Saturday, May 31, 2003


I have a theory. Here in NYC, it's been cold and raining for... what? months. In Seattle, it's been sunny and unseasonably warm. girlfag has been spending a lot of time gardening.

Somehow, NYC and Seattle have switched climates. I don't doubt that in no time at all, moss will cover the sidewalks here as it does in many parts of Seattle. Although in Seattle, people will all have to get summer houses in the Cascades because staying in the hot, humid city will be intolerable. And the place will smell like garbage.

Seattlites will all be tan. New Yorkers will all develop chronic depression from the absence of ultra-violet rays.

How could this have happened?

I hope it has nothing to do with my trip there back in December. Like maybe I unwittingly brought back some cosmic weather genii in my luggage.

Great softball today. I had several RBIs, and caught a nice pop fly during practice. We beat the Wings (sponsored by none other than the Spiegel) 25-10. They had a few runs on us when our second game was rained out, but it was only the second inning. Thus, the Ballbreakers remain undefeated.

That, alas, was the high point of my day. I had a date tonight with Alabam' from my softball team. He is such a handsome guy. So handsome. And charming. My plan was to take him to dinner to a great place I know in Brooklyn called Harvest on Court Street in Cobble Hill. Then perhaps a walk along the Promenade in the Heights, then back to his place for some hot lovin'. I showed up at 8:30 as planned, the doorman rang him and there was no answer. I called him on his cell phone, and it turns out that an ex boyfriend of his with romance woes had shown up needing a shoulder to cry on, and Alabam' had lent his shoulder. Thus, he had to cancel.

Ah well. Another time. Interesting how excited I was getting ready for The Date. Getting dressed, thinking everything through, making a plan... Just like getting ready for a scene. And it was a scene of sorts.

Huh. A 'romance scene.' And the other night I had a 'fucking scene.' C'mon, boy. Give over control to me. Let me take you on a journey. You just be good and responsive. What can't be a scene?

Several weeks ago, I was sitting in the Factory Cafe, and at the next table were sitting these two bears. The older of the two had a really impressive gut, a perfect beachball. They had coffee and chatted. And then the energy changed. Beachball got up, and came back to the table with a generous serving of apple pie a la mode, which he placed in front of his younger buddy. They smiled at each other. Younger buddy dug in. Beachball watched him eat the pie. Younger buddy watched Beachball watching him eat the pie.

It was a belly building scene. I just about shot in my pants as I watched. So hot. Such energy between the two of them. Right there in the Factory Cafe.

Romance scenes. Fucking scenes. Apple pie scenes. The possibilities truly are endless.

C'mon, boy. Let me take you on a trip.

Friday, May 30, 2003

Alas. I lost track of time doing the GMSMA reconciliation, and didn't make it across the river in time to hit the gym before going to the Erotic Art fair. But, I did make it to the art fair. And it was great. One artist in particular, Xavier, is really something wonderful. If I had the money, I'd be slapping it down for something by him. I swung a totally rockin' volunteer job, doing security. I was posted in the garden of the Center, making sure that no one wandered in without paying the $7 at the door. This meant that I spent the evening hanging out in the garden, smoking cigarettes, reminiscing about ACT UP meetings in the room where the art show was being held, and flirting with innumerable hot men in attendance.

Oh. And here's a cool thing. When people asked me what I did, I told them "I write." And, that's a fairly accurate description of how I spend my days and nights. Although I suppose I could have replied "I smoke cigarettes" or "I whip men" on that basis. But I think that "I write" is perhaps closer to the spirit of the question.

Anyway. To bed. Softball tomorrow. Luckily, at the sane hour of 10:30 am, which means I only have to get up at 9 am. The weather report is still calling for thundershowers, although the stars were out tonight during my volunteer shift in the garden. I suppose I won't know until I wake up tomorrow what kind of day it will be.

After last night's marathon, I need a good night's sleep.

"Good Morning!" he said to no one in particular, as the guy on NPR announced that at the tone, the time would be three o'clock


Went to the Spiegel last night, thinking that the "dress code strictly enforced" would make it a wee bit more palatable. Alas, the dress code seems to include print cotton shirts, jeans, and (inevitably) sneakers. I shooed off a few admirers by responding to the question "How ya doing tonight?" with "I'm missing the LURE a lot" and looking at them pointedly.

There were a few other men in full leather in the room. Some of whom I knew. Some of whom I was glad I didn't know. And one of whom whisked me back to his Times Square hotel room. Which was great, except for the fact that the ruckus we raised didn't get going until about 4:30 a.m. I left my car outside the Spiegel, and had to be back there to collect it and drive home before 8 am, at which point it would be ticketed or towed.

It was way cool. He was from Chicago, in town on business. We sort of did a fucking scene. Now what's that supposed to mean? Well, we fucked (as in he fucked me), but he was really really good at it. Really good. And so he kind of took me on a great scene journey with his dick up my ass replacing his whips on my back or his ropes binding my limbs. It wasn't just nukka-nukka-nukka-nukka-nukka-BOOM-done-"Hey thanks Buddy that was great". It was "now I'm gonna work your prostate" and "now I want you with your ass over the end of the bed". Just like in a scene, cumming was beside the point. Although we did that.

So I slept for about an hour next to him. "Slept" doesn't seem to be the appropriate verb. "Passed out from exhaustion" hits the mark a little bit better. I had the presence of mind to request a wake up call at 6:09 a.m. for 7:20 a.m. When it went off, I put my clothes on, scribbled my name and email address on a hotel-issued note pad, and caught a cab over to my Jeep Liberty outside of the Spiegel. I drove home, walked the dog, and crawled into bed, just as my building super began the task of replacing the floorboards in the hallway. Luckily, I can sleep through anything. Except, of course, when I can't. But this wasn't one of those times.

And now, I'm embarking on the Great Closing Out of the Books for GMSMA Project. Before I turn them over to the new Treasurer when my term ends (Brothers and Sisters, Let me hear you say "Hallalujah!") in a couple of weeks, I want them to be flawless. So I'm preparing a master spreadsheet, with all the entries from the bank statements, the budget spreadsheets, and the checkbook side-by-side so that I'll be able to find any discrepancies and correct any errors. The only other things on my agenda this weekend will be volunteering at the Tom of Finland Erotic Art Fair at the Center and my date with Alabam on Saturday night. I'm scheduled to play softball tomorrow, but the weather report--surprise, surprise--is calling for rain and thundershowers, so it's looking unlikely that I'll be suiting up and taking the field tomorrow.

I was supposed to meet up with Punchpig on Saturday night, but he had complications involving his mother's health and had to reschedule. That means I won't be showing up bruised and beaten for my date with Alabam. Probably a good thing. I bought a mouthguard yesterday at Paragon Sporting Goods. The boxing stuff is in the attic. I lingered as long as I could looking at the boxing gloves and such, but my car was sitting at a meter. And, I really don't have the money right now. But something tells me that before too long, a pair of training gloves is going to be hanging on the wall next to my whips and floggers. Because Punching is the Next Big Thing.

Also had a session with my therapist yesterday. It was brief, as I was delayed getting there by dropping the Baron von Philadelphia off at Penn Station in midday traffic, but we talked about this falling in love thing I've been doing. I fell in love with Suessesschwein, I've fallen in love with Punchpig (particularly after he sent me a link to a beautiful essay he wrote on the film Gray Gardens), I'm pretty smitten with Alabam, and there are a few slave candidates from the Shakespearean Green World known as the Internet that I guess I'm in love with, too. It's not a mooning high-schooley falling in love. It's more an openness, letting another person's being just flood over me, but not wash me away. In part, I feel it as a need. I need strong arms to hold me right now. But at the same time, I sense that I'm doing this because I can. I usually approach romance like an English tourist venturing into the Bazaar at Marakesh: Careful, you're gonna get rooked; nothing is what it seems; best to look and listen and smile and move on. In part, I'm graced with some truly amazing men entering my life. Suessesschwein and Punchpig are both men of depth, goodness, strength, wisdom... and dick-hardening intellect and maculinity. But at the same time, with all (or most) of the men in my life, I feel able to be amazed.

Well, to the books.

Thursday, May 29, 2003

Meanwhile, back in Gotham...

A good night. The Baron and I went across the river for the evening. First stop was the Leatherman. I purchased from my pals there an uncut piece of cow skin. It's narrower than what I hoped for, but it will work. What in the world do I want with that? Simple. I'm stealing an idea from Noted Author. I watched him do a few whipping scenes at Inferno last year. After the scene, he would rap his bottom in this enormous piece of rawhide he had. It was so perfect. And now I'll be able to do that, too. It serves a practical purpose in that the bottom is cold after getting whipped, but it also looks so hot. I've been using a blanket, which can now be returned to its rightful place on my bed.

Then, I went to the GMSMA program on S/M and the Law. It was pretty well put together, by a guy from Philadelphia (the Baron knows him slightly). The Baron opted out of the meeting and we met up afterwards. Then, it was off to dinner at Sazerac for the two of us.

Following dinner, we stopped into Ty's to make an appearance, as it was Support the Ballbreakers Night. Alabam was there. We made a date for Saturday night. I'm looking forward to it. Some good old fashioned fucking will be welcome after all the S/M play I've been seeing lately.

Post Ty's, I decided to take the Baron to Pork at the Eagle. It was the first time I went to Pork after it was translated from the LURE. Sadly, not the same. Not as crowded. Lots of white sneakered Chelsea boys. The Pork boys did their best, but somehow it just wasn't working. You got the idea that most of those in attendance were watching the proceedings with the same attitude that you watch sidewalk buskers: "Oh, that's kind of interesting and a welcome way to pass the time while I wait for this bus."

