Saturday, August 30, 2003


So today, I bid a fond (and slightly tearful) farewell to Dad, and Baron von Philadelphia and I drove back up here to Jersey City. The Baron will be staying in my apartment and watching my dog whilst I'm at Inferno, doncha know.

I packed for Inferno, and did a great job. I think I should be able to fit my luggage and Diabolique's luggage easily into the Jeep Liberty. Then, we repaired to the great vietnamese restaurant which cubby introduced me to for dinner.

And then I had to go into NYC. To cash my unemployment check. Through the Holland Tunnel and then up Hudson Street.

And it felt so weird. So foreign. Not my city. Just... y'know... a city. Like a place I'm visiting. Like being in Seattle or Albuquerque or Boston or Atlanta. Only I know my way around. We parked (in front of the Archives, where Monica Lewinsky lives, and it's only the second time in my life that I found a spot available there). I deposited my unemployment check with no problem. Then, sensing that the Baron wanted to make something of a night of it, we headed to the Spiegel.

I stopped off and visited Bob from the Leatherman in their giftshop. So I could buy a hunter green hankie. That's to flag hunter green right, as in boy seeking Dad. Not sure if I'll have the testicular fortitude to actually do that, but now I have the option. Then up to the roof. The Baron expressed concern on the drive over that he wasn't appropriately dressed (red Tommy Hilfiger tee shirt, cargo shorts, grey suede walking boots) to go to a leather bar. I snorted. "We're not going to a leather bar. We're going to the Eagle. You're fine." And shore nuff, nobody batted an eye.

The Spiegel filled me with disdain. There is nothing I'll miss about NYC nightlife. Well... not entirely true. I ran saw a couple of guys that I always meant to hook up with, but now I probably wouldn't have the opportunity to do so. But no biggie. Now I'll have the Bike Stop at my disposal, and the Raven in New Hope is proving to be a treasure trove of vanilla sex.

It's completely different headspace. New York City is no longer my home. My home is in Carversville, Pennsylvania. Not far from the Delaware River. Thirty-two miles north of Philadelphia. An hour and fifteen minutes from the Holland Tunnel. That's where I live. The LURE is gone. Factory Cafe has been transformed into a sort of Greek diner. Espresso Bar where I met Special Guy is closed. In the span of just a few weeks, New York City has become a place I used to live.

The Baron points out that I'm ornery. Yeah. I went back to my city, and my city was gone. It's now a mall. No sex in the bars. No leather in the leather bars. Just aggravating traffic and bridge and tunnel crowds.

And then there's the place where I live. Where I can look up at night while I'm walking my dog and see the milky way. Where I can drive down into Philadelphia and go to a bar where men in leather hang out and smoke cigars. Where I can sit on the porch of the Starbucks in Doylestown and watch sweet boys drive up on their '55 Indians that they rebuilt themselves before I head to see an art house flick at the Country Theater. Where my brother introduced me to a restaurant with the best Thai food that I've ever had. Where the radio station I'm listening to, WXPN, plays all the music that I like. Where I swim in creeks. Where I meet sweet, simple boys in bars, follow their tail lights down dark country roads and have sex with them in 18th Century farmhouses.

My home. Just up the hill from Point Pleasant. Tollgate and Ferry Roads. Make a left at the stop sign, and I'm in the first house on the right after the fallow fields. Look for the screened porch in front and the apple and pear trees in the yard. How about that nice annual border I planted?

And, I'm anxious to get to Inferno. Another reason to be ornery.

At one point at the Spiegel, a boy who the Baron declared to be the hottest one in the joint came up and asked me for a light. I wasn't interested (no leather, no facial hair). But the Baron inquired how I would work it if I decided to hook up tonight, given the fact that this incredibly hot boy had just made it known that I could have him.

"Are you nuts?" I asked, "I'm about to spend a week whipping men. I think I can let any opportunity that presents itself go by for tonight."

And anyway, I do much better at home. Where I live. In Bucks County.

Oh. And welding school starts on September 22nd. Something to look forward to after Inferno when I get home.

Friday, August 29, 2003

Keckler rocks

Oh. Yeah.

So last night I made it to the Philadelphia Bondage Club. It's a great bunch of guys, and what's more, the space where they meet is unbelievable. Whaddya know, it's run by a kinky welder. And his work was creative, innovative, and beatifully made. He's my new best friend.

After the long long long drive down from Massachusetts, Keckler arrived, along with another member of the GMSMA novices special interest group. After much hemming and hawing on both of our parts, Keckler said it had been a long time since he was flogged, and I said I'd love to flog him. And we were off to the races.

Most interesting moment: I did my spit a spray of water over his back trick, and then when I asked him if he was surprised, he replied, "No. I read your blog."

Uh huh.

Keck's back was great to flog. The lighting was all blue/green, so I couldn't really tell if I was getting a lot of red until I got up close, but he just responds sooooo beautifully. Because getting flogged is a rare thing for him, I did a verrrry slow build up, but I was letting him have it full throttle in no time. It was great doing a scene with Keckler.

But the evening wasn't over. After the scene, we were standing around, and Keckler observed that I had 'a body that was made for hemp.'

"I could wear some hemp." I responded.

And in no time, I was. Keckler's bondage work is truly among the best I've seen. I just went into this totally blissful state of mind, just feeling the contact of my body and the rope. the going on and the going off were so swell. Keckler is amazing.

And that was all a great way to get myself ready for Inferno. Some really good play. I felt just opened to the possibilities, in my body, doing the dance. I can't wait.

Possibly, this could be the last I blog for the next two weeks. The Baron von Philadelphia came up from Philadelphia on the train. We spent the evening tooling around Doylestown, getting eyefuls of all the sweet bad boys smoking cigarets that hang out at the Starbucks on Main Street.

And now, it's 3:11 pm. We're watching some movie with Sara Jessica Parker and Hugh Grant on Bravo. Tomorrow it's off to Jersey City to pack, and then first thing Sunday morning, I hit the road to pick up Diabolique at Delta, then head west to Inferno.

And then, the universe splits open like an egg.

I'll let you know all about it when I'm back.


Wednesday, August 27, 2003

Dad needs Dad

The other night, I had a lengthy exchange with a guy on AOL, a Dad seeking a boy. Like many AOL interactions, it was all about headspace, and in the wake of it, I'm sort of looking back and wondering, "What was that all about?" I've never gone looking for a Dad before, and never considered myself much of a boy.

Explanation for the Uninitiated: In the world of Leather-BDSM-Kink, a Dad and boy relationship is a type of power imbalance relationship. 'Dad' takes a dominant role vis a vis his boy. It can be distinguished from a Master/slave relationship by the fact that the boy is not necessarily 100% subservient (the day may come when the boy becomes a Dad), and the fact that whereas a Master/slave relationship entails absolute submission and feelings of affection can be problematic, Dad/boy is more about mentoring and guidance, and there's affection is not a problem, but an asset. Clear now? Good.

Anyway, I soit'nly haven't previously felt anything like an urge to be a boy. To a large degree, this is because I tend to chafe at being 'guided' and 'mentored.' I wanna take the reins. One of my big challenges when I bottom is overcoming my tendency to Top from the bottom: "I want you to do this in this way, followed by that, but not too hard, and make sure you work some other thing into the mix." That is not what submission is all about. I generally have pretty high standards that the men I do submit to have to live up to. (Heaven forbid any of the men who submit to me should apply those same standards to me.) And to take that on full time... to find a man who is not just amazing in some aspect of S/M (a skilled bondage Top, a renowned whipsman, a man who has raised face punching to an art form), but is amazing at this thing called Life... Well, that seems like a pretty tall order.

But the AOL interaction the other night was a wee bit more reality based. Therefore, a slightly more serious line of inquiry on my part.

So. What's that about?

Yesterday, it hit me. Part of the reason why it's never before crossed my mind to get a Dad is because I had a Dad, thank you very much. My relationship with my father is complicated, but it's there. He's my guide and mentor, and in many ways the yardstick against which I measure the content of my own character.

But now, that's changing.

He still has my love, regard, and respect. Absolutely. But he needs me now. He needs my guidance and my support. The other day, he himself pointed out that our roles were now reversed. He needs me to take care of him. In the past two weeks, this has entailed making sure he was wearing appropriate clothes when we went out, making sure he was getting enough to eat and that what he was eating wasn't entirely jejeune, making sure that he gets a haircut... So I'm kind of the Dad.

So even though he's still my father, in a way, I'm the Dad. And suddenly, there's this void in my life and in my heart. A Dad-shaped hole.

I suppose that what I should concentrate on is being my own Dad. Making sure that I eat right, get to the gym, don't get lazy, don't fall into bad habits, set goals and work to achieve goals, and so on.

Best not to look outside of yourself to get your needs met.

But, if I should run across (in real life, not on AOL), a good, strong older man involved with Leather-BDSM, and that man has his eye out for a boy, what would be the harm in going after that? Nada, as far as I can see.

I'm thinking of Iron John, by the poet Robert Bly. And, more to the point, Bly's follow up to that book, The Sibling Society. Bly argues (eloquently and well) that there are no more men; we're all boys. And that's because of a lot of things, including a paternalistic government, a lack of rituals marking the passages from boyhood to manhood, but also, because we grow up without fathers. It takes a father to rear a son. Without fathers, we all become denizens of the Island of Lost Boys in Pinocchio, having a blast while our asses ears grow.

S/M offers so much. At times, it seems to me to be a panacea for all that ails contemporary Western civilisation: submission as a counter to our unbridled egotism, savage intimacy in place of isolation and solipcism, a public sense of Who You Are in the churn of anonymity, sensual experience in a society that finds the Body to be repugnant, and depth and profundity of experience to check a consumerist culture that favors passive observation.

So yeah. If there's a Dad out there whose looking to collar a boy like me, I hope I meet him. Even though I want a slave, even though I'm hot to be a SIR to whatever new-to-alll-of-this boy that wanders into my sites, I want a Dad.

Tuesday, August 26, 2003

Caution: Blunk Drogger!

My brother and sister-in-law brought a couple of bottles of wine for me and Dad from a winery where they worked over the weekend. Cool. I decided to polish off a bottle with my Tuna Noodle Surprise for dinner.

Why not? I'm not driving anywhere. Nothing on the agenda besides Boy Meets Boy and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy tonight.

