Sunday, November 30, 2003

Bucky: In My Crosshairs


Had to do grocery shopping today. On my way to the supermarket in Plumsteadville, I thought, "Huh. Today's Sunday. I first espied Bucky at Starbucks on a Sunday when I was getting ready to head to the Trenton train station with Dorian Gray. Huh. I could go for a latte about now."

So I turned left instead of right on 611 and headed to Doylestown.

Success. There behind the counter was Bucky. (Cut to me twirling my moustaches and laughing maniacly.)


Yours Truly: Hey, Bucky!
Bucky: Hey! How's it going? Good to see you! This would be your latte?
Yours Truly: That would be my latte you're fixin'. How was your Thanksgiving?
Bucky: It was great, Man. Ate a lot of turky. Spent time with my family. Got drunk. How was yours?
Yours Truly: It was good. Me and my Dad. And I was off work.
Bucky: Off work is a good thing. And I didn't have school.
[Bucky hands me my latte.]
Bucky: Good to see you.
Yours Truly: Good to see you, too.

I went into the lounge, taking a chair so I could watch the barista station. I was a little disappointed. Bucky didn't ask me how long I was gonna be around. But maybe I had missed his break. But maybe he was giving me the brush off! Damn. Anyway, Rex Stout kept my mind--but not my eyes--off of Bucky.

After Bucky showed no signs of taking a break, I decided that enough time had passed. Even though he was pretty un-effervescent when he made me my latte, I stopped by to check in with him on my way out. When I said g'bye and told him I was leaving, Bucky was crestfallen. (Crestfallen: there's a word I've only seen in print; I've never heard anyone speak the word 'crestfallen.) He told me he was working tomorrow. I told him I had to go into Philadelphia tomorrow, but I'd see if I could stop in at about 1pm before I caught my train. Buck brightened right up when he heard that.

It's weird. I think both Bucky and I want to ask, "So, you wanna hook up sometime?" but neither of us is quite prepared to do that. Bucky might not have decided that he likes men. And so he wants to give himself some comfort room to explore that. And I would totally blow this if I didn't give him that comfort room.

But safe to say, Bucky will be mine.

Santa Saturday was a great day. All those leathermen and bears right in my backyard. Me just needing to leap the proverbial hedgerows to get to them. Wunderbar.

Here's the details...

Santa Saturday

I got there later than planned, and found the last remaining parking spot in the field down behind the Cartwheel. After I paid my ten dollars (ten dollars! admission at the door, I plunged in. The place was packed to the rafters. I'm told that not long after it started, they had admitted over 900 guests. And hundreds more (me included) had poured in after this.

Moving through the crowd was like a rugby scrimmage. Only better, because there's not as much ass-grabbing and exchanging of Woofs during a rugby scrimmage. And no injuries requiring casts, either. The percentage of white sneakers and such was very very very low. I'd say about 1%. And throughout the day, I'd run into guys I know. That was wonderful. Sooo wonderful. Made me feel very much 'a part of.' So I'd work my way through the crowd, wearing my Fox motorcycle leathers one-piece (I solved the problem of the absence of pockets by wearing the hoster thingy I bought at IML under it!). Woof some hot bear who and get woofed in return, and the two of us would suck face and tweak nipples and do crotch inspections before moving on. It was that great low-burn orgy atmosphere found at the Dugout during Sunday Afternoon BearBlast that I love so well.

As I was going to a dungeon party that night and my services as a Top would be required, I was totally in bottom mode during the day. I was flagging hunter green right. boy seeking Dad. Since there are no pockets in the Fox MC leathers, I had the idea of tying the green bandana around my right upper arm. Which worked great, until it didn't. I looked down to adjust half-way through the day and found that it had somehow slipped off. (Memo to File: Must replace the hunter green right bandana!)

I had a really fun scene-ette with a Master there with his boy from the poconos. He put me up against the wooden railing surrounding the bootblacking station. The rail hit my shoulders, so I put my arms over it with my back to it. I felt suitably crucified. Pocono Master worked my nips (they're still sore) and spanked my leathered ass, and he ordered his boy to get busy on my dick. The MC leathers, with the zipper running all the way down the front, provided easy access to both. I lapped it up like a kitten with a bowl of milk. Pocono Master was hot, and his boy... Man oh man! Sweet, doe-eyed skinhead boy! Breathtaking. If I were Pocono Master, I'd outfit him with a nice heavy steel collar.

It seems that the Bucks MC, the sponsors of the event, are just clueless when it comes to running a leather event. The admission price was ten dollars. The beer was cheap, just four bucks for a Yuengling Lager, which is what you would normally pay. They had a food stand out on the deck, and a homemade meatball sandwich went for three dollars. What's up with that? No price gouging? When I got my meatball sandwich and handed the guy a ten dollar bill, I was flabbergasted to get change back. And I just about hit the floor when I saw I got seven dollars back. I mean, not only was someone up for thirty-six hours straight making those meatballs, but we were pretty much a captive audience. I mean, where were we going to go? Imagine: a leather event with no price gouging. That's what makes the Bucks MC a primo outfit in my book. Kudoes, guys!

At The Raven

Around 6 pm, the crowd started to thin out, the dragshow/charity auction wound down, and folks started drifting down the highway to the Raven. I sort of heaved a sigh and bid a fond farewell, somehow expecting the Raven to be as I always find it: vanillaland.

Silly rabbit!

The party was still going strong. The Raven was packed to the rafters with hot men, still in a lather from the days events. I met up with Master Lambertville, the host of Lambasting, the dungeon party I was attending that night. He introduced me around to the other Lambasting attendees I would be playing with later.

Out on the deck, chatting with Lambasters, I had just lit a cigar when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a way-hot leatherman, we're talkin' right out of a Tom of Finland canvas, with his eyes trained like lasers right on li'l ol' me. Like white on rice, bay-bee, like white on rice. As I approached, I was a wee bit put off seeing a medalion around his neck. Uh oh. He was of the title-holder vintage. Would that mean all look and no play makes jack a dull kinkster? Maybe so, but that sure isn't the impression I got. He worked my already sore nips some more, took control right away (where do those hands belong, boy? that's right, boy, behind your back, boy). It was way cool.

So then I popped the question. Where do you hale from, Sir? I steeled myself for the disappointment that I usually get in such situations at MAL or IML or Folsom Street East, waiting to hear, LA or San Francisco or Vancouver or Palm Springs or New Orleans or Atlanta or somewhere else requiring plane fare for follow up.

He's from Allentown, Pennsylvania. As in, that city thirty miles up the river from me.

In the event that Master Allentown already has a boy collared, I am going to set out to hunt down that boy, abduct him, and ship him off to the slave training camp in Belize. Master Allentown doesn't need that boy. Master Allentown needs me. Get ready, Master Allentown. I'm gonna rock your world.

Alright. That's a little strong. (Give me a button and I'll sew a vest on it.) But I sure do want to hook up with this man and see where it goes.

When Master Allentown was finished with me, giving me his World Leathermen id, I returned to chatting with the Lambasters. But not for long.

"Excuse me," I said to my interlocutors, "but there's a hot bear giving me the eye and I want to follow up on that." They smiled indulgently and encouragingly. And I was off.

He was from Howell (Howl!), New Jersey. Oh Man! We're talkin six foot three inches and two hundred fifty pounds of Prime Choice American Beef. More sweet abuse for my nips. The Man from Howl wants me to come on across the river and spend some time in his sling, so he can dump a load of piss up my boy ass.

Like. Okay.

My poor father. He's hardly gonna see me for the next several weekends.


And it was time to make our way to Lambertville for Lambasting. Dinner was at eight, and no one wanted to be late for dinner.

And how about that? A dungeon party that begins with a sit down dinner? Do we know how to do things right here in the hinterlands, or what?

Dinner was fried chicken, three-bean-salad, cole slaw, and more. And it was delicious. And I was starving. Famished. And the desert table was pretty lush.

But I started out the evening a little low-energy. Perhaps because I was having trouble switching out of bottom mode. Perhaps because I had had a lot of hot action over the course of the day already. Perhaps because of the crash after eating the lucious chocolate cake for desert (shoulda had the pumpkin pie).

But a guy from New York sat next to me and we started talking. He asked how I played, and I ran down my list: singletails, flogging, chain bondage, piss. (I might have left out chain bondage. Master Lambertville lives on a hill, and I was parked down the hill. The prospect of lugging 150 lbs. of chain up that hill was a little daunting.) He perked up at singletails. He told me he had been flogged before, but not whipped, and he was interested in that intensity.

As we talked, I was struck by something. This guy was me. There he was, conceptualizing. Trying to articulate What It All Means. And as he had an ecclesial background, that What It All Means was informed by theology.

I wanted to teach this man a lesson. The same lesson that I've learned. Shut that down. S/M is beyond our paltry human abilities to articulate. It's deeper than that. Concepts and intellectual constructs fail.

My interest was piqued. I was up for whipping this man.

After dinner, I had a cup of coffee and then headed down to the dungeon to set the scene. Master Lambertville's dungeon is nothing if not well-appointed. It was all there. He had a great St. Andrew's Cross that I claimed for us. Unfortunately (for everyone else), I was taking up the entire room. And it was the room that held the standing cage and The Box (a steel stand-up coffin of sorts, and an amazing piece of dungeon furniture). Ah well. My fellow Lambasters would have to content themselves with the other play rooms.

I laid out my floggers and whips with care, and unbraided my ropes. Then we went upstairs to negotiate. Concepts concepts concepts.

Back downstairs, I put on wrist restraints, and locked them in place so he was hugging the cross. Then, I wound ropes around his waist and down his legs, securing him the to the cross. I started in on the flogging. His back responded beautifully. He responded beautifully, sort of purring and giving out the soupcon of a 'thankyousir' each time I landed a good one. He sobbed. He moaned. He was magnificent.

After multiple floggers, I stepped up to the braided cat. This man could take a lot. This man could take whatever I dished out. Rarely have I done a whipping scene with a first timer when I felt so confident that I wasn't going to go too hard, too fast. He was up for it.

I started in with the whip, playing all over his back, letting fly with several good loud cracks. He was flying. Just flying. This man was made for whipping. His face was just glowing, as though he were enjoying the Beatific Vision. And in a way, he was.