But, I did have a nice interaction with a guy named TJ. We cruised each other and he came over to talk early on in the evening, and then excused himself to look for his houseguest. Later, I was out back smoking when he came out. He asked what I was drinking and I said, "Red Bull"
"Not beer?" he said.
"No. Just Red Bull."
"Then I'm gonna piss on you," he said.
And he did.


His buddy from SF pissed on me, too. Although his buddy had better aim. He made it into my fly, so it ran down my leg.

Been too too long since I did piss play. I hope I run into TJ again sometime soon.

So that was a good night. Hung out with the Baron. Got my cowhide. Got pissed on. Made a date for Saturday night.


Wednesday, May 28, 2003

Back from Chicago

Got in yesterday evening at about 9 pm. What a great weekend. What a perfect weekend. For once, I did everything right. Driving rather than flying was a good way to go. Staying at the apartment of a man we'll call Suessesschwein was likewise a good way to go. I had a great time at the IML clubhouse, and I didn't spend an inordinate amount of money that I don't happen to have.

When I realized that I would be unable to blog during my time at IML, I thought first of buying a notebook and keeping a journal. Then I thought better. Amidst the hullaballoo, I would never be able to keep that up, and would end up with one entry, the first and only, and a lot of blank pages.

In the alternative, I spent the spare moments on the train and sitting in restaurants and shaving my head and such composing haiku.

So here they are, the Singletails IML Haiku collection...

In the Lobby
breating smoke filled air
are a dozen Colt models
and the rest of us

In the Vendor Area
three times our eyes met
twice we smiled and said hello
third time we suck face

Taking Care
I'm living on love
because I'm sure not getting
enough food or sleep

I wonder how long
I'll wish I'd bought that flogger
a very long time

Big Rubberman
his sweat matted hair
under his green latex shirt:
grass in a koi pool

Californian Probably
he shaved his gut smooth
but left a treasure trail.
not a good effect.

I want to beat you
not because I don't like you
but because I do

why is that hot boy
wearing that asshole's collar
when he could wear mine?

Why is it you seemed
so much more intelligent
not wearing a shirt?

International Mr. Leather 2003
I'm beating a man
and hear the news second hand:
Mr. Hoist wins it

those men aren't fighting;
they're making love with their fists.
it's the Next Big Thing!

And was there play? Indeed there was. I spent Saturday night and Sunday night at the Chicago Hellfire Club clubhouse. On Saturday night, I did a whipping scene with a full member. I just wanted it to go on and on and on forever. I took my time with every aspect. The kinestetic value of throwing the floggers and whips alone just had me in heaven. Accentuated, no doubt, by being there in the CHC clubhouse, among all those amazing men. The man I whipped had a hide like a rhino. I wasn't sure whether or not my whip was connecting, or if I needed to move closer, and only knew by the little white lines that would appear briefly and fade again like fireworks on his red back. The next morning he had no marks. And he told me that anything less than a six foot whip was unlikely to draw blood. There's always next time. And I'm confident there will be a next time.

Sunday night was a little S/M sitcom episode of sorts. Earlier in the day, I had talked to a guy I know from Detroit. He asked if I would be at the clubhouse that night, and suggested that we play. He indicated that it was a while since he had been whipped, but he might be up for it. I told him that I was on duty, working the door, from 11 pm to 12:30, but to look for me afterwards. As I had the night before, I started in on my door shift. First sign of trouble: I asked who my relief was as I had a date scheduled when I got off at 12:30; there was no one who had signed up after me. Second sign of trouble: my date came through about midnight, apologizing that he would have to take a raincheck as he could barely keep his eyes open. I made the huge mistake of announcing to those assembled that I no longer had a play date. So, at 12:30, I said I could give twenty more minutes. The guy in charge said he'd find someone to relieve me and disappeared down the stairs. At 1:30, someone wandered up the stairs and chatted for a bit. I asked him to find the guy in charge and find out how he was doing in finding someone to relieve me. He went exploring, and came back to report that he had found the guy in charge, but he was hogtied and giving a blowjob, so he wasn't in any position to be quizzed about volunteers to work the door. But, this kind man said that he would relieve me. At this point, it was 2 am, and the clubhouse--sparse at this point--closed at 3 am. Things were not looking good for our hero! I went downstairs, wasted some piss on a porcelain urinal, got myself a Coke, and surveyed my prospects. Everyone seemed to be in a post scene (as in, "sorry, played already") kind of peaceful easy feelin'.

But wait! What's this! Who is that guy at the bar?

I sat next to him, and overheard him talking about someone I knew in San Diego. I jumped into conversation. Liked him a lot. He was movie star good looking, with very sad and soulful eyes, and entertained kidnapping fantasies. At 2:15, he said he'd be available to play.

That didn't leave us a lot of time. So I took him upstairs, padlocked his wrists and bound his ankles so his feet were spread and beat him. I used my hands, my booted feet, and my polycarbonate nightstick.

I'm really liking beating. Most of the time I was working on him, I had just about full body contact. I was right there, whispering in his ear. it really was making love with my fists.

And, I think that it's the Next Big Thing. Whilst enjoying my vodka and cranberry at the CHC party on Sunday afternoon, there was punching going on everywhere in the room. And it was just like boys play: "C'mon, take your best shot."

Oh. And how am I doing? I'm doing great. Just great. I feel within myself this increased capacity to fall in love. Not... y'know... seriously. I'm not gonna be stalking anyone any time soon. It's more an exercise of my imaginative faculties. Men are capturing my imagination. And, I sense a certain openness; a faith and a trust. I think I could readily fall in love and change my life. Or fall in love and change my day. Either one. I'm a hard-minded realist at my core. As I observed to Baron von Philadelphia last night, I don't let anyone get too close. Or at least I haven't so far.

But I've met some amazing men over the past few weeks. Punchpig absolutely. And my gracious host who made my trip to Chicago possible, Suessesschwein.

On my final day in Chicago, getting my gear together and readying myself to vacate Suessesschwein's apartment to head out on the road, I was inspired to write a poem. I wrote Suessesschwein a poem.

And, last night, it was great spending time with the Baron. We talked a lot about me being a writer. Here's what that will involve: Risk. Risk is the thing I don't do well. I'm way too attached to security. Heretofore, I'd rather have some horrible tedious office job than take a risk, cursing the darkness rather than lighting the candle, because my fingers might get burned.

Oh. Update on the relocation situation. My dad called me when I was on the road. He had been talking to the guy who's living in the house I'm moving into. The guy casually mentioned that he'll probably be there through August. So it's not June 30th, it's not July 31st, it's August 30th. There exists the distinct possibility that this time next year, I'll be sitting here saying, "and it's looking like in a couple of months I'll be moving to Bucks County." A few things could happen. It could finally work out and I move. Or, after several months of getting by subsidized by unemployment and my Dad, something will work out for me here in NYC.

Here's the problem with that situation: it leaves me hanging in limbo. Should I work hard to get a job here in NYC? Well, if I do that, than I'll be foregoing the green paradise of Bucks County that I want to go to, where I can "finally write my book." I mean, I was thinking the other day that I really ought to get some paint and gussie up the place some. Nah. What's the point? I'll be moving in a few months. See how it works? I'm in suspended animation. That could prove problematic.

Thursday, May 22, 2003

Sing Ho! For the romance of the Open Road!

So I'm off. Not the early start I had hoped for, but the Baron and I were up until 4 am talking, packing, and counting quarters. Now I'm getting on the road. I-80 Westbound.

What all will I be doing to pass time on this long ride?

  • Singing along to Lucinda Williams, U2, the Pet Shop Boys, Bruce Springsteen, The Chrystal Method, Limp Bizkit, and the like;
  • Calling everybody whose number I have stored on my cell phone;
  • Stopping every time that the signs on the highway indicate that the next rest stop is blessed with the presence of Almight Starbucks;
  • Letting my thoughts wander into the realms of the Sublime and the Sordid;
  • "Flirting" (i.e., tailgating, speeding so that I'm right next to, smiling and waving) with every man driving either a Jeep or one of those Big Butch Pickups;
  • Reading maps while I'm driving;
  • Crying;
  • Lauging;
  • Pretending I'm giving a lecture or a sermon and talking out loud and emphatically on some issue or other in order to clarify my thinking on it:
  • Smoking;
  • Going fifteen miles over the speed limit mostly;
  • Getting overly slow and cautious if I run into rain (rain-slicked roads make me really nervous; I'd rather drive in the snow than the rain);
  • Trying to find the NPR affiliate stations on the radio;
  • Stopping to enjoy those delectable delicacies known as Turnpike Food;
  • Rolling up the windows so I can have a good scream.

More later.

Wednesday, May 21, 2003

Oh. I get it.

Shout out to autre and Bound and Determined for their great, right on the spot, affirming emails. Just what I needed to hear.

When Baron von Philadelphia walked into the Center after taking the train up from that city of his, my mood brightened considerably. And whilst we dined at that chi-chi Chelsea eatery known as the Galaxy Diner, I had a huge realization about my mood today.

I couldn't figure out why I wasn't feeling pumped after the great scene with Roman Cool last night. After ARt whipped me, I was flying for weeks.

And then it dawned on me. I was feeling blue because I was feeling. For the past many weeks, when people would say, "Gosh. Moving to Pennsylvania. That's big. How ya doing with that?" my response would be "Great! I think it will be great! Looking forward to it."

Inside I was numb. But there I was last night getting whipped. Laughing. Crying. Hootin' and hollerin'. And just like last time, like a dam breaking, the feelings came gushing forth.

Huh. As I write this, I'm getting a little tickling feeling on my right shoulder blade and a sudden stiffness in my deltoids I didn't notice before. Huh. How about that.

So it's cool. Now I know. I'm alive. It's all happening. And I'm here.

Helllloooooooo Chicago!

I think my Gracious Host has a puter, so I should be able to blog once I land on Friday.

Till then. Thanks.


Not real, as far as I can tell, but I just have the feeling today of everything falling apart.