So here I am. Drunk. What does one do while drunk? Well, I decided to whip up a nice bowl of Jell-O Instant Chocolate Pudding. There was a thing on the news (local news is sooooo bad in Philadelphia, but I guess it's bad everywhere) about chocolate, and that got me thinking, "I want me some of that." I found brownie mix in the cupboard that seemed to be providing a home to a gazillion weevils, so opted for the pudding mix instead. Impulse control being what it is presently, I was whisking away in no time.

Boy Meets Boy was sad. I noticed something interesting. Despite all of the parlee about 'romantic connection' and the like, this viewer spotted exactly zero incidences of trouser tenting during the entire episode. I mean, not only is there no sexual tension in the air, but there's no evidence of sexual tension anywhere else. I wonder if they're actually all straight, just playing along in the hope of netting $25k? How did they managed to assemble such asexual gay men? No wonder we got that Supreme Court decision: America at large is thinking, "What were we so worried about? These guys can't even get it together to bed each other, little less our teenage sons." Tragically, I'll be on the site of Inferno next Tuesday night, so I'll never know who gets the glass of champagne. Anybody but Franklin. I think Wes is the straight one. No gay man would go by 'Wes.' It would be 'Wesley.'

Queer Eye was, of course, the most brilliant thing I've ever seen on television bar none. Kyan, Jai, Ted, Carson, and Thom are amazing. And what was with that collar that George was wearing? I would have let him keep that. But I would have taken his hair down much shorter. Like, to none. And maybe throw in some chains. And a nice uric acid scrub would do great things for the complexion.

Such a one track mind.

Thursday, I may go to a meeting of the Philadelphia Bondage Club. They're having a farewell party for local men going to Delta. Alas, I have no gear with me, but I plan to go anyway, just to check it out. They meet in what sounds like a pretty seedy area of Philadelphia. Love that. And the photos of their play space are pretty cool. My expectations run high. Especially after reading Edge's exploits in Montreal, a city seemingly void of even the most basic knowledge of S/M technique. Perhaps Philadelphia will be the same...

Me: Voila! A hogtie!
Onlookers: Oooooh! Aaaaah! I wanna get with him!

Or, y'know, not.

Tomorrow I've got to take the Jeep Liberty in to the local Jeep dealership to get new fluids, belts, and filters in preparation for the drive to Inferno. And--Happy Day!--a reader has offered to put me up for the night in Cleveburg. That is way cool. Cash strapped as I am, I'm happy to be able to save the money I would have otherwise spent on the Motel 6 in Sandusky, Ohio.

Dang. Next week this time I'll be at the Inferno site. There I'll be: in that place, with those men. Pretty amazing. Just what I need.

It had crossed my mind that I ought to get the GMSMA banner to take with me. They hang banners of clubs in the dining area. last year, Diabolique took care of bringing it. Not sure if he'd be in a position to do that this year, although he's driving out with the current Vice President, so perhaps they'll be doing that. Given the limited time that I'll be in NYC/NNJ prior to hitting the road on Sunday morning, I may not be able to make that happen. But we'll see.

Anyway, once I'm to the point where I'm relatively sure I won't have problems with bedspins, I'm going to hit the sheets.


What's the hankie code flag for necrophiliac transvestism?

Today was the memorial service for my stepmother. On Sunday, I ran back to Jersey City to pick up a suit, shirt, and tie to wear. As I was leaving the Humble Abode, I realized, "Yikes! I'll need socks and shoes, too!" All I have with me are the grey athletic socks that I favor, boots, and sandals, none of which would really be appropriate.

So earlier, when I got out of the shower and went to get dressed, I realized that I had no boxers with me. Almost as a matter of policy, I dress commando-style. The only exception is when I'm wearing a suit, as worsted wool and jock itch are not a nice combination.

Uh oh. What to do?

I thought about borrowing a pair of boxers from Dad, but his waist size would probably be way too big for me. And then I had an idea.

I snuck into my stepmother's drawers and grabbed one of her panties. I tried them on. They fit perfectly. There was no helpful opening in the front, but that would just mean that if I had to piss while at the church, I'd need to use a stall, rather than a urinal.

So there I was, resplendent in my almost-Prada black suit, dark grey shirt, and SoHo-purchased tie, wearing my deceased stepmother's dainty underthings at her memorial service.

I hope the Executive Committee of the Chicago Hellfire Club doesn't learn of this. They'll boot me out for sure.

My brother picked out the readings and the hymns, and except for 'Abide with Me,' which I always thought was just laying it on way too thick, he did a great job. I did the New Testament reading, from the Book of Revalation:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his people, and he himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away." And the one who was seated on the throne said, "See, I am making all things new." Also he said, "Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true." Then he said to me, "It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life. Those who conquer will inherit these things, and I will be their God, and they will be my children."

Monday, August 25, 2003

Country Roads, Take Me Home, To The Place I Belong...

Here I sit, in the livingroom of my parents house, watching the Phillies, who are losing 9-0 to Montreal. Jim Thome is out of the game, so it's looking like the Expos won the game in the second inning. Poor Randy Wolf. Such a hot man. Love to whip him. But, I think after his showing tonight, a lot of Phillies fans would love to whip him, although not in that good way that I have in mind.

Today I found out that the local vo-tech school, where all the greasers I used to lust after in high school would go to take classes, has an adult program that offers welding. For a fraction of the price that even General Technical Institute in Linden, New Jersey charges.

I had to drive my Dad to the bank today. It was hot and humid. So when we got home, I headed to Tohickon Valley Park to go swimming. Not in the pool, but in a great swimming hole in the Tohickon Creek I know about. A swimming hole I've been going to for the past thirty years of my life.

My dog, Faithful Companion, just loves the long walks we've been taking. He has so much more energy then he did when his life consisted of hanging out in my apartment alone while I was away, and looking forward to a trip to Hamilton Park.

Tonight, a Monday, is Jock Strap Night at the Bike Stop in Philadelphia. If I didn't have the service to go to tomorrow, I think I'd be there now. The Bike Stop, by the way, is a leather bar. Philadelphia has one of those. New York, sadly, does not.

I found my way to the Philadelphia Bondage Club. Damn! What a play space! Pity they only meet once a month. There having a going-away party for all the guys going to Delta.


I've sort of moved already. In my mind, this is home. It was weird visiting Jersy City yesterday, going into my apartment. It seemed small, and strange. And even Beautiful Downtown Jersey City felt oddly alien. All those people. All those damn motor scooters buzzing around.

But here I am. Rooting for the Phils, not the Yankees. Going to the Raven, not the Eagle. Looking forward to starting welding school here, and not in North Jersey. Driving slow at night because I don't want to hit a deer, not because traffic is at a standstill going through the Holland Tunnel.

For now, I'm not changing anything. I mean, I'm going too be making arrangements to move my stuff when I get back here from Inferno. And looking for a nice part time job while I go to welding school. It's my plan to make as many trips to NYC to fulfil my GMSMA obligations. But I sure don't want to be taking on anything that will add to that.

But the big thing is my mental state. I mean, I've just eased into this Bucks County State of Mind so quickly.

One thing that I've realized. I've got to get a play space. I suppose I could make something work in my Dad's tool shed, moving the stuff that's in there into the garage. But that would be hardly ideal. Wonder if there's anybody kinky around with a barn that he or she would be willing to make available to me.

Maybe I should make a point of stopping by Le Chateau Exotique in New Hope, purveyors of fine leather-rubber-fetish gear, and seeing if I could get there help to organize a munch or something. Or maybe a night at the Raven. (As it turns out, I know one of the owners from way back.) A local Top from Leather Navigator wants me to flog him. There's a boy in Riegelsville who's hot for me to chain him up. There's a guy in Philadelphia who wants to wear my collar. A very hot boy who plays softball and lives in the lower end of Bucks County has been itching to get together with me. A very hot cigar smoking man from Ambler is making his first Inferno. GI Joe lives about a half hour north of me with his husbear.

And I just feel no pressure whatsoever. None. None of that edginess I've gotten used to living in the Greater New York Metropolitan Area for the past fourteen years. It's not about surviving here, it's just about finding ways to thrive.

I wonder if the Philadelphia Gay News would like a columnist covering Leather-Kink-BDSM? I could be the Mr. Marcus of Philadelphia. Or the Will Clark of Philadelphia. (And I didn't have the audacity to move here. At least I've lived here before and know the terrain.)

Have I mentioned how beautiful it is here? Driving along River Road north of Frenchtown is just gorgeous. And all these trees. And the stars at night. And corn fields and wheat fields. And trim little Quaker meetinghouses.

Oh my God. The Expos scored three more runs. And the Phils have at least one so it's now 12-1. Bottom of the sixth.

So I guess I'm here now.

Wish me luck on that.

Sunday, August 24, 2003

Treetop Sex

I had to run back to Jersey City today to get a suit to wear to the service for my step-mother on Tuesday. On my way, I stopped off to visit the guy I met a few weeks ago who has bought a former Boy Scout camp in the hopes of developing it into a Man Scout camp.

Now, I sort of pictured something like the set up of the place where I would go to Mennonite Summber Bible Camp. There would be a big pavillion for meals and evening singalongs. There would be the showers. There would be a few cabins. There would be a maintenance shed.

Uh... no. Man Scout lives in a shack on fifty wooded acres. There's lots of garbage laying about. The shack has no running water and is heated only by a wood stove.

I imagined that I could be doing helpful stuff like pointing out that the bank along the driveway wouldn't work for shasta daisies as it doesn't get enough sun, but it would be perfect for hosta. No, I'd be hauling bags of garbage down to the dumpster. And that would be fine. But it's unlikely that there would be anything like a dungeon ready before campers are due to arrive next June.

But if Man Scout wants me to work, I'm sure up for it.

But we went for a walk so that Man Scout could show me the property. That area (Bridgeton Township) is notable for Ringing Rocks State Park. Bridgeton Township was where a glacier halted in its southern advance during the last ice age. And so it dumped a bunch of huge boulders. (Brooklyn was the southernmost advance of another glacier, and hence there are all those huge boulders in Prospect Park.) There in the middle of the woods was a collection of huge boulders. Man Scout had strung a cargo net between four trees about fifteen feet off the ground. You scrambled up a boulder and climbed from there onto the cargo net. And there you sat in this cargo net, up in the trees, catching the breeze.

It was magnificent. For a while, we just lay there sprawled in the net, dappled in sunlight, feeling the breeze. Then we got down to the business of having sex. It was really wonderful, there in the cargo net, looking up at the sunlight coming through the boughs of the trees, hearing the sounds of the woods around us.