I was planning on doing the final ten count, but I didn't. Rather, there was just this sudden awareness that I had. I've never had this before. Just this sense that the scene had reached its fullness. "In the Fullness of Time" is the phrase from the New Testament. (What's the Aramaic word for that? Kenoia? Something like that.) It is finished. It is complete. We've arrived at that place.

I spritzed his back with hydrogen peroxide and then with alcohol. I undid his restraints. And we laid down on the floor in front of the cross. Just being. No words. No concepts. Just being.

We headed upstairs to free up the room. And there was this man from DC. He and I had 'talked' over World Leathermen. He has a boot fetish. There's an amazing pic on his WLM profile: a man licking his high gloss riding boots, shined so well that you can clearly see the man's reflected face in the boot leather. And Gloss (we'll call him) was wearing those riding boots. Back at the Raven, when introduced, we had talked. And there was energy there. There was something going on.

Anyway, Gloss was on his way out. He was tired. It had been a long day. He looked forward to seeing me again, and said that if I ever got to DC I should look him up. He was headed down to say goodnight to our host when I was moved to ask, "How about some boot service for the road, Sir?"

Well, Gloss couldn't say no to that.

Now, I've (joyously) (rapturously) received boot service on several occasions. I love boot service. Having a hot man give your boots a tongue bath is just a taste of the sublime. One of the most memorable GMSMA meetings I attended was made memorable by a hot bearded boy surprising me as I sat consumed by mismanaging the books in my post as Treasurer by sneaking under the table and surprising me with the sensation of his hot mouth working my boots. I don't doubt that there were several accounting errors that went down that night.

That said, I've never actually performed boot service. For one thing, it will mean licking something. Since I was a child, my kryptonite has been something not-food getting in my mouth. I gag easily. I'm even leery of uncut dick since that dread day in Health class in high school when Miss Scanlon explained to us what smegma was. (The word alone!)

So, this simple thing would be a challenge for me. But, I wanted to submit to this man.

Gloss had me on the floor in short order. And there I was, licking that man's boots for all I was worth. Just lapping at them. Slobbering and licking.

Gloss was masterful, egging me on, making his delight evident. I licked the tops. I licked his soles. When ordered, I worked my way up the long shiny shafts. And there was my face reflected in Gloss's boots. Big pig-happy grin on my face.

Through his serge uniform, Gloss had me work his dick. Word had come to me that Gloss had a beautiful dick, and I wanted some of it. Alas, I was gagging in no time. And even though I think that Gloss got off on my gagging on his beautiful tool, he held back.

After a blissful eternity, Gloss got into position to wrap things up. I was supine on the floor, and he straddled me, my head between his wonderful boots. Gloss shot his load all over the fur of my chest. Then, Gloss worked my (already sore) tits with one hand, and my boyhole with the other, and ordered me to show Dad my load. And did I ever. It was explosive. Supernova.

This boy likes boot service.

Gloss put himself together. We had some favorable reviews offered by on-lookers (of whom I had been wholly oblivious, focusing myself solely on Gloss's boots). Gloss put himself together, hoped that I'd make the trip down to DC and pay him a visit (count on that!). I headed downstairs, packed up my toybags, bid my host adieu, and drove home along the winding backroads of Bucks County.

It's good here in the hinterlands.

Friday, November 28, 2003

Central Bucks East High School Class of '83 Rules! Yeah!

Well that was fun. Big fun!

First off, I looked great. I hit the gym this afternoon, and right when I was out of the steam room shaved my head, so it was probably the closest shave I've had in my life. I had a high gloss finish. Love that. I wore my Almost Prada black suit, gray shirt, and SoHo-purchased tie. And I topped it all off with my Burberry. Sharp. We're talkin' sharp.

Because I had failed to send in my $60 before November 18th, there was no name tag for me featuring my yearbook photo and my name. So that had to be hastily devised. In general though, no one recognized me. I had to tell my name and say something like, "no moustache and big hair."

Some of my classmates had scarily not aged at all. Like they spent the last twenty years in cryogenic suspension and were thawed for tonight's festivities.

And I got an award! I got a gift certificate for a chef to come to my house and fix a complete meal for me and a guest, including soup, salad, entree and side, and desert. Given my father's limited palate, I'm unsure just what I'm gonna do with that, but I have until November 28, 2004 to figure it out. What did I get the award for? For best answer to the part of the questionnaire that read, "Tell us what you've been doing for the past twenty years." I think it was my 'developed an expertise with bullwhips' that got their attention.

And it was fascinating. Incredible the way people don't change. Imagine standing in a room full of strangers, and one by one a gesture, or inflection of voice, or or a facial expression gives them away and jogs the memory, and sure enough, you used to spend every day of your life with them.

There was the guy who I was pretty afraid of, who used to find cause for mirth in me, and who seemed to have something of an impulse control disorder back then. He looks amazing. He has long flowing blond hair, facial features that look like they were carved from stone, and piercing blue eyes. He greeted me warmly (I didn't have to help), and bought me a beer. He was also a paraplegic, although he wasn't in high school. He works with his wife making jewelry from glass beads they make themselves and silver.

There was the woman who when she told me that she managed her husbands contracting business and I responded, "Why I remember on career day you followed around Mrs. Harbison because you wanted to be a french teacher," got this look in her eyes as if to say, "How the hell would you remember a thing like that? Were you stalking me?" Nope, sweetie, it's just this flypaper mind of mine.

There was the guy who impressed me back then as being just such a solid good guy. Like he was from another age. Living by his own values even then, in the ultra-conformity of high school. And he still is. He spent fifteen years in the merchant marines. When he told me that, if he wanted to, he could have just taken out his dick and I would have serviced him there. Woof!

There was the guy who just seemed so much more advanced than the rest of us. An adult disguising himself as an adolescent. He was the pride of our theater club, the Patriot Players, always getting the lead, and just wowing everybody. He dropped out of college after one semester. He's the assistant manager in a bank. He told me that he lost everything several years ago when his house burned to the ground. They said it was faulty wiring, but he confessed to me that he came home drunk and passed out with a lit cigaret. He was kind of a 'phobe back then. I think he's never dealt with his homosexuality. He apparently drinks himself into oblivion at the Farmhouse Tavern (I heard him talk about the Farmhouse Tavern about six times over the course of the evening) every other night. Unmarried. Lives with his parents since the fire. I wonder if there's a piano at the Farmhouse Tavern? I wonder if he sits down to play, and goes through all of the songs from 'Once Upon a Mattress,' and maybe a little Sondheim. I wonder if everyone gets really quiet and full of awe when he sings and accompanies himself. Or if they don't notice any more because they've been listening to it for the past twenty years.

They were all there. That's why I went. To see how the stories came out. The ditzy cheerleader who is now a Jewish mother. The sweet, kind boy who harbored secret aspirations to be a doctor and is now a doctor. The girl who I swear I never saw in high school when she wasn't stoned, who is not fun, vivacious, and just full of light and joy.

And then, of course, there's me.

I never realized until tonight just how afraid I was in the first half of my life. I was terrified of all of those people. They scared the bejeezus out of me. Don't see me don't see me don't see me don't see me don't see me don't see me.

I just lived in dread. High school is the setting for most of my anxiety dreams. I almost didn't graduate because I skipped school so many times my senior year. I was terrified of them. For the life of me, I can't remember what I was afraid of. Because at the same time, I was working in restaurants in New Hope, and coming out, developing friendships and having great times with men and women in their twenties and thirties. There, it was Notice me notice me notice me notice me notice me. And in college, I was quite the BMOC.

What demons were let loose to torment me in high school? Whatever they were, I think they were exorcised tonight.

Santa Saturday, Green with Promise

Best. Night. At the Raven. Ever.

There were men with facial hair there! And we're talking, big, bushy moustaches! Wearing leather! And fatigues!

And, of course, they were all from Connecticutt. In town early for Santa Saturday tomorrow. I made a play for one guy, but he didn't seem interested. Maybe it was his exhaustion after the long drive, but he just seemed to be pretty sour. A sour guy. Sour about the locals. Sour about his hotel. Sour about his fellow Nutmeggers. Sour sour sour.

Upon entering, I was greeted with a familiar visage of a guy I used to hang out with at the LURE. We'll call him KennyCutt, in an homage to what Buffy and Jody used to call the place where Sissy went to college on 'Family Affair.' KennyCutt and I have talked on line. We've growled and woofed at each other countless times at the LURE. He was even there at the musclebear sex party where Special Guy and I had one of our first dates.

And there was KennyCutt, just about in my back yard. So after I got the brush off from the Sour Guy, KennyCutt and I started talking. And then he started working my nips. And then we went across the street to his motel room and got naked and hooded. I've long suspected that KennyCutt approached leathersex not in terms of bondage or flogging or hot wax or clothespins or whatever, but rather as putting on leather and having sex. And that's not quite what I've ever gone out looking for. These suspicions proved correct. That's what was on the menu for last night. And that was fine. A nice hooded-up fuck session. Perfect to get my head togehter.

Today is Takin' Care of Bidness Day. Got a lot of things to do. And tonight I'll head to my class reunion. And tomorrow will be Santa Saturday. And the Hunt for a Bear Dad. Sunday I might get together with a professional soccer player who is hot to get me in his leather straight jacket. And Monday I spend in Philadelphia, having caffeine-fueled conversation with the Baron von Philadelphia.

And then it's back to work.



Not that kind.


Being late for work has always always always been a problem with me. I'm not the kind of person who is blase about a thing like that. Or anything. The reasons were manifold.

At times, I felt that because my work was so superior, I felt that 'The Rules' that applied to everyone else didn't apply to me; I was untouchable and irreplaceable. Sometimes, it was purely passive-aggressive on my part: I hate my job and my employer, so take that! Most often, the rich, full life I lead meant that getting to bed in time for me to get a good night's sleep was unlikely at best. And always always always I have been good for nothing in the mornings. My reptile brain is in charge until about 11 a.m. The clock seems to play tricks on me. I'll sit down with a cup of tea and take my Braun electric razor to my head, and when I look at the clock, a half an hour has gone by. And I'm late for work. Again.

