Keckler writes to inquire if I've been kidnapped. I'm still here, but my internet connection seems to be on the fritz.
Thus, I'm forced to rely on AOL. AOL, alas, seems to be incompatible with blogger. So I'm unable to blog.
I set it up so that I should be able to do blogging by sending email. We'll just have to see if this works. My hopes are not high.
But, I'm going to London (tonight or Friday) with a gay Orthodox Rabbi into S/M that I met. Be back on Monday or Tuesday. It's a long story, and trust that once things are up and running again, I'll tell you all about my travels with Rabbi Leatherman.
In other big news, basanos and I have re-connected. I was wrong wrong wrong. And, I am informed that work is beginning on my cage.
Coincidence?
I wonder how much an acetyline torch would set me back? Once I get basanos in there, I might want to make it permanent. A padlock on the door suddenly seems so ephemeral.
Anyway, I'm gonna hit send, and who knows? Maybe you'll all be able to read this.
Thursday, June 26, 2003
Thursday, June 19, 2003
Today, after therapy, I met up with UnFortunate. Both of us a grieving the loss of the Factory Cafe. Apparently there's a big sign in the window announcing the impending arrival of 'frozen desserts.'
Sic transit gloria
UnFortunate and I spent time on the pier, when for a brief time the sun was out and it was warm. New York City smelled of the sea. That's a rare thing, but I love it when it happens.
On Christopher Street, I found in an antique jewelry store a silver chain. It works well. Since I found the chain, I've been wearing it with the key to the padlock hung from it.
It's been years since I wore anything around my neck. I believe the last thing I wore was a crucifix. The sensation takes getting used to. No one, so far, has noticed and commented on it. I imagine at the gym it was assumed that I was wearing the key to my locker.
Nope.
This key keeps safe something much more valuable. Or will, I hope.
Tomorrow I head into Boss Sunshine's office to fax out a press release and make follow-up phone calls for Folsom Street East. That should be interesting. Wonder if there are new people working there.
Oh. Just to clarify. I've been elected chairman of the board of directors of GMSMA. Other than the vaguely defined 'ambassador of GMSMA to the larger world,' there are no real responsibilities of the chairman in our by-laws. All the responsibilitles are on the president, and that's not me. Not to say that I won't be the servant of the president, and the board. But it's not quite the 'top job.' I'm not ready to take that on. And I'm going to be awfully busy training basanos. If things go as I hope on Sunday.
Me? Impatient?
Anyway, it's past my bedtime.
'Night.
Sic transit gloria
UnFortunate and I spent time on the pier, when for a brief time the sun was out and it was warm. New York City smelled of the sea. That's a rare thing, but I love it when it happens.
On Christopher Street, I found in an antique jewelry store a silver chain. It works well. Since I found the chain, I've been wearing it with the key to the padlock hung from it.
It's been years since I wore anything around my neck. I believe the last thing I wore was a crucifix. The sensation takes getting used to. No one, so far, has noticed and commented on it. I imagine at the gym it was assumed that I was wearing the key to my locker.
Nope.
This key keeps safe something much more valuable. Or will, I hope.
Tomorrow I head into Boss Sunshine's office to fax out a press release and make follow-up phone calls for Folsom Street East. That should be interesting. Wonder if there are new people working there.
Oh. Just to clarify. I've been elected chairman of the board of directors of GMSMA. Other than the vaguely defined 'ambassador of GMSMA to the larger world,' there are no real responsibilities of the chairman in our by-laws. All the responsibilitles are on the president, and that's not me. Not to say that I won't be the servant of the president, and the board. But it's not quite the 'top job.' I'm not ready to take that on. And I'm going to be awfully busy training basanos. If things go as I hope on Sunday.
Me? Impatient?
Anyway, it's past my bedtime.
'Night.
heart of palm? No, Heart of Master
I think that girlfag and I are cosmic twins. So often, reading her blog, I have this weird feeling that I'm reading something I wrote, but I can't remember when I wrote it.
