Snowbound

Oh. Right.

In NYC when it there's a snowstorm, you head on down to the West Village, get yourself something to eat, leap like a gazelle over slushpuddles, climb over snowbanks, then hop on that nifty underground transportation system to get home.

Here in the hinterlands when there's a snowstorm, you stay home.

When I left for work on Friday morning, there was nothing on the ground and nothing coming down. That soon changed. By the time I got out to Point Pleasant Pike, the roads were getting slick. But I got to work on time and with no problem. Then it really started snowing. Much talk at work about 'how'm'I gonna get home?' At 1:30, the unimaginable happened. I, along with four other guys, was selected to go out on a delivery. Luckily, it was local. Unluckily, it included a piece from our IFH line (IFH = Incredibly Fuckin Huge). It was this enormous cabinet. The customer was a friend of one of the designers. He's given us a lot of work. I've sanded, stained, and scuffed countless cabinets that grace this guy's house. Everybody pays special attention to these cabinets, and I learned the reason why: he's one of us. He's a building contractor. He's a guy. He's building his dream house. There's nobody in woodworking who doesn't think about their own house that they're gonna build some day. So everything in this job is top of the line, because the guy knows his stuff. (For example, the drawers are boxes made from cherry wood, not the typical cheap South American wood that no one has ever heard of).

We loaded up the truck, and headed out over treacherous backroads to The House. I was kind of sour about the jaunt, and that didn't lift when I saw The House. No expense had been spared, and you could really tell. Alas, it was a rococo bourgeois fantasy of opulence.

Were there gold fixtures in the powder room off the kitchen? You're damn right there were gold fixtures in the powder room off the kitchen.

All in all, it was just pretty bad. Chock full of scrolling and bead work. It was a McMansion.

Okay, the workmanship was just impeccable. Flawless. Truly impressive.

But the design was just lamentable.

Maybe it's just me. I mean, I didn't start out getting all lathered up over mid-century Amercan vernacular. But then again, it wasn't just me. Have you noticed the homes that are now shown on television commercials? Have you seen the commercial where the husband and wife are coming home from a party, and she's playing out what's going on in his head, tormenting him about his sleepless night due to heartburn? Well, check out the chair by the pool. Dig that minimalist aesthetic. It's not just me. Alas, in five or ten years, The Guy's McMansion is going to look as sadly dated as a funky Seventies finished basement complete with beanbag chairs and lava lamps. Maybe in twenty years, it will have a retro-quality that will almost be chic, but I doubt it.

One of our lines of cabinets is called the Viking line. Clean lines, with no excess. They're a pain in the butt to sand, because it's a thin veneer, selected for the great grain in the wood, and with a veneer, there's always the chance that you'll burn through during the sanding to the plywood underneath. (Huh. Being a big fan of the Let The Materials Be! aesthetic, and loving the use of industrial stuff such as corrugated aluminium, concrete, gravel, and cold rolled steel, I'm thinking that maybe just the plywood would be interesting.

Anyway.

We made it back to home base without mishap, and I couldn't resist letting the roads get a little worse before I headed back to the homestead and stopped at Starbucks.

Pay Dirt. Bucky was working.

And it was slow. So we gabbed for a bit. He mentioned that he was interested in seeing that movie with Tom Cruise as a samarai. Not my first choice, or actually, even on my list for that matter, but I'd go see it with Bucky. So I gave him my number and said that if the weather lets up, he should give me a call and maybe we can go see a movie together. (I, of course, given my druthers, would opt for 'Sylvia,' but whatchyagonna do?) This harmless exchange was followed by much eye hockey.

I want Bucky. And, apparently, Bucky wants me.

I want to transform Bucky into a bootlicking, piss guzzling, loose-sphinctered, cum-lapping sexpig whore, and I'm not yet sure if Bucky is up for that, but at this point, I'll settle for a blowjob.

And speaking of being transformed into a bootlicking, piss guzzling, cum-lapping sexpig whore, it isn't looking like I'll be traveling sixty-some miles to spend 24 hours in caged service to Marlboro Sir, including having Sir haul my plugged ass to a tattoo parlor to get marked. But, Sir and I did have a really good phone conversation last night.

Whaddya know? All of my sick and twisted extreme fantasies (longpig, nullo, hanging, truncation, extreme tattooing, captivity, and the like) are Marlboro Sir's sick and twisted extreme fantasies, too. And, he describes himself as being creative and skilled when it comes to finding satisfying though ultimately safe ways of acting those out. And, we did some good limit-setting. Sir was really cool about everything.

So this morning, I'm fairly reeling from the implications. Where is this gonna lead? The only thing that keeps most of us from realizing our fantasies is fear.

How afraid am I?

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