Since I've worked at this job, I have never been late. Not one time. I punch the clock and get to work. Despite some thing or other that I absolutely positively have to attend to in the mornings, despite getting trapped behind a ponderously slow moving school bus, despite the fact that my work day starts at 7 a.m. (...why in the name of everything that is Holy and good?), I've been on time.

And it's not hard. I go to bed at 10:30. I pack my lunch and give my pate a good shaving the night before. When the alarm goes off, I get out of bed instead of just laying there.

It's amazing the change this has brought about. I can do this. I can manage this aspect of my often unmanageable life. I can do this thing that eluded me for so long. When I started the job, the sun had just come over the hill when I set out to take Faithful Companion for his walk. Now, I leave the house in the darkness, and get to see the sunrise--always glorious--on my drive to work. Dawn is pretty amazing. Always.

This has given me this sense that there is perhaps a lot out there that I had previously considered to be out of my reach. This, I think, would be the benefit of discipline.

'Discipline' comes from a Greek word that means 'to follow.' Specifically, to follow a Rule. Not a 'no-spitting-on-the-sidewalk' kind of rule, but rather a Rule of Living. A million years ago, when I was considering monastic life, that was really attractive to me. I saw it as a way to freedom. Not having to worry about the minor decisions of life (when to get up, what to have for breakfast, when to set to work, what to do, how to organize the day) would free the mind and libido to address the Great Things in life. And, it was a great trade-off: if you do this in this way, then food, shelter, clothing were there for you.

Another rule I've discovered about life: The more you do, the more you do. The more you accomplish, the more you end up accomplishing. The more densely packed your schedule, the more free time you seem to have. Everything just runs along fine.

The battle here is a philosophical one. Against Nihilism. Being a nihilist, this is tricky for me. Ultimately, of course, it doesn't really matter. It's all pretty pointless. "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds." Here's the best I can offer on that score: I'll be a happier person on a day-to-day basis. There's less to worry about. Less chance that the Demons of Four Thirty in the Morning will be paying a visit. It's the Good Life.


Thursday, November 27, 2003

Santa Saturday Aspirations

Two days till Santa Saturday. I'm leathering up and heading to the Raven to night in hopes that there will be some early arrivals. Last night was really really really sad.

Maybe He'll be there. He'll spot me, wearing my leather, smoking a cigar, surveying the room. Flagging hunter green right. boy seeking Dad. He'll introduce himself. We'll talk. He'll ask what the deal is with me. I'll tell him.

"I'm a Top. I like being a Top. A few months ago, my stepmother died. I moved back here to Bucks County after thirteen years in New York City to look after my father. Our roles are reversed. I'm parenting him now. And since that time, I've had this desire for a Dad. A big, dominant, cigar-smoking Dad. I'm looking for that security. And I'm looking to serve. And, I've been exploring submission lately. Trying to get a handle on it. Wouldn't say I'm an expert at this point, but I'm enjoying trying to get a handle on it."

He'll smile. Reach down. Remove one of the belted leather bands from around his biceps. He'll raise it up to my face. "Kiss it, boy."

I kiss it. He puts it around my neck. Adjusts it for a snug fit. Buckles it in place. Smiles again.

"You're mine now. How about showing these boots some attention, boy?"

Yes, Sir!

Down I go. Tongue to boot leather.


Probably, it will be a day of drinking beer and eating hot dogs and running into men I know, or with whom I've chatted on the internet. And that will be that.

As per my usual strategy, set your sites low, and then, if anything (anything) happens, then it's a windfall.

And, it's pretty much assured that I'll see some good play this weekend. It's Lambasting! A dungeon party in Lambertville! A day and night of cammeraderie and leathersex. Way cool. And right in my back yard.


The Incredible Shrinking Family

Return with us now to Thanksgiving, 1970. Gathered around the table here at the homestead would be my stepmother, Ruby, my father, my brother, my sister and probably whatever boyfriend she had then, my grandparents, my Great Uncle Devoe and my Great Aunt Helen.

Or how about Thanksgiving, 1985. My stepmother Ruby was deceased, as were my grandparents and great uncle and aunt. My brother was off with his wife's family, but my sister and her husband were there. My father had remarried, and my second stepmother's daughter and her children and their friends were there. The spread was amazing. Turkey, stuffing, sweet corn, sweet potatoes, creamed spinach, cranberry sauce were the standard fare.

And here we are now. Thanksgiving, 2003. Just my father and I. We went to spend the day with my brother's wife's family, consisting of her brothers and sisters and their progeny.

It was a wee bit taxing. I had to remember all of those people's names. The food was wrong, save for the turkey and stuffing. At one point, I greeted someone by the name of his deceased brother. (Oops.) They're all decent enough. There was a 'kid's table' for the progeny, and I was glad of that, as adolescents just suck the energy out of the room.

After dinner, my father decided that it was Time To Go, and I was interrupted from playing a game of billiards in the den over the barn with the word that he was sitting in the car, waiting for me.

My father couldn't remember the last time that he left the homestead on Thanksgiving. Probably the first time in his adult life.

Death is such a sundering. There's not just the loss of the person who dies, but also all of the connections that we have to others through that person. "Time is a careless theif," sings Emmylou Harris, "Taking those we love, and leaving us our grief."

We're invited back for Christmas Day. I'd rather eat glass and wash it down with brake fluid. But in all likelihood, that's where my father and I will be heading in about a month. To celebrate the day with these nice, simple people. Whose only fault in my eyes is that they're the wrong people.

Huh. And next year? When my brother and his wife are in Florida? Will it just be me and my Dad? Hard to say.

Here's another thought. I'll probably outlive my father and my brother. What then?

Well, actually, that will be good as far as the holidays will be concerned. I'll have the leeway to gather around me people I love. Replacing this faux family that's replaced my real family with a chosen family.

Wednesday, November 26, 2003

What a Man Should Know

Here at the Singletails Compound, housed by the 1740s farmhouse and barn that I.M. Pei helped us to renovate, the Department of Antiquated Gender-Essentialist Notions of Masculinity has been busy lately. We're all a'buzz about their latest submission, "100 Things That Every Man Should Know." (Take Caution! The Department of Antiquated Gender-Essentialist Notions of Masculinity had their Annual Pre-Thanksgiving Chili Cook-Off today, so we're giving them wide berth.)

Herewith, for your edification and delight, is the comprehensive 100 Things That Every Man Should Know

  1. How to ride a horse
  2. How to hang a door
  3. How to plant a tree
  4. How to tie a half-windsor
  5. How to open a bottle of wine and get no cork in the wine
  6. How to shoot a gun
  7. How to make a bed
  8. How to make conversation with as stranger
  9. How to body surf
  10. How to roast a chicken
  11. How to drive stick
  12. How to defrag a hard drive
  13. At least one poem by heart
  14. How to make gravy
  15. The correct form for a bench press
  16. CPR
  17. How to keep score in bowling
  18. How to keep an eight year old child entertained
  19. How to grow tomatoes
  20. How to admit a mistake
  21. How to rebuff a panhandler
  22. How to steer a canoe
  23. The name of the waitress at a good local diner
  24. How to grill a steak
  25. How to do a self exam for testicular cancer
  26. How to pick up a desirable sex partner in a bar
  27. How to give a good massage
  28. How to build a campfire
  29. How to play stud poker
  30. How to point out an error to a colleague in a way that will not cause him or her to hate you
  31. How to find your way around at least one major world city
  32. Who didn’t win the 1918 World Series and why
  33. How to find the surface area of a right triangle if given the lengths of any two of the sides
  34. What to say when someone says, “Well, I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”
  35. How to throw a punch
  36. How to spit shine boots
  37. What Frank and Joe Hardy’s father did for a living
  38. How to shuck an oyster
  39. When Beaujolais hits the shelves
  40. The words to Bruce Springsteen’s Thunder Road
  41. When to use ‘which’ and when to use ‘that’
  42. A movie critic and music critic whose tastes align with his
  43. A nearby cigar store
  44. How to tie a half-grannie
  45. How to deliver bad news
  46. How to bake bread
  47. His senators and representatives in Congress
  48. What a finger missing down to the knuckle might indicate
  49. The birthdays of his significant other, parents, offspring, siblings, and closest friends
  50. How to give an order in a polite but commanding tone of voice that will cause the person being addressed to hop to.
  51. How to make a toast
  52. How to hit a softball
  53. How to change a tire
  54. How to shave his face
  55. How to unclog a toilet
  56. Jackie Robinson’s place in history
  57. What relationship the number 343 bears to September 11, 2001
  58. The Prayer of St. Francis
  59. A chili recipe
  60. How to fly cast
  61. The nearest place where they make their own ice cream
  62. How to make chicken soup
  63. How to prevent the transmission of HIV
  64. How to refinish furniture
  65. Basic histology
  66. How to housebreak a puppy
  67. How to use a chainsaw
  68. The Latin names of trees
  69. How to ski on water, snow, or both
  70. How to find a satellite in the night sky
  71. How to drive in the snow
  72. How to serve a volleyball
  73. How to write a business letter
  74. How to swim
  75. The rudiments of a language other than the one he grew up speaking
  76. Just what Marcus Aurelius was meditating on
  77. How to make a mint julep
  78. Who his friends are
  79. The gist of the importance of principal holidays of the major world religions
  80. How to tell if there’s an undertow
  81. How to spot someone with a Borderline Personality Disorder
  82. When to concede defeat
  83. The words to the National Anthem
  84. How to spend a weekend alone with the phone unplugged and why
  85. How to iron a shirt
  86. How to find a restaurant in an unfamiliar town
  87. How to do something in public that you’ve never done before
  88. How to spend time with someone with a terminal illness
  89. How to make hot cocoa
  90. How to mix cement
  91. How to talk about race or religion with someone of a race or religion other than his own
  92. How to follow a blazed trail
  93. How to shoot a competitive game of pool
  94. What poison ivy looks like
  95. That, as Isaiah Berlin put it, “the fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows One Great Thing.”
  96. How to fly a kite
  97. When to call it a night
  98. How to season a cast iron skillet
  99. How to take a sauna
  100. That he doesn’t know much


It's 10:34 pm. I just had a cup of tea. I can do that, because I don't have to be up tomorrow morning at 5:30 am. I don't work. That holds true for the next five days. Tonight, I haul my blue collar ass down to the Raven.