Anyway. A recent girlfag blog has a link to Master Steve from Arizona's homepage. Specifically, to Master Steve's thoughts on 'Heart of Master' and 'Heart of slave.' Therein is discussed the idea that what characterizes the heart of a Master is a connectedness to the universe, and that the key element of the heart of a slave is a longing for that connectedness.
Huh.
Huh.
(I'm only three sips into my morning cup of tea. Give me a minute.)
Connected to the Universe.
Huh.
I can see that.
I also like the fact that Master Steve talks about love. The entire piece makes me think about the relationship between an abbot and a monk. An abbot is directed to love each monk in his abbey more than he loves his own life. But we're not really talking about loving the monk per se, the way one would love a spouse or child, the 'warts and all' kind of love. But more a matter of loving the monk's heart, the part of him that yearns for God.
to bring the metaphor full circle, what the Master loves in the slave (most) is the slave's yearning, the slave's desire. his desire for home, for completion, surrender, security. For fulfillment. The journey to fulfillment is the slave's, and the Master isn't 'in charge' of the journey, not a captain of the ship sort of thing. Rather, the Master must love that journey more than he loves his own life. That should be Matins, Lauds, Terce, Sext, None, and Nocturne for the Master. "Lord God, be with my slave on his journey." The Master helps the slave when he stumbles along the way, or gets lost, becomes frustrated, despairs of ever reaching the end of the road. Not because the Master knows the way, but only because he is one human being who lives deeply and has walked his own road. The fact that there are two diffferent shining cities at the end of each respective journey doesn't matter.
It's sort of an added bonus for the Master that he gets his boots shined and has someone to whip when he wants.
I've walked my road. I've vered from the path and found my way back. I'm ready to hold a slave's journey close to my heart.
Want that.
Want that bad.
I bought a length of chain and a padlock the other night. The padlock came with two keys. One I put on my keyring. I would like to get a nice necklace, a masculine but delicate chain, and wear the other key around my neck. Not tight around my neck, but so that it falls just below my collar line. Close to my heart.
I think that girlfag and I are cosmic twins. So often, reading her blog, I have this weird feeling that I'm reading something I wrote, but I can't remember when I wrote it.
Anyway. A recent girlfag blog has a link to Master Steve from Arizona's homepage. Specifically, to Master Steve's thoughts on 'Heart of Master' and 'Heart of slave.' Therein is discussed the idea that what characterizes the heart of a Master is a connectedness to the universe, and that the key element of the heart of a slave is a longing for that connectedness.
Huh.
Huh.
(I'm only three sips into my morning cup of tea. Give me a minute.)
Connected to the Universe.
Huh.
I can see that.
I also like the fact that Master Steve talks about love. The entire piece makes me think about the relationship between an abbot and a monk. An abbot is directed to love each monk in his abbey more than he loves his own life. But we're not really talking about loving the monk per se, the way one would love a spouse or child, the 'warts and all' kind of love. But more a matter of loving the monk's heart, the part of him that yearns for God.
to bring the metaphor full circle, what the Master loves in the slave (most) is the slave's yearning, the slave's desire. his desire for home, for completion, surrender, security. For fulfillment. The journey to fulfillment is the slave's, and the Master isn't 'in charge' of the journey, not a captain of the ship sort of thing. Rather, the Master must love that journey more than he loves his own life. That should be Matins, Lauds, Terce, Sext, None, and Nocturne for the Master. "Lord God, be with my slave on his journey." The Master helps the slave when he stumbles along the way, or gets lost, becomes frustrated, despairs of ever reaching the end of the road. Not because the Master knows the way, but only because he is one human being who lives deeply and has walked his own road. The fact that there are two diffferent shining cities at the end of each respective journey doesn't matter.
It's sort of an added bonus for the Master that he gets his boots shined and has someone to whip when he wants.
I've walked my road. I've vered from the path and found my way back. I'm ready to hold a slave's journey close to my heart.
Want that.
Want that bad.
I bought a length of chain and a padlock the other night. The padlock came with two keys. One I put on my keyring. I would like to get a nice necklace, a masculine but delicate chain, and wear the other key around my neck. Not tight around my neck, but so that it falls just below my collar line. Close to my heart.