Best example is that I wanted to get into the city today in order to get to the bank, which closes at 3 pm. I wasn't able to do that. Instead, I paid bills, and that is always a very depressing endeavor.

Also, today was the day that my payroll check should have been direct deposited. So far, it isn't showing up in my account. I'm refusing to believe that Boss Sunshine would have renegged on his agreement with me. That could not be. That would be an absolute disaster.

Uh. Hoping that the trip to Chicago will help me get my head together. I was planning on leaving first thing tomorrow morning, but I think I'll need to take a trip into the city--to get to a bank--before I leave.

And why do I need to go to the bank? To cash in my quarters. Y'see, I have this weird habit of collecting quarters. At the end of every day, I fish in my pockets and find the quarters, and put them in my quarter box. I have several hundred dollars in quarters, and that's how I'm planning on financing my trip to Chicago, and a bit later in June, down to Fort Lauderdale.

My quarters have functioned symbolically as a security blanket. "At least I have my quarters." When Does Mean Well was visiting, he asked about my quarters, and I said, "That way I'll never starve. I have my quarters."

Now, I'm facing life without quarters.

I could use some hand holding. Someone to put their arm around my shoulders and tell me that it will all work out.

I have this underlying sense of failure. Of not measuring up. Not making the grade.

It's sort of been gnawing at me that I wasn't able to let Roman Cool take me as far as he wanted to when he whipped me last night. When he asked, "Do you want to stop now?" it was agonizing. I didn't feel up to taking more, but I didn't want to disappoint him.

He didn't seem to be disappointed. At all. He praised me. He knows it's only the second time I've been whipped.

I'm scanning dark skies, looking for a guiding star that I can follow to reach some safe harbor.

Dang. I can't make it work. I was hoping to get to both sessions of Inferno. Alas, the cost of that would be $720. There's no way that I can make that work. I'll have to only go for one session, which at $370 is a little more in my price range.

Dese is da soicumstances what prevails.

I'll go with Session A, the first session, September 4th through the 7th. I'm volunteering for set up, so it will mean that all in all, I'll be there for a week solid. And that should be good. And, again this year I'll be fresh from a softball tournement over Labor Day Weekend.

I've been thinking a lot about going to Delta this year. Delta is similar to Inferno, although it's held in Southeastern Pennsylvania. As much as I'd like to, I just can't afford it.

Hate this poverty stuff. Not enjoying this one little bit.

Ah well. Must economize, as the British say.

A debate is apparently raging on Leather Navigator. There's a girl in our midst. And that apparently is causing problems. I decided to weigh in on the issue.

To wit...

Hi, Leather Navigator.

Just wanted to throw in my two cents on this issue.

A coupla things by way of background.

I think Leather Navigator is great. The chief reason is the very very low incidence of flakes. I can't figure out why this is, but it's pretty much unique on the web. So many of the guys on here I know from Inferno or being in the scene. They're all serious. I'm on here to find men to whip, but beyond that, I spend a lot of time just keeping up with friends of mine, most of whom are on here, too. And, the system works really well. Just about flawlessly.

I'm on the Board of Gay Male S/M Activists in NYC. It is, and remains, an exclusively all-male organization. I've worked to not weaken this, debating men I respect on issues like, "Would it really hurt us if we let women attend our holiday social?" That said, GMSMA is an inclusive group. We're not a club. You don't have to be voted in. Anyone can join by plopping down their $50 for membership. And believe me, anyone does. This past year, after minimal discussion as it seemed to be such a no-brainer, GMSMA decided that trans men would be welcomed. It has not proved to be a bad thing at all. We don't catch a lot of flack from 'the commmunity' for being exclusively male (technically we're exclusively gay, too, but we don't administer litmus tests), because in NYC, there are several other very strong groups similar to ours, including The Eulenspiegel Society (pan) and the Lesbian Sex Mafia, or LSM, which is exclusively for lesbians. The big reason I support GMSMA's policy is because I think it's important for gay men to be able to get together. It feels good, and there's not a lot of places in the world for that to happen.

I'm also an Associate Member of the Chicago Hellfire Club. CHC wrestled with the issue of trans men this past winter. I'm not sure exactly what the policy is at this point. I think that trans men can't be members, but they can be guests at the clubhouse. I was for opening up membership to trans men, although I kept silent on the issue because for one thing, I'm relatively new to the organization, and for another thing, this opinion was largely based on trans men that I knew personally that I would love to see at Inferno, and not on any deep thinking I'd done.

Now on to the question at hand.

autre was 'introduced' to me by Aubrey Sparks in Seattle. Aubrey knew I was into whipping, and she was into whipping, so he gave her a link to my weblog ( and my email. In due course, I received an email from her, and we've kept up a correspondence ever since.

I was really glad when she popped up on LN. Now I'd have a way of being in touch with her, having conversations rather than email exchanges.

I would be in favor of allowing her to continue her membership.

Here's why. It's one thing when you're in a leatherbar or dungeon or party or whatever and a woman walks into the room. The energy and the mood changes. Some guys bristle. It makes it different. But LN, great as it is, is not a room in the physical sense. It's on-line. I don't feel anything different when I'm on LN and autre signs on. And given that it's not a chat room and operates more on the basis of messaging, it's not even as though she's lurking and listening in. She's just there, when she's on, and if you feel like messaging with her you can, and if not, don't bother.

So basically, I don't think it's any big deal. Even if I didn't know autre, I don't think I would mind a bit.

Now, I realize that for some men on LN, this might be the only resource that they have, the only connection that they--living in East Podunk or wherever--have to the gay male leather community. But even for these guys, I'd be hard pressed to believe that was an issue. I bet that's not who you're hearing from. Why? Because in my experience in gay bars in small cities you're likely to find *everybody*. The gay men are over there by the pool table. The dykes are lined up along the bar. The fag hags are buying drinks for their gay male friends. The kooky het irregulars are everywhere in the mix. The bartender's mom is working the coat check. The leatherfolk of all orientations identify themselves by wearing vests or chaps or whatever and hang out in the back by the bathrooms or mix with the crowd. There's not a lot of room for separatism.

And, I think that if suddenly LN is besieged with requests for memberships by folks from every part of the continuum of sex and sexual orientation, then that would be a problem, and a hard and fast 'Gay Men Only' rule would have to be put in place. But I don't see autre spearheading that.

Anyway, I'm issuing no ultimatums. I'm not gonna cancel my membership or stage a protest at the IML party or anything. I realize that you guys are in this as a business, and not out of the goodness of your hearts, and that if there are a lot of men on LN who are threatening to cancel their memberships, then that's something you need to look at. But to the extent that you've got some leeway there, I hope I'll still be able to run into autre online.

Just my thoughts.


Tuesday, May 20, 2003

I probably spend too much time on here tooting my own horn (beneath the symphonies of self-deprecation, you can no doubt hear those brassy strains).

But, tonight I received this email from whippingboy.



This boy is not certain what pattern or design you were aiming for, but the quantitative analysis (ie the marks!) say the following:

-a fairly even distribution of marks in the region of the shoulders
-pattern is fairly well distributed from side to side
-pattern is mostly "criss-cross" indicating even distribution of "right-handed" and "left-handed" strokes
-there is a concentration of marks between the shoulder blades
-there is a slight predominance of "left-handed" strokes
-very few noticeable "strays," and none near my neck
-there's one between my shoulder blades which i'm hoping is a "keeper"

(Having not seen you work, i don't know if you use both hands, or not, so left-handed and right-handed strokes refer to the typical placement of each--Right-handed strokes tend to hit to the left, trailing right, and vice versa.)

So if you felt that your aim was wild, i would love to see what happens when you are dead on. =)

You are really good at aftercare--luxurious aftercare. And at being present in ways which are reassuring and heightening to the play. Like the words you choose. In draping the flogger or whip over my shoulders when you stepped away to....that gave me a chance to ground and connect with the whip in a different way, one that is important for me.

And a question: When you ask for the last ten count, where are you? (ie. what do you need/want from the bottom/me at that point) oops, two questions...And where do you perceive me to be? Is there anything it would be useful for me to tell you?

This boy certainly has good things to say about playing with you--and will report back to your "references" =) This boy was taught to check references for both compatability and safety...and would be more than happy (pleased! delighted!) to be able to be a reference for you. Seriously.

Blessings from the blessed,


As to the question about the Ten Count. I use that because it puts things into the bottom's hands. We could go on all night until you get around to saying "One, Sir," or, you could jump in with a "Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten, Sir."

Just tonight, Roman Cool stopped what he was doing, and said, "Should I stop, or do you want to go on?" I agonized. I questioned whether or not I could take any more. But I didn't want to seem like a loser. Roman Cool gave voice to these thoughts of mine, putting them in basically those words. That's when I said I'd give him three more.

What do I want and where am I? Well, essentially, I've gotten what I want. For me, the ten count just serves to increase the magnitude of the gift that I'm receiving. It's my guess that at the point when I present it, you're sort of feeling spent. (I could be wrong.) So it's encouragement. Basically saying, "We can go for as long as you want to go, and I want you to know that I am deeply grateful for where we do go from here."

There were several times when I got you pretty good, and you didn't advance the count. This is glorious.

Thanks so much for those kind words. I have nothing but praise for you, and nothing but a wonderful recollection of our time together.


I just spent a pretty intoxicating evening with Roman Cool. What an amazing man. I mean, I know lots of men who can tell stories about the Mineshaft, but when Roman Cool mentioned in an offhand way that he knew Robert Mapplethorp, I was plunged deeper into awe of the man.

And the play?