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

Life With Father

I love my Dad.

When I got home from work (well, more correctly from my post-work latte at Starbucks; Bucky didn't work today so I read Rex Stout), he was all excited.

Why? Because it's cold here in the hinterlands, and my father is convinced we've seen the last of temperatures in the sixties. So, it's time to start the wood stove!

The first fire of the season. He wanted to wait until I was home to make An Event out of him lighting the fire. I loaded up the wood box, and he set to work with kindling and rolled up newspaper.

Huh. I've been watching my father light fires in that fireplace all my life. I always had trouble with it. But for him, he has a roaring blaze in minutes.

Now that he's older, he minds the cold, so the thermostat is usually set to like 82 degrees. But when I was younger, the heat would be off during the day when we were away, me at school, my parents at work. I would come home to a cold house, and the first order of business would be to light a fire. While I made an afterschool snack (Mmmmm... hot tea and toast with peanut butter and cinamon sugar!) the house would start to warm up.

There's something so elemental about living that way. Takes you right back to the last ice age, when ragtag bands of homo sapiens sapiens would gather round for warmth and protection, and talk about the mysterious and frightening world they inhabited.

My people are of coal mining stock. Although none of my immediate forbears were down in the mines, the mentality persists. Y'see, the mines in the anthracite regions of Pennsylvania were all what are called 'company towns.' The mining company would buy up the land in what was then the wilderness, and people--mostly immigrants from Russia, Ukraine, Poland, Germany, Holland, Ireland, Wales--would move there to work in the mines. The Company would rent them houses, and all food and other merchandise was available from the Company, which ran the stores. So, the pay just about covered your food and shelter. There was no such thing as disposable income. The Company held all the strings. If you were hurt in the mines, you didn't get paid, and your family would starve.

So the onset of winter was a fearful time. It meant want and cold. No vegetables came from the garden. The food on the table was what was bought at the company store or put up after the harvest. Winter was hard.

And they would build fires in their little clapboard houses to keep warm.

It's good to have a fire.

Monday, November 24, 2003

Let's Call Him 'Bucky'

Now that Starbucks Boy has a name, I think it's time he get something a wee bit less anonymous sounding here on Singletails. So Bucky it will be.

Give me a button and I'll sew a vest on it. Give me a molehill and watch me set to work making a mountain out of it.

Yeah yeah yeah. I know. Don't choke the World Wide Internet with your cautionary emails.

But there is something definitely going on with me and Bucky.

Today. After work. I head to Starbucks for my latte. There he was. This time, I greeted him by name. He was glad to see me. Much Eye Hockey ensued. Bucky said that he got a break if I was able to hang around. I headed outside to smoke a cigar, since that seemed to be a draw for Bucky on Saturday. I smoked. I read my book. I sipped my latte. No break for Bucky.

And tonight, I had welding school. So when I couldn't wait much longer, I headed in to let Bucky know that I was leaving. More eye hockey ensued. He seemed delighted that I had stopped in to say goodbye. And 'see you again.'

"Absolutely!" he said, "So we can talk some more about New Mexico."

Sure. There's a topic.

Here are some other topics...

Let's talk about how good it will feel to sink my dick into your virgin boy butt.
Let's talk about turning you onto cigars.
Let's talk about how a collar would frame that dreamy face of yours so well.
Let's talk about how excited I get thinking about you wrapped up in duct tape, with my cum all over your smiling face.
Let's talk about me training your boy ass to take my fist.
Let's talk about boot service.
Let's talk about us drifting off to sleep, me enfolding you in my arms, and my dick up your butt.
Let's talk about taking you to get pierced.

Damn, I am hot for that boy!

But are there "issues?" Of course there are issues. When are there not issues?

Like what?

Like the fact that he's probably twenty years old and probably way inexperienced. He probably isn't sure if he's queer yet. And he's twenty years old. He has no idea what he wants. He'll pledge undying love and commitment and then go chasing after some lifeguard at the local Y. His fears and ambivalance about being gay (coming out to his parents, if he hasn't already done so, and everybody else) will be projected onto me. So it would be a big ol' case of attraction-avoidance.

But I say, Go For It! I think after a few more conversations about New Mexico or whatever, I'll ask if he wants to get together for dinner or a movie or something together. Go some place where we can take a walk afterwards, and I can take his hand.

I've got to make sure I don't do what I always do: dissipate that sexual tension.


I wonder if Bucky jerks off at night thinking about that big bald guy with the bushy stache who comes in every day from his carpenter job for a latte? Well, given his age, he's probably jerking off eleven times a day. (If this does go somewhere, will I be able to keep up with that libido?)

Doubtless, if I introduce the idea of S/M in terms of, "I really like to whip men until they bleed" or something, he'll be heading for the hills, tucking his tail between his legs.

But I do want to be upfront about it. I'll talk about the spiritual and healing aspects of this journey of mine. About how the world is his oyster, too. That should be a better approach.

He is soooo sweet. And local. And he has a beard.

I could go places with a boy like him.

And, more importantly, he could take me places. Gotta remember that.

Definitely gotta remember that.

Sunday, November 23, 2003

Five Year Plan Revisited

So then I made the three-and-a-half hour drive back home. On the way, I built my dream house.

In my head, or course. I'd tried to put some ideas on paper before this. But on the drive back, perhaps inspired in part by Bus Driver and Da Coach's amazing place, I started thinking it through. Room by room, aspect by aspect.

Concrete, steel, glass, glossy unadorned pale maple cabinetry, rich textiles. Austere, clean, open, minimalist, comfortable.

When I got home, after greeting my father, I sketched it out. After a few iterations, it came together. Trapezoidal, with the longest side inset with an irregularly shaped deck, made of the same smooth concrete as the interior floors. A workshop (welding and wood!) and dungeon are separated from the main structure by a car-port of sorts, the upper portions of the exterior walls covered by corrugated aluminum. The back wall, giving out onto the deck, is a wall of glass. Kitchen, big dining area, and livingroom are all one large room, somewhat set off into discrete areas. The fireplace in the livingroom is shared by my bedroom. I've given myself a steam room in my bathroom. There's a hot tub out on the deck (sunken so as not to obstruct the view). And then, four bedrooms for guests. I've even sited the vegetable garden.

I'm telling myself that by using industrial materials, I'd be able cut costs. But I know from experience that windows are expensive, and there are a lot of them.

Damn, it would be beautiful.

From Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, I got the idea of an Inspiration Board. I'm gonna get me an inspiration board and hang it somewhere. On it will go my sketch of my house, a mock-up of the cover of the book I'm writing, maybe some printouts of property for sale from, a welding machine, a router and table saw, a plasma cutter, a print-out of the web page (exceptionally designed and flawlessly manufactured steel and aluminum dungeon furniture).

What a great house.

No Shit, Sherlock

Back from my weekend with Bus Driver and his other half, Da Coach. At no time did I ingest feces.

Sorry to disappoint (grin).

But, I did have a great time.

The drive up was long. We're talkin' real long. Way long. And I got lost. Sort of. I somehow decided I had to turn off the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and get on Route 80 going west. Since that's the route I take to drive to Inferno and Chicago for IML, I guess that segment of the Eisenhower Interstate System just has those associations for me. Anyway, I needn't have taken that sidetrip.

I arrived much later than planned, and Bus Driver and Da Coach had kept dinner for me... the perfect hosts from the git go. We talked over dinner. I heard all about ScatFest, the annual little event that these guys pull off, their own little run for scat afficionadi.

Da Coach wanted to be flogged. I had my doe skin and my braided cat, as well as all of my whips, in my bag. So, I could accommodate. The plan was, I would head up to the raunch dungeon and flog Da Coach, and Bus Driver would head up and we'd see where it went.

At this point, about 11 p.m., I was starting to feel a little woozy. I mean c'mon! I had gotten up at 4:30 am, worked from 6 a.m. until 2:30, had that conversation with Starbucks Boy, gone home, done some chores, hit the road, dropped off Faithful Companion at the boarding place, and then driven for three-and-a-half hours. During the flogging, I used only the doe-skin, and I went easy. In part because I sensed that Da Coach's experience was somewhat limited, and in part because I didn't trust my skills with fatigue setting in.

Da Coach loved it. And so did I. As we were winding down, Bus Driver showed up, resplendent in vest, leather jock, and boots. He proceeded to smoke a cigar.

I wanted to submit to Bus Driver. My dick was rock hard. But I was reluctant to do so. Where would it lead? I still had misgivings about scat, and that is how Bus Driver played. Soooo, if I got down and gave boot service, would I be hauled over to the scat chair? I wasn't ready for that.

And in the raunch dungeon where we did the flogging, I was standing on the 'scat mattress,' a matress on the floor, over a sheet of plywood, with 4x4s bearing eye-bolts bolted to the plywood so they ran down the sides. (Really nice design!) And, the mattress was totally shit-stained. That was a little hard for me to take. I was very much outside of the scene, looking in.

And, Bus Driver sensed my exhaustion, and suggested that we all turn in. In the morning, we'd work with whips. He did show me his bullwhip. He bought it in San Francisco in the Seventies. He'd never used it, just sort of draping it over himself during scenes. Kind of acccessorizing with it. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. It had a wooden handle, wide braids, and what looked like butcher's twine for a cracker. My first impression was that this was some kind of a toy.

But then I gave it a throw. The whip extended beautifully, and there was the crack.

Huh. Pretty effective.

I think that the strageness is probably due to the fact that it was made before the advent of the Australian whipmakers introducing their craft to these shores. At the time, this whip was probably state-of-the-art, but those Australians, with their sleek think plaits and intricate weaving just wiped the homegrown efforts off the map. But if this whip is any example, those homegrown efforts weren't too bad.

So we went to bed. I was inanimate almost immediately. Not chained up in the raunch dungeon (what? on that mattress?), and not in the cage. I needed a bed. I got a bed. A verrrry comfortable bed.

The next morning, over breakfast, the three of us talked some more. (In the daylight, I also had an opportunity to see the property better: it's amazing! Twenty-five wooded acres on a lake, private, terraced, beautiful. Wow.)

During conversation over the breakfast table, Bus Driver described how at the last Scat Fest, there was a guest who was known for really big dumps. Da Coach attributes this to the fact that this guy gets fisted a lot. Quite the colonic capacity! Anyway, at one point during the festivities, the guy showed Bus Driver an accomplishment: there on a dinner plate was a huge turd. An enormous turd. And the guest was grinning proudly.

Bus Driver told me that he almost lost his lunch, but managed to hold it down. But then, another guest, seeing this wonder, said, "Wow, let me at that!" Bus Driver said it was only with extreme effort, and by excusing himself, that he didn't toss his cookies.

As Roseanne Rosannadanna would say, "Hey! What gives?"

I was sort of under the impression that these folks looked at shit the way I look at Jell-O Chocolate Pudding: Yum! That somehow, that disgust reaction was absent in their case, either they had gotten over that or didn't have that gene in the first place. Apparently, this was not the case.

Bus Driver described to me what he loved about scat. (There is nothing I enjoy so much as having some kinkster get that gleam in his eyes when he tells you why he gets off on whatever, why the scene is magic for him. To my mind, this is a GMSMA Wednesday Night Program at it's best.) He sits down on his scat chair and lights a cigar. And then, not only is there the pleasure of taking a big dump (which is, y'know, a really pleasurable experience if you think about it), but there's the extra added bonus that there's a man submitting to him by swallowing that log.


After breakfast, I took a shower. And thought about all of this.

And I think I get it.

The most devote scat bottom is not without the revulsion that we all have. There's fear, there's disgust, there's every fiber of his being screaming "No! No! Noooo!" And he opens up his mouth, let's the shit flow in, and swallows it down.

Cuz it's about submission.

Da Coach shed more light. He explained that when you're bottoming in a scat scene, you go into this intense, mindless, animal mode. It's pure and wonderful. It's submission. It's total, blind submission. That's the magic of the scene.


I think I've learned something. When you submit, you're not just submitting to the bondage Top or the whipping Top or the punchpig Top or the boot Top or the hot wax Top, first and foremost, you're submitting to yourself. Or, more accurately stated, you're submitting to your Shadow. To that demonic part of you that says, "You know what you want. You want that hot man over there to sit down on your face and dump right down your throat. You think you've got it all together. You think you're Mr. Swell Guy. You think you're pretty hot stuff. But you know what you are? Your shit-eating slave meat. That's what you are."

You might spend your entire life trying to suppress that voice and exorcise those demons. But the only way you'll ever find peace is to submit to them. To become the shit-eating slave meat you know you are.

Because then, you find out that you are a god. That nothing can hurt you. That demon is your guardian angel. That message is not anihilation, but salvation. You are pure light. You are fire. You are the cosmos. You are everything. And everything is good.

That's what Bus Driver does, he turns men into gods.

And that's what I do, too.

After I was showered and dressed, we headed outside. I demonstrated some basic throws, and tried to give Bus Driver some instruction. Bus Driver said that he'd like to see a bit of what a whipping scene looks like. He offered me Da Coach. Da Coach was down with that program, so he took off his shirt and spread his arms on the St. Andrew's Cross.

Now, it was about 45 degrees outside. And there had been no warm up. Again, not ideal conditions. I spent some time teasing Da Coach, just lightly playing my whip over his back, cracking just over the surface. Only a couple of times did I connect with some light throws. Da Coach was shivering. We called it quits and headed inside.

Bus Driver and I fired up his internet connection, and ordered him a whip from David Morgan, a nice four-foot signal whip. With practice, I think he'll be whipping with the best of 'em in no time.

Da Coach wanted another flogging. I was ready for him this time. Again we climbed the stairs to the raunch dungeon. Again I put the wrist restraints on him. I assembled the arsenal. I had a much better sense of what he could take, and I had had a good night's sleep.

First the doe-skin, building to a crescendo. Then I used the house flogger, slappy oil-tanned, a worthy tool. And then, I ratcheted up to my braided cat. Da Coach loved the braided cat. At this point, his back was bright red and raised. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I was juiced. There was only one place to go. I went and got my Joe Wheeler whip. Da Coach saw me and moaned softly and approvingly.

Because the raunch dungeon was in the attic, I didn't quite have enough room to throw with the slanted roof. But I worked out a position that was okay. However, I wasn't sure of my aim at this odd angle. More teasing, more cracking above his back, and then some connecting. And then, some serious connecting. Da Coach's vocalizing was low, a baritone of ecstasy. He had some welts now.

And so I stopped. The night before, when we negotiated the flogging, he said that he didn't want his skin broken. If I had gone on whipping him, it would have broken his skin. I explained why we were stopping, and Da Coach wanted to go on.

Nope. You don't renegotiate a scene while the bottom is flying on endorphins. "Sorry, boy," I said, "I'm just gonna leave you wanting more."

I undid his restraints, and then dropped my drawers. Before we played, Da Coach had said he wanted some of me inside him, whether it be my piss, my shit, or my cum. My piss is notoriously unreliable. Lord knows I have no control over my bowel movements. So it was gonna have to be my cum.

"Okay boy. I'm gonna make myself comfortable in that sling, and I want you to make my dick feel good."

And did he ever. Sucking my cock, working my asshole, and giving my nips the attention they want.

Blammo! I shot my load. Da Coach slurped eagerly. Very hot.

Bus Driver entered. "What are you doing in the sling?" he asked me.

"He's getting his dick sucked," answered Da Coach.

I lit a cigar.

"You're all Top," said Bus Driver, "and I hate topping Tops. Some men are all about submission. It's how they're wired. Those are the men I like to feed."

Gotcha. I know just what you mean.

Da Coach was glowing. Bus Driver admired his back. Da Coach said he was looking forward to his next whipping, which would be his second. "And then," he added, "I want you to draw blood."

Da Coach can take it. He worked through his fear and his revulsion, he submitted to his Shadow. And now, he's a god.

I did that.

Saturday, November 22, 2003

O! Sweet Mystery of Life...

After work today (yeah, I know it's Saturday, but Wuperior Soodcraft was open as the shop is closed next Friday and Monday in honor of deer hunting season), I went to Starbucks. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but... Starbucks Boy!

I almost almost almost got he and his cash register to take my order, but no, this... this... slattern, this hussy saw that the line was one person deep (that would be me) and jumped up and said, "Can I help the next person."

But all was not lost. As I was dosing my latte with turbinado sugar, I heard Starbucks Boy say something about a break. Today, the weather was beautiful here in Bucks County, so I hightailed it out to the porch, fired up a cigar, and settled down to read my Nero Wolf book and lie in wait.

After seven pages of Nero, out the door came Starbucks Boy. I ditched my book, and sat smoking meditatively. Mostly meditating on what the hell I should do.

But Starbucks Boy lept to the fore. He caught my eye, smiled--was that a smile of recognition???!! Dare I hope???!!--and came over, introduced himself, and sat down next to me!

Okay, Dutch. Be it cool.

We talked, Starbucks Boy and I. He's from here. He goes to the local community college, where he's studying political science. He's never lived anywhere else. He'd like to go somewhere like Vermont or the Midwest where he could be a Green Party activist. (He's young. He'll learn.) I told him to consider the Pacific Northwest, Los Angeles because of the great visual arts scene, and New Mexico, where the Green Party is pretty strong. I think I wowed him with all the things that I know.

And I let him know that I was a homo. Discussing my time in New Mexico, I mentioned that I was there with my Ex, and then a sentence or two later described my Ex as 'he.'

Lemme tell ya, folks, he is lucious.


What if this goes somewhere? I mean, Starbucks Boy could be my son. There's probably twenty years or so between us. He'd be my boy. What irony! I go out looking for a Dad, and the leathergods grace me with a boy. That would be just like those persnickety leathergods to do something like that, no?


Dutch and Starbucks Boy.

Starbucks Boy and Dutch.

(Cut the scene to the lobby of the Washington Plaza hotel during MAL in 2005)
"Oh look! There's Dutch and his boy, Starbucks Boy! I remember reading Singletails when Dutch first met Starbucks Boy. Aren't they a great couple?"


Anyway, gotta hit the road. Gotta get Faithful Companion to the boarding place so I can head north to meet up with this amazing man who delights in compelling guys to eat his shit.

As things develop, you'll read about them here.

Friday, November 21, 2003

No Scat, No Blood

So tomorrow, I once again drop off Faithful Companion with the boarding place, and head north to the wood and mountains beyond Scranton, Pennsylvania. I'm going to spend the night with a man we'll call Bus Driver (if you saw the feature about him on All American Kink, you'll get that) and his partner.

We're gonna compare notes. I'm into whips. And during a whipping scene, seeing the first break of the skin, that unmistakeable scarlet, just makes me light-headed. There's something about whipping a man until he bleeds that is the sine qua non for me.

And Bus Driver? Somewhere along the line, he developed a yen for feeding men shit.

There are various ways to approach both scenes. With whipping, it can be about punishment, about power, about causing pain. And with shit, it can be about humiliation, power, and degradation. For Bus Driver and me, it's all about intimacy and connection. About breaking through. About that deep deep deep Yes Sir, where the bottom gives consent, and opens up the muscles of his back and his mouth.

When we've talked on the phone, when we're describing what we like about our respective scenes, the other is listening and saying, "Yes! Yes! That's it exactly!" And so, I'm bringing my bullwhips up to the woods. Together, we'll talk and throw some whips.

We've been planning this trip for a couple of months now. And in the mean time, I've been thinking a lot about shit. Special Guy was into scat, and got me to see it in a new way. Ever notice how beyond the scrim of disgust (the evolutionary-imprinted response to that which is putrid or contaminated), that it smells sexy? It has a great smell to it. It's akin to sweat. It actually smells 'clean' in a way.

But is it healthy? I mean, I met a guy in NYC who was really really really into rimming. He spent about three months of every year sick as a dog. He considered it an occupational hazzard. Amoebas, Hep A, and so much more.

When I draw blood in a whipping, I can take precautions that will reduce the chance of infection to an absolute minumum (not touching my face since staphillococcus lives in most of our noses, keeping my whip out of the dirt if we're playing outside since tetanus lives there, and spritzing with hydrogen peroxide afterwards, as well as keeping my crackers clean and sterile).

But are there ways of reducing the potential harm from scat? I guess you could routinely have a stool sample taken to make sure that you were contagion-free. Maybe paying extra attention to how you feel, indicating whether or not you've eaten something that you wouldn't want to pass on.

I'm kind of nervous about it. I mean, I'm pretty much in bottom mode right now. He's a damn hot man. He's a scat Top. And experience has shown me that the right man--a man whom I trust and to whom I want to submit--can take me just about anywhere. I'm thinking of Aubrey in Seattle, and ARt last October. And, of course, PunchPig this past summer. Anywhere.

Absolutely anywhere.

Just about everybody I've told about this has responded along the lines of "Oh no, not that." Cautionary tales abound.

So we'll see.

Thursday, November 20, 2003

Cock Eyed

PunchPig has me pegged as an optimist.


As Isaiah Berlin--the greatest mind of the 20th Century and my intellectual hero--put it, I'm a 'spirited pessimist.'


Most clouds don't have a silver lining. Ultimately it's just the hap-governed whirl of sub-atomic particles. Those things we cling to, that which enables us to get out of bed in the morning, are comforting fictions. Pretty bleak, huh?

But there's good hot tea. And buttered toast. And the feeling of sunlight warming your face on a bleak November day. And your dog wagging his tail. And the feeling of sweaty skin against your sweaty skin. And that feeling when, after patiently trying and trying, you get it right.

And we're all fucked up, fearful, insecure human beings. Poor players who will strut and fret our respective hours upon the stage and then will be heard from no more. But when we come together, and offer one another respite from the burdens we carry, it's a beautiful thing, no?

And I think that the best recipe for moving from day to day, like stepping stones across a river, is through submission. Submitting to crass causality. Submitting to the viscissitudes of fate. Submitting to the ultimate end to all of us. Submitting to seeing those we love go before us.

Not entirely in that Zen way. Because submission is most gratifying when it's submitting with love. Not an abstract, intellectual love, but a head over heels passionate, clenched teeth love.

Life is always, 'in spite of.' In spite of the weather report, I'm heading out anyway. In spite of my doubts about this guy, I'm meeting him for a beer. And, most importantly, in spite of the fact that this man will one day be taken from me, I will love him.

That's what it's all about, brothers and sisters.

Can I get an 'Amen!'?

Memo to cubby

You've got some work to do here. On my Wesco's. Y'see, I tried my other boots, but it's the Wesco's that feel good on my feet after standing in them for nine hours a day. I wish it were a pair with conventional laces (it takes two precious minutes in the morning to put my boots on), but it's not. It's the Wesco's.

They're not too much worse for the wear. But there's a few spatters of paint and stain, and a few places where I took care of paint and stain spatters with fine grain sandpaper. When I hit them with the air gun, they still come up looking beautiful, despite the spatters.

As you observed before, there is no shame in a leatherman wearing boots that reflect hard wear--crawling around padlocking chains in place, trekking through the mud, and now, good honest work. And I like the fact that my work boots are also a boot that is supremely fetishized.

Still, the next time I have the honor of receiving boot service, I'd hate to have the boy get the taste of varnish in his mouth. That couldn't be good. I know that taste. It's not boot leather.

Tell Me Where Is Beauty Bred?

Interesting development at work. "The Guys" are pulling for me to be assigned the scuffing table. That means my job will largely entail going over everything that's stained and sprayed with sealer with fine sanding tools before it gets glazed and top-coated. I'd be in favor of this. It would mean I'd spend less time at the sanding table with the nineteen year old burnouts, and I'd be part of the Finishing Room Crew. When there wasn't anything to scuff, I'd be in the finishing room, doing the staining, glazing, and (with training) the spraying. Way cool.

The Powers What Be might oppose this as I could rightly ask for more money. But, I think I've done an okay job at ingratiating myself with the Powers What Be, so we'll see.

I felt great about work yesterday. Several times I was sort of filled with strong feelings of "I love my job." There's a l to love. Well, let me put that another way... There's not a lot there. It's a simple dish overall, but it's one that I like. In part, perhaps, because there's not a lot there to not like. Mostly, it boils down to attitude. It's a very good sign, I think, that four weeks into it and I'm still liking it.

I sense that I get preferential treatment to some extent from the Guys in the Finishing Room. It's either me or this other guy whom they call on when they need to pull someone from the sanding table. And that's interesting. There's another new guy who has experience spraying, from working in an autobody shop. And he hasn't left the sanding table since he arrived on the scene. He's big, hairy, and has thick glasses. A kind of Schreck of a man. The other guy is this... this... boy. He's gorgeous. Glossy black hair, pale skin, beautiful soulful eyes. His is the kind of beauty that I think that men and women both notice. His beauty probably opens a lot of doors for him. It seems to be doing that in this case. I wonder if he realizes that? Probably not. He's just a kid. Right out of high school, going to the local community college.

How beautiful is he? How about this? I recognize his beauty, and he's totally not my type. Not to say I wouldn't jump at the opportunity to chain him up and piss on him if the opportunity arose, but no facial hair, no beer gut, no cigars. Just that allure.

Tuesday, November 18, 2003

Enuff Already

Work today.


After lunch, there was lots of post-priming, pre-topcoating scuffing to be done. So it was all hands around the scuffing table. That would be me and three co-workers. Conversation pretty quickly went to... uh... racks and poontang. And stayed there. I mean, it went on and on and on and on and on. It was wild and free-ranging. Did you know that Ashley and Mary Kate Olsen have posed topless?

So I just sort of silently devoted myself to scuffing. And felt dopey.

But in retrospect, I guess it just goes to show that whether they're homo or hetero, men are pretty much the same. It's all about getting laid. Not that I can't imagine women having a similar conversation, but I can't imagine it going on for three hours. I mean, talk about idee fixe. Dicks for brains.

Oh. And Starbucks Boy was a no-show for the second day in a row. Where hast thou gone, Starbucks Boy?

(See what I mean?)

Monday, November 17, 2003

TIG is Hard!


Tonight in welding class, I turned my attention to TIG, aka 'Tungsten Inert Gas' welding on aluminum. (Pronounced "al-ee-oo-MIN-yum" by those nutty Brits!) After trying for a good two and a half hours, I did not quite get the hang of it. So, an aluminum version of the CB2000 will probably not be forthcoming any time soon. I managed a few good stringers, but didn't have any consistency. Just when things would be going smoothly and I'd be gettin' all smug, I'd touch the electrode to the aluminum I was welding, or to the filler metal, and corrupt my electrode. No good comes from a corrupted electrode.

Now, I'm more determined than ever to get it down. We'll see how things go on Wednesday night.

The Big Time


We're uncorking the Korbel here at the 1740s farm renovated with the help of I.M. Pei that serves as the Singletails World Headquarters after we moved from the Singletails Building on Park Avenue in the 50s.

Pour quoi?

Parce-que look at that there hit meter at the bottom of this page... Singletails has surpassed the 20,000 hit mark.

Onwards and upwards. You've each made it in your own way made this possible. It's incredibly gratifying. The Strategic Planning Department informs me that if I keep putting up pics of myself in bondage, we'll hit the 30,000 mark before Christmas.

Thanks, Dear Readers.

Sunday, November 16, 2003

My Life... pretty damn amazing.

Thanks, leathergods! Thanks, Mars! Thanks, Master Wolf, my Spirit Guide!

If I only have one life to live, let it be this one here.

Read the Account, Now See the Pics

Horrors! Site meter reports that my average daily page views are down to sixty-three! That's an all time low. Posting pics always seems to be good for the numbers. So here goes.

Here's our hero, strung up in the Boot Suit in a Philadelphia hotel room... Notice the CB2000 locked in place...

And here I am wearing the amazing Boot Hood...

And then, the CB2000 came off...

how about that fat mushroom head on the boy dick?
Eh... just trick photography.

Good boy: All the Gory Details...

Yowza. That was sublime.

What a great weekend.

Friday night was all about takin' care of bidness: getting out of work, cashing my (meager) paycheck, getting home, making dinner for my father, bundling Faithful Companion into the car, driving up to Quakertown to drop off Faithful Companion at the dog bording place, and finally finally finally heading south to Philadelphia.

Had trouble locating Sir's hotel, on the riverfront. I could see it, I just couldn't figure out how to get there. After a couple of tries, I got it right. I checked my car, and lugged my luggage up to Sir's room. There was a piece of paper in the door so the latch wouldn't close, I let myself in.

Inside, the room was dark except for a few candles. I smelled Sir's pipe smoke. The radio was tuned to an easy listening station that was tragically playing Christmas music. I dropped my bags, stripped, put my boots back on, and got on my knees, head down, hands behind my back, just inside the door. Presently, Sir came over and silently inspected his property. My dick was throbbing inside it's clear plastic cage. Sir must have approved, as I felt a wide leather collar placed around my neck and padlocked into place. Then, my hands were cuffed. (How long has it been since I was handcuffed? Years? Decades? Too long.) Sir went back to his chair by the window and told me to approach, on my knees.

Then we talked for a while. As in, "Tell me about yourself, boy." I did my best, letting Sir interupt me with questions. Sir gave me a choice of going out for dinner, or staying in and getting into the bootsuit. We had a lot of time, and hadn't eaten since lunch, so when after some more conversation Sir didn't indicate that he had a preference one way or the other, I said, "Sir, I think I've picked out a good restaurant for us." (Sir had requested that I chose a restaurant with bistro style food and a good wine list.) Sir said that we should get ourselves ready. I asked how Sir wanted me dressed. He wanted my BDU pants, and a tshirt he had brought me, featuring a pair of booted feat and the exclamation 'Oi!'. Dressed as Sir wanted, and still wearing the wide leather collar padlocked in place, we headed out into the night. I did pretty good (I think) with the protocol, although I walked ahead of Sir a couple of times. Since I knew the way and Sir didn't, "we'll want to turn right at this corner, Sir" was the formula that worked best, I found.

The destination was Judy's at 3rd and Bainbridge, a mainstay of gay dining in Philadelphia for decades. Sir liked the menu and the wine list. He ordered a nice bottle of red for us.

After dinner, Sir was tired, and so was I, so we headed back to the hotel. I stripped, and wearing the collar and the CB2000, got into bed next to Sir.

Lemme tell ya, that felt great. Sir was happy, so I was happy.

* * * * *

The next morning, Sir and I were up early. Sir got busy, wanting some satisfaction for his dick. Now, as a rule, it takes me a while to get going in the mornings. I'm generally not up for sex. Not before tea and getting my data fix. But it wasn't up to me. Sir worked my ass for a while, then settled on me sucking his cock. Sir has a beautiful dick. A great dick. I love Sir's dick.

Despite that damned sensitive gag reflex of mine, I think I did a good job. I sure did my best, devoting myself to Sir's dick.

Then it was time for the Boot Suit. What--you may well ask--is the Boot Suit? Well, a million years ago, there was a story in Bound and Gagged that coincidentally (Kismet!) Sir and I had both read and enjoyed. In it, a man wrote about how he had made for himself a boot suit, that included a hood made from a right boot. In the story, the man spoke of his longing for the day when he would find a left boot. It was beautiful. And illustrated.

After he read the story, Sir went about having a boot suit made. He got hold of a size 16 wide Wesco boot, and from this a leatherworker in Detroit made a hood. Sir got me into the Boot Suit, working patiently. I was put in crotch-high Wescos, my arms were fitted with lace up sleeves that went from my wrists to my pits. There was a vest that laced up the front with Wesco laces. Over my hands went a pair of jump boots that were outfitted with wrist restraints. And, of course, that amazing hood. Sir strung me up against the entertainment unit in the room. Pictures will definitely follow of me in the Bootsuit, restrained with arms akimbo.

Sir checked in pretty regularly to ask about my circulation in my hands. When it became a problem, I was relocated to the bed. Then, the CB2000 came off, and Sir lubed up my dick and got to work rewarding his boy. My mind thought about being Sir's boot. How Sir had made me into his boot. His tough boot that could take all the wear-and-tear Sir delivered. Sitting there on the shelf with all of Sir's other boots, waiting patiently for Sir to fill it up.

Being Sir's boot.

Fuck yeah.

I shot buckets. Sir was really impressed. I just exploded. It felt like gallons. I was joyous. Exhuberant.

Taking Sir's orders, I got dressed again. Then we headed out for a day on the town. First stop was some lunch at the Down Home Diner in Reading Terminal Market. I had the pulled pork, and Sir had a hamburger. I checked with Sir in advance to see if he'd mind a wait for a table, and Sir said that was fine. Cool. I like a Sir who knows that good things come to he who waits.

I held our place in line while Sir checked out the foodstuffs for sale in the market. Lunch was good, and then we headed to our next stop, I. Goldberg's. On the walk over, I told Sir about my being in their commercial. Sir was pretty favorably impressed with I. Goldberg's. He bought a flight jacket he had been hunting for. Sir looked great in it. I got a thermal shirt for work, a flight suit I couldn't turn my back on, and a nice lined corduroy Woolrich workshirt.

Then off to the next stop, La Colombe. If you're ever in Philadelphia, don't miss La Colombe. It's a wee little coffee place on 18th Street between Walnut and Sansom, just off Rittenhouse Square. They sell the best cup of coffee you'll find anywhere. No joke. And from a tea drinker, that's pretty high praise. Sir liked the coffee, and bought a pound for his sister.

Next stop was Black Cat Cigars on Sansom Street. Totally the best cigar store I've been in any where. I asked for a recommendation from the proprietor, telling him that I smoked Grenadiers and liked them a lot. He gave me three to sample. (I've smoked one so far, and it was a winner.) Sir found a cigar he was happy with, too.

Back to the hotel for a nap. I fell asleep on the bed, and presently was joined by Sir.

Oh. Huge Mistake I Made: I let Sir carry his I. Goldberg bag the whole day!. I only realized this when we got back to the hotel. Dang! Sorry, Sir.

After nap time, we were off for dinner again. For tonight, I picked Vaninni, a restaurant on Spruce Street. Sir liked the food here even better than the food at Judy's. He complemented me on my selection of restaurants. I was a good boy. We talked a lot over dinner, dropping protocol and getting casual.

* * * * *

Off to the Bike Stop after dinner. Mike the Hot Bear was at the door, a sparkle in his eye when he saw me.

So there I was, wearing a padlocked chain around my neck. There at the Bike Stop with my Sir. Was it weird? No. Not a bit. It was great. Sir and I headed down to the Pit Stop, got beers, and lit our cigars. Then, Sir ordered me to take off my shirt. As we sat there, he moved his cigar in to my pierced tit.

I froze.


I wasn't expecting that.

I started vocalizing immediately, to give Sir an indication that I'd need some help with that. When the heat from Sir's cigar became painful, I flinched. Sir kept at it.

I had a bad reaction. I got angry. Fuck this. You blew it, Buddy, I thought. I was not having a good time. My words became terse. C'mon, I thought, pick up on this. I'm not enjoying this.

Sir didn't relent. He put his arm around me, and went in again, saying, "C'mon boy. You can take this. Don't you think a good boy should let his Dad get rid of his cigar ash on his boy. You can take it."

I leaned into Sir. Ow! I didn't know if I could take it.

"Sir," I explained, "all the years I worked in restaurants has given me a big fear and aversion to getting burnt. I hate to get burnt, Sir. I don't know if I can take it. Also, since my tits are pierced, the post heats up, and I get an extra dose of the heat."

Sir continued to smoke his cigar. He moved the glowing tip towards my nipple again. I won't say it was okay this time, or that I wanted it, but the anger was gone. I had given Sir some information. He made a decision about what he wanted from his boy. I took it as best I could.

After the cigar (whew!), Sir took a sip of his beer. Then, smiling at me, he took the glass, and poured a portion down my chest. It ran down my abs and into the crotch of my jeans. Then, Sir poured some more down on to my crotch. A stain grew there. Sir ordered me to stand. I stood. Grinning from ear to ear. Sir pulled my belt buckle, and emptied some more beer into my crotch. Now I had a big stain.

"You pissed your pants, boy," said Sir.

"Yes, Sir. I pissed my pants," I answered, smiling.

Sir told me to take a walk, to go visit the leather store. Y'know. Where the lighting is better. I did. I went into the store and found the guys that worked there at the counter. I picked a book off the shelf, and stood, feet apart and facing them, and browsed through the book.

I was rock hard at this point.

Then I headed back to Sir.

"Follow me, boy," he said.

And so, I did. We went upstairs. The lighting was a lot better there. Sir sort of displayed me. I stood there, shirtless, collared, the front of my jeans stained, smiling at him as he stood a few feet away, giving me room. Sir lead me into the bathroom. We passed the coatcheck guy going out as we entered. There were a few guys at the trough, so Sir stood waiting, and I waited behind him. Then it was Sir's turn. I watched him piss into the trough. Lucky trough, getting all Sir's piss.

The coatcheck guy came back into the bathroom. A buddy of his said, "You have to go again so soon?"

"Nah," he answered, "I just want to watch a hot boy watch his Dad take a piss."

Oh yeah.

After Sir had wasted piss on the trough, we went out and stood in the bar by the ice machine. Sir held me close. I noticed that there was a rubber mat in front of the ice machine.

"Sir," I said, "I think this mat would go pretty easy on my knees." (My knees are bad. I can't be on them for too long before they start to ache. A lot.)

Sir smiled at me.

"Down," he ordered.

I got down on my knees. Sir stroked me. I melted into Sir. Surreptitiously, I caught the admiring glances of other men in the bar. I think they were wishing that they were Sir. Or, they were getting a lesson in how to be a good boy.

This was what I wanted. I was in service to my Sir. I was a trophy boy. I was making my Sir proud. I was bringing honor to my Sir.


We headed out of the Bike Stop. Me following my Sir. Outside, I really felt the nighttime chill on my wet jeans. Luckily, the hotel wasn't far. As we walked up Twelfth Street, Sir took my hand.

We undressed, and went to bed. There I was, naked, collared, with my Sir's arms wrapped around me. Wrapped around his boy.


Sir had an early flight. I woke up while he was moving around the room, getting ready to head to the airport. The night before, Sir had ordered me to make the arrangements for his checkout with the hotel and get directions to the airport. I performed that duty pretty well.

Before he left, I said, "Sir, you probably don't want to forget this," and pointed to the padlocked chain around my neck.

"As much as I'd like to leave it on, it might cause you problems at work, boy."

Fuck work. I wanted Sir to leave it on. I wanted Sir to have it welded in place.

Sir took the collar off me. He kissed me and said, "Thanks for a great weekend, boy. You're a good boy."

And then he left.

* * * * *


Are my Topping days behind me?

Uh uh. FYI: while we were eating at Valanni's, there was a sweet faced boy sitting next to us. I kind of thought it would be nice to restrain him to a bondage board, and take off his balls with a straight razor, looking into his terrified and pleading eyes all the while. Then give my nutless boy a good fuck.

Believe me, those fires still burn.

It's really encouraging to learn that I can be as good a boy as I am a Top. The same empathy, the same ardent desire to get it perfect, the same dedication, the same attention to details, the same effort, the same striving to be the best. "S/M is the quest for excellence in ourselves and others."

It sure is. And there are so many ways to be excellent.

Now I'm home. Back with that other good Dad. Sir is back in Orlando.

I'm feeling happy, but also a little lonely.

Funny thing that. I rarely in my life have felt lonely.

It was a great weekend.

And now, I'm off to pick up Faithful Companion, and get something to make for that other good Dad for dinner.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

Go Here Now

Oh cool. That amazing man who lives on a lake in New Hampshire who rocked my world back in the Spring now has a blog. There's a lot there. His account of getting struck by lightening (!) is great stuff.

I wanna be him when I grow up.

Sub Mission

This CB2000 thing is way cool.

Had it on all day at work today. A couple of times, I bumped my encased genitals in such a way that the padlock delivered a mean little pinch to my dick. On the other hand, by moving it against the sanding table while I was working the orbital sander, I got a really pleasant vibration.

And the focus! Extraordinary. I put this thing on without thinking about it too much. And good thing, too. Chastity has never been a draw for me. What's the point? Ultimately, it's all about sex, right? If I'm not getting hard, what's the point?