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
Mr. Chairman
It all comes together.
Or at least, that's the way things are feeling. I hope this trend persists through Sunday.
Spent most of the day getting GMSMA's books together. I had hoped to have everything ship shape by the time of the Board dinner this evening, but I still have a little ways to go. It's all working out, though. No stumpers so far. Thank the Lord for Microsoft Excel.
Two significant things happened at the Board dinner. First off, I found a partner for the scene I agreed to do at the Eagle on Saturday night. None other than the sweet man sitting next to me. Logistically, I wasn't sure what I could make work there. I mean, it's not like they have a St. Andrew's Cross or anything, and I really don't feel like hauling mine into the City and back. So, I'm going to be doing percussion. As in, beating him. I think I'll risk bringing my illegal in New York State SAP gloves across the river.
And the other big thing? I am now the Chairman of the Board of Directors of GMSMA. I was voted in unanimously. I'm really excited about that. I feel confident I'll do a good job.
After the dinner, I went over to Ty's (Home of the Ballbreakers). Wednesdays are our fundraising night. I won the fifty-fifty raffle, walking away with eighty bucks. Well, not quite. I bought a round for my teammates.
Then I went to the Eagle. My purpose was to drop off Folsom Street East posters (you're signed up to volunteer, right? Right??!!!) and to check out the space and figure out where and how I could do my demo on Saturday. There are no eyebolts in the ceiling. At all. Not one. There are a few lead pipes on the first floor, so perhaps I can hang some chains from there. Less than ideal, but I think I can make it work. I also met the manager. A really nice guy. He gave me a free drink token. I'm going to pass on to him the number of the guy that built my St. Andrew's Cross. After all these months of bitching about the place, it would be appropriate for me to take the lead in getting some play equipment in there.
And then I met this guy. Well, actually I met him at Leather Pride Night. He amused himself (and me) by finding his way into my police tactical one-piece through the pocket slits in the side and rubbing my ass. He's a psychotherapist, but is feeling a little burnt out on doing that. So he suggested that we buy some police tactical one-piece uniforms and sell them on the internet and to local distributers. Huh. Maybe there will be something in that. Maybe I have found a business partner. Stranger things have happened.
So even though as of tomorrow another item on my list of things to do is to file for Unemployment, I have peace. It will all come together. Who knows? Maybe it will come together before Semptember 30th, and I'll be stuck living in this godforsaken city for a few more years.
Can't wait to play softball on Saturday. Today, while I was working on the GMSMA books, I popped in my DVD of The Natural, the baseball movie starring Robert Redford, Glenn Close, and Kim Bassinger. Love that movie. When Robert Redford's character, Roy Hobbs, from his hospital bed, says, "I love baseball," better believe I'm choking on sobs. "Oh yeah, Roy, me too! I love baseball tooooo!"
I've gotta get the DVDs for 'Field of Dreams' and 'Bull Durham,' too. Along with 'A League of Their Own,' that'll round out my collection. Aside from Vin Diesel movies, I don't know that I need to own anything else.
Oh. My first act as Chairman was to issue an edict that at this year's Board reatreat, we'll all be wearing sarongs. I think I'm gonna wear my sarong and my leather vest and boots to march with GMSMA in the Pride march this year.
Q: Do you wear underwear when you wear a sarong?
A: I only wear underwear when I wear worsted wool. Why in God's name would I wear underwear with a sarong?
It all comes together.
Or at least, that's the way things are feeling. I hope this trend persists through Sunday.
Spent most of the day getting GMSMA's books together. I had hoped to have everything ship shape by the time of the Board dinner this evening, but I still have a little ways to go. It's all working out, though. No stumpers so far. Thank the Lord for Microsoft Excel.
Two significant things happened at the Board dinner. First off, I found a partner for the scene I agreed to do at the Eagle on Saturday night. None other than the sweet man sitting next to me. Logistically, I wasn't sure what I could make work there. I mean, it's not like they have a St. Andrew's Cross or anything, and I really don't feel like hauling mine into the City and back. So, I'm going to be doing percussion. As in, beating him. I think I'll risk bringing my illegal in New York State SAP gloves across the river.
And the other big thing? I am now the Chairman of the Board of Directors of GMSMA. I was voted in unanimously. I'm really excited about that. I feel confident I'll do a good job.
After the dinner, I went over to Ty's (Home of the Ballbreakers). Wednesdays are our fundraising night. I won the fifty-fifty raffle, walking away with eighty bucks. Well, not quite. I bought a round for my teammates.
Then I went to the Eagle. My purpose was to drop off Folsom Street East posters (you're signed up to volunteer, right? Right??!!!) and to check out the space and figure out where and how I could do my demo on Saturday. There are no eyebolts in the ceiling. At all. Not one. There are a few lead pipes on the first floor, so perhaps I can hang some chains from there. Less than ideal, but I think I can make it work. I also met the manager. A really nice guy. He gave me a free drink token. I'm going to pass on to him the number of the guy that built my St. Andrew's Cross. After all these months of bitching about the place, it would be appropriate for me to take the lead in getting some play equipment in there.
And then I met this guy. Well, actually I met him at Leather Pride Night. He amused himself (and me) by finding his way into my police tactical one-piece through the pocket slits in the side and rubbing my ass. He's a psychotherapist, but is feeling a little burnt out on doing that. So he suggested that we buy some police tactical one-piece uniforms and sell them on the internet and to local distributers. Huh. Maybe there will be something in that. Maybe I have found a business partner. Stranger things have happened.
So even though as of tomorrow another item on my list of things to do is to file for Unemployment, I have peace. It will all come together. Who knows? Maybe it will come together before Semptember 30th, and I'll be stuck living in this godforsaken city for a few more years.
Can't wait to play softball on Saturday. Today, while I was working on the GMSMA books, I popped in my DVD of The Natural, the baseball movie starring Robert Redford, Glenn Close, and Kim Bassinger. Love that movie. When Robert Redford's character, Roy Hobbs, from his hospital bed, says, "I love baseball," better believe I'm choking on sobs. "Oh yeah, Roy, me too! I love baseball tooooo!"
I've gotta get the DVDs for 'Field of Dreams' and 'Bull Durham,' too. Along with 'A League of Their Own,' that'll round out my collection. Aside from Vin Diesel movies, I don't know that I need to own anything else.
Oh. My first act as Chairman was to issue an edict that at this year's Board reatreat, we'll all be wearing sarongs. I think I'm gonna wear my sarong and my leather vest and boots to march with GMSMA in the Pride march this year.
Q: Do you wear underwear when you wear a sarong?
A: I only wear underwear when I wear worsted wool. Why in God's name would I wear underwear with a sarong?
Satisfied
My biorhythms must be peaking. I did a scene last night with a guy from Upstate. I have to admit, going into it, I was somewhat ambivalent. I had never met the guy. Our communication has been pretty slight. And I'm fairly preoccupied with basanos.
As he was driving, we agreed that I would take the train into NYC and he'd drive me back. But as I was leaving the house, I suddenly thought, "I don't even know this guys name. What if he doesn't show? There I'll be taking the train home late tonight, without a book to read." That seemed like a fate worse than death, so I drove.
But there he was. I hadn't seen his pic, and alas, he didn't look like Ed Harris, as I saw him in my mind's eye. We went to dinner and talked. Talk was good. He doesn't have a lot of recent experience being a bottom. We talked about his fantasies and my fantasies. My mind got to work. He seemed to be deeply drawn to giving up control, or rather, having control taken away from him. For example, he wanted me to take pictures of him in compromising positions and essentially extort compliance from him using those pictures.
He followed me back to my place in Jersey City without incident. We got upstairs, he used the bathroom, and I ordered him to strip. I had nothing laid out for the scene because when I left, I had no specific ideas of what I was going to do. He had asked if we could talk some before we started playing. Fine with me, although he'd be doing his talking chained up. I used just about all the chains I had available and immobilized him sitting at the foot of my cross. Then, for a while, I just sat and watched him. I moved in close and told him, "One way to look at the chains and padlocks is that you're my prisoner. Steel is just about eternal. You'll turn to dust before they will. So you're in them for as long as I decide you're going to be in them. Here's another way to look at them. I'm holding you. Safe and secure. The way you hold something valuable. Something precious."
I don't know which way he chose to think about the chains and padlocks, but he was rock hard.
Then I christened my new leather gag--more of a bit really. It made him drool. Love that. He likes hoods, and I don't own one, so I wrapped his head in Vet wrap. Again, I just watched for a while. My dog came over to him to investigate. Good boy!
Then I thought that I would try something new. New for me, and presumably new for him. I got out the Omron I bought from Current President a few months ago. Outside of as a masturbatory aid, I haven't used it much. I put one of the pads under his balls, and the other one on top of his dick. I turned it on, and slowly boosted the power. It was shocking for him at first (sorry, couldn't resist the pun). He never seemed to acclimate to the sensation, and wasn't sure if he liked it or not. Very cool.
After we had done a cycle, I unchained him, stood him up, and started binding him to my St. Andrew's Cross with rope.
Let me tell ya, never has my bondage work been so good! I was on top of my ropes. Everything I did on the right side I managed to do on the left side so it was all nice and symetrical. I put a lot of rope on him, and he looked great.
Slowly, slowly, I started in with the flogging. Going really light. Because this seemed to be the first time he had ever been flogged, I made it more about sensation than about pain. But that only goes so far with me, Sadist that I am. After a while, I upped the ante, going heavier. He took it well. I told him that I wanted to do a ten count with him and explained how it worked. I was really giving it to him, and the pig refused to even start the count with 'One, Sir.'
Nice.
At this point, I was really giving it to him. And then I noticed something wonderful. Blood. I was drawing blood. (Schwing!) Only flogging him, and I was drawing blood. What tender skin! Especially after the last guy I whipped in Chicago who had hide like a rhino, this was a welcome surprise. Since he refused to go even to One, I decided that I wanted to give him my braided cat. (I also took time while gently blowing on and caressing his back to let him know that he was giving me a lot of joy.)
I had a blast with the cat. And he was howling. His back looked beautiful. When I got him as far as I thought I could take him, I ended the flogging. I patiently untied the ropes, and then spritzed down his back with hydrogen peroxide and witch hazel. Then I wrapped him in the cow hide I have, and we sat for a while, listening to Strauss and watching the candles flicker.
I was tired, so that was all the play for the night. I showed him how I like my ropes prepared for being put away, and left him to that while I walked the dog. I gave him time to do what he had to do in the bathroom while I checked email briefly. I told him to take a look at his back in the mirror while he was in there. Then I made my own ablutions, and it was time for Top aftercare: a massage until I fell asleep. He requested that I tie up his cock and balls for the night, and I was happy to comply.
He gave good massage.
This morning, I got up when the alarm went off, made tea, and then had him service my cock. He needs some practice there.
I took pictures of him in compromising situations (squatting over a buttplug, with a whip around his neck on his knees, holding a flogger in his mouth). I'll post them here on the blog tomorrow.
(Just joking. No, I won't. They're mine, and I'm a responsible Top. If it makes our future play hotter for him, I'm certainly willing to play along, but those pictures go nowhere.)
He took a shower and then hit the road, full of gratitude, and looking forward to our next encounter. As am I.
So I feel great. All through it, I just had the feeling that I was on top of my game, doing everything right. At no time did I feel pressure or at a loss. I think the scene was creative and flowed nicely. I pushed his limits, and I had a good time.
And it felt real and good and connected. He had a great time, and was appreciative. Every aspect hit just the right note. Can't wait to have him back.
Oh. And he's looking for a grantwriter. And I'm a grantwriter. So it looks like I'll get some work out of it.
Anyway, GMSMA Board dinner tonight. I'm looking forward to that. After tonight, I'll no longer be Treasurer. Gotta post and publish this, because I have some work to do between now and then making sure everything is perfect.
My biorhythms must be peaking. I did a scene last night with a guy from Upstate. I have to admit, going into it, I was somewhat ambivalent. I had never met the guy. Our communication has been pretty slight. And I'm fairly preoccupied with basanos.
As he was driving, we agreed that I would take the train into NYC and he'd drive me back. But as I was leaving the house, I suddenly thought, "I don't even know this guys name. What if he doesn't show? There I'll be taking the train home late tonight, without a book to read." That seemed like a fate worse than death, so I drove.
But there he was. I hadn't seen his pic, and alas, he didn't look like Ed Harris, as I saw him in my mind's eye. We went to dinner and talked. Talk was good. He doesn't have a lot of recent experience being a bottom. We talked about his fantasies and my fantasies. My mind got to work. He seemed to be deeply drawn to giving up control, or rather, having control taken away from him. For example, he wanted me to take pictures of him in compromising positions and essentially extort compliance from him using those pictures.
He followed me back to my place in Jersey City without incident. We got upstairs, he used the bathroom, and I ordered him to strip. I had nothing laid out for the scene because when I left, I had no specific ideas of what I was going to do. He had asked if we could talk some before we started playing. Fine with me, although he'd be doing his talking chained up. I used just about all the chains I had available and immobilized him sitting at the foot of my cross. Then, for a while, I just sat and watched him. I moved in close and told him, "One way to look at the chains and padlocks is that you're my prisoner. Steel is just about eternal. You'll turn to dust before they will. So you're in them for as long as I decide you're going to be in them. Here's another way to look at them. I'm holding you. Safe and secure. The way you hold something valuable. Something precious."
I don't know which way he chose to think about the chains and padlocks, but he was rock hard.
Then I christened my new leather gag--more of a bit really. It made him drool. Love that. He likes hoods, and I don't own one, so I wrapped his head in Vet wrap. Again, I just watched for a while. My dog came over to him to investigate. Good boy!
Then I thought that I would try something new. New for me, and presumably new for him. I got out the Omron I bought from Current President a few months ago. Outside of as a masturbatory aid, I haven't used it much. I put one of the pads under his balls, and the other one on top of his dick. I turned it on, and slowly boosted the power. It was shocking for him at first (sorry, couldn't resist the pun). He never seemed to acclimate to the sensation, and wasn't sure if he liked it or not. Very cool.
After we had done a cycle, I unchained him, stood him up, and started binding him to my St. Andrew's Cross with rope.
Let me tell ya, never has my bondage work been so good! I was on top of my ropes. Everything I did on the right side I managed to do on the left side so it was all nice and symetrical. I put a lot of rope on him, and he looked great.
Slowly, slowly, I started in with the flogging. Going really light. Because this seemed to be the first time he had ever been flogged, I made it more about sensation than about pain. But that only goes so far with me, Sadist that I am. After a while, I upped the ante, going heavier. He took it well. I told him that I wanted to do a ten count with him and explained how it worked. I was really giving it to him, and the pig refused to even start the count with 'One, Sir.'
Nice.
At this point, I was really giving it to him. And then I noticed something wonderful. Blood. I was drawing blood. (Schwing!) Only flogging him, and I was drawing blood. What tender skin! Especially after the last guy I whipped in Chicago who had hide like a rhino, this was a welcome surprise. Since he refused to go even to One, I decided that I wanted to give him my braided cat. (I also took time while gently blowing on and caressing his back to let him know that he was giving me a lot of joy.)
I had a blast with the cat. And he was howling. His back looked beautiful. When I got him as far as I thought I could take him, I ended the flogging. I patiently untied the ropes, and then spritzed down his back with hydrogen peroxide and witch hazel. Then I wrapped him in the cow hide I have, and we sat for a while, listening to Strauss and watching the candles flicker.
I was tired, so that was all the play for the night. I showed him how I like my ropes prepared for being put away, and left him to that while I walked the dog. I gave him time to do what he had to do in the bathroom while I checked email briefly. I told him to take a look at his back in the mirror while he was in there. Then I made my own ablutions, and it was time for Top aftercare: a massage until I fell asleep. He requested that I tie up his cock and balls for the night, and I was happy to comply.
He gave good massage.
This morning, I got up when the alarm went off, made tea, and then had him service my cock. He needs some practice there.
I took pictures of him in compromising situations (squatting over a buttplug, with a whip around his neck on his knees, holding a flogger in his mouth). I'll post them here on the blog tomorrow.
(Just joking. No, I won't. They're mine, and I'm a responsible Top. If it makes our future play hotter for him, I'm certainly willing to play along, but those pictures go nowhere.)
He took a shower and then hit the road, full of gratitude, and looking forward to our next encounter. As am I.
So I feel great. All through it, I just had the feeling that I was on top of my game, doing everything right. At no time did I feel pressure or at a loss. I think the scene was creative and flowed nicely. I pushed his limits, and I had a good time.
And it felt real and good and connected. He had a great time, and was appreciative. Every aspect hit just the right note. Can't wait to have him back.
Oh. And he's looking for a grantwriter. And I'm a grantwriter. So it looks like I'll get some work out of it.
Anyway, GMSMA Board dinner tonight. I'm looking forward to that. After tonight, I'll no longer be Treasurer. Gotta post and publish this, because I have some work to do between now and then making sure everything is perfect.
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Now, Voyager
How is initiating a relationship different and the same when the relationship in question is that of Master and slave?
This question, at the moment, is not purely academic. (Yahooooo! Whooopeee! Yes yes yes yes YES! Oh, YEAH! Hoo-HAH!!).
Ahem.
Last night, I sent out email to a collection of folks whose email addresses have found their way into my address book over the years. I can't begin to count the decades of collective experience with Master/slave relationships that this august group can chalk up. I've received a few thoughtful and provacative responses, for which I'm grateful.
Initiation seems so critical. But in a way, it's not. Like so much else that's really important in life, if it's meant to be, it's meant to be, and if not, not. Kismet.
I first laid eyes on Special Guy in an espresson bar on Christopher Street. He was wearing a red tshirt that said 'FIST.' He was damn hot. I checked him out. He checked me out. I was buying a muffin and a latte on my way to work. I left without speaking to him. Two weeks later, I was at the Dugout and there he was. It started going in the direction of a hook up, but then we started talking and things quickly switched gears. We had a lot in common. He had a mind. I wanted to find out more about it. We went to dinner and talked and talked and talked. The next time we saw each other was at a sex party. Mostly his crew, although I knew several of them. I felt 'checked out' and I seemed to have passed the test. Huh. Meeting the family. Our sex was hot. And public, on view to his buddies. I flogged him briefly in the back yard whilst other men ate hotdogs nearby. A few more dates. Then we were trapped in the rainstorm one night on Christopher Street. We took shelter under an awning. He bought me a rose, presented it to me, kissed me deeply, and said, "I wanna be boyfriends with you." We got some time with each other away. Fire Island. Washington DC.
Now it ended in four months, but it remains the most satisfying and happiest relationship of my life, so I look to it as a model. We're still friends. I still love him. And It hink that's mutual.
So it's almost formulaic. We met. Through the fog of desire we ascertained that we had a lot in common intellectually, and in matters of the heart and soul, too. We found that things worked well with each other sexually. Our fantasies and desires were in sync. We managed to spend blocks of time together, seeing how each other ticks in matters of teethbrushing, doing the dishes, dealing with waiters in restaurants, that kind of thing.
Now how would things have gone differently if Special Guy had had that deep down desire to be a slave, to be owned?
First off, there's the movement from the general to the particular: Do I want to be owned by this man? And for me, do I want to own this man? At the risk of being called shallow, Man is a social animal, and we exist in society, and standing in society is as important to us as it is to wolves, chickens, chimps, and other social animals of the more complex orders. So that's a consideration (that Special Guy and I dealt with at the sex party). I walk into a room where all my fellows are gathered with this man on a leash. What do they think? There is, unfortunately, no way of knowing this for sure until you walk into a room where all your fellows are gathered.
Similarly, there's the equally important question of what happens behind the closed doors of the dungeon. Does it work? