in the way of that--your friends flipping out, your obligations--would go away. I could keep you here. Like I'd keep an animal." That sure did the trick for my cock. It was great in the cage. It was great being kept in the cage. Here's what made it really hot, though. I wondered, "Did Aubrey want to keep me in the cage? If he had that magic wand, would he want to use it? Did he desire to keep me in the cage?" Fantasizing that the answer was 'yes' was what I got off on.

Being the stag with the towering rack of antlers is hot. Being the stag and looking up and seeing the cougar eyeing you and wanting you is hotter. Like Auden said of the desire of the normal heart, not to be loved, but to be loved alone.

On another trip down the stairs, Aubrey brought me bread pudding and ice cream. The bowls were passed through the slot where the bowls get passed. I ate and placed the empty bowls on the floor outside.

Another time, he came down the stairs, and before he left, my wrists were restrained to the bars, I was blindfolded, and my cock and balls were roped off.

Then, Aubrey came down the stairs. We concluded the scene (if you want to find out the details, well, be in touch with Aubrey and spend some time in there). The lock was removed, I got out, stood, Aubrey held me, I got dressed.

I'm going to see if, before I leave Seattle, I can find another time slot. I want more.