Well lemme tell ya, this is so cool. It's a level of control I've never had wielded over me before. It's my dick we're talking about. I've given up my dick. SIR owns that now.

It's a different way of being in the world. I feel like I've stepped off a carousel I've been riding. Now, it's all about SIR. Even if the boy of my dreams (Starbucks Boy, for example) were to present himself as ready, willing, and available, there wouldn't be a thing I could do about it.

And there's that interesting effect: when possibilities are limited, those that remain possible are now viewed in a new way. In other words, it's all about SIR.

Something I've realized about this whole thing: the level of intimacy in a scene is wholly dependent on the bottom. If the bottom opens the door, the Top can walk in. But the Top can do a lot of things, but he can't force the door open.

Damn I hope things go well tomorrow night. I hope I bust that door right off the hinges.

Serendipitous Happiness, Albeit Ephemeral and Mass-Produced

What's that in the yard?

Why... it's a mylar baloon... yellow with a happy face.

I'll take that as a sign.

Wednesday, November 12, 2003


He's from Florida. Orlando. We've been talking via the internet for about the past two years or so. Mostly along the lines of "hey how goes it?" and "damn you're a hot man." Until a few months ago. His boy of several years severed their relationship. I developed this yen to find a Dad.

About that time, things got really interesting. He's in Philadelphia on business this weekend. We're gonna meet up. In anticipation of his visit, he sent up a box. My father picked it up at the post office today. My father was excited, because the box was an egg crate. My father is a big fan of poultry. He raised chickens in his back yard in Philadelphia when he was a boy. He went to National Farm School (now Delaware Valley Agricultural College) and majored in poultry management. His first job with the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania was as an egg inspector. We always had chickens when I was growing up. Interestingly, Orlando Dad is and for a long time has been involved with chickens as well. (Now that's an interesting bit of synchronicity...)

I didn't have a chance to open up the box before I had to head out to welding school. But I rushed home and sliced it open. Inside was 'the Boot Suit.' It belongs to Dad Orlando. I'm gonna wear it. Also, a thick black leather coller with studs. I'll be wearing that, too. And finally, the box held a CB-2000. I'm wearing it now.

The CB-2000 is a male chastity device. It's basically a hard plastic cage attached to a cock ring. The cage goes over the shaft of the penis. It secures with a small padlock. Getting it on took some effort. I couldn't lose my erection. I sat down and opened up some bills, adding up what I owe and trying to figure out how I was gonna pay everybody I owe. That did the trick.

The box contained a padlock to fasten it on. But no key. SIR has the key. So from now until he decides otherwise, my dick belongs to SIR.

After work on Friday, I'll rush home and pick up my dog, the box and its contents, an overnight bag, and a gear bag. Per SIR's instructions, I'll be wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and my leather jacket. I drop off Faithful Companion at this great dog bording place (thirteen dollars a night! you can't beat that!), then drive to Doylestown and from there take the train down to Philadelphia. Then, for as long as SIR needs me (or Monday at 7am, which ever comes first), I belong to SIR. Not just my dick. All of me.

To say I'm looking forward to this is the understatement of the decade. In a sense, I've waited all my life for this: to belong to a man, if only for a weekend. I think I'll be changed on Monday. This is more than bottoming. This is something more. I'm not sure what the word for it might be. This is submission. I think that's a good word.

Egad. Look at the time. I've got to walk the dog, make lunch for tomorrow, brush my teeth, and get to bed. Usually, the last thing I do every night is jerk off (once a day for good prostate health!). But not tonight. And not tomorrow night.

Not till SIR decides that I can do that.

Tuesday, November 11, 2003

Back to the Future

The website for my 20th High School Class Reunion is up and running!

It reveals the following information

  • Three of the guys that I had the hots for--Ralph Cantanese, Jim Hering, and Tim Shelly--have given up their contact information, but have not indicated that they're attending.
  • All the people who have indicated that they're attending are people who never talked to me.
  • The folks I considered my close friends are all among the missing.
  • One classmate that I was friendly with (we worked together on the school paper) is deceased.

    A fun quip I thought up: I've sort of been like Sarah Jessica Parker in that high school was Square Pegs, but in my 30s it was all about Sex in the City.

    In the event that the questionnaire I filled out loads by the time you open up the site (I know, as if you're gonna do a thing like that...) and you find my information, astute readers will find that in that great history of high school reunions, I lied! I wrote that I was an extra on Sex in the City. In fact, I wasn't in town the weekend they had the auditions at the LURE so I wasn't able to attend, but I kinda could have been an extra in the episode of Sex in the City that they filmed there. So... like... y'know.

    Can't wait!

  • Madly Deeply Passionately

    I'm in love.

    With Starbucks Boy.

    He rocks.

    After work, per usual, I went to Starbucks. And there he was! He's a new Starbucks employee! He doesn't just work on Sundays! I'll be seeing quite a bit of Starbucks Boy!

    There he was in all his splendor. Tragically, I didn't get his cash register. And tragically, they know I'm all about Grande Lattes, so I couldn't pretend to be making up my mind and let someone go ahead of me. But all was not lost! Whilst I was sitting enjoying my latte, Starbucks Boy made the rounds with the sweeper, and he spoke to me.

    He said, "Excuse me, Sir," as he got behind my chair.


    Starbucks Boy called me 'Sir.'

    And then, Starbucks Boy apparently got off work, as he sat wearing a chic leather coat (very Richard Roundtree in the early '70s, very Superfly) while he sat and discussed something on paper with an older gentleman.

    I ran into an old high school chum who tracked me down. We're going to my 20th high school reunion together. Chum is a wee bit of a dweeb, like he was then, and I think he's also a wee bit infatuated with me.

    Rotsa Ruck, Chum. While we talked and caught up, I only had eyes for Starbucks Boy.

    He is so adorable. He smokes (he and his older guy repaired to the porch so Starbucks Boy could have a cigaret), so I'll be able to turn Starbucks Boy onto cigars. He would look great wearing handcuffs. Namely, my handcuffs. Handcuffs and boots. With my cum smeared all over his sweet face.

    Oh, Starbucks Boy. I have plans for you.

    Care to dance?

    Alpha Gets It Right!

    Alpha is making his annual trip to the East Coast. He's visiting with a buddy down in DC, but yesterday, he took the train up to Philadelphia. When I got off work, I headed down to meet him at Millenium Coffee. We met, we parked, we went to dinner at the Down Home Diner in the Reading Terminal Market. Then it was off to More Than Just Ice Cream (which Alpha misread as More Than Justice Cream) for dessert. Then back to stately Singletails Manor. When we got near, we took a brief detour, so I could show Alpha some of the local sites. We went plunging down local backroads until we hit River Road, through Point Pleasant, and up the hill to the county park where I worked as a Deputy Ranger when I was in college.

    And then back to stately Singletails Manor. Once in the door, Alpha and I sat and chatted with my father. Alpha was great. He did everything right. Why would I doubt that he would. Then, Alpha took a shower, I made lunch for today at work, and we cuddled up together under my neoprene sheets from Nasty Pig. Perfect. It felt sooooo good to have a warm body in bed with me. (Dorian, who is somewhat neurotic... okay, incredibly neurotic, consigned me to the daybed in my bedroom while he took my bed.) Much pillow talk ensued.

    My father drove Alpha to the train station in Doylestown this morning as I was up and at'em and out the door at 6:40 a.m. When I got home from work, my father was full of talk about Alpha. My father likes him. And I think Alpha likes my father.

    I feel sooo much better.

    Sunday, November 09, 2003

    Five Simple Rules for Meeting My Elderly Father

    Why is this so complicated?

    Dorian was our houseguest this weekend. This involved meeting my father. Dorian would skitter away like a cockroach whenever he heard my father coming out of his den. He'd dive into the bathroom, or run back to my bedroom. It was weird.

    My father is not a bad guy. I don't understand why it is that my friends are always intimidated by the man. This goes back to high school. My friends in high school refered to my father as 'The Bear.'

    Maybe I can see it now. Implicit in these meetings might be, "Hi, I'm the guy that's having your son put my penis in his mouth." But relax!

    So, here are Five Simple Rules for Meeting My Elderly Father.

    Rule Number 1: My father wants to like you! He really does! Even if, in fact, I am putting your penis in my mouth or up my tight but lucious butt or whatever, this makes my father even more concerned that you're a good and decent man. He's not being a prosecuting attorney.

    Rule Number 2: Ask him questions. In his den, there's a page of a newspaper. It features my father. It's something like, 'A Day in the Life of a Pennsylvania Food Inspector.' A reporter followed my Dad along for a whole day. Why not say, "Gosh, is this you? It is! Wow!"

    Rule Number 3: Listen to him. My father is nervous around new people. You could say I'm a chip off the old block in that department. He is much more concerned that you like him. His nervousness expresses itself by him telling stories. About growing up in Philadelphia, going to National Farm School and working in the dairy barn, serving his country in World War II. Spend some time hearing what he has to say.

    Rule Number 4: Current Events are a safe topic of conversation, but don't argue with him. My father reads two newspapers a day, Time magazine every week, and watches CNN just about constantly. He's up on what's happening in the world. That said, he approaches the world from a liberal Democrat perspective. He hates George Bush. He's likin' Howard Dean. Ask him about the pace of development in Plumstead Township. Ask him what he thinks is going to come of the war in Iraq. If you happen to see the world differently, best not to press it. Oh. My father, as is not uncommon in men of his generation, is sort of prejudiced collectively but not individually. For example, he's angry at Moslems in the wake of September 11th, but loves his Moslem son-in-law and his Moslem son-in-law's Moslem cousin.

    Rule Number 5: Don't be upset by the visual! My father is 78 years old. He smokes cigars; he has a lot of pain in his back but refuses to go to physical therapy, he wears clothes that he got when I was in high school because they're comfortable. He's not a tv commercial dad. He's not Henry Fonda in 'On Golden Pond.' He's an old guy. My philosophy is to let him spend his twilight years however he damn well pleases. I don't nag him. I don't tell him what he ought to do. He does what makes him happy, and I want him to be happy. The exterior might not be easy on the eyes, but underneath, he's a happy man.

    So don't be afraid of The Bear. The Bear's a nice guy.