Tuesday, December 30, 2003

2003: The Year in Review

Holy frijoles!

What a year, huh?

I imagine myself in December, 2002. Sitting having a latte at the Factory Cafe on Christopher Street. One of those nights we had in the middle of the month when it was unseasonably warm. There I am. Prince of the City. Chief-of-Staff to a member of the New York State Senate. Big Bad Singletail Top. Non-negotiable Top. Member of the Board of Directors of GMSMA. Yeah, everything is goin' my way.

And I imagine a man with a sort of dreamy aspect sits down next to me. He says hello. We talk. It turns out that he's an angelic messenger. He's there to give me a Message. Y'see, the finger of God is going to inscribe a new course for my life. It's gonna be very different. Bucks County resident. bottom boy. Finish carpenter.

"So many lunatics in this town," I'd think, opening my book to end conversation.

But that's what's gone down.

You just never know in life, do you? What will the future hold? Where will you be? Who will you be? No guarantees.

You just never know.

Anyway. Here's the year end wrap up for Singletails.

Heaviest Scene: Punchmeat! Wow. Who'd a thunk.
Biggest Disappointment: basanos doesn't show at Folsom Street East.
Best Pop Cultural Development: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
Best Road Trip: Hello, IML! Damn that was a great weekend. First Runner Up: To Great Adventure with the Ballbreakers.
Best Contribution by Faithful Companion: Emerging from my playroom after a great bondage scene to find that Faithful Companion had vomitted several times in various places in my apartment.
Biggest New Endeavor: It's been a year of new endeavors: moving to Bucks County, getting my blue collar job, all these new bottom experiences. But by far, the biggest has been deciding to write the second half of my book, devoted to spiritual aspects of being a bottom.
Most Fun as a Top: Flogging Alpha at Inferno. Every scene should be like that. Breathtaking.
Sweetest Moments Snatched from Time's Dead Hand: A toss up. Between enjoying sunsets on the West Side piers, and trips to the beach with UnFortunate.
At My Best: Taking care of my step mother in the last days of her life.
At My Worst: Stressed out? Passive-aggressive? Self-esteem shot to hell? Hating my life? Why it must be the final weeks of my time working for Boss Sunshine.
Most Reader Responses: Time for Tim! You loved Tim, but were a wee bit concerned about my sanity.
Most Pointless Crush: The jury is still out on Bucky. But this time last year I had the hots for a certain (totally unavailable) former New York City police officer. Thank the Lord I didn't end up sending him the anonymous Valentine's Day card as I contemplated doing. His life partner would have loved that.
Best Nightlife Experience: Bittersweet though it was, the final night of the LURE was unbelievable. An erotic free-for-all served up for the New York City leather community. I wish every Saturday night could offer that, but then, where would the magic be?
Saddest News: The passing of Mark Collier in the weeks before Inferno
Biggest Personal Catastrophe: Just don't ever ask me about my condo in Fort Lauderdale, okay? Just forget that whole thing. Just forget it. Anyway.
Best New Wardrobe Addition: That swell cops uniform I bought at M&P Uniforms and Supplies in Allentown, which I have not had an opportunity to wear out anywhere. Still waiting to spring this on an unsuspecting world.
Best Weekend: Me and Orlando Sir. Just perfect, except for the fact that it had to end.
Best Life Goal Accomplished: Look Ma! I can weld!
Best Addition to the Gear Bag: 150 pounds of chain and fifteen keyed-alike padlocks. First Runner Up: SAP Gloves.
Fondest Memory of New York City: Where were you when the lights went out?
Biggest Humiliation Scene: Uh... Let's say hello to the First Runner Up in the Mr. Northeast Leather SIR contest.
Biggest Failure of a Blog Attempting to Make a Real World Change: Singletails' campaign to make a white hanky the code for comfort sex has done exaclty nothing. It's still all about handjobs or blowjobs or whatever.
Most Regrettable Endeavor: Collaring boy wonderful. The next time I saw him, he wasn't wearing it. And one of his staff (!) apparently put it away somewhere and he couldn't find it. *sigh* The rich are different from you and I.
Perry Mason Moment: In the case of the People of the State of New York vs. moi for the crime of speeding on the Thruway, I get off scott free. My trooper didn't show up.
I Love Lucy Moment of the Year: Forgetting that I had wrapped the lower part of my face in orange duct tape to see if it would pull my hair out when removed and cheerfully waving to my aghast neighbors across the way from my kitchen window.
Most Disconcerting Time: Orange Alert in New York City. Just how to you act with those 18 year old National Guardsmen who are training their submachineguns on you? "Morning!" "Thanks for doing what you do!" Or just stay home.
Guilty Pleasure of the Year: "It's really tough to figure out which of these (bland, cleanshaven, shrinking violet, unnotable, insubstantial, milquetoast) guys I could have a romantic connection with." Yep. Boy Meets Boy. I gotta admit that the Baron and I went into kenniptchens trying to Spot the Straight. And all that mewling and piddling about 'romantic connections' get on my nerves big time. And I tuned in. Week after week.
Best Political Development: The Supreme Court says Hands Off! to consensual sex between consenting adults! Even right there in the produce section of the supermarket! Okay. Maybe D'Agostino's is the next goal we've got to fight for. Onwards and upwards!
Favorite Blog: Love girlfag. Love blackbird. Love 'Edge. Love Hoss. Love the Gloved Man. Love geekslut. But Where's Raed? rocked my world.
Best Fantasy: Vin. Chained at my feet. Soaked in my piss. And lovin' it.
Mystery Date of the Year: Had to be Security. Check the archives in March. A great guy. An amazing guy. Loved him. Our scene together was amazing as far as I could see. A bond was established. After the scene, he didn't return my phone calls and emails. Lately, I've seen him around here in Bucolic Bucks County. He all but runs the other way when he sees me. Something I did? It's a mystery to me.
Lust Object of the Year: Schlitz. Schlitz schlitz schlitz schlitz schlitz schlitz Schlitz. Schlitz.

Our Sentinel, Guardinan, and Guide of the Year: Mars
Motto for the Year: Just Ride the Wave
Malediction of the Year: Fuck You, Paul Schindler, editor of Gay City News, for not even having the courtesy to answer my email saying, 'Sorry. Not what we're looking for right now.'


New Years Resolution for 2003 (So how'd we do?): Play more in 2003. Heh heh heh. I'd say I accomplished that one.

So that was the year that was. Adieu, 2003.




And what's up for 2004? Jiminy Crickets! I'm gettin' too old for this! How about some dullness? Some stability? Some devotion to daytime television?

And what'll we do about the resolution?

Get to the gym?
Write the book?
Moisturize?
Get a welding job?
Spend X hours of quality time with my father every week?
Get my financial house in order?

I'm pretty juiced about last year's resolution and the accomplishment thereof. It might seem like... Idaknow... an jockey vowing to spend more time on horseback or something. But it weren't like that. There was a lot to overcome. My shyness. My reluctance to approach men and ask them to play. Lack of confidence in my abilities. But I did it! Mad phat props for me!

I think it's gotta be the book.

Last night at PissBoss', he showed me a book he got for Christmas. Woof! Perspectives into the Care and Training of the Human Dog. Obviously, this was a labor of love for somebody. And that somebody is SIR at leatherDOG.com. And I've been a fan of leatherdog.com for years now. It's a great site. And I can't wait to get the book.

But let's break it down. A guy with a website publishes a book. Previously (as far as I know) unpublished. And it looks good. And I bet it is good. Because if you write what you love and what you believe in, then how can it not be good?

Yeah. The book. Write the book. Ten pages a week. Write and write and write. Then go back and rewrite. Then, send it off to my literary editor and mentor. And rewrite. And then set about finding a publisher.

That's where my focus ought to be.

Cool.

So that's it for 2004. It's all about the book.


When in New Hope...

Do as Lolita did, and drop by All About Throw Pillows for a visit with our buddy, Tim!


Damned Interferin' Gov'ment!

They're banning Ephedra. I love Ephedra. Nothing like a nice Turbo Speed drink before a workout. And my softball game improved significantly.

Y'see, one professional baseball player overdosed during Spring training, and thus our celebrity-obsessed society went apeshit. Protecting us from ourselves. Good thing it wasn't latte he was drinking. FYI: if you take a whole lotta anything, it's probably not gonna do you a lot of good, huh?

There are few things that get me irked more than nanny-government. Scolding, forbidding, deciding what's 'Bad' for us. Because ultimately, that same government is not going to stop when it comes to nutritional supplements.

Grrrrrrr!

*spit*


Penis Theory

Huh. How about that?

Reading a really interesting book right now. Y: The Descent of Men, by Steve Jones. It's won awards for science writing. It's a discussion of the male of the human species. That's where I got the thing about the penis.

To recap, you are the way you are because of the splicing together of half of your mother's genetic complement with half of your father's genetic complement. Nothing about you (eye color, hair color, whatever) is exactly like your father or mother, because the other parent's genes are somewhere in the mix.

Except where the penis is concerned. Y'see, the penis is coded by the Y chromosome. And you got that from your father. Your mother didn't have one to give. Ergo, your penis is essentially a clone of your father's penis. So you have your father's penis.

Now, think about that. That means that your father also has his father's penis. And his father has his father's penis.

Gosh.

So I've got the penis of some primordial ancester. Clubbing a boar to death for dinner in the ancient woodlands of Prussia, or climbing out of a some bog on the Russian steppes... I've got that guy's penis!

Although, wouldn't that mean that there are only so many penises (penii?) in the world? I mean even in the case of same sex reproduction (we're not there yet as a species, but numerous invertebrates are), there is some variation in genotype due to corruption that occurs during cell division. But not a lot.

So I think it would be likely that if you encounter a penis that is not very dissimilar to your own, the bearer could very well be a long lost relative.

I know that science has been able to do a lot of work looking at mitochondria. Y'see, you get all your mitochondria from your mom. It's always the female of the species that passes on mitochondria--found in each and every one of your cells--to all offspring, regardless of sex. And much progress has been made in reverse engineering human evolution by tracking back mitochondria lines. Perhaps the same could be done with the penis. Races are a fiction, scientifically speaking. But it would be possible to divide humanity (the menfolk anyway) into human families by size and type of penis. I guess if you were to set out on that endeavor, you'd have to account for over-reporting in terms of size, though.

Speaking of size, I now have massive, throbbing broadband internet connection. And that feels really good.


Down Day

Waiting for the Comcast truck to show up to hook me up with a broadband connection...fixing ham and eggs and toast for breakfast...wondering if I still smell like piss from last night...dreading the thought of getting up at 5:30 to go into work tomorrow...hoping that I'll get my act together to go to the gym this afternoon...maybe give my brother a call and see if he'd like to take a break from his wife's vegan cooking and come over for some of my good turkey noodle soup?...oh right. I've got to vacuum today...woodbox is almost empty...email from the editor of GMSMA's Newslink asking if I could turn the presentation I did last year on S/M and drug use into an article; I'll have to figure out where the notes are in the garage...today is a good day to take Faithful Comapnion for a good long walk...Dang. I've seen tonight's Queer Eye episode already...I think it's kind of strange that the West Wing's Jeb Bartlett's campaign slogan was 'Bartlett for America' and real life New England Governor Howard Dean's slogan is 'Dean for America'...only two and a half months until softball season starts up again! Go Ballbreakers!...I wonder when I'll ever have the time and money to get to do some traveling again...Did you know you have your father's penis? Every man has an X and a Y chromosome. Most chromosomes are formed by the combination of the father's chromosomes and the mother's chromosomes, but since the mother doesn't have a Y chromosome to contribute to the mix, if it's a boy, it gets the full and uncombined y chromosome from the father. About the only thing coded completely by the Y chromosome is the penis. So, your penis is sort of a clone of your father's penis. Neat, huh?


Monday, December 29, 2003

Yes, Sir!

Well that was sweet!

Just got back from a date with Coatcheck Sir. (Gotta come up with another name for him. 'Coatcheck Sir' makes me think of that number from Sweet Charity: "Check your hat, Sir? Check your coat, Sir?" Let's call him PissBoss.

Anyway, after more than a few wrong turns (usually I'm great at finding my way around while driving), I found his house, ablaze with Christmas lights. PissBoss pointed out that he was making a political statement with his lights as the display included two reindeer, one smaller and one larger. A big buck and a boy buck.

A lot to like about this guy, no?

Once inside, I got a quick tour, and then it was into the bedroom/playroom. I stripped on orders, and put my boots back on. And then, Piss Boss handcuffed me. (He got it right the first time. This man knows how to wield a pair of handcuffs. My faith in leatherclad humanity is restored.) As far as working me over (punching and working my balls and dick and such), PissBoss went pretty easy on me. After all, it was our first date. Exploratory, y'unnerstan'.

But then, things really got going. PissBoss has trained himself not only to piss with his dick rock hard (no mean feat, believe you me), but he can piss in these controlled spurts. I have never seen anything like that. PissBoss started by getting my cock and balls wet. Then I went down on my knees, and he got my chest glistening with his hot Dad piss. Then my back, working it into my ass crack. I got in a couple of good swallows, but again, PissBoss was careful not to overwhelm me, wuss that I am.

Slowly, slowly, PissBoss worked to a crescendo. And what did that look like? Me with a chain around my neck, restraining me on the floor to the bedpost, while PissBoss let fly, soaking me. While I licked his piss-wet balls, PissBoss shot his load all over me. There I was, chained up, with PissBoss--beautiful man that he is--standing over me, covered in my Sir's piss and cum.

Talk about 'Pig Heaven.'

Working my own cock, I pretty quickly added to the heady brew of piss, cum, and lube that had me glistening in the candlelight of PissBoss' bed chamber.

No cleaning off for this piss pig! PissBoss unchained me, and I stretched out on the bed.

Pillow talk ensued while the piss and cum dried on me. We talked about Topping and bottoming, and what really got us going, and our own salvation history stories vis a vis leather, and boys we had known, and people we knew in common. PissBoss is apparently really good friends with a former President of GMSMA, a man who worked tirelessly to build the organization, and was the co-creator of both Folsom Street East and Leather Pride Night during his tenure with the organization.

PissBoss is a great guy. I'm looking forward to being coatcheck boy at the Bike Stop with PissBoss on New Year's Eve.

But in the wake of this great scene, I sort of have this feeling in my gut: "Okay. I think I need to be a Top for a while."

Yeah. I need to be the Sir for a bit. I need to get into The Zone. I need to take some lucky boy on a journey. I need to pack up my gear bag, planning out the scene step by step. Yeah. I need to be the Sir.

Not that I'm done with bottoming, but I need to give it a break for a while. Find some sweet faced boy and beat himm, then, hopefully, watch as the bruises blossom.

But damn! Thanks for a great night, PissBoss! Many happy returns.


Fleurs du MAL

Mid-Atlantic Leather, or MAL, the other poll in my kinky year, is upon us. MAL 2004 finds me flat broke. My name came up for a room at the host hotel, but upon reflection (and looking at the pile of bills I needed to pay), I decided I could not afford to have a hotel room.

Luckily, the man whose boots I serviced at Lambasting on Thanksgiving weekend has offered to put me up for the weekend, and he lives a wee five blocks from the host hotel. So I will indeed be in DC during MAL. And, given how well it worked for me to be able to get away to Mark Collier's apartment during IML weekend--when I grew tired of rubbing elbows with the hoi polloi--it may, in fact, be a peaceful and relaxing MAL for me.

Dang, I love MAL. For one thing, the Washington Plaza Hotel is possibly my favorite hotel of any where I've laid down my head. There's something about mid-Century design that just works so well for me. And I prefer the low-ceilinged lobby to that of whatever the name of the hotel is in Chicago where IML was held. You meander through the crowd, and familiar faces turn up like LIVE BAIT signs along a country road. Sweet delight.

If'n I had my way, I'd make inquiries about what would be involved in hosting a party during MAL. I would love love love to have a Singletails party, both to thank you, my dear readers, and to promote the site.

Permit me to thank you all. Truly I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I started pouring out my most intimate thoughts, feelings, and experiences for the World Wide Internet. And, I had no idea how it would benefit me.

Among the many things that the Jesuits have bestowed upon Western Civilisation is the concept of Spiritual Direction. The idea is that you have a person who is sort of like a therapist. You meet with him or her on a regular basis, and simply talk about where you are in your relationship with God. The role of the spiritual director is not to offer insights, or let you know 'the Way,' or whatever, but just be the person you talk to. The importance is that you are meeting regularly, as this forces you to sit and reflect regularly about something that can often be shunted to the side in the ride on the Doolittle Push-Me-Pull-You that is life.

And that's what all of you have been for me. It's been a journalistic experience ("This will make such a great blog posting!"), but also, there have been the times when I've sat down with a blank mind and had nothing at all to write about. But I had to write. The Beast must be fed. Want to keep that hit counter soaring ever upwards! And so I would plunge in and write. Sometimes, I think these have been some of my better postings.

Anyway, I did it for you. And for forcing me to sit down and figure out What It All Means on a regular basis, I'm grateful. Profoundly grateful. My life is all the richer for it.

I wish I could host a party at MAL to express my gratitude. Serve up my stepmother's Baked Pineapple that has always wowed them at every covered dish dinner I've attended, let the libations flow freely, maybe organize a Singletails Trivia Quiz with all sorts of fabulous prizes. Make up tshirts. The whole nine yards.

But I can't.

Not this year anyway.

In the alternative, if you see me in the lobby of the Washington Plaza Hotel, feel free to flag me down, and I'll buy you a beer. (Domestic. Sorry. We're economizing.) Or... y'know... a soda pop or whatever.

Here's a pic taken of Yours Truly last year at MAL. I look pretty much the same, and I'll probably be wearing the great David Samuel Menkes leather flightsuit at some point during the weekend.

See you in DC!




Sunday, December 28, 2003

The Machine

When body surfing at the beach--one of my favorite hot weather pasttimes--the rule of thumb is that every seventh wave is a good one. It's uncanny how true this is. Perhaps the same rule applies to internet-originated hookups.

At any rate, today's was a killer wave, that had me riding high all the way in to the beach.

I forget whether I flagged him down or he flagged me down on World Leathermen. His profile was short, sweet, and to the point: he was a Top, and he liked lean, muscular men. (Hey! I'm a lean, muscular man!) Using the telegraphese communication that World Leathermen allows, we made a plan. And today was the day.

I waited until I was just about ready to leave before I took a shower today. I wanted to clean out. I've hooked up my Shower Shot in the bathroom. Ahhh.. my Shower Shot! You may remember the tragedy of shakespearean proportions involving my Shower Shot. Last October, while attending a wedding in Portland, Oregon, my host had a Shower Shot hooked up in his bathroom. While showering one day, I decided to give it a try. Four hours later, when I emerged from the bathroom, I was determined to get me one of those. So amazing! What a blast!

I bought mine from those stand-up guys at the Leatherman on Christopher Street, rushed home, and hooked it up. Ah! Sweet delight! But not for long. In fact, if memory serves, as I was toweling off afterwards, I started to feel really really really bad. While lying supine on my bed, feeling like the hapless guy in Alien, I remembered reading somewhere that the water in Beautiful Downtown Jersey City was barely potable. I had just spent a half an hour shooting pestilential water, teeming with giardia and cryptosporidium, up my asshole into my tender and vulnerable colon.

For the next several months, defecation was pretty dramatic. Explosive, even. I considered purchasing adult diapers.

Thanks, Jersey City!

When contemplating the move back here to Bucolic Bucks County, my eyebrow arched and a smile flitted across my face when I considered the fact that we drink pure, clean well water, drawn from the aquifer some hundred and fifty feet below the earth's surface. Here, I can douche until my heart's content.

Anyway, when the water ran clear, I got dressed, walked the dog, filled up the wood box, said goodbye to my father, and headed south on Route 202 to meet with the Top. On the way, it occurred to me that although I knew this guy was a Top, I had no idea just what he liked to do as a Top. What, exactly, had I signed up for?

(How could this come to pass with an experienced player such as myself? Well... probably has something to do with the fact that in the pics he posts on line, he is one hot man.)

And so, in getting my head together, I conjured openness. Giving myself over. Trust. Possibly a new and heretofore uncontemplated experience. Even if (Angels and Saints Preserve Us!) he was into feet, I would make due.

His directions were excellent. He was better in person than his pics. And the big question mark vanished: he liked to fuck.

Why... what a happy coincidence!

He did some pretty pedestrian bondage, tying me spread eagle on the bed. (The ropes were digging into my ankles pretty quickly and I had to ask for an adjustment, and the wrist restraints were likewise uncomfortable.) And, he insisted on hitting me, hard, with his belt. Yow! No warm up, not even a warning. Just Thwack!.

But oh Man! Can that guy throw a fuck! He has a beautiful dick. Nice and fat. He would drill in there and just start pounding. Really pounding. It didn't even feel like sex. It was more like being a bottom in a punching scene or something. Just takin' the abuse. Yeah, I enjoyed it. But I sure didn't enjoy it because of the sensual pleasure of the experience. There wasn't a lot of that. (Except for a brief and welcome interlude when he lied down on his back and I got to ride that fat dick of his.) The pleasure was in taking it, in rising to the challenge, in being a tough bottom. And thereby earning his respect.

At one point, he asked me, "Where'd you learn to be such a tough guy, boy?" I responded--right off the top of my head, Lord knows where this came from--"At Mennonite Summer Bible Camp, Sir!"

Now that threw him. "Huh," he replied, "I'm a Mennonite."

And then he went back to mercilessly and brutally pounding my ass, just drilling me right into the mattress.

He told me afterwards that he really got off on all the commotion I was putting up. All that grimmacing and grunting and straining and hurting.

And here was a great moment. He was plowing me with me on my belly, and he announced, pretty matter-of-factly, that he was cumming. I turned my head around to see him whip off the condom and shoot his load all over my back. But before I could even say to myself, "Oh man! Thank God that's over!" he said, "Don't think that's the end, boy. I stay hard after I cum."

He put on another condom, and it was more of punishing my poor asshole.

Wham!Wham!Wham!Wham!Wham!Wham!Wham!Wham!!!

He was like a machine. Just relentless. I have never ever known any man who could fuck like him. And enjoyed himself so thoroughly in doing it.

When I decided that I really and truly had had all--if not more--than I could take (this would be an hour and a half into it, mind you), I started to do my best to tighten up my sphincter. This was only partially successful. He still managed to ram his way in there. But, he couldn't get to the point where he could pull all the way out and plunge all the way in, burying himself to the hilt, as he was wont to do. (And which I love myself when I'm fucking a man.) Because I usually managed to block the re-entry.

After pursuing this regardless for about fifteen minutes, he relented: "Okay boy, I want to fuck some cum out of you." He rolled onto his back (Yahoooo! Yippeeeee! Yeeeeee HA! O Thank God!), and I slid down on his big hard tool. I climaxed pretty quickly.

Now here's an interesting thing. When I came, there was no load. Just about nada. I mean, I wasn't faking it or anything. It felt great! It was one hell of an orgasm. But there was no whatchacall ejaculate.

Huh. If I remember my reproductive biology, ejaculate is mostly comprised of Cowper's fluid from the Cowper's gland, and discharge from the prostate. I wonder if my prostate gland had gone on strike after two hours of relentless pounding?

Gosh. I hope it's not broken.

He was pretty sweet about this oddity. "Is that the best you can do? I don't get to see a load?"

Then, I rolled off of him, and he shot another load.

And still his dick didn't go down. He could have still kept going. I think that he could be going still, not only was he like a machine, he's a perpetual motion machine.

In our post-coital dewey moment, he turned to me and said, "Think I should maybe try some Viagra?"

Then he gave me a massage. It was at about the same order as his bondage skills. I decided to teach by example: "Let me return the favor, Sir." And giving him a full body massage, I sent him right to heaven.

While massaging him, I couldn't help but notice his back. Yowzah! Broad and muscular, and covered with dark brown freckles, like a cloudless night sky with stars. I mean, that back was a whipsman's wet dream! All those dots to connect! All those targets to aim at! And they were all arrayed in the areas where you want to whip. I told him that if he ever had a hankering to be whipped, to please think of me. I would give my pinkie finger up to the knuckle to whip a back like that. But, I don't think he'll be taking me up on the offer any time soon.

After exchanging massages, we took a shower together. He lovingly and tenderly soaped up my body, telling me that I had the kind of body he just loves: lean and muscular.

What a sweetheart!

Seventh time lucky.

So that was a great afternoon, and he is a great guy. Liked him a lot. A whole lot. My asshole is still vibrating and quivering with the memory of the experience. So good. So sweet.

Interesting. I think he's sort of a proto-Sadist. He totally got off on my not enjoying his fucking me. That's what it was all about for him. Instead of using a flogger or a whip or his fist or hot candle wax or whatever, he was using his big, fat dick. And during and certainly afterwards, it didn't feel like having sex. It felt like a scene. And it was a scene.

Interesting.

It's like we were doing something vanilla, but in a way that was very much not vanilla.

Love that.

Anyway, gotta walk Faithful Companion, who seems to be feeling quite his old self again today.


Mission Accomplished!

Last night, I drove down to Philadelphia for a trip to the Bike Stop. I had one goal in mind. Last Saturday, when I was there with GI Joe, I had a 'we gotta get together' conversation with the guy who runs the coat check. (Coatcheck Sir was wearing a tshirt that proclaimed him to be 'Daddy.' Better believe that got my attention.) Alas, last week, he was too busy for any follow through. My mission last night: to get his phone number, or give him mine.

He saw me in line to check my coat and took out a pen.

While not cruising, or having my tits abused by a hot bear from South Jersey, I would hang out at the coat check, and chat with Coatcheck Sir when he wasn't... y'know... checking coats. This was rare, and our talks were brief. But, he mentioned that he was looking for an assistant on New Year's Eve, and asked if I'd be interested.

Is the Pope homophobic?

Sooooo... it's looking like I'll be spending New Year's Eve at the Bike Stop, being coatcheck boy. How cool is that? It involves numbers, and as I discovered during my misbegotten year as Treasurer of GMSMA, I'm dyslexic with numbers, but on the other hand, I've noticed that as opposed to the LURE, where every coat was a black leather motorcycle jacket, there seems to be a bit more diversity in cold weather attire at the Bike Stop. Normally, we'd frown upon that, but on New Year's Eve, that'll be a good thing.

Coatcheck Sir calle me today, and we're gonna talk again--and maybe hook up--tomorrow.

Hope something comes of this.


Gimme an M...

*sigh*

It seems that in certain circles in GMSMA, my name is now mud. A few weeks ago (careful readers of Singletails will remember), I had a long phone conversation with the President, on the issue of whether I would be able to step up to the plate as Chairman. This came just as I was finishing up welding school, which had prevented me from attending Board of Directors meetings and Program meetings. With the end of welding school, I was planning on driving up to NYC on the second, third, and fourth wednesdays of each month. Then came the announcement at work that during the month of December, because of the break, we were required to work from 6 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. This rescheduling made the wednesday night trips impossible. If I was to stay more than twenty minutes or so. I took it as a sigh; as the Universe letting me know that I would be taking on too much, and discretion being the better part of valour, it would be best if I hung up my hat. Or, "cover," as the case may be.

This decision has apparently brought about some scapegoating. Not unexpected. Membership is down, and attendance at events is down. And I know from experience in other organizations that it hurts like hell (and not in a good way) when you're pouring your heart and enthusiasm into something and not getting much in the way of return on your investment. And you want to lay blame.

I, for one, bear no ill will. Dese are da circumstances what prevails. Hopefully any acrimony will be buried beneath the sands of time in the not too distant future.


Saturday, December 27, 2003

What a boy Wants

So tonight I'm heading down to the Bike Stop. It's the leather bar in Philadelphia. (For those of you reading this from New York City, a 'leather bar' is a place where leatherfolk congregate to meet, cruise, catch up, see, be seen, drink beer, and often, smoke cigars. There's a lot to like about a leather bar! Maybe one day you'll have one that you can go to!)

Anyway.

I'm looking forward to establishing something with Coatcheck Sir. Or Any Sir. At Starbucks this afternoon, I wrote this...


Take me.
Make me.
Test me.
Teach me.
Show me.
Love me.

Take me down. Take me down deep. Take firm hold of me with your strong hands. And take me down. Let me give up my power to you. You take control. Take me out of this world. Take me to a place where I am in your power. We will call this place your dungeon. Strip me. Beat the resistance out of me. Lock steel chains around my wrists, my ankles, my balls, my neck.

And I become your canvas. Mark me with ink. Put rings through my flesh. Brand my skin. Work my muscles. Control the body--mold it like clay--and the mind will follow.

Put me to the test. Whip me until I bleed. Beat me until I beg and cry. Spit in my face and make me be grateful for it.

Teach me to please you. Train my ass to be the hot, welcoming home for your cock. Train my mouth to pleasure your tits, your balls. Teach me to welcome the gift of your piss, the taste of your bootleather. Teach my hands to massage your muscles.

Show me a new way of being in the world. Show me the peace that comes with being on my knees, at your feet. Show me the certain security--always there for me--of your collar padlocked around my neck. Show me the strength and pride that comes in meeting the challenges you lead me to face. Show me the joy that comes with your acceptance even when I fall short.

Love me. Open yourself to me, little by little, until the prospect of life without me collared and attentive beside you is too terrible. Delight in me. Need me. Show me your hurt and frightened self that no one else sees. Know that you can trust me with that, because I'm your boy, Sir.

Take me.
Make me.
Test me.
Teach me.
Show me.
Love me.

Let this be our journey, yours and mine.



Oh Fudge!

My brother and sister-in-law presented my father with saltwater taffee and a pound of fudge for Christmas. Yesterday, when I got back from my errands, I made the discovery that Faithful Companion had somehow gotten the idea that the fudge and saltwater taffee was for him. He had eaten all the fudge, and was working his way through the saltwater taffee when I came through the door.

So last night was all about dog vomit. And the cleaning up thereof. Eventually his stomach seemed to settle down. But, vomting dehydrates dogs the same way that it dehydrates people. So he started drinking lots of water. Now in general, Faithful Companion needs little in the way of incentive when it comes to drinking water. He just loses himself in lapping it up. I think it's just the kinaesthetic value of drinking water that gets him going. It's his second favorite thing to do.

His first favorite thing to do is pissing. And he was doing a lot of that today. Probably not more than thirty minutes would pass between spells of him wandering up to me with his imploring big brown eyes, and this would prompt a "Yikes! Time for a walk? Okay, Buddy! Let's go!" and a mad rush for the door on my part.

Sometimes we made it. Other times, we didn't.

This is what owning a dog is all about, really. Cleaning up vomit and piss. (And shit, but happily, not in this case.) While you're sopping it out of the carpet with paper towels, you reflect that the only thing that could get you to do this is love. A deep and abiding love. It unites master and dog like nothing else. And, when we don't make it out the door in time, he gets this 'Ooooooh noooooo...' expression on his face that melts my heart. Every time.

Don't get me wrong. Dogs are by and large mindless and manipulative beasts. Playing on our emotions as we project feelings onto them is how they've survived and thrived lo these past fifty thousand years.

But it's so worth it. If you've never owned a dog, you have no idea what love is all about. Because it's pure and unconditional. The gift outright. Given without thought of return.

After all, the day will probably never come when Faithful Companion is cleaning up my vomit. Or at least, I hope it won't, as the circumstances and method involved are pretty grim to contemplate.

Who's my good boy? Who's my good friend? Who do I love? You, Faithful Companion!


Huh

The bottom space meditation below has me thinking about Marlboro Sir. I feel without defenses when it comes to Marlboro Sir. He definitely has a hold on me. And that's more than a little scary. I'll jump into whatever hole he digs for me. Even if it's evident that the hole in question is a grave. Which is an accomplishment for Novice Bottom Me. But I guess what I'm looking to discern in Marlboro Sir is the sure knowledge that as much as he and I would both think it's way hot if that hole is my grave, it's not.

It's about trust, but trust based on experience.

Marlboro Sir digs the hole, points to it, and I jump in. And that feels good.

But mebbe it wouldn't be a bad idea to find another Sir with a shovel, one who probably isn't digging that ultimate hole.

Huh.

There's this very hot Dad who works the coat check at the Bike Stop. When I was there with GI Joe last Saturday, Coatcheck Sir and I had some very positive--and growly--interaction. I asked a couple of guys at the Bike Stop the 411 on Coatcheck Sir. All good. Highly recommended.

Tomorrow night, Saturday, I'm heading down to the Bike Stop. Solo. I want to get there early, before the coat check gets busy.

Hey there, Coatcheck Sir... Are you my Dad?


On The Right

This morning, I felt adrift. Listless is an apt term. In fact, I had a list of things to do, and a roster of men to do during my break from work, none of which--or whom--interested me much.

In particular, I had this feeling of losing touch with leather. All the trappings of S/M seemed so de trop. Too much. Excessive. In an Existentialist kind of way.

And then I got dressed. Dark green tshirt, Woolrich insulated corduroy shirt, grey-white-black BDU pants, my Wesco's. And then, armored in a way, I felt a sense of purpose for the first time today. I put on my chain wallet. And a thought occurred to me. I put my chain wallet on the right instead of on the left. And I got out my Hunter Green hankie and put it behind my wallet in my right rear pocket.

Flagging right. Bottom boy. An answer to the all-pervasive and haunting "Who are you?" question.

I left the Ol' Homestead to run some errands (pick up paycheck, go to bank, stop in with Ford Dealership to check on the Taurus). And I ended up at Starbucks. That's when I had a realization: that wasn't malaise; that was bottom space! Or at least a neighborhood in bottom space.

It's like I'm waiting for orders. Waiting for direction. Waiting for someone to snap the leash on my collar and lead me onwards. Like a big stud bull being lead around by the ring in his nose.

I am primed. I am healthy and strong. I am open. I am waiting.

I am ready.

Like looking at one of Monet's paintings: fields of color, without pattern or shape, and then all of a sudden you see it. It's an arched bridge over a stream filled with waterlilies.

Cool.


Thursday, December 25, 2003

Calamitous Christmas Eve

Yikes.

So the plan was that I would head down with my father to my brother's church in Whitemarsh for the Christmas eve services. First off, my father asked me to take my step-mother's car. My step-mother's car is one of my father's obsessions. (His other obsessions include keeping the birdfeeders filled, keeping the fire going, putting plywood on top of the wood piles, the Weather Channel, and having at least two unopened quarts of milk in the refrigerator.) No one drives my step-mother's car, and once the battery went dead. My father would like me to take out this verrrrry un-butch white Ford Taurus sedan once a week to keep the battery charged. Then, my brother asked me to pick up his wife's Aunt Violet, an 87 year old woman whom my brother and sister-in-law look after. And then, when my brother was going over the directions with me, my father's agoraphobia kicked in. He didn't want to be heading down there over unknown roads at night. So it was me and Aunt Violet in the Ford Taurus.

Get the picture?

Okay.

My brother's directions were excellent. I found my way to the assisted living facility where Aunt Violet lived without any trouble. And I found my way down to St. Thomas' Episcopal Church in Whitemarsh without any problem. The seven o'clock service that we attended was really wonderful. So then Aunt Violet and I headed home. Down Route 73, and onto Route 309 north.

And when we were half way up the ramp to get onto 309, the Ford Taurus died. It was like someone pulled the plug. So there we were, Aunt Violet and I, sitting in a dead car on the 309 on-ramp at 10 p.m. on Christmas Eve.

I was cursing my father (Damn this car!), cursing my brother (Why a church 30 miles away???!!), and cursing Aunt Violet (what am I gonna do with here?).

A car pulled up ahead, and the driver got out and asked if he could help. I had no ideas at all. No AAA. No celll phone on me. Cell phone! I asked the guy if I could obrrow a cell phone. Alas, he was coming from church and didn't have his with him. He suggested that I try the church he had just come from, First Presbyterian. They had another service at 11 p.m., so there would still be someone there and I could use the phone. Now there was a plan.

So I reassured Aunt Violet--I shouldn't be gone more t73. han a half an hour, and I headed off walking up At the First Presbyterian Church, I found the choir and sundry others. I called my father, but was unable to call St. Thomas' to get hold of my brother.

But the second Good Samaritan of the evening emerged and offered to drive me. Cool. We picked up Aunt Violet, who was quite a trooper about the whole thing. And so we arrived back at St. Thomas', just in time for the eleven o'clock candlelight service. My brother and his wife drove Aunt Violet and I home. I got home around 2:45 p.m. I had planned to wrap my presents that night before going to bed. Uh uh.

...And a Great Christmas Day

This morning, I managed to find a towing service to take the damn Ford Taurus into the dealership. I wrapped up the presents, and my father and I headed over to join Aunt Violet, my brother, and his wife for breakfast. My brother gave me a gift certificate for a one hour massage at our gym. My brother and his wife loved my Queer Eye for the Straight Guy gift, and were dipping into the eye moisturizer within two minutes of opening it up. After Breakfast, my father and I headed back to the Ol' Homestead.

And then, the cooking began.

Y'see, after my brother and his wife finished with the festivities at her brother's house, they were heading back to the Ol' Homestead for what would be the second Christmas Dinner they would have that day. And, I hoped, the better one.

Here's the menu...


  • Turkey
  • Cornbread Stuffing with cranberries, almonds, blood oranges, and sage
  • Vegan Sweet Potatoes (my sister-in-law is a vegan)
  • Braised Brussels Sprouts (a longtime crowd-pleaser of mine, usually braised in cream, but for my sister-in-law prompted to make it in sow milk)
  • Vegan stew of roasted winter vegetables (beets, carrots, parsnips) and roasted chestnuts (that was an inspired touch, if I do say so myself)


Dinner rocked. Everybody loved my cooking. I got to cook Christmas dinner. It was, all in all, a great day.

Merry Christmas!


Wednesday, December 24, 2003

Bad Reputation

Went to the Raven last night. And got lucky.

In walks this sixtyish guy I've seen there before. He's got a shaved head, and he's built like a brick shithouse. After some preliminaries, he invited me back. I made some joke about how in NYC, this would involve us going out and hailing a cab back to his place. Simple and efficient. And that sweet, "let me pay, no I'll get this, no let me, no it's fine really" thing. But here in the hinterlands, you follow him home, letting your desire grow as you focus on his red taillights on the road ahead, pulling into the driveway behind him.

As I was letting my desire grow following those red taillights, I became aware that this was a familiar route. In fact, another guy whom I had picked up at the Raven had lead me down these same backroads. "Wouldn't it be ironic...?" I thought.

And ironic it was. Same house. They were roommates, sharing this amazing farmhouse that had been renovated in the Fifties by a japanese artist and sculptor. I mentioned to Last Night's Lay that I had been here before, and he kinda took it in stride.

But I wondered, would I get a Bad Reputation? Sleeping my way through farmhouses of Bucks County? Would those catty girlfriends at the Raven be talking about me?

Cool!

It could only help things to get a name as an easy lay!

And as Rhett Butler reminded Scarlett O'Hara, "A reputation is a thing that people with courage can get along well enough without having."

Unfortunately, he got stoned before we headed upstairs, so sex was detached. I would have loved to have spent the night, but had to get home, so my father wouldn't wake up to an empty house and have cause for worry. So, kitten punched thoroughly, I was on my way.

It had started to rain, so I took it slow, meandering down the back roads of Bucks County. It was late, so the Christmas Light Extravaganza that is Bucks County this time of year was not in evidence. The roads were dark, and I didn't see another car the entire way home.


Deliverance

Final day at work yesterday before our break was a doozey.

I'm sanding away. Focused and earnest. Then, the Vice President of the company (that would be, the Big Boss' husband) approaches me. He asks if I'd be up for a delivery.

Now, in general, that would be cool. You get paid for sitting in a truck, and then you get to play Big Butch Delivery Guy when we get to the customer's house. And, if the house is a McMansion, I get to post tirades about the proliferation of Bad Design here.

But not on Christmas Eve Eve. The guy who drives the truck and makes our deliveries is a really sad guy. He and his wife hate each other. They're beating each other over the head with divorce. She has a boyfriend. He has a girlfriend. His girlfriend is described by my co-workers as a "total beast." And, the girlfriend is basically fucking all the straight men in Doylestown behind his back. He hates his job. He hates his life. And while you're riding in the truck with him, you get to hear all the details of that.

Not what I'm up for. Not my idea of Christmas Eve Eve.

But, I wanna be the Go To Guy, so I said sure. Then, I was talking to one of my co-workers at the sanding table whose name begins with J. J said that the truck driver and he had talked yesterday about doing the delivery. No skin off my nose! So when VP came by and told me it was time to head out on the road, I said, "Oh, by the way, I talked to J, and he's all set to go out on the delivery. He and truck driver talked about it yesterday."

And VP replies, "Well J. and truck driver don't get to make those decisions around here."

Oh.

Oh I see.

You go, Mr. Executive! I'll leave it to you to sweat the big ones! You go on and make those Hard Calls, like which of the drones at the sanding table goes out on a delivery.

Puh-LEEEZE. Sort of disheartening to learn that Vice President is indeed the asshole that everyone says he is. And more good news. The delivery was in Saddle River, New Jersey, practically in Newburgh, New York. We wouldn't be back until around 8:30 that night.

Once on the road, I promptly fell asleep. It was for a self protecting move. Truck driver's plans for the holiday? "I'm gonna sit home. Sleep. Hopefully that bitch will be out of the house at her family or something."

There were two stops we were making in the wilds of North Jersey. And I have to admit I had a good time taking on the role of Big Butch Delivery Guy. And on the second job we delivered, I had, in fact, played a significant role in doing the finishing on all of the cabinets we unloaded. I had sanded, stained, scuffed, and glazed. Everything but sprayed the sealer. And they looked great. Both of the houses were under construction. At the first house, I played eye-hockey with this woofy guy who was there installing down-spouting. There I was, among these Workin' Men. Me. A Workin' Man.

Our work done, truck driver and I headed for home. We stopped at Wegman's in Somerville on the way. I had a good dinner.

I was concerned about my paycheck. The word was that we were going to get our paychecks that afternoon, before the break. I asked truck driver to call VP and have him set my paycheck aside somewhere for me so I could pick it up when we got in. Truck driver relayed the conversation with me. VP said that payday would be Friday, and I could pick up my check Friday morning.

During break.

Just fuckin great. Just what I want to do. Haul my ass in there to pick up my paycheck. Just because they don't offer direct deposit. Just because they couldn't get their acts together to hand out the paychecks before the break.

So I'm plotting revenge. I think I'll say to VP when he hands me my check, "We were all expecting to get these on Tuesday, like we did before we went out for Thanksgiving. Guess you're having cashflow problems with the holidays?" And say to my co-workers, "It sucks we didn't get our paychecks on Tuesday. I guess they're having cashflow problems."

Having been the Big Boss, I know how things like that just drive you apeshit. You want to climb on top of a chair and shout, "No! Everything is fine! We're not having cashflow problems!" Because if you're having cashflow problems, then that makes people insecure about their jobs, and productivity goes down because everyone is worrying and looking for another job at a place where there aren't cashflow problems. And, that boxes VP into a corner, because he can't say, "No, the reason I made everyone come in on their day off was because I'm an inconsiderate asshole, but it's not because we're having cashflow problems."

heh heh heh.

Merry Christmas, Asshole.


Deliverance

Final day at work yesterday before our break was a doozey.

I'm sanding away. Focused and earnest. Then, the Vice President of the company (that would be, the Big Boss' husband) approaches me. He asks if I'd be up for a delivery.

Now, in general, that would be cool. You get paid for sitting in a truck, and then you get to play Big Butch Delivery Guy when we get to the customer's house. And, if the house is a McMansion, I get to post tirades about the proliferation of Bad Design here.

But not on Christmas Eve Eve. The guy who drives the truck and makes our deliveries is a really sad guy. He and his wife hate each other. They're beating each other over the head with divorce. She has a boyfriend. He has a girlfriend. His girlfriend is described by my co-workers as a "total beast." And, the girlfriend is basically fucking all the straight men in Doylestown behind his back. He hates his job. He hates his life. And while you're riding in the truck with him, you get to hear all the details of that.

Not what I'm up for. Not my idea of Christmas Eve Eve.

But, I wanna be the Go To Guy, so I said sure. Then, I was talking to one of my co-workers at the sanding table whose name begins with J. J said that the truck driver and he had talked yesterday about doing the delivery. No skin off my nose! So when VP came by and told me it was time to head out on the road, I said, "Oh, by the way, I talked to J, and he's all set to go out on the delivery. He and truck driver talked about it yesterday."

And VP replies, "Well J. and truck driver don't get to make those decisions around here."

Oh.

Oh I see.

You go, Mr. Executive! I'll leave it to you to sweat the big ones! You go on and make those Hard Calls, like which of the drones at the sanding table goes out on a delivery.

Puh-LEEEZE. Sort of disheartening to learn that Vice President is indeed the asshole that everyone says he is. And more good news. The delivery was in Saddle River, New Jersey, practically in Newburgh, New York. We wouldn't be back until around 8:30 that night.

Once on the road, I promptly fell asleep. It was for a self protecting move. Truck driver's plans for the holiday? "I'm gonna sit home. Sleep. Hopefully that bitch will be out of the house at her family or something."

There were two stops we were making in the wilds of North Jersey. And I have to admit I had a good time taking on the role of Big Butch Delivery Guy. And on the second job we delivered, I had, in fact, played a significant role in doing the finishing on all of the cabinets we unloaded. I had sanded, stained, scuffed, and glazed. Everything but sprayed the sealer. And they looked great. Both of the houses were under construction. At the first house, I played eye-hockey with this woofy guy who was there installing down-spouting. There I was, among these Workin' Men. Me. A Workin' Man.

Our work done, truck driver and I headed for home. We stopped at Wegman's in Somerville on the way. I had a good dinner.

I was concerned about my paycheck. The word was that we were going to get our paychecks that afternoon, before the break. I asked truck driver to call VP and have him set my paycheck aside somewhere for me so I could pick it up when we got in. Truck driver relayed the conversation with me. VP said that payday would be Friday, and I could pick up my check Friday morning.

During break.

Just fuckin great. Just what I want to do. Haul my ass in there to pick up my paycheck. Just because they don't offer direct deposit. Just because they couldn't get their acts together to hand out the paychecks before the break.

So I'm plotting revenge. I think I'll say to VP when he hands me my check, "We were all expecting to get these on Tuesday, like we did before we went out for Thanksgiving. Guess you're having cashflow problems with the holidays?" And say to my co-workers, "It sucks we didn't get our paychecks on Tuesday. I guess they're having cashflow problems."

Having been the Big Boss, I know how things like that just drive you apeshit. You want to climb on top of a chair and shout, "No! Everything is fine! We're not having cashflow problems!" Because if you're having cashflow problems, then that makes people insecure about their jobs, and productivity goes down because everyone is worrying and looking for another job at a place where there aren't cashflow problems. And, that boxes VP into a corner, because he can't say, "No, the reason I made everyone come in on their day off was because I'm an inconsiderate asshole, but it's not because we're having cashflow problems."

heh heh heh.

Merry Christmas, Asshole.


Monday, December 22, 2003

Kill Me Now.

Lately, my jerk off fantasies have run to extremes. Anihilation. Obliteration. Not snuff per say. (Yawn.) Far more creative. Think "Cask of Amontillado" and you're heading in the right direction.

At previous points in my life when this has cropped up, I've been deeply concerned. But now I kind of get it. It doesn't mean I'm getting self-destructive or depressed. I'm pretty upbeat and chipper lately. Rather, it means that I'm open--very open--to change. To rebirth and renewal. And 'Tis the Season, right? That's what the Winter Solstice is all about. Everything is dead or dying, but everything will be reborn.

Huh. A strange synchronicity that: my jerk off fantasies and the liturgical calendar. "Deep is calling on Deep," I guess.


Christmas: Ready!

Well, just about.

Want to get something for the Baron.

But my Dad is finished. Got him some good cigars (and picked up a few that cost more than fifty cents for me while I was at it), and silk underwear to keep him warm.

And I'm giving my brother and sister-in-law a Queer Eye Christmas. When I was in Philadelphia with GI Joe on Saturday, we went to Kiehl's, maker of fine emoluments. And they have emoluments a' plenty. I'm going to sign the card "from Kyan, Carson, Ted, Thom, Jai, and your brother." They're both big fans of the show, too. And while I was at Kiehl's, I got myself (see a pattern here?) some eye moisturizer. I never ever thought that I would be a user of eye moisturizer, but Thom recommends it to we men of a certain age. Yesterday, I tried it out. Can we say "Amazing!" I mean, instant results. Pretty incredible. And I got (for myself) the cheapest stuff they sold.

Overall though, butch guy that I am, Christmas turns me into the Gayest Gay of All the Gays. You should have seen me on Sunday, out there with my garden shears (a la Martha) clipping boughs from the White Pine we have along the road in front of the house, then painstakingly arranging them on every flat surface in the house. (Did you know that the smell of pine produced feelings of well-being? So get some green in your house!) It was great unwrapping what survives of our Christmas decorations, most of them older than I am.

With the addition of a pointsettia I picked up at the super market, the place looks pretty good.


Saturday, December 20, 2003

What's Up With Bucky?

He shaved off his beard.

Not all the way off, but just trimmed it severely. As I sat there in Starbucks yesterday, I had feelings of, 'well, so much for that diversion.' It wasn't until later that I realized what was going on.

C'mon! What's in a beard?

You may well ask. As I've stated oft before, I'm not, in general, attracted to boys. But Bucky's beard made him a man in my eyes. (Although I guess it was a different part of my anatomy in play here.) A beard is something that sets a man apart. An old acquaintance of mine once mused that he couldn't fall in love with a woman, because kissing her, he'd miss the stubble.

I want Bucky's beard back. And I mean to have it.

Next time I see the Buck-ster, that will be the card I play. I've been thinking that a Good Next Step would be to pay him a complement based on some feature of his body ("You've got such a great mouth," or, "I love your hands, Bucky." In doing so, I reasoned, I would deliver the message in a subtle and (hopefully) non-threatening way that my interest in him was not just in conversation, but that I liked his body, too, his physical sense. It's a ploy as old, at least, as the sonnet.

Fuhgeddabout his eyes and hands. My opener will be, "Bucky! You shaved your beard! I love your beard! Why'd you go and shave it? Grow it back!"

And perhaps, a discussion of men, manhood, and beards will ensue.


Cause for Celebration

There is nothing that we here at Singletails love more than getting email responses to postings. And this morning has us positively giddy. Good feedback from the Bear Eye posting, and also an email on the gay marriage discussion I had with Marlboro Sir.

That got me to thinkin'.

John J. MacNeill was a priest in the Roman Church. A brilliant and learned man, he spent a lot of time causing headaches to the powers that be in the Vatican on the question of the Church's condemnation of homosexuality. At one point in his illustrious career, he claimed to have uncovered an the text of an early Christian (we're talkin Second or Third Century) ceremony wherein a church blessed the union of two men. Not only was homosexuality accepted, argued MacNeill, but communities of faith sanctified homosexual relationships. MacNeill's critics argued that the text in question was not about a sexual relationship, but was a celebration of a sort of Holy Friendship. It seems that back in the day (in the Greco-Roman world), friendship had a much higher standing than it does in our contemporary world. Friendship was committed and lifelong, often forged in battle. ("No greater love is there than one who lays down his life for his friends.") And those early Christians, good Greco-Romans that they were, decided to take their friendships up the altar, celebrating them with their communities of faith, and pledge undying friendship before God. In fact, I think it could be argued that friendship and brotherhood, rather than The Family, was the glue that held those societies together.

But were these friendships homosexual? It don' matter none. Although it wouldn't be surprising if homosexuality--which the Greeks were also famous for--was involved some of the time.

It's always a bad idea to develop an ethic based on what ought to be, rather than what is. (Thanks for that insight, Guy Kettlehack.) Look at your life, figure out what your values are and what you value, and clarify those as your starting point.

So there we have it: a model for same-sex relationships: Holy Friendship. Lifelong, committed, but by no means sexually exclusive. And in a way, there we have it: gay men have preserved this tradition within their own tribe.