Now, that's not likely to go down with anybody I'd meet at the Eagle, is it?

When we got back to Man Scout's wee shanty, he had visitors. Three guys with a pickup truck were picking up some cedar logs. All three of them were of the ZZ Top beard/no teeth variety. The guy who seemed to be the leader of the trio had a pistol in a holster, cowboy style. Meet the neighbors!

Afterwards, Man Scout and I went down to a little cafe on the Delaware Canal. While we were sitting there eating hoagies (if you don't know what a hoagie is, you'll have to do a google search cuz I'm not gonna enlighten you in that regard), this... this... guy wandered up. He was in his seventies. He had his hair--which he wore in a pony-tail--and his goatee died dark red. He was wearing a big blue smock, belted with silver and turquoise belt. In other words, he was a total freak. As I've pointed out before, Bucks County has a remarkably high tolerance for freaks.

As we were leaving, I had a yen for iced coffee. Alas, they didn't seem to have any. So, I got a large coffee cup, asked the boy behind the counter to give me a scoop of coffee ice cream, and then filled up the rest with hot coffee. I apologized to the boy for going off the menu but he took it in stride. He charged me $1.25 for the concoction.

Treetop sex, colorful freaks, $1.25 coffee floats. What exactly is not to like about living here?

Saturday, August 23, 2003

More about my grandfather, my S/M mentor

Oh. When I was little, my grandfather and I would play this game. We'd use rope and tie each other up in lawn chairs. The object of the game was to tie the other person so he couldn't get out. Ultimately, I won, and my grandfather spent three hours tied in a lawnchair in the back yard while I went over to my friend Carl's house. My grandmother came and released him when she went looking for him to let him know that dinner was ready. (FYI: I know longer leave my bondage bottoms unattended.) To the best of my recollection, that was the last time we played.

So my Pop was into bondage as well as whips. Bondage he had the opportunity to teach me. Whips I had to learn on my own.

The apple, as they say, doesn't fall far from the tree.

A Family Tradition

This has me a little floored.

I spent some time out in the back yard this morning, pruning shrubbery with my bullwhips. When I came in, my Dad asked me about my whips. I, of course, waxed rhapsodic about the joys of cracking whips.

Dad told me that when he was little, his (and my) Uncle Bill (career army, never married, spent his retirement visiting children at a children's hospital, left me something in his will as he was always fond of me) came back from some trip abroad and gave my grandfather the gift of a bullwhip. So my grandfather had a new hobby. He would set up beer cans on a shelf in the basement and take target practice with them with his bullwhip which my Uncle Bill showed him how to use. My grandmother hated this. She would order my Dad and his two brothers to stay outside or upstairs when my grandfather was throwing his whips.

My grandparents used something that my father described as a 'cat of nine tails' for punishment. Dad described it as nine lengths of braided leather. (Uh... that's a cat alright.) When they would do something 'bad,' my grandfather would be greeted at the door after a long day at work with "Edward gets two with the cat," or "Howard gets three with the cat" from my grandmother. (My grandfather later told my Dad he hated this. When he got home from work, he wanted to spend time with his three young sons, not take down their pants and whoop them with the cat o' nine tails.)

Anyway, once my Dad and his brothers did something that my grandparents decided was really really really bad. My grandfather said that it was so bad that he might have to use the bullwhip on them. Hearing this, my grandmother got the bullwhip, took it down to the cellar, and consigned it to the flames of the coal furnace. My grandfather was heartbroken. "You didn't really think," he said, "that I'd use that whip on one of our boys, did you? That was just bluster."

So not only was my grandfather a whipsmen, but he was an early innovator of the precepts of Safe Sane and Consensual. Kind of.

Longtime readers will know that my grandfather and I were very close. We were born the same day, same hour, exactly sixty years apart. He introduced me to the joys of baseball. (And I've been watching the Phillies, not the Yankees, since I've been here in Bucks County, so I've been thinking about him a lot.) It's a shame that we never had the opportunity to throw whips together in the back yard, pruning the trees and shrubbery.

And I wonder what ever happened to that cat o' nine tails?

Friday, August 22, 2003

Uh oh

The gist of this blog has evolved to be something like a 'an S/M life considered.' Lately, it hasn't been that. Not a lot of S/M going on. The piss I've been dealing with is not the kind you get by flagging yellow.

I've been concerned that my blog has become something along the lines of the blogs I hate: "This morning, I had oatmeal for breakfast. And that's really weird for me. I mean, usually, without even thinking about it, I have Count Chocula. But this morning I was like, I'm gonna have oatmeal. And it was really good. I made it with apples. I don't know if this is gonna become a regular thing. I'm really a Count Chocula kinda guy. I am definitely not an oatmeal kinda guy. And then I went to work at Kinko's."

That kind of blog.

Now granted, events of late have been rather extraordinary, but my blog has become a recitation of events.

Hate that.

Logistically, S/M is dicey at the moment. But I'll work something out.

Do me a favor: If Singletails becomes a blog that discusses S/M but doesn't describe a lot of actual S/M, send me an email along the lines of "Yo! Fish or cut bait! Whip somebody! Get tied up!"



Yo. Out.


So I did it. Last night, after the news, my father said he was going to bed. "Y'know, I need to think about something else for a while, Dad. I'm gonna go out and have a beer."

My Dad said, "Okay."

It was that simple. So off I went to the Raven.

Picture the scene. The Raven. A sleepy little fag bar in New Hope. In I walk, smoking a cigar, all leathered up. It's fun making an entrance!

This guy nearly had to pick his chin up off the floor when he saw me. I played eye hockey with him for a little while, and then he came up to introduce himself to me. His chest was hard, like over-inflated tractor tires.

He had the greatest of all pick up lines that I've ever heard: "Wanna go swimming?"

I was so there.

He was a little drunk on beer, so I drove. He's formerly a nurse, but whaddya know, a few months ago his life went ka-plooie. Now he's working construction. We went to the house of friends of his, and spent time skinny dipping in their pool and relaxing in their jacuzzi, tragically outfitted with these really annoying disco lights. Then we got busy wiht the business of sex.

And then we started talking. And talking. And talking. And talking. I told him everything. About my step mother. About my father. About moving to Bucks County and my fears about that. He told me about his step-monster. His life falling apart.

It was raw and intimate. I said things I haven't been able to say to anyone. We talked. We held each other.

What's happening? What the fuck is going on? My step mother. The black out. These amazing men I'm meeting. Reconnecting with old friends. Watching my plans transform in a minute, like a kaleidascope pattern.

As we were talking, I looked up at the night sky, full of stars. And there it was: Mars. This summer, Mars is the closest it's been to earth in 60,000 years.

Let's be clear. I don't believe in Astrology. At all. It's pseudo-science with no basis whatsoever in reality.

But I think I believe in Mars.

There it's been, all through this. Time and time again, I've looked up and seen Mars glowing in the southeast corner of the sky. During the blackout, I saw it hanging there. In poetry criticism, ascribing human attributes to non-human things is called "pathetic fallacy." But during the blackout, Mars was laughing.

Now Mars is the god of war. His chariot is drawn by hounds that devour human flesh. He is accompanied by plague, pestilence, and famine. Mars had no temples or priests. To the extent he was worshipped, it was in the field of battle. The "fields of Mars." It was blood sacrifice. And, of course, we are at war. Maybe, given Mars' proximity, it could not be otherwise.

Huh. Here's another thought. Maybe it's war, alright, but it's spiritual battle. We're all fighting for our lives. No doubt certain pacifist Buddhist buddhies of mine might take issue with that metaphor (and you know who you are), but there is absolutely positively an intensity. The intensity of battle. I'm running across it everywhere.

"Tear our passions with rough strife through the iron jaws of life."

I think I'm winning.

Soy Capitain, soy Capitain

Oh no. La Bamba is on the Bravo network. I have no idea why, but this movie is guaranteed to have me weeping from the opening titles till the last credits. I turned it on while I was making dinner and I was hooked. Weeping, making eggs and bacon, weeping, making eggs and bacon. I just saw the part where Richie Valens (Lou Diamond Philips) sang La Bamba on national television. Now comes the confrontation with his older brother.

"Yeah, I followed you around because I thought you were somebody. Then!"

I'm sobbing.

Okay. I admit. It's a verrrry hokey movie. But it makes me cry just the same.

When I hear the song I cry too. I have it on my iPod sung by Los Lobos. When it comes up in the lineup at the gym, I have to run to the bathroom so I'm not sobbing in the middle of the gym floor.

Just because I'm a big tough Top who whips men's backs till they bleed doesn't necessarily mean that I can't get weepy about manipulative movies.

Thursday, August 21, 2003


I've been thinking of Shelly's Prometheus Bound. In college, I wrote my senior thesis on Prometheus. The climax of the epic poem is when Prometheus--condemned by the gods to be chained to a rock where the eagle comes each day to eat his liver which grows again at night--transcends his rage and resentment and utters the words, "Let no living thing suffer pain."

This morning, my step-mother became non-responsive. At times, her breathing was a rattle, the so-called 'death rattle.' We gave her the pill that the nurse said would ease congestion. The nurse stopped by. She increased the frequency and dosage of the morphine and the atavan that we were giving my step-mother. When she left, she indicated that she probably wouldn't be back tomorrow, as my step-mother wouldn't last the night. I asked the nurse what would be the next stage. She said that there would be more and more time in between breaths, and then there wouldn't be another breath.

Her breathing became more and more labored. We kept a vigil of sorts, always someone there, holding her hand. I took a shower, shaved my head. Made myself something to eat. Fielded a phonecall from someone soliciting donations to the Special Olympics who, upon being told that our family was gathered around the bedside of my mother who was dying, didn't skip a beat with her pitch. Fuck the Special Olympics. Spent some time sitting in the bedroom with my step-mother and her daughter. My step-mother's breathing was slow. I was lying in bed next to her, holding her hand. I had an idea.

I grapped my camera, and took this picture...

Her breathing became slower and slower. My father came in. My step-sister went to get her daughter. We gathered around. I was watching her nightgown where it fell over her abdomen. Her breaths were coming farther and farther apart, but that little part of her kept moving. I think it would be about where her Qi would be.

And then, it was still. It was like watching the sun set. It's there, it's there, it's there, and then it isn't there. All four of us were right there. We said goodbye, silently or aloud.

Then it was time for phone calls. I called the hospice service. I called my brother. I went through the phonebook calling farflung relatives.

I called the funeral home. Funeral home said call again when hospice arrived, and they'd be by to pick up the body. Earlier, the nurse had said that all of us should go into a room and close the door when they removed my step-mother. It's a mechanical process, and it would be better if that wasn't our last memory. The body bag.

Nuff said.

So my Dad and I sat in one bedroom. My step-sister and step-niece sat in the other bedroom. Outside we heard the business.

That's when my father popped the question. He told me that he wasn't sure how he would be able to manage here alone. Since I was planning on moving back here anyway, he asked me to stay on. I was non-commital, although I made clear that I was going to be in Michigan (at Inferno) on the first two weeks of September.


This is not the time to be making decisions like that, but yeah. I think I'm moving home. Earlier tonight, taking a walk around, I went into the garage and tried to imagine how it would do as a dungeon.

"Dad, this is Greg. I'm going to show Greg something out in the garage for a while. We'll be there if you need me. Call me on my cell phone though. Don't come out. Alright?"

Anyway. Don't need to make those decisions tonight.

Wednesday, August 20, 2003

Latest Developments Here on the Home Front

I'm awash in steps. My step sister is here. Her son and daughter showed up, with her son's wife and new baby. Very tough on my step-nephew. He and my step-mother were born on the same day, just like me and my grandfather were. An odd bond, but a bond.

Interesting having a new baby in the midst of this. The beginning of life and the end of life. That kind of thing.

And another odd thing happend. My step-niece spent most of the day lying on the bed next to her grandmother, talking. My step-mother said things like she hopes my father marries again, because he's a wonderful man and deserves to be happy.

Huh. My step-mother has never talked to her daughter. Never talks about anything. But apparently feels fine opening up to her daughter's daughter.

Step-niece has also taken over a lot of the nursing duty that I've been on. I only had to change the diaper once today.

And here's another interesting event.

My Dad gets mail delivered to the post office down in the village of Point Pleasant. Every day, I drive down to get the mail. When I went down today, I found a little yellow slip of paper in the box indicating that there was a package. The window wasn't open until 1:30, so I had about fifteen minutes to kill. So, I walked over to what used to be a grocery store and is now a sort of ill-run sandwich shop to get an iced coffee. I walked up the stairs and there was this guy sitting on the porch. He... greeted me warmly. I went inside and got my iced coffee and he was still there when I came out.

There was that certain energy in the air. I lit a cigaret and chatted for a while. He's on vacation, camping on Bull's Island, up the river. He'd spent the day riding his bike up and down the canal towpath. He'd been down to New Hope and now was hoping to bike north to Milford. I explained what I was doing there, taking care of my ailing step-mother who was in her last days. He said that was rough, and pointedly said that if I needed a break from that, I could stop by for a beer.

He really said that. Stop by his tent for a beer. He also pointed out that even though he had gotten a little bit of a gut that he was tgrying to get rid of, he was still "pretty racked."

He had longish unkempt hair, a fu manchu, and a gut. He looked like one of the 'Before' guys on Queer Eye. Very before.

But still, would I be against ploughing this guy in his pup tent after a few beers? I most certainly would not.

Gotta think this through. Gotta figure out some way to get laid. When I have campers putting the make on me at the local sandwich shop, how hard could that be?

"Okay, Dad. Now that we've given the final doses of Oxycontin and Atavan out of the way, I'm headed out to a gay bar!"

Probably wouldn't go over well, huh?

We'll see.

Oh. More good news. In the final hours, it is likely that my step-mother will get highly agitated and be gasping for breath. When that time comes, there are a bunch of 'end-of-life' drugs that I'll need to give her. Via suppository.

The nurse explained how to give a suppository. I put a little lubricant on the capsule and on my finger, and push it in up to the knuckle. Then she said, "Oh darn, I don't think I have any lubricant that I can leave with you."

"Not a problem," I said, "I have something that will work."

So when the time comes, I'm going to be lubing up my finger with the fuckjuice stuff I buy at the Leatherman. When I bought it, I sure didn't have my step-mother's sphincter in mind.

Ah well.

More tomorrow.

Tuesday, August 19, 2003


Talked to Phoenix in Atlanta. Talked to Diabolique, back from a week of Body Electric. Watched TV. My brother and his wife stopped by. My step sister showed up and is now staying.

Diabolique suggested that right now, I'm busy and occupied and numb, and the feelings will come later. I have to admit, I sure feel numb.

Here's the highlight of my day: finally I got to see Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Oh. My. God. What a rip. What a great ride. I love the Fab 5. Although honestly, I think that the cop from Staten Island isn't all that straight. I know half of the places that they take the straight guys. It is way New Yorkey.

Another thing I like about it is the basic premise that what these straight guys really need to learn is not how to dress or how to make a torta, but how to be an adult. Being a man is about knowing how to take care of yourself, and the boundries of 'yourself' extend to your home, your kitchen, and your wardrobe. Nice.

I also caught an episode of Boy Meets Boy. I would be shocked to hear that this show has anything like a gay following. All of them seem to need makeovers. I mean, whee did they manage to find seven gay men who were... like... so L7? I would have kept that champagne for myself and sent them all packing. Well, actually, I kind of thought that Darrin was the least deplorable of the group. I think that Darrin has a really trashy side deep down under. And, he'd look great gagged and sweating bullets and taking a flogging. But, Darrin was sort of kicked out of the kicky digs and didn't make it to the next round.

Anyway. I'm plotting to get to the Raven Pool tomorrow afternoon. Gotta get a break from this.

A flight of uncarpeted stairs

"Life in itself is nothing," wrote Edna St. Vincent Millay, "a flight of uncarpeted stairs."

My step-mother continues to descend that staircase. Today, she's belligerent. On oxygen. The nurse upped the dosage and frequency of the morphine that we're giving her. Her daughter, my step-sister, is doing her best to clear her calendar at work and get down here. I'm trying to track down my old college friend who became a priest to stop by and administer last rites. (It's impossible to track down a priest. Calling the archdiocesan office is fruitless. They act like your serving a subpoena, which is what they're probably used to. And doing a google search means you have to slog through all of these hits relating to clergy abusing children. It must be tough to be a Catholic these days.)

Anyway, I don't wanna tie up the line.

Monday, August 18, 2003

Whadja do t'day?

Fair question.

I walked my dog. I weeded the garden. I spent an uncomfortable fifteen minutes talking to my deceased sister's ex-husband's cousin who's living in the house I should be living in now. I called my softball coach and told him that it was unlikely that I would be able to go to the tournement in Montreal over Labor Day weekend. I was briefed by the hospice nurse who's taking care of my step-mother. I went to the local supermarket to get stuff for dinner and cruised a sweet Bucks County boy doing a good impression of nineteen so that he could buy cigarets. I made dinner (fried zucchini, chicken cutlets, tomato-basil-and-mozzarella salad) for my Dad. I spent some time throwing whips in the back yard. And oh yeah, I changed my step-mother's diaper.

Eileen, the nurse, asked if I had any experience nursing. After about an eleventh of a second of reflection, I said, "Yeah. Lots." And I have. The last step-mother. Grandfather. Sister. Yeah. Lots. Since my father had done a lot of that, too, I was sort of surprised when he looked like he was going to pass out as Eileen declared that we were entering the Era of Diapers.

Y'see, my step-mother has increaisng difficulty getting out of bed. The only thing getting her out of bed these days is going to the bathroom to pee. (Solid food is a thing of the past.) And there's no really good reason for her to exert herself like that.

So it's diapers. My Dad and I sort of strategized around the diapers. She's feisty. Clearly, it would not be my Dad changing them due to his squeamish issues. (Yeah, I could've said, "But Dad! She's your wife! Surely this can't be... an unexplored issue," but I didn't.) But Dad would have to be there, or else it would be... y'know... weird.

So my step-mother did her best to make it to the bathroom, but had to admit defeat. I explained that the 'pants' that the nurse gave her to wear were 'padded.' (It seemed best to avoid the D-word.) Step-mom was down with the idea, not putting up any fuss at all. And there I was, taking off the stickey tabs, and removing the diaper while my mother lifted up her housedress.

I had sort of prepared myself for seeing Step-mom's vagina. I need not have worried. It's been a while since I saw one and forgot the positioning. Also, my mother has lost a lot of weight, and consequently has lots of excess skin. The net effect was that she was as smooth as an action figure. Thinking about it, I guess the last vagina I saw was not on a woman, but was on a guy named Marcel, a former member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who is not only a nullo (elective removal of cock and balls) who had also had his surgeons create a boy-pussy for him. His is a little farther up than I guess they are otherwise. Marcel, by the way, is this big butch bearded bear of a guy with a vagina instead of cock and balls. I definitely get it.

So it will only be a few days. Spoke with my step-sister. She's doing her best to get down here from her homes in the Poconos.

After my step-mother passes, there's an 800 number we call to notify the hospice service. They will send out a social worker who will take care of everything. The big concern is my Dad. And I think that's very appropriate.

I'm also going to see if I can get a priest to come and give last rights to my step-mother. Although she hasn't been in church since she married my father, she appreciates it when a priest visited her while she was in whatever hospital.

It's all about her comfort.

Just now, when I was in talking to her, she said, "I don't know what's happening to me." Alas, that's probably true. Her head isn't clear. She can't remember from one moment to the next. The eternal present. No past. And she does seem aware that the future is a matter of clock and not calendar.

Tomorrow I'm hoping that I can get away for a little while. Get to the gym. Maybe get over to the pool at the Raven. Or at least stop by for a beer.

Sunday, August 17, 2003

A Matter of Life and Death

Headed out to the Eagle on Friday night. Still a lot of buzz in the wake of the blackout. Evvvvverybody was there. I saw Schlitz (the barrage of mixed signals continued). Ran into the Norseman. And whilst talking to various and sundry, I noticed this guy...

So the guy sits down next to me. During a lull in conversation, I said hello and introduced myself. We started talking. I felt drawn to him. Not that I believe in such things, but there was a definite energy. Something going on I didn't quite understand.

I popped the question: "Wanna take a trip to Jersey City?" He was amenable to that. We talked in the car. He was in town from Atlanta, where he had been living since April. Originally from New Jersey. As to what he did for a living, he told me that he worked at a gym making smoothies. Although, he had previously been a surgeon. But had opted for a change.

Uh huh.

Sex with the smoothie guy was pretty good. Really good. Something about him was just so hot. So compelling. I haven't been hard like I was that night since I was in my twenties.

The next morning, Saturday, I had a GMSMA mailing to go to, and then an event in Asbury Park called Leather and Leis. So I drove the smoothie guy into town. As I was dropping him off, I didn't want to say goodbye. I popped the question: "Wanna go to a mailing?" He was again amenable.

The mailing became the trip to Asbury Park, too. The trip down gave us more opportunity to talk. He had been married, and had lived with his wife and daughter not far from Asbury Park.

Leather and Leis was at a place called Paradise. In the decrepit heart of Asbury Park (What is the big deal about that doleful burg? How could anyone spend time there, unless they were sufficiently dosed with anti-depressants) some wiley entrepreneurs had purchased a decrepit hotel, done minimal renovations, and created a wee slice of Fort Lauderdale. Again, evvvvverybody was there, including Schlitz, who was meeting with his mortgage broker to buy property upstate. With... y'know, the guy who's not me.

We hung for a while, and then headed home.

The smoothie guy's story unfolded. He was in Atlanta because he was in rehab. He was starting all over.

And so we started talking about ending and beginning. Something I know a little bit about myself.

Sometimes in life, you hit a dead end. Everything is wrong. You hate your job. You hate your relationship. You hate your life. Then and there, the only thing to do is to kill yourself. To end it all.

You go running at the mountain and dive right off the cliff. Then you find that you've sprouted wings and can fly. Everything is new again.

I did that. Walking out on a man who loved me, my home, my life. Because things were so completely wrong. And now everything is new. And everything is good.

So that's it.

Once you kill yourself, you find out it's easy. That it doesn't hurt. That there's nothing to be afraid of. And I've been going and going ever since. An ongoing process. "If thy eye offfends thee, pluck it out. If thy hand offends thee, cut it off."

And this man, this sexy man... he's right in the middle of that. Taking the leap off the cliff. In mid-air. Phoenix. Perishing in the ashes, and then reborn.

We got back to Jersey City. Had dinner at the vietnamese restaurant to which cubby introduced me. I wanted us to do a scene. I would have liked to have beaten Phoenix, but I sensed that he'd been taking a beating already. A different scenario took shape.

Once back at the Humble Abode, Phoenix took a shower. I set the scene.

I had Phoenix sit squarely in the middle of the bed. I bound his wrists and his upper arms behind his back. Then I bound his ankles, crossed in front of him. And then ran the rope around his ankles and then around his neck so that he was bent forward. In submission. As I worked--slowly, deliberately--I got a little riff going... "One way of looking at bondage is me rendering you powerless, taking control. Here's another way of looking at bondage: I'm holding you. Holding you tight. Holding you the way you hold onto something precious."

When he was bound, I kissed him, and then wrapped his head in vet wrap. He had mentioned earlier that when he was nine, he got a terrific hard on watching Boris Karloff in The Mummy, being wrapped up in bandages alive. So I sort of hoped that would hit home.

And then, I sat down and watched. He squirmed. He tried to lean forward to where I was sitting. He struggled against his bonds. Then he got quiet. I moved in quickly, putting my arms around him. "I'm here. I'm here with you. I've got you, Buddy." Phoenix moaned softly, put his head on my shoulder.

I released him. Then, for the next four hours, we had pretty mind-blowing sex.

I got the phone call this morning. It was pretty handy to have a doctor (Phoenix) available to discuss it with. I dropped Phoenix off at the airport. Neither of us were happy about saying goodbye. But one of us had a plane to catch.

Before I headed down to Pennsylvania, I had to attend a party. I was invited by Hooved Goose, a friend of mine who quit his six figure salary job and moved to San Francisco where he worked answering phones in a doctor's office. Hooved Goose looked great. Really great. He loves San Francisco. He's happy like he never was when he lived in New York. Hooved Goose ran off the cliff. The party was for a woman that Hooved Goose and I used to work with. She's a lawyer. She had been a partner in the firm, handling all of the employment law cases and various and sundry other litigation worldwide. She gave it all up, went to school to become a massage therapist, and the party was to celebrate her graduation. She was radiant. She looked ten years younger than when I had seen her last. Off the cliff she went.

So here I am. In the house where I grew up. My step mother is in bed, dosed with morphine. She, too, is running up the hill. In her case, for the last time.

Friday, August 15, 2003

Switch gyms?

Since I doubted very much that my gym was open today, I decided to go to one of the places here in Beautiful Downtown Jersey City. I was headed to Synergy, the folks that have put countless annoying promotional flyers under my windshield wipers over the years that I've lived here, but then saw Gold Coast.


Frequently my morning walk to the PATH train was enlivened by seeing one of the trainers from Gold Coast--with a back I would pay money to whip--heading out to get himself some morning coffee. Or a proteinaceous smoothie. Or whatever.

I decided to give it a try. In lieu of a day-pass, I was given a five day trial membership for free. Can't beat that.

And it was a great gym!

FACT: They were blasting Staind on the sound system. Great workout music. I didn't need to fire up my iPod.

FACT: The place was practically deserted, whereas my gym in Chelsea would have been a mob scene at this time on a Friday.

FACT: Impossible but true: seemed to be a predominately heterosexual gym where serious body builders go to lift, but everybody was re-racking the weights!

FACT: They had a good set up, and alll the equipment that I need was right there. No traveling involved.

FACT: The locker room and shower area was really seedy looking. If I were shooting a porn movie, I would definitely consider that for a location.

FACT: The trainers both had really good bodies. They were working out themselves. They're serious about this shit.

SURMISE: I think the mirrors are flawed so as to make you appear wider than you actually are. Thus, I looked damn good.

FACT: It's $99 to join, and $56/month. This means that I'd save $30 a month. Well... actuall $22 if you spread the $99 out over a twelve month period.

FACT: They sold protein drinks right there in the gym.

FACT: I'd go more if I didn't have to cross the river.

So. Should I or shouldn't I? What would it mean if Jersey City was also the place where I went to the gym in addition to being the place where I slept and kept my dungeon/den? What if going to the gym meant walking five blocks instead of paying $6, fighting traffic at the Holland Tunnel, and spending forty-five minutes parking.

Okay. Let's not do anything rash. Go there for the next five days at different times of day, and see what it's like. And, maybe stop in at the two other gyms on Newark Avenue, see if you like any of those a little bit better.

In truth, what I really liked about this gym was that it reminded me of the place on Fourth Avenue where I used to go, that was run by Nicole Bass and her husband Bob. To my mind, this was the platonic ideal of gym. Everybody there was way serious about lifting. And, there was the Bob and Nicole show to keep things interesting. They tolerated no assholes or breaches in gym etiquette. ("Yo meathead! You're gonna put that dumbbell back where you got it, right?") And, Bob and Nicole were always happy to offer a word of encouragement. ("Hey Glamour Puss! Are you paying me all this money to come here and lift weights or to look at yourself in the mirror? Let's see another set pronto!") It was a gym where everybody was always offering to spot you. Think of the solicitudes of twenty muscle-bound Chips 'n' Dales. It was cruisy, but in a friendly way. And the straight guys there liked the fact that you liked their bodies and didn't seem to mind when you would offer a "Nice ass, Buddy. Glutes! I mean, nice glutes!" And it was so cool to see Bob and Nicole work out together. Equals in all things. Never shy. I don't doubt that they were as sweet and sassy when they were injecting each other with steroids as they were when they would kiss each other hello.

Maybe I'll switch gyms. Make Beautiful Downtown Jersey City a little bit more of my home. I wonder if My Cop goes to a gym here in the hood?

cubby rocks

Got a phone call the other day from my neighbor, cubby. She had been entrusted with a signal whip for re-conditioning, and was seeking some Pecard and some pointers on how to do that. I was happy to provide both.

So today, my doorbell rang while I was standing naked in the kitchen making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I quickly put on shorts and a tee shirt and ran down to answer it. it was cubby. I made her a sandwich, and we sat talking and working the Pecard into our whips. She also suggested that we finallly have our vietnamese restaurant date, so she could show me her favorite Jersey City vietnamese restaurant. This was fine, although I wanted to make it to the gym.

After the gym, I gave her a call, and we met outside the restaurant. It was great. I haven't had good Pho since I left my job at the non-profit I ran on the Lower East Side. Well now I have. And really nice spring rolls to boot.

And after dinner, cubby had to do some shopping, and I needed to stock up on a few items, so we headed to the supermarket. (cubby apparently is a midnight grocery shopper just like me.)

And overall, let me just say that cubby--a dedicated service bottom--provided flawlessservice. Absolutely flawless. Neither intrusive (I'm a Top, not a paraplegic) nor missing a beat any step of the way. Tonight, I was truly well served.

Thanks again, cubby.

Blame Canada!

Take that! You smug canadians. Prime Minister Jean Cretian, on vacation in Montreal, doesn't see the need to interrupt golfing to reassure his people that folks are working hard to get things back on track. Looting reported in Ottawa and Toronto. Canadian government spokespeoples are not on the same page, one blaming a power plant in New York, one blaming a power plant in Pennsylvania.

Y'know, I once heard that after the Civil War, the United States had the largest standing army on the planet. Lincoln was massing troops in Michigan, contemplating an invasion that would probably be over in a few weeks. At that time, Canada was British, and roughly fifty years earlier we had been at war with them. U.S.-British relations had improved since then, but we still didn't quite like or trust the Great Frozen Giant on America's Doorstep.

Would there be international outcry if we just annexed them, using this disruption to the power grid as an excuse?

Eh. Pay no attention to me. I'm just seeking to avoid crossing the border with all my whips and floggers on my way from the softball tournement in Montreal to Inferno in Michigan in a few weeks.

But still...

Here's the pics

During the blackout, the decision was made here at the romantically candlelit Singletails Building on Park Avenue in the 50s to dispatch a roving reporter to the streets. Here's what Our Man With A Camera brought back.

As commuters made their way home from work on foot, cars inched their way through the streets without the aid of stoplights.

Oh. My. God.
The gravity of the situation sets in: this means no Grande Iced Lattes!

Police were dispatched to major intersections to direct traffic.

Citizens jumped in to direct traffic at other intersections

This dollar store, fearing looting, decided to conduct business through their burglar gate. Good thinking! Those folks look pretty surly. The woman on the right strikes me as a riot just waiting to happen.

Oddly, Colliseum Books on 42nd Street had power and was open for business. Alas, with the approaching night, there was no where that you could see to read your book.

And here's an eerily darkened Times Square

I'm hangin' here in Beautiful Downtown Jersey City until later. My chances of going to the gym and getting myself fed still seem to be somewhat better here.

But look for me tonight at the Eagle. I'll be the big built bald guy with the bushy stache smoking cigars on the roof.

Blackout Follow-up

Most callers to wnyc agree: that was fun!.

Maybe we should make August 14th Blackout Day in NYC from now on. Just pull the plug at 4pm every year on August 14th.

There was a low incidence of Drama. Surprisingly low. In the wake of September 11th, you saw people walking around wearing gas masks for weeks. I remember i was sitting in a restaurant on September 14th and a guy came and sat down next to me wearing one of the heavy duty gas masks. I couldn't resist mentioning to him that as he was sitting in a restaurant, he'd have to take that off at some point.

I ran into a couple of people (like, three) who were having an experience of "This is all about inconveniencing me." But, these were few and far between, definitely the exception, rather than the rule. All in all, it was about Pluck. As in Pluck and Aplomb.

So cool.

Tragically, emergency procedures called for dumping sewage into the rivers. So, all the city beaches are closed today. So, UnFortunate and I have called off our beach day.

I'm gonna do some research to find out if I can, in fact, get back into Manhattan. That's being discouraged, and I don't doubt that parking is a panic, but I sure don't want to spend thee day sitting here in Jersey City.

Heck. I missed a gym day yesterday. Gotta make that up, right?

City of Night

Wow. Now that was unexpected.

After therapy, the first incredible thing that happened was I headed down to the West Village in search of a parking space, and I found one right on Greenwich Street between West 10th and Charles!!!. So then, I made some phone calls. I called my Dad and said I needed to borrow $2500. I called my old job to request the number for the administrator of my 401(k) plan. I called the contractor down in Fort Leatherdale that I've been working with to tell him that I finally want to finish the renovation work ASAP. I called my real estate broker to tell her I'd hopefully be heading down there next week to finish the renovation work and put the place on the market. I need to sell my condo so I can go to welding school. It's been rampant inactivity since I realized this. Time to get the ball rolling.

Then I called UnFortunate. He was on the grass pier at the end of Christopher Street. I decided to join him before I met up with an AOL date (tentative new-to-all-of-this-S/M-stuff boy from Staten Island). I went to a place on Hudson to grab an iced latte. And then headed towards the pier.

Odd. The traffic light at Christopher and Greenwich seems to be out of order.

Odd. The traffic light at Christopher and West Street seems to be out of order.

I found UnFortunate on the grass pier, and told him that there seemed to be some sort of power failure in the West Village. We guessed a Con Ed substation had gone kaplooie, and tried to figure out where it might be. Maybe down on Varick Street.

Then I ran into Schlitz, who was, as usual, a barrage of mixed signals. We chatted for a bit. I met his sweetie of a new dog. Then off to make my AOL date at the Starbucks at 8th Avenue and 16th Street.

As I walked north, it became apparent that the power failure extended beyond Christopher Street. The streets were filled with commuters making their way northward from Wall Street jobs. None of the traffic lights were working. Stores were closed.

Starbucks was closed. My gym was closed. Police were directing traffic. The subways were shut down. I walked up and down 8th Avenue smoking a cigar.

I had a dinner date at 7pm with the Ancient of Days, and I was all set to be regaled with tales of What It Was Like being introduced to S/M through a lose network of motorcycle clubs in LA in the '50s. I decided to head over there. Perhaps the Ancient of Days was plucky, and we could find some coldcuts for sale at a grocery that refused to close, and head to a nearby park. I went over there thinking that the apartment number was 4K. As in, fourth floor.

The city became more and more surreal. I saw a dollar store doing business in batteries and flashlights through their burglar gate, frightened, I suppose, of looters. (There were about six people outside of the dollar store, most of them elderly, the rest looking like untenured NYU professors.) First Avenue was a sea of humanity moving northward.

At the apartment building of the Ancient of Days, I discovered that it was not 4K but 28K. As in, 28th floor. I actually headed up the stairs (in pitch blackness), and got to the sixth floor before I thought better of this. After 28 floors, Ancient of Days might feel obligated to entertain me, and he probably wasn't planning on a blackout, and lord knew how long it could last.

So I headed east, deciding to see what Times Square looked like with all the lights out.

Times Square looked ghostly, adding to the surreal quality. Surveying the darkened marquis and empty screens on the jumbotrons, a thought occured to me: what if the lights never come back on? What if that's it for Western Civilisation? What if New York City is forever plunged back into the Nineteenth Century?

I headed back down to Chelsea. On the way, I got some free yogurts. But, alas, no spoon to go with them. I briefly considered eating the yogurts with my fingers. I was wearing my leather pants and a short sleeve grey REI shirt that I had unbuttoned. I thought I would cut sort of a fetching figure licking and sucking gobs of creamy white yogurt from my fingers. Y'see, my thoughts had turned to the possibilities of Blackout Sex. After all, wasn't there a baby boomlet in the wake of the 1964 and 1977 power outages? Since we weren't going to be watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy tonight, perhaps I could get me some nookie.

On the corner of 8th Avenue and 23rd Street, I ran into the current president of GMSMA, purched atop a mailbox, surveying the crowd. We compared notes. I mentioned my yogurt-but-no-spoon dilemma, and he offered to lend me a spoon. We headed to his apartment where I helped him light candles and ate my yogurts. Then I headed down four flights of dark stairwell and out onto the street. At this point, it was night. The city was black, except for the headlights of passing cars and the flashlights that folks were carrying. Every gurl in Chelsea seemed to be out on the streets, many shirtless.

Okay. Gay men wandering around shirtless in the dark. Pretty Meat Rack-y, huh? I was juiced. I decided to head to Ty's.

It occurred to me that New Yorkers who had a really hard time with September 11th must be having flashbacks. But, possibly this would be an antidote to that. Because, y'know... it was all pretty fine. Everyone was sort of friendly and civil. Citizens were taking it upon themselves to direct traffic. A few bars were open, lending the evening a festive atmosphere.

I dropped off my gym bag in my car (no lifting for me tonight), and there heard Mayor Bloomberg address the city. There was no looting. There was no crime associated with the blackout. People were encouraged to look in on elderly neighbors and blow out their candles before they went to bed.


I remember the story in Time magazine about the blackout in '77. It made New York City seem like a howling hell. There was none of that. Not a bit.

Christopher Street was all but deserted. Ty's was shuttered.

And then I ran into a guy that I've been cruising for the past three years. We chatted briefly, agreed that this was pretty awesome, and proceeded to stroll around together through the darkened streets of Greenwich Village, working our way up to Chelsea.

I noticed that the Penn South Co-op, along 8th Avenue in the 20s, was lit. They must have their own generator. (There was a Twilight Zone episode that came to mind, where a small town has a blackout, but some of the houses stay lit. Folks jump to the conclusion that it's the Russians--made at the height of the Cold War--and that the folks that still have lights must be Commies. A riot ensues. Cut to two space aliens up on the hill, cackling at the success of their experiment, and thinking of how perfectly it will work when they try it on a major metropolis.)

Those four yogurts I had were pretty much all I had eaten that day, so at this point I was starving. The Guy and I decided to see if in the Penn South complex there was any place selling food.

And there was. Pita Pan was open for business. Penn South had Power. Pita Pan was Part of Penn South, so Pita Pan had Plenty Power. (...ten times fast.) Alas, the whole of Chelsea seemed to be waiting in line at Pita Pan. And, sadly, the staff at Pita Pan were not used to having so much business. While waiting on line (for two and a half hours), UnFortunate was able to call me. I told him my location and he headed that way.

I managed to score some falafel (really good falafal) and some lentil salad and drinks for The Guy, UnFortunate, and me. We walked down to The Guy's stoop on 19th Street, and sat drinking and eating, talking about the blackout, talking about past blackouts, and finally talking about life and death. Sitting there in the darkness, the moon and Mars (which is the closest it will be in our lifetimes) overhead, with a lucious breeze blowing... it was all pretty sublime.

UnFortunate had visited the East Village and Tompkins Square Park. In Tompkins Square, there was apparently attempts made to incite a riot, burning trashcans and all. I voiced surprise that riot-y types still lived in the East Village. UnFortunate said that it didn't 'feel' like the Tompkins Square Park riots of old. This felt more like a frat party.

I was exhausted. UnFortunate and I bid goodnight to The Guy and walked south. At this point, the bars were closed. The streets were empty save for folks who like us, just couldn't get enough of the weirdness.

The Holland Tunnel was dark. (Well, we all had our headlights...) This, too, was a little unnerving. I thought of the chapter in Stephen King's The Stand where the actor character escapes from New York City through the tunnel, and finds it filled with corpses in cars.

And then I was back in Beautiful Downtown Jersey City. And guess what? We got Power. Right here in Jersey City. We got Power with a capital 'P' and that rhymes with 'C' and that stands for City, as in Jersey City.

And so, of course, even though UnFortunate and I plan on going to Sandy Hook tomorrow to work on our no-tan-line-tans, I decided to blog.

While I was walking around, I took some pictures. I'll post them sometime soon here on Singletails. Sometime when it's not 4:11 a.m. when I'm getting ready to head to the beach tomorrow morning.

Don't be afraid of the dark.

Thursday, August 14, 2003

Alas. Done in again by my blog.


It's happened again. Offense is taken at something I write, and the deal is off. Sort of a new spin on this old problem. I've had bottoms lose interest when they discovered that I'm not 100% Top. There's a guy who literally runs the other way when he sees me as he expressed fear that I would write about him. I've had to go back and edit this my blog... let's just say I did it as a favor without quite understanding what the problem is. And I've had someone tantalize me with exactly the yummy factoids that I wanted to hear, and he knew I wanted to hear them, because--guess what--he read it in my blog.

And now this. Apparently, I don't have quite the hoped for frame of mind. Now, mind you, without getting too much into questions of epistemology here, how would one be able to determine frame of mine in someone who... y'know... doesn't spend a coupla hours a day spilling whatever happens to be on his mind onto the world wide web? It occurs to me that in fact, I never ever have done a scene with anyone who also kept a blog. Or made the request that they turn over their diaries to me. No. I've had to engage in conversation with the men I play with. Get to know them. Ask them questions. Offer my perspective. Debate and discuss. But, of course, the interiority of another is ultimately a black box, about which we cannot surmise. Even if the 'another' in question has a blog. And so one must risk, and rely on the oft-shattered belief in the basic goodness of others.

Or... y'know... not. But risk is what it's all about.

Do I sound like I'm cheesed off? That would be because I'm cheesed off.

Wednesday, August 13, 2003

My Cop

And another interesting development.

I've been chatting with this guy on AOL. Unnervingly, he lives right around the corner from the Humble Abode, here in Beautiful Downtown Jersey City. I mean, on the one hand, how convenient is that? Wanna hook up? Yeah, I'll be right over. On the other hand, what if we meet up and it's just not there for me, but it is for him. Or vice versa. Then I'll have to change the route I take when I walk my dog or something.

So last night, when I got home from meeting up with blue, I jumped on line to check email. There he was. He flagged me down. he had just gotten in himself. We both agreed it was pretty late.

"I've gotta walk my dog," I said. "As a matter of fact, I'll be passing by your house in about five minutes."

Okay. That seems safe. I got some poop bags and went out with Trusty Companion. Sure enough, there he was, standing at the entrance to the park. I greeted him, and was pretty pleasantly surprised. Hot guy. I tried to recall what he told me he was into, because the next step in the calculation is, If he's into flogging, is he someone I'd be hot to flog?

We had the park to ourselves, since it was after one in the morning. He had a great manner. Sort of gruff but differential. Smiling eyes. I asked what he did for work. "Well," he said, not in this neighborhood, but somewhere else in Jersey City you'd see me walking around. Or driving around." He looked at his feet. "Yeah," he said, "I'm one of the boys in blue."


I know I know I know. A thing for cops. How trite. Bite me.

I grew up watching cops. Wojahowicz on Barney Miller. Ponch and John on CHiPS. Starsky and Hutch. Baretta. These butch men, with ideas about Right and Wrong, Good and Bad, that they did their best to live out. Tough men, with good, kind hearts. What's not to like.

Most of my real life dealings with cops came when they were arresting me. "Okay, ladies and gentlemen. This is your final warning. If you do not stand up and get out of the street, you will be arrested for Disorderly Conduct."

"People with AIDS! Under Attack! Whadda we do? ACT UP! Fight Back!" we responded.

So they'd put plastic twisty-ties around our wrists (Make a fist, inhale, put your wrists in a line, not wrist to wrist, and that way you'll have enough room when they tighten it and it won't cut off your circulation.) Then, two or three of them would pick us up one by one and take us and put us in the wagon. ('Paddy Wagon' is an Irish slur, and many members of the NYPD are of Irish descent, so cops don't call it a 'Paddy Wagon.' It's just 'the Wagon.'

Then, they'd take us to the precinct. We'd be put into the holding cells, boys in one cell, women in the other. Then they'd ask questions to try and determine whether or not each of us had 'ties to the community.' This could be dicey. Some of the questions (date of birth, address, name) we'd answer, but some questions (Social Security number, place of employment) we wouldn't answer, since if someone in the group didn't have one of those, they might be singled out, and our goal once in custody was not to be separated. Sort of the "I'm Spartacus!" strategy.

But our arresting officers would divvy us up, and ask us all the questions. Two of my favorites were, "Do you have any distinguishing marks or tattoos?" (Once, with an arresting officer I got pretty palsy with, I said, "Yeah, my cock is tattooed to look like the skin of a cobra." "Really?" he said. "Wanna see?" I said. He laughed.) and another was "Are you married?" (with the aforementioned arresting officer, when he got to that question, I said, "I'm in a Master/slave relationship. Does that count?" "No," he said, "We're not gonna count that.")

Then we'd be photographed. Even if you offer to pay for them, they won't give you copies of your mug shots. Sometimes fingerprinted. This was a pain in the ass, because it meant that they were sending the prints up to Albany to be checked. It took forever, and you'd be sitting in the holding cells, singing 'I am woman, hear me roar...' and songs from 'Gypsy' with the gang waiting for the results to come back for hours.

Once, when I was arrested at Hoffman-LaRoche in New Jersey, the cops decided that to be able to figure out which collars went with which arresting officers later, they'd take the photographs with us standing next to our arresting officers. I would always smile in my mugshot. A friend of mine commented that my cop and I, standing there with me smiling (he was this big, beautiful Italian guy) looked like a Gay prom picture.

By and large, the cops were great. I mean, really great. In fact I only had one bad experience, when a lieutenant went ballistic on us when we were only leafletting outside of Gracie Mansion. Since what we were doing was perfectly legal, four of us opted to take a bust on principle, although we hadn't planned on this. In the cruiser on the way to the precinct, the cops were talking about what an asshole the Lieutenant was. We agreed. About a year later, it was reported that the lieutenant had committed suicide with his own weapon. Obviously a deeply troubled man. But, one bad apple out of hundreds in my experience.

And the real life cops were just like the cops that I had fallen in love with on television as an impressionable young homo. Go figure: they were watching the same shows I was, right?

So I'm hot for cops. I don't fetishize the uniform, or the handcuffs, or the power or whatever, and I don't have arrest fantasies. Although having the gate of the holding cell swing closed and clank shut always got me hard. But overall, it's more the kind of man that in my mind is equivalent to 'cop.'

And this guy, this neighbor of mine, is all that. Totally. He's like an extra on NYPD Blue.

Tragically, My Cop seems to be pretty relationship oriented. Even though he's kinky, he's probably fairly conservative in his values. And I am definitely not relationship oriented. I'm relationship dis-oriented.

But, definitely, the next time I'm online and bright eyed and bushy-tailed instead of drowsly and fuzzy-headed, and I run into My Cop, I'm gonna hook up.

I've waited my whole life for that.

I hope I don't call him 'Wojo' in a moment of passion.

That big built bald guy with the bushy stache smoking a cigar and flagging Red Right? That would be me.

I've always wanted to take a fist. I first fisted when I was seventeen years old, and done a good deal of that since then. But I've always sensed that I didn't really get what the scene was all about. When I do it, it's more or less to accommodate the predilections of the guy I'm playing with. Now, I love getting fucked. Truly I do. But I've got a really really tight hole. Tight as a drum. A few years ago, I traveled down to Chester County, Pennsylvania, to meet up with a couple of fisting afficionados who assured me that they could pop my cherry ass. After four hours of trying, we called it quits. And, a few times, I couldn't even get loose enough to take a cock.

So when I had The Conversation with the amazing Norwegian this past Sunday, I observed a few things. First, that he was a very hot man. Second, that he had an incredible mind. Third, that he was expert at fisting. Fourth, that he had small and almost delicate hands.

So I popped the question, and he replied in the affirmative.

I'll be taking a ride in the sling before too long. Here's hoping for the breakthrough I've wanted for so long.

And afterwards, I really do want to go out and flag Red Right. A few years ago, I attended Santa Saturday, a Leather/Bear event held the Saturday after Thanksgiving at the Cartwheel in New Hope. It's way fun always. Anyway, whilst cruising, I was talking to this guy, about forty, maybe 5' 10", who looked like a shorter version of Mr. Clean. And he was there with this other guy, who was in his twenties, tall and lithe, wearing a cowboy hat. At one point, there was some fuss or whatever behind them, and they both turned around to see what the commotion was. And that's when I saw that Mr. Clean was flagging Red Left, and Cowboy Hat was flagging Red Right.

I just about shot in my pants right there. This whole scenario, this Drummer Fiction, sprang into my head...

Mr. Clean lives in Perkasie. Cowboy Hat lives in Levittown. They meet at the Cartwheel. Cowboy Hat is pretty vanilla. But he's pretty taken with Mr. Clean. They exchange numbers, meet up for dinner, back to Mr. Clean's house, they have sweet and slow vanilla sex. Afterwards, Cowboy Hat turns to Mr. Clean and says, "You're a really great guy. I like you. A lot."

Mr. Clean smiles. He says, "I like you a lot, too. A whole lot. Among other things, you really liked my fucking you. And that's important. You ever take a fist?"

Cowboy Hat is a little taken aback. "Uh... no. No way. I... No... I haven't."

Mr. Clean smiles again. He feels his spent cock getting hard again. "I'm really into fisting. I'm very good at it. I think you'd be good at it, too. I think I could give you a really good ride."

Mr. Clean pauses. Then goes in for the kill. "So, you wanna try it sometime?"

Cowboy Hat gives a half smile. Unsure of himself. He really likes this guy. He likes to get fucked, but taking a whole fist up there? That's pretty fucking wild. Mr. Clean is smiling at him, looking intently into his eyes. What the hell, thinks Cowboy Hat, I'll try anything once. "Yeah," he says, "Yeah. I'll try that some time."

"Yeah?" says Mr. Clean, "You wanna be my fist boy?"

"Yeah," says Cowboy Hat. "I'll be your fist boy."

They set a date. They make a plan. Cowboy Hat drives over to Mr. Clean's house. Really nervous. This feels like something big. He's been jerking off with a buttplug up his ass. He's been noticing the size and the diameter of his logs when he takes a shit. He's been thinking about Mr. Clean's hands. At times, he's told himself, 'No way is this gonna happen. No way could I do that.' He parks down the road from Mr. Clean's house, listening to WMMR on the radio, and smoking a Marlboro. Okay, what the hell. He turns the key in the ignition and pulls into Mr. Clean's driveway.

Mr. Clean made dinner. They eat. They share a bottle of wine. They talk about growing up, about work, about people it turns out they know in common. Cowboy Hat helps Mr. Clean wash up the dishes. At one point, they're both bent over laughing about a crazy guy that Cowboy Hat met one summer down in Rehobeth.

Then Mr. Clean takes Cowboy Hat in his arms. Kisses him deeply. Smiles. Asks Cowboy Hat how he's doing. "Okay," says Cowboy Hat, giving his half smile. The first step, Mr. Clean explains, is to get you cleaned out. They go upstairs to the bedroom. Cowboy Hat sucks in his breath when he sees the sling suspended over Mr. Clean's bed by eye-bolts in the ceiling. Mr. Clean takes him into the adjoining bathroom. They both get undressed. Mr. Clean explains the Shur-Shot, how it works. He gets the water nice and warm. Cowboy Hat gets in the tub, on his back, with his feet up. Mr. Clean starts cleaning him out. The warm water filling up his bowels is a new sensation. Cowboy Hat decides he likes it. Soon, he's moaning softly.

"Okay. You're good," says Mr. Clean.

They go into the bedroom. While Cowboy Hat smokes another Marlboro, Mr. Clean puts on some music, deep and slow and melodic. He turns out the lights, and lights some candles. Then Mr. Clean holds Cowboy Hat close, and they slowly rock in time to the music. "I want this to be really good for you. I want you to have a good time tonight," says Mr. Clean.

Cowboy Hat just gives his half smile.

Mr. Clean helps Cowboy Hat up into the sling. Makes sure the boy is comfortable. Mr. Clean pulls up a chair, and smiles down at Cowboy Hat. Then, Mr. Clean bends in and gives a kiss to Cowboy Hat's rosebud. Cowboy Hat can't help from giggling a little. I really like this guy, he thinks. He smiles and leans back and looks at the candlelight playing off the ceiling as Mr. Clean lubes up and starts teasing and exploring with his fingers. Cowboy Hat looks at Mr. Clean, who's smiling at him. He feels Mr. Clean slowly diddling him up the butt.

"That's one," says Mr. Clean.

"One what?" asks Cowboy Hat.

"One finger," explains Mr. Clean. Then, a little more pressure. "And that's two," says Mr. Clean.

More pressure riding in and out. Cowboy Hat takes a deep breath. "That's three," says Mr. Clean.

And then there were four.

"Keep your eyes on me," says Mr. Clean. Cowboy Hat looks into Mr. Clean's eyes. they gaze at each other. Cowboy Hat breathes deeply. The feeling is incredible. Mr. Clean's hand slipping inside of him, pausing for a moment, and then drawing out. Cowboy Hat gets a big smile on his face. "This... this is amazing" he croons.

Mr. Clean smiles at him, lauging a little. "You wanna be my fist boy?" he asks.

"I totally wanna be your fist boy," says Cowboy Hat.

"Take a deep breath," says Mr. Clean. "When you inhale, contract all your muscles, and then hold it. Squeezing all your muscles. Don't relax until I say so, and when I do, let your breath out, and just relax everthing.

Cowboy Hat takes a deep breath. He tightens all his muscles. He holds it, looking into Mr. Clean's eyes. "Now, relax," says Mr. Clean. Cowboy Hat exhales and relaxes. They repeat this several times. Cowboy Hat notices that now, as he relaxes, Mr. Clean's hand moves deeper and deeper into him. It hurts, but it's a deep pressure. It feels great.

"Now inhale and tighten," Mr. Clean says again. Cowboy Hat complies. "Relax," says Mr. Clean. Cowboy Hat relaxes. And as he does so, he feels Mr. Clean entering him, filling him up. Cowboy Hat says, "Oh Jesus... Oh shit..."

"Yeah. Yeah," says Mr. Clean, "I'm in you. Now you're mine. Now you're my fist boy. No, don't tighten up, just relax, breathe deep, in and out, keep looking in my eyes.

The boy just opened like a flower, thinks Mr. Clean. So beautiful. He feels the warmth of Cowboy Hat's ass, surrounding his fist, welcoming and warm. He can feel Cowboy Hat's heartbeat. "Now you're my fist boy," he says again.

Cowboy Hat smiles up at him, "Now I'm your fist boy," he says.

Cowboy Hat feels like he's floating, he feels elemental, like the shore welcoming the rising tide, he sees stars. He doesn't realize it, but his eyes are tearing up. He's never felt this good before. "I'm your fist boy," he says again.

The first scene seems to go on and on forever. Afterwards, they take a shower together, kissing, letting the hot water run over their bodies. Mr. Clean lovingly lathers Cowboy Hat. They take down the sling and climb into bed. Looking into each others eyes, they work each other's cocks, giving handjobs.

"Who's my fistboy?" asks Mr. Clean.

"I am, Sir," says Cowboy Hat, "I'm your fistboy."

"That's right, boy. You're my fistboy. And y'know what, boy? This is just the beginning. I'm gonna train your ass. I'm gonna train my fistboy's ass. And I'm gonna love doing that. Y'know what fistboy?"

"What's that, Sir?"

"Someday, fistboy, someday soon, you're gonna take both of my fists up your ass. I'm gonna double fist you, boy."

"Oh yeah, Oh yes, Sir!" says Cowboy Hat, as he shoots his load.

Naval Observations

I might not have a slave, but I may have found myself a boy. I met him on AOL. Suggested we meet up at Ty's last night. And he showed! (This, in and of itself, is pretty incredible.) He's slight, with a taut little body, reddish-blond hair, and blue eyes. At Ty's, I couldn't keep my hands off him. I was like a Jewish grandmother choosing a chicken. He's a career Navy guy. Still active duty. Likes bondage and loves piss. He's a great combination of butch and submissive. An Irish kid from the Bronx who laments that nobody plays stickball any more. I can't wait to just cover his small frame in steel chains, padlocked in place, and piss all over him. And, he might turn out to be the perfect Crash Test Dummy for me to explore rope bondage, and perhaps get something more than lamentable at it. Look for future appearances of him here. We'll call him 'blue,' as in Navy Blue, as in the blue of his eyes, as in the blue of the sea where he jumps from carrier to carrier while he's 'at work,' doing trainings on fire drills and ship collisions and the like.

Hey blue, wanna be my boy?

Tuesday, August 12, 2003

That's Four! Going for Five?

At 8 pm, after my workout, I met another WorldLeathermen Man. This time at the Starbucks at 8th and 16th. Jumpin' Jehosophat.

We'll call him Elephant Boy. He's doing his doctoral thesis comparing an Aztec ritual to the Plains Indian tradition of the Sun Dance. Elephant Boy and I talked non-stop for five hours. (Well... there were some bathroom breaks in there.) He's talked to anthropologists in Mexico, Fakir Musaphar, and Native Americans of numerous tribes across the country. And participated in a Ball Dance with Fakir, and attended a Sun Dance, and Burning Man, and Black Leather Wings. We talked about ritual, we talked about S/M, we talked about Joseph Campbell, we talked about the Voyage of the Hero, we talked about the possibility that the longstanding rumors of a top secret slave training camp in South America could be true, we talked about cannibalism, we talked about scat, we talked about the Berdache tradition among the Sioux, we talked about Warriors and Warrior Spirit, we talked about the decline of Leather in New York City, we talked about S/M as the antidote to contemporary American consumer culture...

And on and on and on. Just incredible.

The next time we meet, Elephant Boy and I won't talk at all. Or at least not much. We want to do a scene. We both agreed that if we start talking, then it will end with one of us looking at his watch and saying, "Gosh, it's 2 am. I think I'm too tired to play at this point." Elephant Boy claims he needs S/M because being an academic, he lives too much in his head. I think that I need S/M so I have ideas to put in my head. Ponder-fodder.

And, of course, I need something to write about here.

So what's going on? Horoscope? Bio-rhythms? Dumb luck?

Maybe it's the approach of Inferno. Y'know how New Agers feel that there are psychic poles on the earth? (Stonehenge, the Great Pyramid of Giza, Anchor Wat.) Places that attract psychic energy? What the Celts called "thin places?" Well maybe Inferno has the same function, only in a calendrical way. Those S/M energies just begin to flow more freely as it grows near.

I'm actually wondering if this year might be something of a dud. Why would that be? Well, two reasons.

The first is Mark. Tonight I was pondering the Inferno confirmation I received in the mail. Enclosed therewith was my fantasy form. Attendees have the option of describing a fantasy, and a committee will see if indeed that fantasy can be fulfilled during the course of the run. Last year my fantasy was a Welcoming Ritual (fulfilled in spades!), and I was asked to help fulfil the fantasy of another attendee, during which I was confronted with the fact that I couldn't pull off Mean, something I've been sort of focusing on since then, and this year, my nametag at Inferno will read simply, "Mean." So I was sort of mulling this, wondering what, if anything, I would put down as my fantasy this year. Perhaps my Roman Gladiator torturing a Christian fantasy. Perhaps given my interest in owning a slave, I should see about getting a slave for a day (and night) at Inferno... kind of a trial run. Then it hit me. What my fantasy really is. I want to do the scene with Mark that we planned on doing at Inferno. That's what my fantasy is. Alas, that fantasy is beyond the ability of anyone to fulfil ever.

And the second reason. This is trickier. It's what is described among cognoscenti as The Issue. There exist several men who are serious players, beloved of many Hellfire members, but who are not able to attend Inferno. Why? Because they are F2M transgendered. There was a vote taken that resulted in this policy on men of transgender experience becoming members of Hellfire that I read several times and I'm still clueless as to what it says. Anyway, one guy in particular became something of a cause celebre. I'm given to understand that over a hundred members and associate members, many of them pillars of the club, sponsored this guy to be a guest at Inferno this year. The Full Members discussed the issue, and said this guy could only attend if he produced a legal document saying that he was a man (such as a drivers license), and, a letter from a doctor indicating that he had a penis.

Bad bad bad bad bad. Not only is this possibly illegal, it's clearly discriminatory. No one else has ever had to prove that they had a penis to attend Inferno as far as I'm aware. And it's just so wrong. What in the name of God are they worried about?

Anyway, several prominent members--one of which I had a date with--are staying away this year in protest. Their absence, and the murky controversy in general, might possibly put a damper on the whole thing.

Delta, which is in some ways is a competing run, (well, not really because the food at Delta is infamously bad, whereas at Inferno, only the coffee is bad), has allowed men of transgender experience without incident. As I happen to know one of these men, I don't doubt that those who were sure that this would ruin everything had their minds changed if they attended, because there would be absolutely no way to tell who the trans guy was.

This whole issue grieves me. It really does. It's like finding out that a dear friend is a racist. I feel diminished and disrespected by it. All the exclusion I've felt my entire life because I'm a homo (albeit most of it of the chickening-out-on-my-part variety) is suddenly so present when I think about all of this. The guy who had to produce a penis must feel terrible. Well, from what I've heard of him, he's pretty tough. Much tougher than those sensitive old ladies who are so worried about the proximity of poontang would mar their fun. But still, what a crappy thing to do to anyone. So in a way, I feel hurt by this, as though it's an attack on me. And, I guess, in a way it is.

Becoming a member of Hellfire, and getting invited to Inferno meant so much to me. My estimation of the club is diminished by this. I'm going to Inferno because I can't not go. Last year's experience was too powerful, and it's still too fresh for me to just take a year off. I just hope that justice will prevail in this case, and that there will be a change soon.

How long, O Lord, how long?