Best bondage ever! No, seriously. I was hooded, in a suspension harness, and tied down in every which way to Roman Cool's ladder-like frame. Basically, I could wiggle my toes and that's about it. Cool used a vibrator thingy on my nipples (that drove me nuts), and he electrocuted my balls some. Just as the testicular electrocution was building, I noticed that my arms were starting to hurt. A lot. A whole lot. My hands were in bondage mits, and my wrists were bound so that both of my palms were facing out in the small of my back, so my elbows were at right angles. There were ropes that were pulling my arms together wound tightly around my biceps, and there were also ropes that were pulling my arms apart attached to the bondage frame. So my arms were immobilized, and my muscles were tensed, and suddenly it was like I was trapped mid-bicep curl. It really really hurt.

But that, I guess, was the point.

Cool let me writhe in agony for a while. A long while. Then he said that he'd untie me. I breathed a sigh of relief. And then he said he'd be untying my arms last. Even after they were untied, they were still pretty sore. My deltoid muscles were as hard as billiard balls.

Once untied, we sat and drank water for a while. And I smoked a cigarette. I felt great. I said something like, "Gosh, Cool, this was really great." And he smiled at me and said, "I'm not done with you yet. Drink your water."

When I got tied back up to the bondage rack with my back facing the room, I kinda knew what was up. Somebody was gonna get whipped.

This made me verrrrry nervous. I've only been whipped once. And yes, it was great, but for weeks before hand (eight, if I recall), I was preparing myself mentally and physically for it. This was pretty much a surprise. And here's the other thing. I've seen Cool in action. We are talkin' severe. Among the most severe I've seen ever. Anywhere. I was definitely not up for that.

But Cool was... uh... cool. He warmed me up with the stingier tools in his amamentarium. Braided cats and quirts and such. So when I felt the whip falling across my back--no crack, just brushing, which still stings a lot--I was ready.

And I was really making some noise. That's one of my favorite parts of getting whipped. (I know. Listen to me, would ya? Mr. Whipping Bottom.) All my life I've had people tell me I have an awful singing voice and would I please shut up. But when I'm getting whipped, fuck yuz all. I'm gonna sing out.

Cool held back. A lot. A whole lot. I know I took more when I was whipped by ARt back in October. But like I said, I wasn't ready for this and I was pretty nervous. I did alright though. And Cool did a great job of moving me ever onward. He asked for three more. I said alright. He said, I'm gonna take four. When the four were done, I said I'd be good for three more. And in that batch, I let two count as one. Then, he said, I'm gonna take one more. I knew it was going to be a doozie. And it was.

Brief. No blood. But I do have a few good marks. Ought to get some attention at the gym tomorrow.

And speaking of the gym, it's a damn shame I'm not better at getting whipped than I am. Because I have a great back. Just now, here at home, studying the marks from Cool in the bathroom mirror, I got a hardon looking at my own back. It's so nicely defined.

And another development. I am pretty taken by Punchpig. I have no idea if he says these things to all his punchmeat candidates, but I am totally eating out of his hand. Beyond being very good at what he does, he looks to be a pretty amazing man. I'm really looking forward to meeting him.

And on that note, off to bed. To sleep on my belly.

Monday, May 19, 2003

Well that rocked.

Pup showed up on time. Pretty quickly, I had him chained up while we discussed limits. Then I started beating him. I used my really heavy elk skin flogger, my standard flogger, the handles of those floggers, my new polycarbonate night stick, and my Damascus gloved fists and open hands. Then I used hemp rope to bind him hand and foot, and beat him some more. Then, to beat the front of him, I restrainted him with hands behind his back, and bound him at thighs and ankles to my St. Andrew's Cross.

He took a beating well. This was kind of a departure for me. Usually, I just focus on flogging or singletails. But with this sweet pup, I wanted something more up close and personal. He took the beating so well that I concluded the scene by jerking him off while he was still bound to the cross. He shot buckets.

Alas, the sweet put is not black and blue. At all. Apparently he doesn't bruise all that much. Other than that, he's pretty flawless.

Speaking of beating, I heard from Punch Pig today. It seems we're on. Definitely to meet up, and if the energy is good... I'm pretty excited at the prospect. So if you see me idling down Christopher Street with a black eye and a fat lip, you'll know our meeting went well and things progressed apace.

Anyway. Sweet pup wore me out. (I really worked up a sweat. I've heard that boxing is a great workout.) Off to bed.

Beat the Puppy

Play date tonight. With a sweet puppy.

We had talked about doing a whipping scene. But the good vibes and bliss that filled me to overflowing from Saturday night with whippingboy abides, and I don't want to dilute that.

So I think I'm gonna focus on the fuscatory and beat the puppy. Beat him good. Yeah.

Haven't heard from him. Hope he hasn't forgotten.

I am a Prince Bottom!

Midori, during her presentation, described herself as sort of a militant Switch. Her Top stuff goes without saying. But when it came to bottoming, she described herself as a 'princess bottom': she wants you to do this specifically, and make it feel this way, and she knows you're good at it, and she can't get there herself.

Uh huh.

Like that.

About that 'nap' of mine. I just woke up. It's 7:00 a.m. That felt gooood. I think sleep is what I needed. So I've got some time to get stuff done before I meet up with Edge. Good. Pay bills, do some shopping, and who knows... maybe even vacuum.

I think I'll enter some of my notes from the various presentations I attended yesterday at TESFest yesterday. For your edification and delight.

  • A good slave is not necessarily someone who is sexually submissive, although often this is the case. Rather, a slave is someone who feels that he has a lot to offer in terms of service, but feels that he needs to be managed.
  • What makes a slave happy is to be given the opportunity to provide good service. Any slave will shine if just given the opportunity.
  • At the outset, there is usually wide disconnect between what the slave candidate envisions as being his role (e.g., "I will be providing sexual service to my hot Master!") and what the Master envisions ("I will have my boots shined, the dishes, washed, and the bed made by my slave, and I'll get my coffee brought to me in bed at 7:00 a.m. sharp every morning without fail."). Therefore, the first task at had is exhaustive and concise role definition, as roles must be mutually understood.
  • A social contract is a weak thing. A written contract is stronger, even if it is revised regularly. Writing it down means that you care. Signing your name to it means that you really care.
  • Most slaves surveyed say that what they really are seeking is security. So, they need to know that this isn't going to go away. A contract that makes the slave insecure (e.g., where abandonment of the slave is the punishment for nearly every infraction) won't work. Rather, deal with punishment by indicating that "I won't abandon you, but there will be consequences."
  • The scope of the Master's authority needs to be defined. The slave is not and should not be an automaton, and it is unrealistic to think that the Master will be controlling of every aspect of the slave's life.
  • A slave has every right to question an order, but never his obligation to obey.
  • It is verrrrrry difficult to get information out of someone who is submissive. They want to put a good face on things, and not trouble you, and want you to think well of them. Therefore, a Master needs to be patient and painstaking in getting information from the slave.
  • Before preparing a contract, both the Master and slave should independently prepare a Statement of Desires. This will serve as the basis for negotiation of the slave contract.
  • The Master should prepare a Household Policies and Procedures Manual. (Jack's runs to 18 pages long.) This enables the slave to know what is expected of him to do a good job. For example, does 'Do the laundry' mean that every time a pair of socks is used by the Master that it should be washed and returned to the sock drawer immediately, or is once a week sufficient?
  • Initially, make contracts binding for a short period, say two or three months. Then, at the end of the contract period, both parties can renew as is, make some changes, or walk away honorably.
  • In the contract, be clear about what's a dealbreaker and what's a problem to be resolved.
  • With a new slave, Jack does an exercise he calls 'Find the Master.' He will blindfold the new slave, and put him or her in the middle of a large room. Then, he'll wander around until he's some distance from the slave. He'll give the order, "Find your Master." A true slave will instantly take on a look of anxiety as he searches blindly for the Master. A slave needs to know where the Master is. After the slave is unable to find the Master, Jack approaches, and clips a long leash (20 feet or so, used for leading horses) onto the slave's collar. Again he gives the order, 'Find your Master. Follow your leash.' This time, with less or no anxiety, the slave will follow the leash and find the Master. Note to Masters: Always let your slave know where you are, or the slave will be anxious. Anxiety is poison to a relationship.
  • Don't set the slave up to fail.
  • Don't trivialize your own orders. Give only as many orders as you will be able to explicitly follow up on with the slave.
  • Slavery is not 'no control or choice,' slavery is 'limited control and choice,' but a slave should always be given some circumscribed autonomy.
  • In the military, there are three levels of service: "Attend Me," means pay close attention to me, making sure that all my needs are met at all times, and anticipating what those needs will be; "Accompany Me," means follow basic protocol--opening doors and carrying bags and such--but I'm not going to be high maintenance right now; and "Wait" means be where I can find you, but wander around and go to the bathroom if you want.
  • It's fine for a Master to love and respect a slave, but if a Master is 'in love' with a slave, then that's a problem. For a slave to be 'in love' with a Master is equally problematic.

Sunday, May 18, 2003

Jiminy Crickets. Have I really not blogged all weekend?

And what a weekend it's been.

Softball on Saturday. We played a double header, but with a surfeit of players, I sat on the bench for the second game. We played the Vikings. They were the team to beat for us last year. It seems that there's some animosity from the Vikings directed towards the Ballbreakers. One of my temamates heard one of the Vike's comment that "I can't believe we're losing to these old guys." Word of that spread quickly. But beat them we did, 13-3. I had three at bats. We're talkin' two ribbies, once I made it across home plate, and once I was out at first. My hitting is really coming together. I just wish my fielding was there.

I don't have much confidence in my fielding skills. So much of softball is psychology. For example, while we warming up, I had a game of catch with my coach. I was bobbling and dropping left and right. I could not get it together. And, every time I threw the ball to him, it was too low, barely reaching him. Then, I switched partners. To Alabam', as luck would have it. Alabam' has a really strong arm. He really throws the ball hard. I did fine. Only twice that I recall did I not manage to catch the ball.

In our second game against the Vikings, there was that old ballbreakers drama. For the first two innings, it was zip-zip. Then, one of our guys got a home run. Then in the next inning, they got three runners past home. Then we were dogs for an inning, nobody scoring, and then we tied it up. The tie meant an extra inning as we hadn't hit time yet. Alas, no one scored, so it was a tie. Which means that we're still undefeated, although we didn't quite win four out of four either.

Then came Saturday night. My appointment with whippingboy. It was sublime. My boots look great. I think the scene went pretty well. At least whippingboy reported that she had a good time. My perception was that my aim was pretty wild, but other than one that whippingboy felt caught her pretty high, she said she didn't notice. After we went through the final ten count that ended the action portion of the evening, I wrapped whippingpoint in a blanket (gotta look into how much a piece of large cowhide costs!) and she watched, smiling, as I took some Pecard to my whips and rebraided the ropes that I had used.

I really like the restraint method that I used. In the past, I've tried to get all kinds of complicated with roping the bottom's legs to my St. Andrew's Cross. This time, thinking purely of aesthetics, I just wound two longer pieces of rope around whippingboy's thighs, and she had her wrists restrained in front of her, embracing the cross. It provided enough movement, but not too much. And the simplicity worked well.

We were both famished, so I took us to Florent for a late late late dinner. Amazing how the meat packing district is now the province of drunken heterosexuals. Not a homo in sight.

Alas, I was busy on Friday night, and pooped after softball on Saturday, so I missed TESFest on both days. Today was my presentation. Even though it meant I only got five hours of sleep, I got up, said goodbye and godspeed to kit, and headed for the full day of TESFest.

Very glad I did. Jack McGeorge did a great presentation on Dominant-submissive, Master-slave relationships. Is there anything that man doesn't know? The presentation was excellent. I took copious notes.

Next came my presentation on the uses of ritual in S/M. I was a wee bit disheartened by the turnout. Jack's room was just about SRO. I had eight or nine people. But, as I went on at 12:30, and it was a full day of back-to-back workshops, and as Master of Mirage was doing a presentation on long whips downstairs at the same time, I decided that most folks were either communing with the whip (can't blame them there) or out having lunch.

But it was a good workshop, if I do say so myself. The most interesting moment for me came in the Q&A following my presentation. One guy described how he tried to gently introduce elements of S/M into a vanilla relationship. Lighting candles and incense and the like. His girlfriend was not into it at all. She insisted that sex should be spontaneous. Huh. Something clicked. I ventured to opine that in a way, that's what differentiates S/M from vanilla: all S/M is in some way ritualistic. There are roles, to some degree it's always planned before hand, it's contrived in some way, and (criteria I discussed at length), at some level it's absurd.

Could 'Ritualistic Sex' be a better term for what we're all doing?

After my presentation, I caught Fetish Diva Midori doing a presentation on Percussion Play. Can you say 'Amazing?' I had never seen Midori present before. Oh. My. God. She is fantastic. Not only was the presentation informative, but it was soooooo hot. Just great. I wanna beat some man. Soon. Preferably now.

Finally, there was a presentation on the building blocks of a Master/slave relationship. It was really good. Interestingly, I would say that the pansexual world does a better job at maintaining Master/slave relationships than do gay men. I mean, evvvvr'ybody has a slave. Really. Masters and Mistresses and slaves were all over the place. Most of the room for Jack's presentation and for the building blocks presentation was filled with folks in Master/slave relationships.

Wonder why that is? Mebbe it's just that gay men don't find relationships as natural (gross overgeneralization, I realize) as heterosexuals and lesbians do, regardless of what form that relationship takes.

Not that I think that's a bad thing.

After TESfest wound down, my plan was to get home quickly and take a nap. However, I was waylaid by running into Unfortunate One on Christopher Street. I was kinda hungry. He was kinda hungry. We went to Hudson Corner and took care of that.

Now I'm home. I've blogged. I'm going to nap. I'm thinking of nothing save nap time. Perhaps, if I wake up and it's not too too late, I'll venture back across the river and stop in at the Spiegel.

Perhaps not. Tomorrow, Edge and I are meeting up. We're gonna hang, I'm gonna help him donate a St. Andrew's Cross of his to Leather Pride Night, and then we're gonna discuss some improvements to the humble Singletails. Among other things, Edge seems to be quite the accomplished web page designer.

Anyway. I'm off to fall into the arms of Morpheus.

Thursday, May 15, 2003

Huh. Whaddya know. Developments.

Last night was the GMSMA program presented by members of our TNG (The Next Generation, for men into or exploring S/M who are age 19-35.) I sort of thought it would be a dog, but it wasn't. Gumball for the mind that I'm rolling around in my head still: all of those guys up on stage have never know a world without AIDS in all the time that they've been sexually active. I had a small window of oblivion. It was 1984 or so when I first heard about a disease worse than herpes that you got from gay men from New York. (I was living in Bucks County then.)

Afterwards, I was on my way home when I stopped in at Ty's. I forgot that Wednesdays is the night that Ty's has fundraisers of sorts in the form of a fifty-fifty raffle for our softball team. I bought an arms length, and ended up winning a Ty's tshirt. And then there was the drawing for half the proceeds, and who emerges from the shadows to claim the prize but that hot new guy on our team, whom we shall call Alabam'. So we started talking. He said he thought I was All That. I said I thought he was All That too. Then he asked me about this S/M stuff.

I always feel like suddenly I'm explaining sex to a class of third graders when I'm in this situation. I wish I had thought of the S/M is to Sex as Extreme Sports is to Golf analogy, but I didn't. Alabam' stated he had long had an abiding desire and interest, but hadn't done too much about it. So I must have said something right.

So we talked and talked and talked. He's an artist. He paints. He grew up in a very conservative family in the South who disowned him when they learned he was HIV positive. He's been in NYC for four years. And we talked and we talked and we talked.

Then he asked for a ride home. I was only too happy to oblige. Then he suggested I stop up for a bit. I was only too happy to accept his hospitality.

(cut now to waves crashing against a shore while violins swell.)

Well that was a pleasant evening.

I'm wondering though if this will complicate things on the softball team. A buddy of mine is very very clearly hot for Alabam'. So much so that he lapses into a deep southern accent whenever Alabam' is near. Will there be bitterness and viciousness? Will that Balllbreakers bonhommie founder on the shoals of sexual tension?

Singletails is starting to get interesting, huh?

And more good news. I have a date on Saturday night for a seriously experienced whipping bottom. This boy was in NYC for the GMSMA meeting on cutting and bloodsports two weeks ago. We met briefly at the meeting. The energy was very good. On my part anyway, and I assume on his, as he asked to meet when he'll be in NYC this weekend. The last several men I've whipped have been first-timers. This is a wonderful experience in itself, but not without some anxiety. Can't wait.

Life is good. Even when it's not.

Wednesday, May 14, 2003

I'm going down, down, down, down... (Bruce Springsteen)

I notice a trend, and I gotta ask myself, what's up with that?

The trend? On Tuesday I'm meeting up with Roman Cool. He's gonna tie me up, and it's gonna hurt. Current President informs me that a certain SF-based World Renowned Whipsman read my article in GMSMA's Newslink, loved it, and wants a date. And I say, "Hell, yes." I get all hot and bothered discussing an upcoming GMSMA program on face punching, and send a 'would-you-could-you-will-you' email to the presenter. For my trip out to Chicago next week, I reached out to a guy I know in Toledo who plays with knives (Note to Uninitiated: This is different from 'running with scissors,' which you should never do. I'm hoping that this Dreamboat will spill some of my blood. And whilst visiting Chicago, I may very well be spending some time with a dog training Top I've been in touch with these past many months.

You get my drift? Is Singletails being transformed into "Diary of a Pain Pig Bottom Boy?"

I don't think so. Here's why.

Last year, at the GMSMA Board Retreat in July, I had a conversation with two fellow Board members about Inferno. One said that a big reason he looks forward to Inferno was a chance to bottom. Otherwise, he's exclusively a Top, and flies all over the country doing presentations about his particular skills and predilections. "Nah," I said, "Not for me. I'm a lousy bottom. I don't enjoy it. I get all kinds of childish and manipulative and angry. I do my best to undermine what the Top is trying to do."

And, largely, I was speaking the truth.

And then, ARt whipped me. Again, I did this as a 'learning experience.' And it was great. One of the peak experiences of my life. And then in December, while I was visiting Seattle, I spent a night in Aubrey Sparks' cage. And it was amazing. And at MAL this year, I spent some time in the custody and control of Sweetheart Sir. Which had its moments, too.

The life lesson learned was, I can do it.

But the question still remains, why do I seem to be seeking this out lately?

Now, I'm not going out and flagging right. (Not that there's anywhere to go in NYC lately where that would be understood.) But I am being open to... okay, seeking out scenes where I go down. Where I'm the bottom.

I'm continuing to Top. While I'm in Chicago, I am really really hoping that I'll be able to spend some time working on the back of my host, an amazing man who had my cock dripping with desire from the minute I laid eyes on him. I had a wonderful time with Blackbird, and I'm looking forward to a repeat. There are several men who read my Newslink piece and who want a taste of what I describe that I'm looking forward to meeting with. And I'm continuing to trawl the waters of the internet for whipping bottoms.

Here's what I think this is about. My life is majorly in transition with the move to Pennsylvania. It's my intention to become a writer, but I'm constantly backtracking from this. Last night, while walking my dog, a thought popped into my head: "The worst thing that could happen is that I write this book, send it to first one publisher, then another, then another, then another... and get rejected. That would devastate me." And it would. A few years after I was graduated from college, I sent a portfolio of my poetry to the M.F.A. in Creative Writing program at Temple University. I was rejected. I stopped writing poetry right then and there. I enjoy writing (as must be evident to Singletails readers... blah blah blah blah blah. If there was an award given for most prolific blog, I think Singletails would be in the running), and I would hate like hell to give it up. And, like Odysseus going to Hades and visiting with the dead and buried souls he finds there, I'm re-entering a relationship with my parents, a realm filled with shadows and demons I fled long ago.

I'm afraid. I'm very afraid.

I don't admit this. I put on a brave face. "Yeah, everything's great. Bucks County is beautiful. I've been thinking of getting out of NYC for the past few years. I'll still be able to get back to the city as much as I need to. There's a front yard for a garden and a back yard for my dog."

And all this is true, but I'm afraid.

I need strength. I need to be strong. I need to find strength within myself.

That's what I'm looking for. I'm thinking of the great piece that Diabolique wrote in Newslink on his Porcupine experience. Qu'est que c'est Porcupine? Diabolique was restrained between two poles of a jungle gym at his wrists. The Top threw a fishnet over his head. The kind used to catch bait. Then, the Top proceeded to place clothespins on all those sensitive parts of Diabolique's body, positioned in such a way so that each one pinched some fibers of the fishnet along with Diabolique's flesh. When all of the clothespins ((as in, hundreds of them) were in place, the Top gave a yank, and off came all the clothespins. Do this with a piece of string and a few--say maybe ten--clothespins. Yow! That smarts, huh? Now imagine it all over your body. Diabolique describes the experience as transcendent. I've heard him describe Porcupine several times, and I've read over his account in Newslink more times than I can count.

There's a subtext that perhaps Diabolique himself isn't aware of. There's a sense of "Holy Fucking Shit Look What I Did!" And this is entirely valid. And after ARt whipped me, when I was whipping off my shirt at the least provocation, I had the same thrill. "Holy Fucking Shit Look What I Did."

Therein is one of the great paradoxes of S/M: Being a Top is very humbling ("What is there in me--just a guy--that is capable of bringing about this response), and being a bottom is very empowering ("Holy Fucking Shit Look What I Did.")

Being a Top is humbling; being a bottom is empowering.

And now, I need power.

Tie me up and make it hurt, so that I'm crying from the pain. Beat my face till it's bloody and bruised. Strip away my humanity and reduce me to my animal self. Whip my back until I'm screaming. Render me powerless, and carve into me with knives. Because I'm in your strong and capable hands, I'll emerge intact. And although I'm grateful for your ministrations that will help me on that journey, ultimatley it's me making the journey, and getting me through that Dark Night of the Soul. I will dig deep within myself to find the resources to sustain me. And once I find those sacred springs, I'll know the way back there always.

So then, let the world scorn my writing as derivative drivvel, let my Father tell me that I'm a disappointment to him, let me end up bussing tables in some New Hope tourist restaurant.

It won't matter. I'll know who I am and what I'm capable of. Because holy fucking shit, look what I did.

Yo. Meathead...

This is from the preface of the body-building book I bought a little while ago, The Insider's Tell-All Handbook on Weight-Training Technique...

"Use this instruction manual like a workbook, e.g., highlight parts you want to stand out, and make notes in the margins. But only do this if the book is yours. If you borrowed this copy, order your own from the publisher."

Got that?

I guess that explains all the people who don't put their weights away at the gym. Anyone who needs the basics pointed out to them...

Tuesday, May 13, 2003

Thank you, Edge. Thank you thank you thank you thank you.

A while ago (in the pre-blog days in fact) a friend of mine sent me the url for Obscene Interiors. Lost it, and haven't been able to find them again. But Edge knows. Basically, it's two All That interior designers who critique the decor in stills from porn movies. Trust me. You'll be looking at your living space in a whole new way. Go there now.

See... this is why I love GMSMA.

Last night, I went to a meeting of the Program Committee. Turn out was low, it was me, boybill, and the chair of the committee. We discussed the upcoming program being conducted by GMSMA's TNG group (TNG = The Next Generation, a sort of safe space for gay men aged 35 and younger within GMSMA). There wasn't much to discuss, as they've been given free rein to do the program. Looking forward to it. And, we talked about the June 25th program. It's on punching. The conversation that gave rise to it was my idea that so much of S/M play is a grown up version of games that we played as kids, although the kids games were covertly erotically charged, but the grown up versions are explicitly erotically charged. And of course the consummate game that boys play is "C'mon. Hit me. C'mon. Throw a punch. You call that hard? C'mon. Punch me. Punch me harder."

So it's looking like the program will be co-presented by two men. One is an affable guy who was responsible for doing Brawler's Fight Club here in NYC. And the second presenter is a guy... I hesitate to use his real name... he's pretty well known, and in such cases, I usually use real names here on Singletails, but I think I'll hold back and anonymize him... we'll call him Punch... who has a very particular scene: Face punching. Complete with black eyes and bloody lips.

Get it? He ties his bottoms in a chair (he refers to his bottom as 'punchmeat'), and proceeds to punch them in the face until they are bloody and bruised.

One of the men in attendance last night was worried about letting Punch do a demo. "It's so extreme... Your face is your persona that you present to the world... it's not like whip marks on the back... this is your face..." I disagreed. It's not extreme, it's S/M: it's safe, sane, and consensual. Punch gives the gestalt of tying a man in a chair and beating him bloody, but does it in a controlled and responsible way. I also reminded the objector to the issues that came up for me around the verbal abuse program that we did several months ago. Going into it, I was pretty uneasy. I had once witnessed a verbal abuse scene at the LURE that I found really unsettling. The Top was sitting on a barstool and had his boy on his knees at his feet.

It went like this...

"You're a piece of shit, aren't you?"
"Yes, Sir. I am a piece of shit."
"That's right. You're a worthless piece of shit."
"Yes, Sir. I'm a worthless piece of shit."

I wanted to intervene, to approach the Top, whom I outweighed by about 40 pounds and had about 20 years on, grab him and say, "Fuck you!"

As we discussed my misgivings in the Program Committee, it was pointed out to me that I saw a portion of the scene. There was probably negotiation beforehand, and aftercare in the wake of the scene. With that insight, I started to get into it, and ended up being one of the presenters for the program. But the story wasn't over. One of the demos I was scheduled to do was an attention grabbing (we hoped) seeminly spontaneous scene at the beginning of the evening, involving me berating a guy coming into the meeting based on what he was wearing. He was going to dress schleppy.

And I couldn't do it. It took me a while to figure out why. The reason was that for seven years, my Ex would not infrequently be yelling at me for how I was dressed. I had those voices in my head, and I couldn't make them come out of my mouth. We switched topics--instead I was berating the guy for having been slutty and provacative at an earlier GMSMA meeting--and it went off beautifully.

But anyway (oh. sorry. I digress ), I suggested that the objector perhaps needed to work through some issues he had here.

And, not only did I think that we absolutely should do a face punching demo, but if Punch wanted a bottom, I would be available.

Yup. I said that.

I find the idea really really hot. Very hot. Why? I don't particularly want to get my face beat to a bloody pulp, but I sense that that would be incredibly intimate. And the idea of having bruises and cuts for the next several days ("Geez! What happened to you? Were you in a fight?") gets my juices flowing too. I mean, that's butch, right?

Sort of like whipping. A lot like whipping. Especially since ARt whipped me, I see bottoming to a whipping scene as being a glorious thing. It's apotheosis, dying and becoming a god. Coming through the fire. Transcending the pain and soaring. Finding a warrior strength deep deep within, like iron that is made harder in the forge.

"Yeah. I got my lights punched out. It was pretty cool. What about it?"

I think I'll see about getting in touch with Punch.

But anyway, that was the Program Committee meeting. Three men, sitting in an apartment. Talking about what all this means. It was just beautiful. I love that.

Edge's 100 Bloggers campaign is taking off. Here are my two favs so far: girlfag and Red Devil Wolf. Girlfag and I have had an email correspondence going back several months. Her emails to me concerning my blogging were essentially exactly what I wanted to hear. She picked up on all the points that I struggle to make, and told me that she had been moved to tears by something I wrote. Whenever I discuss whipping, I have girlfag in mind as the person I'm writing to. And Red Devil Wolf is none other than Sweetheart Sir, familiar to careful readers of Singletails. He is wildly dissatisfied with the nom de plume I've given him here in Singletails, as 'sweetheart' is not quite what he wants to project. But he is. He's a conscientious and skilled Top in SF who does some of the most amazing bondage work I've seen. And, he's always offered me encouragement and support. In my book (or, in my blog at any rate), he's a sweetheart.

Yes! Months in the making, I have a play date scheduled with Roman Cool! Next Tuesday at 8:30 pm. This is really good news. Sort of happened on the fly: How about?-Could work.-Sounds good here.-Okay let's do it. So now I need to get myself psyched up for it. No mean feat. Read about it here as things progress.

Don't know if I mentioned here, but Roman Cool was the man that sold me my first whip. He was pointed out to me years ago, along the lines of, "Do you know who that is???!!!" I've seen him play at Inferno and some other places. He has this kind of sweet, distracted, almost fussy manner that turns on a dime into a dark and intense sadism. As in Very Dark. Very Intense. Call me nervous.

Monday, May 12, 2003

This dream I had

I'll have lots to talk about in therapy tomorrow...

The other character in the dream was my Ex. We were together. There was no acrimony. He wasn't being a pill or pissy. (Usually, when he shows up in my dreams, he's angry at me.)

In the dream, we heard about a house that had been buried by the sands at the beach. We set off to find a way into it. Under a flight of stairs at the board walk, we found a tunnel through the sand. We dug when we reached another stairway, the top of which was buried, and found a door. Inside the door was a pretty well preserved house, dating probably from the 1920s or '30s. We had his dog, Grace, with us. We spent time exploring the house. The electric seemed to be still connected, as we were able to turn on the lights. We realized that it was time to get back, found our way to the door through which we had entered. The tunnel we had used was now filled up with sea water from the rising tide. We would have to swim for it. The problem was Grace. Could Grace hold her breath under water? He swam through first, leaving me with Grace. I was afraid... I had no problem calming her and going into the water with her, and I'm a strong swimmer and I'd be able to make it, but what if she drowned before I could surface under the boardwalk? My Ex would be really really pissed. (Okay, so I guess he was angry with me, or potentially so, in this dream, too.) The dream wasn't resolved. I woke up.

Now what does that mean?

The dream brings to mind Adrienne Rich's poem, Diving Into the Wreck (which I believe was a Singletails selection for National Poetry Month). The poem literally describes going down down down into a submerged ship, in search of treasure. But it describes any process--such as a feminist reading of history, which is what Adrienne was probably thinking of--of delving into the past and trying to uncover things that had been buried. My therapist contends that when you dream of a house, you're dreaming about a relationship you're in. This holds true. Once while I was still with my Ex, I had a dream that we were visiting a pretty fabulous modernist house. Which was located in Antarctica. And which was built on a platform overlooking a lava filled crater. Pretty apt description of our relationship: looked great, located in a frozen zone, teetering on a precipice of deep and primal anger. Yup. That's what it was like.

So now, as I'm starting This Big Next Chapter Of My Life, I'm dreaming about diving down into the wreck of that seven year relationship I had, and examining things long buried. And there's risk involved: I may not be able to emerge from this examination with everything I care about intact.


Today is the first day of the rest of your life!

It's monday. I'm home. Not home sick. Just home. I have a tentative play date for some piggy bondage at 3pm. Need to call and confirm that. Not sure what I'll be able to cross off my To Do list today.

Spent the morning making an Excel spreadsheet of all the men to whom I've said, "We should get together and play sometime" but haven't been able to as work days are long, and weekends are short.

And here's big news. I may go to IML. Well, sort of. I may go to Chicago for Memorial Day Weekend might be a better way of putting it. Whilst there, I'll spend time at the Chicago Hellfire Club clubhouse, perhaps go to the Leather Navigator party, and meet up with a Top who has me fascinated. I could get airfare for $220. I might drive. $220 would probably give me nights in a hotel on the way out and back (or in the alternative, I know a guy in Toledo who plays with knives...) and the gas I would need. Perhaps a nice long road trip to clear my head would be a good thing. Driving would also give me some flexibility, too. Wonder if I could get Baron von Philadelphia to stay here while I'm gone, saving some money on boarding my dog. (I think I can talk the Baron down to $25/day, rather than the $35 a day I pay to Pet People. Too, there's not much doing with GMSMA, and I won't have to miss a softball game.

That does mean that I won't be making a trip down to Fort Lauderdale that weekend. Alas. My Brother somehow weedled his way into my driving trip down to Fort Lauderdale. Well, not really. My sister and I were very close, and my brother and I were less so. When my sister died, I think my brother and I both felt a need to get to know each other better, and to get closer. So that's all good, right?

Well, kind of. Y'see, my brother is sort of an Ex-Gay. No, he didn't have a religious conversion or anything, and didn't go through de-programming that I know of. He came out when he was 19 or 20. He was never particularly successful as a gay man. He was sort of dorky. He only had one boyfriend, and that guy was a drug-addled young man that my brother supported. (While living in the house next to my parents that I'll be moving into, now that I think of it.) When he was 35, he met a woman at church who sang in the choir. He was master of the acolytes. The woman was really sorry to hear that my brother was gay, because she thought that he was all that. They became friends, spent a lot of time together, fell in love, and got married.

Now, I don't know quite what to think about what my brother thinks about me being gay. I mean, he's never said anything. (Although he did mention once that my softball team was 'just a bunch of fairies anyway,' which pissed me off. But I have no idea how he would feel about me getting leathered up and going to the Eagle if we were in Fort Lauderdale together.

And I think I would want to forgo that, anyway. I mean, it's not like I'd be able to bring some hot boy home at 2 in the morning and whip him. There are no longer any walls in the FTL digs. "Just pretend you're asleep, David..."

No, I'd like to make that trip down to Fort Lauderdale with my brother, and spend time with him, and go to the beach, and get the place painted, and all of that. But, not yet. In a little while.

Memorial Day Weekend would be ideal for him, as he wouldn't have to take that much time off work. And I think I was looking at that as a good weekend to drive to Florida as everybody I'd be interested in meeting up with would be in Chicago for IML. So there would be less... distraction.

Eh. It'll work out.

But I think I'll go to IML.

Sunday, May 11, 2003

Something I just said to my dog

"You are a snuggle boy, aren't you? But you're a closet snuggle boy, huh? You are a closet snuggle boy. But that's okay. I won't tell. You can be snuggle boy when I'm around, and I won't tell. I won't let anybody know that you're not always Fierce And Mighty Wolf Boy. Okay, Snuggle Boy?"

I think I just revealed more about myself in this wee posting than I have in an entire year of digging deep within myself and blogging about it.

Or not.

Blackbird--the name I'll give to the young man I whipped this evening--just left. Why Blackbird? Because he's something of a fledgling (to the extent that you can be a fledgling after you've been whipped), and because he described that phenomenon that Wallace Stevens described so well in 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird:

I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

I wrote a blog on a similar theme months ago, thinking of this poem. Three blackbirds, each one singing its own song.

It was a great evening. Got off to a rocky start, thoubh. My fault. I got home from softball at 5pm. Blackbird and I had arranged to meet at Factory Cafe at 8pm. So I had three hours. I decided to spend one of those hours taking a nap (so I'd be fresh), one hour straightening up the dungeon/den, and that would give me an hour to walk the dog, head into the city, and get back here. I set the timer on the stove (the kitchen is right around the corner from my bed) for an hour, and dropped off into the Arms of Morpheus. And woke up at 8:23 pm. It seems that I had put an hour on the oven timer, not the timer. There was a message from him on my cell phone ("...I was late, I guess I missed you..."). I called and caught him when he was on his way home. He doubled back, and found his way to the Humble Abode in Jersey City.

He's a beautiful boy, and he has a back that was made for whipping. It reddens up beautifully, his skin is alabaster, and he has a few well placed moles.

I started out with flogging. My first approach was my doe skin flogger. It's soft, and very thuddy. Interestingly, he didn't respond very well. My read on him was that he wasn't getting into it, either because the sensation was too intense, or because he was nervous, or whatever. When I would really let him have it, the response was more along the lines of "Ow!" than "Oh yeah!" I switched to my Uber-stingy kangaroo flogger with the many many think tails. That went less well. And so I switched to the standard cow skin, and then stepped up to my braided cat. I told him that this was the 'last stop' before singletails, I was using it because it comes close in some respects. He seemed to be letting himself get into it more. Finally, he said that before the night was over, he wanted to feel the whip at least once.

I explained that I can throw the whip hard or soft. I proposed that he give me three. He would count the three. If he wanted to count onetwothree! that would be fine. But he only needed to count the ones that he wanted to count.

I gave several very soft throws, and we got to 'one.' He wanted to know what a hard one was like. I began cracking the whip just over his back. I connected a few times, and that got us to 'two.' At this point, he had a few really nice marks coming up. He told me that he wanted one really really good one for the last one. I said fine. This brought about what I think was the best moment of the scene. I was throwing the whip--softly, a little harder, a little harder, a little harder--but because it wasn't The Really Really Good One, he wasn't saying anything. Harder, harder, harder... finally, I let him have it. Bullseye. Right between the shoulder blades. 'Three.'

He took more than he thought he could, and that was good. I got the distinct impression--especially during the initial flogging--that he was holding back, not letting himself go, not allowing himself to just drop off into the scene. Fearful of leaving the nest so he could spread his magnificent wings and fly. Like a baby blackbird. The final portion of whipping got him to flap his wings a little, and maybe (I hope) leave the ground, if only for a moment.

Then aftercare. First him. Although he insisted he didn't need all that much, and in truth he didn't. So I opted for Top aftercare, and told him to give me a massage. And he did. That felt good.

We shall meet again.

P.S.: 'Morning, Edge!

Just asking...

Why is it that more often than not, pics that men post of themselves online are shot in a bathroom? Do they covertly wish to convey that they're into scat or water sports? Do they want to give the impression that they're far too modest to take pictures of themselves naked, but gosh whaddyaknow, a buddy of mine snapped this as I was getting out of the shower? Is the bathroom the only place where we're really comfortable being naked? Does proximity to a mirror to check the hair and see if the twenty pushups they just did are creating the desired effect? Is it the anonymity, given that all bathrooms pretty much look alike, so no one will reject them based on their taste in interior design? (I'll admit to having done that. "Whip you? With that window treatment? Not likely, Pal.")

Why bathrooms?

Softball went well. We played two games. For the first game, the other team (the Diablos) had trouble getting out of bed and so half of them weren't there, and the refs were late. So, they forfeited. But we decided to play a scrimmage, and the Ballbreakers won handily. I had two good at bats, getting on base each time, and once bringing in a point by managing to cross first base.

Then, I watched in horror as the Hellcats played the team we had just beat. The 'Cats were really really good. I don't think the Diablos scored more than a run or two. Then we were up against the Hellcats, who gave us a lot of trouble last year.

Omigod did we play well. Some amazing plays, including a neat double play. Defense was there, and our bats were hot. And again, they had a great team. They had a couple of triples and at least one home run that I recall. I had two at bats, and got on base each time. And, I did a great outrunning-the-ball-to-the-base again. The consensus of my team is, if I get the ball in play--and that's happening more often than not so far this season--then I get on base, because I'm really really fast.

Saturday, May 10, 2003

Interesting development. It's not just me. severus has done the same dirty deal with Roman Cool and Master Lou.

Letter to severus

So what happened? I guess the answer is obvious. You're a flake. Which surprises me. You sounded fairly genuine on the phone. That's one reason I'm surprised. The other reason is admittedly a failure of imagination on my part: I can't imagine what it's like to be you.

Because I can't imagine how you can do this and still feel good about yourself. Maybe you have what you think is a good reason for putting yourself out there, making promises and agreements that you know you will not keep. Like you've got some disability, or you're married and closeted, or you're very very afraid.

I'm going to go out on a limb: you're wasting your life. You're not being honest with yourself, and what you want, and where your heart is. It doesn't have to be that way. I hope you don't let too many years go by before you make some changes. Or else you'll look back and have nothing but phone numbers and jpegs and frustration and emptiness, and nothing in the way of connection and love and friendship that you could have had. That's no way to live life.

Here on the other side, it's really good. It's a world of men who care deeply about one another, who take care of each other, who hold each other in their hearts. I have found men who approach each other clothed only in their deepest, most heartfelt desires, making themselves vulnerable, showing that part of themselves that the world never sees, a golden, beautiful, true, and primal part of themselves. And what they find when they do this is that they sprout angels wings and get to soar.

I'm using pretty high-fallutin' language to try and grasp this, but that's only because it is so very beautiful, and the beauty of it exceeds my abilities to put it into words.

Tomorrow, I'm going to meet up with a young man of 18 years of age. Given his age, he's at the beginning of his journey. But in another respect, he's pretty far along the way. Because he is who he is.

We will meet, and talk. I'll ask him what he's hoping for, and what he wants. I'll ask him about his fears, and we'll discuss them. I'll be careful not to dismiss them, because they're important. When you fear something, that means that you have a lesson to learn there, and I don't want the lesson to be lost.

Then, we'll get in my car, and we'll drive through the Holland Tunnel to where I live in Jersey City. We'll be doing a scene that's not much different from what you and I talked about. Although, because he's never been whipped before, I'll proceed very slowly, and take special care. I recognize that I'm representing Everyman in this scene. His experience with me will color all of his subsequent experiences. And so I want it to be really really good. I want him to fly. I want him to taste joy and ecstasy. I want him to want more, and to see what he wants as being a good thing, not something shameful or self-destructive.

And afterwards, I'll take care of him. In a sense, he'll be mine forever. My responsibility. It's a big thing to take on, like having a child. He may need a little care, or a lot of care, but I'll do everything I can to make sure I deliver.

What do I get out of it? I see myself as being entirely self-serving. I like taking a man and making him helpless, taking away his power, and then causing him pain. It gets my dick really hard to hear him singing his birthday song (as Bruce Springsteen put it so well ), offering up his back to my pleasure. It's a gift. But with every great gift comes great responsibility. You wanna dance, then you gotta pay the piper. But the payment in this case is something I get a great deal of satisfaction from, as well.

Again, you're going about living your life in the wrong way. And it doesn't have to be that way.

Friday, May 09, 2003

Or not. Upon reviewing the invitation, I see that the reception runs from 4pm to 9pm. Thus, Baron is there now, and I have no way of getting in touch with him, and there's no way I could get down there before 9pm, at which time he'll be off carousing. So, another time.

Y'know, I have nothing to complain about. I doing bdsm stuff on Sunday (verrrry hot boy), Monday (fun things with rope with a musclebear I've been keen on for about a year), and Wednesday (a bee yoo ti ful and experienced player).

Life is very good.

Another interesting thought occurred to me on the Bucks County move. I'll be living next door to my parents. My step mother (87) has congestive heart failure, and quite possibly will not live to see me move in. My father has arthritis and a host of mobility issues. And beyond that, my diagnosis would be chronic depression. He does less and less and less and less. With every passing day. At this point, he's doing little to resist the maelstrom of despair he's being pulled into.

And I'm going to take care of them. I can try to disguise that fact by talking about boundaries and such, but basically, that's what it amounts to. I'm going to take care of them.

And banish from your thoughts a cheery, rosy-cheeked me surprising them with a yummy snack served up with fresh cut flowers in a bud vase gracing the tray. No. We're talkin frustration and aggravation and a host of insoluble problems. Problems that run way deep.

But here's the thing. I have never had children. And, chances are I will never have children. Having children is a sacrifice. Such a sacrifice. For about sixteen years at least, you put your entire life on hold. But what you get out of it (besides ungrateful offspring) is a sense of being responsible. And an adult. And a knowledge of what love is that you didn't have during all those years that you were bandying that term around. I'm getting off sort of easy. It won't be sixteen years. At least I hope not. And Bucks County is not a bad place to spend time. (You should see the way hot bottom man I ran across on WorldLeathermen... the Philadelphia-dwelling way hot bottom man I ran across on WorldLeathermen. It will be fine in that department.)

It will be fine.

And no. No word from severus. Which suddenly almost feels beside the point. I think I will go to Philadelphia. And surprise the Baron von Philadelphia. If he's planning on showing up at his own opening, that is.

Oh. And more good news. I am negative for HIV antibodies. And I'm negative for the clap.

Whenever that happens, I always feel that it's a small miracle. I can't claim to be as disciplined and scrupulous in this area of my life--or in any other for that matter. Not so much this time, but several times in the past, I really should have come up positive. But I haven't.

HIV is so fucked. Beyond the fact that so many wonderful people have died, and that so many people I love live complex lives on borrowed time, it throughs such a spanner into the works when it comes to love and intimacy between men. I mean, what is up with that?

Well, I'm whining. What I'm yearning for is pleasure and gratification without risk. And that has never ever ever been available since Adam was banished from Eden. There is no such thing as life without risk and uncertainty.

Ya live with it.

I have blogged my last from the office of Boss Sunshine. Very bittersweet. Now that I'm not working for him anymore, I feel nothing but warmth. I know. I'm crazy in da head.

An interesting moment before I headed out the door. He leaned his head on my shoulder and said, "I should resign. I should just resign. I should go and live in the country and write a novel. I'm tired of taking care of all the problems of the world. I want someone to take care of me." He was joking, of course. But, then again, he wasn't at all, was he?

Being Boss Sunshine's Chief-of-Staff was such the losing proposition. He wanted me to make him feel the way he used to feel, but the way he (mostly) doesn't feel any more. I didn't do that. How could I? And that made him frustrated and angry.

I wish I knew what to say to him. Maybe I'll suggest career counseling. Maybe he should resign, and take a year off, and think through things, living in the country. The problem is, that if he should decide to continue in elected office, getting back into the job market would not be as easy as sending out resumes. He'd have to wait for a winnable office to open up and run for it.

I think he should just call it quits and go and work at a retreat center in the Catskills. Or something.

He's a good man, and he doesn't deserve to be unhappy. And I think he's pretty unhappy.

Still no word from severus.

But I have a plan. My friend the Baron von Philadelphia has a piece in an art opening tonight in Philadelphia. So if'n I don't hear from severus (besides being heartbroken), I'll head south on the Jersey Turnpike and surprise the Baron by gracing the gallery with my presence. FYI Philadelphians: I'll probably be stopping by the Bike Stop later, and I'll be looking for trouble.

1 p.m. and still no word from severus.

C'mon, boy. Don't flake out on me.

A Scout is...


Other than Obedient and Thrifty, I'm such a Boy Scout.

Oh. Today is also the day that I go and get the results of my tests for HIV and syph. Keep good thoughts around 6:30 p.m.

Uh oh.

When I last spoke to severus, and we made plans for tonight, he said that he would send me email to confirm. I sent him email giving the specifics (the Spiegel, 10 pm, bring a riding crop, be wearing a jacket, you'll be spending the night).

...and I haven't received his email. And it's 11:45 a.m. on the fateful day.

If I don't hear from him, I'll go to the Spiegle anyway. If he doesn't show, I'll be really pissed off.

Koneechi-wah, horn dawgs! Check this out.

Thursday, May 08, 2003

Oh. One more thing. Last night, thinking about severus, thinking about the book I'm reading about slavery in Rome, I conceived of the plot of another book. This one a piece of fiction. Essentially a Master/slave romance. Y'know, it's just the same old story, a tale of love and glory, a case of do or die: Man meets boy, man gets boy, man loses boy, man puts boy permanently in chains to reduce the chances of that ever happening again. It's set in ancient Rome. It will take some research to do the writing, on such arcane topics as Roman religion; agriculture; the languages, religions, and people of Asia Minor in the First Century B.C.E.; and ancient metallurgy.

Didn't Oprah revive her book club? Maybe I could be an 'Oprah Recommends.'

The fundamental things apply, as time goes by.

They call me Buttercup, poor little Buttercup...

With a posse of other GMSMA guys, we went to hear Gilbert and Sullivan's H.M.S. Pinafore at Symphony Space. Really a great evening. Pinafore is the one where the hero is menaced with a cat o' nine tales and is put in the dungeon and 'weighted down with chains.' That's my kind of comic opera!

I remember I saw it years ago--when I was 12 or 13--on PBS. Go figure: the thing about the cat o' nine tales and the dungeon and the chains made quite an impression on me then, too.

Had an email exchange with Bound and Determined today about tomorrow night's meet with severus. Man, am I looking forward to this. B'n'D, as usual, was chock full of helpful hints.

Diabolique, one of the theatah-goers this evening, admitted that he wants to try to convince me to stay in Jersey City. My flip answer was that if I could find a job, I would absolutely stay. But on reflection, I wonder if that's true. I'm starting to imagine my days and nights as a Bucks County Leatherman. (Maybe The Bucks County Leatherman? Nah. I'm sure I have predecessors.) Although, it may very well be a July 31st thing rather than a June 30th thing.

Some other news. Current President was in touch with a world renowned whipsman in San Francisco about some GMSMA business. W.R.W. closed the conversation by saying that he loved my article in Newslink, and that he wants to make a date with me.

Okay. I'm pretty astonished. Flabbergasted, in fact.

That's all for tonight. Want to get a good night's sleep so I'm fresh for severus tomorrow night.