And that, I would argue, is what we need to be taking into church with us... "Brothers and Sisters in Christ, I would lay down my life for this man whom I love. Like Damian and Pythias before us, we two are one. I invite you all to share with us the bread and the cup of wine at God's Holy Table, as we celebrate our Holy Friendship with each other, ask your prayers for us, and pledge that this love of ours is not something that will pass away, but is God's own, and is part of Eternity."

Now everybody rhumba!


Thursday, December 18, 2003

Crush

There's this guy I work with. He's beautiful. And, of course, straight.

He apparently was something of a high school football sensation. He's got this amazing beach ball beer belly. And a swagger to go with it. He got himself a haircut last night. A crew cut. Looks like number one blad on the sides.

I hope his wife appreciates what she's got. What a hot man. I had trouble focusing on my work today, as he had a lot of cause to be back in the finishing area. I almost woofed him.

And when I went to the john today, who should come in as I was leaving? I spent a lot of time washing my hands so I could watch him take a piss. He hiked up his gut, whipped out his dick, and let fly with a bladder-full.

My knees almost buckled, watching him there, feet well apart, head back, letting out an 'Ahhhhh!' of satisfaction as his piss hit the urinal.

*sigh*



...an early Christmas present from all of us here at Singletails. Yeah. It's long. So fix yourself a nice cup of hot Ovaltine, settle in, and I hope you like it.

Bear Eye for the Twink Guy

(Opening Scene: Mike, Jack, and Bill are riding in Mike's black Dodge Ram Pickup 4x4.)

Mike: So who do we have this week?
Jack: This week, the Three Bears will take on Tim. He lives in New Hope, Pennsylvania, and works someplace called All About Throw Pillows.
Mike: Sheesh!
Bill: Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us.

Mike: And here we are. Let's move, Bears!

(The Three Bears bivouac from the truck and head up the walk to Tim's condo in Village Two. After ringing the doorbell, they're greeted by Tim, wearing a marino wool sweater, charcoal gray pants, and talking on his cell phone.)

Tim: Hold on, Meliss', there's somebody here.
Can I help you?

(The Bears barge past Tim.)

Jack (taking the phone from Tim): He'll call ya back, Sweetheart. He's got some changes to make.

Tim: Who are you? What's going on here?
Bill: Hi, Tim. It's kinda like a makeover. You know what a makeover is, right?
Tim: Uh... but I didn't... hey!
Mike (inspecting refrigerator): Typical. Condiments and mixers and what looks like two month old Brie taken home from a party. It's sad.
Jack: Look at this bedroom! What a mess! How many sweaters do you own, Tim? Too many to put fit in the closet, that's for sure.
Tim: Don't you touch my sweaters!
Jack: Believe me, your sweaters are safe.
Bill: It looks like you watch a lot of tv, huh, Tim? The way you have all those throw pillows arranged facing the set. Like a mixture of a temple and an opium den.
Jack: Tim, we're taking you places. Don't you have anything decent to wear? All these shoes and no boots, Tim?
Tim: Why would I need boots? It's not raining.
Jack: Tim, let me let you in on a little secret. A good pair of boots are your best friends. Rugged and durable, they'll keep your feet comfy and last a lifetime. Bill, we'll need to stop for boots.
Bill: Boots. Check.
Mike: We've got a long day ahead. I'm gonna fix us all something to eat. Step in here, Tim. Luckily I shopped on the way.
Tim: Uh... I think that there's a pan in there... What are you making?
Mike: The best breakfast in the world, Tim. Cream chipped beef on toast.
Tim: Oh. My. God. I can't eat that. I'll put it right on my thighs.
Mike: You'll eat it and enjoy it, Tim. That's what food is all about. Enjoying it. Since you seem to have neither a toaster or a toaster oven, we'll have to toast this bread in the conventional oven.
Tim: No, seriously. I have to watch my weight.
Mike: I guess you could stand to fill out some. Just joking, Tim. Wanna know the secret of good eating? It's the Three Bears diet plan: you can eat all you want, as long as you make it yourself or someone makes it for you. You wanna veg out in front of the television with Doritos? No dice. You wanna bake yourself some banana bread? Go right ahead.

Here's what we're doing, Tim. We're melting some butter in the bottom of this pan. Then we add the chipped beef. We don't want to brown the beef, so we're just gonna wait until we hear that sizzle. Then, add about the same amount of flour as we put in butter, and stir it around good. See how it all sticks together and dries up? Perfect. Butter and flour is the basis of just about any sauce you're gonna make. It's called a roux. Now we add the milk, little by little... Yo! Toast is ready. Butter that up for us, will ya, Tim?

Now then, you add the milk, stir it around, wait for it to thicken and get bubbly, and then add a little more. You keep doing this until you have enough of the stuff to feed however many you're feeding. Starting to smell good, huh, Tim?

Tim: I... I... That smells fabulous! Oh. My. God. And I haven't eaten since around lunch yesterday when Paige and I had those slices of apple in our apple-tinis. I could cry. I think I will.

Jack: Uh, Tim, Repeat after me: "It smells great! Thanks for making it, Mike." When giving a complement, keep it short and sweet, and keep the focus off yourself. Got it?

Tim: Right. It smells great! Thanks for making it, Mike.

(New scene: Tim, Jack, Bill, and Mike are seated on throw pillows with empty plates on their laps.)

Tim: I feel so much better. Thank you, Mike. Now, what's this all about?
Jack: We're here to help, Tim. And it seems obvious that you need some help. Let's start with your body, for example.
Tim: My what? What kind of a makeover is this.
Jack: Not very fond of your body, huh? Evidenced perhaps by the variety of colognes in the bathroom and the endless layers of sweaters you seem to wear. It's all about loving your body. That's where it all starts. I want you to spend some time soon looking at yourself in a full length mirror. Give yourself a massage. Notice the way your muscles flex. Find out how good it feels when you touch different parts, the hairs at the nape of your neck and under your arms, your neck, the arches in your feet. You have a great body, Tim.
Mike: We've gotta hit the road, guys.

(The Dodge Ram pulls up in front of a gym.)

Tim: Puh-leeeze! This is wear I have to spend two hours on the life cycle or something to work off that breakfast?
Bill: Even though you always feel great after a good workout, we're actually here for another reason, Tim. Today, you learn how to relax.

(The Three Bears and Tim pass the equipment and head for the men's locker room.)

Bill: Alright, Tim. Strip.
Tim: I thought you said 'relax.'
Bill: Just strip, Tim.

(Everybody strips.)

Tim: Okay...
Bill: And now, into the sauna. When picking a gym, always check the temperature on the sauna. The steamroom is a good option, too. In fact, steamrooms are often hotter.
Tim: Oh I see what this is all about... I've heard all about what goes on in saunas and steamrooms.
Bill: Yeah, that's pretty great. But this is actually about something else altogether. And if the sauna is hot enough, then that won't be much of a problem. Now in we go.
Tim: Ow! It's too hot in here? I'm sweating! I don't like this.
Jack: God I love to sweat!
Mike: Yeah, me too, Boss.
Bill: That's the whole point, Tim. Okay, everybody into the shower!
(They head to the showers)
Tim: That was quick.
Bill: This isn't the 'it's over' shower. This is all part of the process. It's the cold shower.
Tim: Aaiiiiiiiiiieeeeee!!!!
Bill: Gets your blood flowin, huh? Okay, now back to the sauna.
Tim: What is up with this?
Bill: This is how we're gonna spend the next hour, Tim. From the sauna to the cold shower, back to the sauna, back to the cold shower, back to the sauna, back to the cold shower. It would be nice if we could break the ice and dive into a lake, but this is a close second.
Tim: This is some kind of weird torture, isn't it?
Bill: You wish! Just wait.

(Later)

Tim: That was amazing. That was totally amazing. Every muscle in my body is relaxed.
Bill: And you've sweated out all the bad stuff. Notice how as it went on your tolerance built up? I had to drag you out of the sauna the last time, and you barely stuck it out for a minute when we first went in. It's good for the heart, good for the skin, and it feels so damn good.
Tim: Bill, that was awesome. I loved that!
Bill: The sauna has found it's way into folk traditions the world over. Except here in the good old U. S. of A. The sauna is all about relaxing and getting your strength. It's pure relaxation. And it takes a while if you're doing it right. That's a big problem with the world today, Tim, not enough relaxing goes on. Lying in a hammock, sitting in front of a fire, taking a walk. It's fine if it's 'therapeutic' (Jack and Mike spit at the word), but it's important just to relax.
Jack: Next stop, Tim, we go find you a man.

(New Scene: A crowded Bear bar is having a Sunday afternoon beer blast.)

Tim: Oh. My. God. We must be in the wrong place.
Jack: Nope, this is the place alright.
Tim: It's way too crowded. We'll never get to the bar. And there's no place to sit.
Mike: Let me get the first round.
Tim: I'll have a Stoly martini.
Mike: *sigh* Tim, Tim, Tim. I hope I won't be rude if I get you a beer.

(Mike and Bill make their way to the bar.)

Jack: Beer is more social, Tim. The point isn't to get drunk. The point is to spend time, enjoy, and meet guys. Oh. Take your shirt off.
Tim: What?
Jack: I mean your sweater and your shirt.
Tim: Why would I take my shirt off?
Jack: Because nobody is gonna be able to tweak your nipples through that sweater. (As he says this, Jack takes off his flannel shirt. Mike and Bill return from the bar with beers, having already taken off their shirts.)
Tim: It's okay with the bartender?
Bill: The bartender isn't wearing a shirt either, Tim.
Tim: Okay okay okay. Here goes.
(Tim takes off his shirt.)
Jack: Isn't it great to be in your skin, Tim? Surrounded by all these hot men?
Tim (drolly): Not too many Armani models from what I can see.
Jack: Nope. Just men at home in their own bodies here. See one you like?
Tim: Uh... It's hard to tell with everybody just wearing jeans and boots... I mean, you can tell a lot about somebody from their fashion sense.
Jack: True. You might want to stay clear of guys with brown hankies in the left back pocket. That could fry your circuits.
Tim: What?
Jack: I'll explain later. Hey, I think that hot cub over there is giving you the eye.
Tim: Oh. My. God. Look at those blue eyes. (Turns and faces the wall quickly.) He is looking over here! Oh God.
Jack: What are you doing?
Tim: Do you know who he is? I've got to find out his name. You guys come here' What's the 411 on him?
Jack: Why not go over to him, give him a 'Woof!' and see if he woofs you back. If he does, look into his eyes, and just kiss him for all you're worth.
Tim: You are out of your mind. I have no idea who he is!
Jack: Yeah? So? If he's a good kisser, there's not a lot more you need to know. Life is short, Tim. You've gotta strike while the iron is hot. Go for it. He might be the man of your dreams, or he might just be a guy you sucked face with and chatted up in a bar. But you'll never know. By the way he's looking over here, I'd say it's mutual. Uh oh! Daddy Bear at four o'clock has his eyes on your cub, Tim. Better move fast.
Tim: But... but...
Jack: No buts. Just say 'Woof!'

(Back at Tim's condo.)

Tim: His name is Wally, and he's an architect, and he's restoring a historic barn in Montgomery County, and he thinks Brazil is the most amazing place in the world and goes there a few times a year, and he grew up in New Hampshire, and he rides horses...
Mike: Seems like quite a catch! Good work! Mazzel Tov! Before we go, you and I have to talk, Tim.
Tim: About what? I love my new boots, by the way. They are sooooo comfortable. It's like they were made for my feet...
Mike: That's appreciated, Tim, but not about the boots. I want to know about your job. A retail gig, right?
Tim: Yeah, it's a rent payer.
Mike: You like it?
Tim: Well... It's alright.
Mike: But you're not happy doing it? It doesn't bring you joy?
Tim: Mike, it's a job...
Mike: And that means you're there forty hours a week. That's way to much time to be doing something that isn't bringing you any joy, Boss. What would you rather be doing?
Tim: Rather be doing? I don't know. I'd rather be rich!
Mike: No, seriously. Did you go to college?
Tim: I had a year and a half at Penn State before I dropped out. I was in the electrical engineering program. I don't want to be an electrical engineer. Bor-r-r-r-r-ing. But I'm great with math. I can figure out how much people are spending before they even get to the cash register at All About Throw Pillows.
Mike: Tell me about those throw pillows. You seem to like them.
Tim: Some of them. I mean, look at this one, that's beautiful! Look at that weave!
Mike: Huh. Ever thought about making them?
Tim: What? And be a seamstress? God no.
Mike: I was actually thinking more along the lines of textile design. You've got a good eye for color and design, and you're good with math.
Tim: I don't get... What is that?
Mike: A textile designer comes up with designs and fabrics, and figures out how they can be realized, the looming. I bet they have a program for that down at Drexel. Or, you could probably talk your way into a job somewhere local.
Tim: But isn't that all done in China or somewhere?
Mike: The manufacturing is, but the specs come from here.
Tim: I think that could be kinda cool.
Mike: If you're doing something you enjoy, and take pride in your work, and can point to something and say, "I made that," that's damn cool, Tim.

Tim: Mike you're right...
Jack: Tim, it's time for us to get going. One twink down, about ten million more to go.
(Mike, Jack, and Bill get up to leave.)
Tim: You're going? Do you have to? I mean...
Bill: You've got your work cut out for you, Buddy. You need to go buy 'The Joy of Cooking' and figure out what you're gonna make when you have Wally over for dinner. And remember, no television. In fact, move the tv into the bedroom.
Tim: I will be like soooooo nervous!
Mike: Right. You'll need a sauna before you make dinner. Be sure to give yourself enough time.

Mike: 'Bye, Tim!
Bill: Good luck, Tim!
Jack: You'll do great, Buddy!

Tim: ...bye! And thanks! Thanks for the boots! Thanks for everything!


You came into my life
And things never looked so bright,
Oh Baby you bring out the best in me!
Since you've been around
Since you've been around,
Days are gettin' better,
Nights are gettin' better,
Oh things just keep gettin better!



Tuesday, December 16, 2003

Blue Collar Polymath

Work is going really well. At this point, I've got most of my skills down. I do a good job at just about whatever is handed to me. That which I enjoy most is when there are tiny, almost imperceptible flaws in the wood. Scratches, dints, putty marks and such. I'm assembling an arsenal of tricks to correct these flaws, leaving a flawless and beautiful surface; to the untrained eye, at least.

But it's not difficult to envision a day when I'll get to the point where I've learned all about finishing that I can learn. Or most of it. At that point, what to do?

Either, I'll move on to another department at Superior Woodcraft, and do fabrication of the cabinets. That is something I would welcome. In fact, if that's not possible, I'll look for another job doing cabinetry, a job where I can learn fabrication.

And this got me thinking. What then? Hmmmm. While my father is alive and I'm here taking care of him, my expenses are minimal, so I'll be able to afford taking lower-paying jobs. The current job has many attributes, but lush salaries are not among them. I could make the same at half the jobs in the paper.

So why not branch out? Stone masonry, construction, roofing, concrete, window installation... the possibilities--for entry-level jobs in building trades--are almost endless. And all the while I'll be building up a set of skills. In five years, I should be able to do quite a lot. Maybe I could build my house from the ground up, jack of all trades that I am.


Monday, December 15, 2003

New Rule

I'm taking a page from Marlboro Sir's book: henceforth, Sunday is for relaxing. Not for dates, although the relaxing need not be done alone. But as a rule, it's about having a really good brunch, reading the paper, catching up on chores, and long walks with Faithful Companion.


Friends and Lovers

Marlboro Sir wants domestic bliss. He would like to have a partner. Not that he's shopping for one. He has a good life, but would like to share it with someone. He expressed at one point his feeling that I was prime pickins.

Marlboro Sir and I talked about the partner issue at length. Here's my thinking. Gay men are awful at relationships. No argument, there are a lot of practical considerations that make relationships desireable: two incomes, two names on the mortgage, two people between whom the household responsibilities can be divided. But in my experience, it is almost universally true that after the mad fever of love has cooled, you've got two people who can just barely tolerate each other. We're lousy at relationships.

On the other hand, our heterosexual brothers and sisters seem much more adept in this regard. For the straight adult, the prime focus in life tends to be family. To be sure, this is only true about half the time, given the divorce rate. But straights seem to have a knack here.

Because heterosexuals are the ones piping the tune to which we all dance, what you've got are legions of gay men longing to be in relationships they are ill-suited for.

This could be written off as an ironic quirk if it weren't for the fact that in putting coupling-up on a pedestal, gay men denigrate something at which we are genious and gifted: friendship. Boyfriends come and go, but your friends are always there. This seems to be always and everywhere true.

Consider the fact that in your town, dear reader, there are half a dozen--or more--organizations that didnt' exist twenty years ago. These organizations were founded primarily by gay men to care for thier friends who were stricken with AIDS. It was this genius for friendship that built GMHC, ActionAIDS, APLA, Whitman-Walker, the Terrence Higgins Trust, and all the rest.

Friendship.

And if you think about it, isn't that a better way to go? With this friend you share a passion for gardening, this friend is an empathetic and thoughtful listener, this friend is always good to spend the night with when you strike out at the bar, this friend offers sound and reasonable financial advice... the possibilities are limitless.

What are the chances thay you could find that one amazing man who would be able to fulfil all of those? Or how about the basic three: emotional maturity, common interests and compatible habits, and physical attraction? Rare as hen's teeth, folks.

Marlboro Sir's desire is to have a partner. My ardent desire is to have a household. It's the house with the many bedrooms from the Five Year Plan. I want to surround myself with friends.

On America Online, there's an interesting phenomenon that seems to be gaining currency: the "leather household." "Seeking multiple slaves and assistant Master to form a leather household." Perhaps I'm riding the crest of a wave here. Althought, what I have in mind is much more fluctuating and permeable. I eman, if you want a fixed role in the household, that's cool. Or, just come and stay and grace us with your presence at the dinner table. We eat at Eight.


Sunday, December 14, 2003

Younger Men

On my way back from Sir's, I stopped at the Starbucks in Doylestown to visit with Bucky. He was working, but managed to get a ten minute break. Bucky and I headed out to the porch and talked. On Bucky's side, it was one of those sophmore-year-late-at-night conversations, youth and inexperience sounding forth on issues of great import that youth and inexperience doesn't have a lot of experience with. The floating of trial baloons. I offered some of my slightly more time tested ideas, but mostly I just let Bucky go, and I listened to what he was saying. Especially what he was saying between the lines.

Bucky apparently is failing out of college, but he's accepting that. Apparently, he's accepting a lot of things about himself that he's been wrestling with. Like smoking. He's accepting the fact that he smokes. He likes smoking, and he wants to smoke, so he's gonna stop fighting that and smoke.

Uh huh.

Anything else that Bucky might be fighting but has decided to accept about himself? Was I mistaken, or was Bucky feeling his dick under his apron?

But in the wake of the conversation-filled afternoon with Sir, I was in a pensive frame of mine.

What is it about younger men? I'd never been attracted to one before. Au contraire, I tended to flee from them. But this ongoing flirtation with Bucky has given me a new perspective.

For one thing, they're attractive. We're all hardwired to look our best when we're about nineteen years old. If you're not goodlooking at nineteen, chances are you may not get there. Well, that may once have been true, but I think in that area in particular, biology is no longer destiny. But they look good.

But there's something going on beyond the physical. After being beaten and battered by life, and after meeting with disappointment more times than we could count, and after seeing people being ground down to stubs by hardship, and after getting intimately acquainted with human failure wearing the face of those nearest and dearest to me, how sweet is the allure of pure and unblemished potential?

That's what Bucky is all about certainly. Potential. Who knows where he's gonna end up? He's just about a blank canvas. When and if he gets his act together, what's it gonna look like? In Bucky I see what was once for me the green promise of the future, that sense of the world being your oyster. There are a lot of dreams I have at this point that aren't gonna come true. But Bucky's still might.

I guess this must be familiar to the parents of young children. Who can tell what the future holds for them. But for us easing into middle age, our supply of Get Out of Jail Free cards is dwindling and we don't even own Boardwalk or Park Place.


Trust Your Gut

Perfect. This weekend with Marlboro Sir was just perfect. I had a great time.

After last weekend, it wasn't something I was looking forward to. I could not have been more desultory while I was inserting the buttplug, packing up, and heading out on the road yesterday. A Petco cage in a frigid basement was staring me right in the face. Yikes.

After taking my time (I was further delayed when my father asked me to address his Christmas cards before leaving), I got to Sir's house. The first order of business was me spending some more time in the cage, which, thankfully, had been relocated to the toasty warm second floor.

This was great. It gave me time to get into boy headspace. It's all about submission.

Sir had promised me a 'special surprise,' and after some time in the cage, in the door he came, dressed in Frye boots, a leather jock, and a leather vest. Cool!

Well, not quite so cool. "Your fucking under arrest!" he said, which would have been good, although he sounded just the way Charles Nelson Riley would sound delivering that line. I was stunned speechless. But rather than bursting out laughing, I was determined to go deeper onto boyspace.

And I did.

Charles Nelson ordered me out of the cage and to my feet. He decided to slap the cuffs on me. Alas, he couldn't quite figure out how to do this, and had obviously never done it before in his life.

Singletails Top Tip: Rehearse! Rehearse! Rehearse! Never ever do anything in a scene that you haven't done ten times before without effort, even if it means sitting in your room alone and putting handcuffs on the bedpost or your plush toy or whatever and feeling like an idiot.

But this just meant I had to go deeper. I was there not to critique, but to serve.

Then, Charles Nelson pointed to a big fat hardon and ordered me to my knees. This worked and worked well. This I could do. I could be Sir's cockslave, servicing his buddies at his request.

Then, we all went I was ordered downstairs to the sling room in the basement (brrrr). It seemed like in addition to cockslave service, I was also gonna be the sling boy. I was definitely down with that.

Charles Nelson got himself into position and prepped to fuck me. Alas, my hole was not cooperating, and Charles Nelson got exactly nowhere.

But while he was trying, Sir leaned over me, covering me with his body, keeping me warm, stroking me gently, telling me I was a good boy, and how proud he was of me. Then Sir asked me if I wanted my Dad's dick inside me.

"Yes, Sir!"

Sir took Charles Nelson's place, prepped, and slid right in. Like magic. Sir inside me. That felt really good. Sir and I locked eyes, and Sir kept the stream of verbal flowing. He gave me permission to work my dick, and pretty quickly, I shot a load that Sir and Charles Nelson agreed was the most impressive that either of them had seen in a long time.

Then, Sir got in the sling for a milking. While I worked my Sir's dick, Charles Nelson kept patter going, or tried to. Alas, it became clear to all of us that Sir wasn't gonna be giving his boy the satisfaction of his load that night. So Charles Nelson took a turn in the sling. I worked Charles Nelson's chest and nips while Sir worked his cock. Charles Nelson climaxed. Sir and I were eyelocked. We hardly noticed.

Irritatingly, while we all toweled off, Charles Nelson suggested that we 'drop all of that Sir-boy stuff.'

Nuthin' doin'. Not while I was with my Sir. We repaired to the downstairs den to chat while Charles Nelson got himself dressed. I think that Charles Nelson sensed that there was Big Energy between me and Sir, and quickly wished us both goodnight and hit the road.

After Charles Nelson left, Sir considered his options. More cage time for me? Back in the sling so Sir could get himself some satisfaction from his boy's asshole? Nope. Sir had another idea: a jacuzzi.

We went upstairs, Sir drew a bath and ordered me to strip, and we climbed into the jacuzzi. We shared a cigar while Sir told me about how he was gonna train my ass, how good he felt this week being in control of my asshole and my dick, how he was gonna get his boy marked permanently, how he was gonna take me down and make me a bottom boy, make me a cumdump sling boy, with a trained ass that I can give up whenever a man wanted a piece of it, how Sir would get me to focus on my asshole and forget about my dick, so when the day came that Sir took off my cock and balls, I wouldn't even miss them.

Oh yeah.

After the jacuzzi, it had been Sir's plan to cage me for the night. But Sir revised that. I wasn't gonna be the cage boy that night. I was gonna share Sir's bed. Sir put the next-larger-size buttplug in me, and we got into bed. I drifted off to sleep plugged with Sir's arms around me, his boy.

This morning, Sir woke me up. He wanted me to start the day by riding his dick. Better believe I was up for that.

Afterward, Sir and I headed downstairs. Sir told me to relax on the sofa with a cigar and a cup of tea and read the paper. Sir would make breakfast as a buddy of his (not Charles Nelson) was coming over.

So I did.

Sir made scrambled eggs, bacon, ham biscuits (mine are better, wait'll Sir tries'em), fresh fruit salad, sticky buns, and sausage-cheese balls with weird orange american cheese. (I was not deep enough into submission that submitted to the sausage-cheese ball challenge. Sir may succeed in making me into a dickless cumdump peg boy, but he's not gonna get me to eat things made with orange american cheese. This proto-dickless cumdump peg boy has his standards!)

Sir's buddy showed up for breakfast, and then had to leave as we were finishing up.

And then, Sir and I talked. For the next four hours. Moving to the sofa and having some of Sir's hot apple cider. Sir and I talked about life, about love and sex, relationships, the intersection of fantasy and reality, about love, about our hopes and dreams, about whipping, about being a Top, about me Topping Sir, about Sir Topping me, about ourselves, about submission, about where we had been and where we were going, about how we were gonna get there. It was beautiful. Sir is an intelligent, kind, caring, insightful man. My life is richer for knowing him and submitting to him.

After last weekend, after spending a night in a freezing basement, I was pretty much through with Sir. It hadn't worked. It was a scene gone bad. But something in my gut told me that there was something there, that there was a lesson I needed to learn, and that Sir would be able to teach me. If I hadn't been padlocked into Sir's cockcage, I'm not sure I would have gone back this weekend, but my gut told me I oughta. And I did. And I'm glad I did.

One other thing. Because this was an overnight trip, I had faithful companion along. Sir has a dog, too. A basset hound. Faithful Companion and Sir's dog were like long lost buddies. They loved each other. It made a nice leit motif to the weekend overall.

Perfect.

Trust your gut about these things.


Trust Your Gut

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I had a great time with Marlboro Sir. This could well be the start of an enduring friendship.

I could not have been more desultory whilst inserting the butt plug, adjusting the cock cage, and heading off to Sir's house yesterday afternoon. "Damn damn damn damn damn," I thought, "I would sooooo much rather be at home with my father, perhaps making the trek down to the Bike Stop tonight. But no. I'm looking in the face the prospect of sitting in a Petco dog cage in a freezing basement. Damn."

I got off to a late start (my father wanted me to address all of his Christmas cards). I showed up late. Sir was ready for me. Inside I went, and up the stairs (!), where I was ordered to strip down and get in the cage, that had been thankfully relocated to the toasty warm second floor.

Being in the cage allowed me to find my boy headspace. It was good in the cage. Then the door opened. Sir had promised me a 'special surprise,' and here he was, wearing Frye boots, a leather jock strap, and and vest.

Cool.

Then, the magic was broken. "You're fucking under arrest!" he said, sounding an awful lot the way that Charles Nelson Riley would deliver that line. I was stunned into silence. "Uh oh. Is he for real?"

But, then a great thing happened. I challenged myself to go even deeper into boyspace. I was serving my Sir. It wasn't about what I needed or wanted. I was serving my Sir.

I managed to maintain this while Charles Nelson ordered me out of the cage and to my feet, and then tried and failed to put handcuffs on me, something he apparently had never ever done before in his life.

Singletails Top Tip: Rehearse! Rehearse! Rehearse! Never do anything in a scene that you haven't done at least ten times before, and if that means sitting in your room and handcuffing a handy plush toy, do that.

Anyway, Charles Nelson was sporting a hardon, and he wanted it serviced. So that helped a lot. I was a cockslave for my Sir, servicing his buddies, making him proud.

Then it was down to the basement (brrrrrr!) and into the sling. I was my Sir's hole, giving service to his friends. Unfortunately, my hole wasn't cooperating. Charles Nelson couldn't get in there. Alas. While Charles Nelson was trying for it, Sir bent over and put his arms around me, keeping me warm, stroking me, telling me I was a good boy and how proud he was of me. Charles Nelson gave up trying. And Sir asked if I wanted my Dad's dick inside me.

"Yes, Sir!" was my enthusiastic response. And Sir got in position and slid right in. Our eyes locked. It was magnificent. With Sir's permission, I started working my dick. I shot what Sir and Charles Nelson felt was the most impressive load they had seen in a while. Then, Charles Nelson ordered Sir into the sling. For a milking. Sir couldn't make it happen, but I sure had a good time trying my damndest to bring Sir off. When it became apparent to all of us that it wasn't going to happen, it was Charles Nelson's turn to take a ride in the sling. Sir worked his dick while I worked Charles Nelson's chest and nips, and Charles Nelson climaxed.

Then, we repaired to the other room and Charles Nelson suggested that we all drop our roles and just chat.

Nothin' doin' from this boy. Not while I was with my Sir. Not for Charles Nelson or for any other man alive. Charles Nelson got himself dressed, chatted briefly, but sensed that something was up with me and Sir, sensed that there was some energy going on there, and hit the road.

Sir considered his options, and decided that rather than stuffing me in the cage, rather than beating my ass, rather than putting me back in the sling for Round Two, he had another idea: the jacuzzi! We headed upstairs, Sir drew a bath, ordered me to strip,and the two of us climbed into the jacuzzi while we talked and shared a cigar.

Talked? Sir talked about taking off my balls, and my dick, and inking me, and making me his boy for good, putting his mark on me, how good it felt for him to own my cock and my asshole this past week, how he was making me a pure bottom boy, forgetting I even have a cock, and getting all my pleasure out of giving up my asshole for whatever men wanted a piece of it, making me a cum dump, getting to the point that when I give up my cock and balls, I won't even miss them, because my focus will have been on my asshole, the asshole that Sir would train, open me up, make me ready to take a mancock whenever, with no problem.

The plan was then for me to spend the night in the cage, but Sir revised that. Sir can do that. I slept in Sir's bed, with my butt plugged with the next larger size up, and Sir's arms around me all night long.

Bliss.

This morning, Sir woke me up. He told me he wanted to me to ride his dick. So I did.

Great. So great.

Then we headed downstairs. Sir told me to make myself comfy on the couch, have a cup of tea and a cigar, while Sir made breakfast. Breakfast was scrambled eggs, bacon, ham biscuits (mine are better, as Sir will learn sometime soon), sticky buns, fresh fruit, and what Sir called 'sausage and cheese balls.' (I did not submit to the sausage and cheese balls. I may be on my way to being a cumdump peg boy, but I'm not gonna be eating any sausage and cheese balls made with that weird orange cheese anytime soon.) A buddy of Sir's came by for breakfast, and had to head out as we were finishing up.

And then Sir and I sat and talked. For about four hours. At one point, we repaired to the living room, and talked some more while Sir served up some hot apple cider. Sir and I talked about love and friendship, about relationships, about Dad and boys vs. Masters and slaves, about the intersection of fantasy and reality, about where we had been in the world and what we felt we knew at this point, about me Topping Sir, about being a Top, about Sir Topping me, about everything that went wrong last weekend and our respective reactions to it.

He's an intelligent, thoughtful, insightful man.

Oh, one more thing. Because this was an overnight trip, I had Faithful Companion in tow. Sir has a dog, too. A bassett hound. Faithful Companion and Sir's dog got on great. Just really loved each other. That was great.

Perfect.

Sir's gonna be doing some traveling over the next few weeks. We'll keep in touch though.

Perfect.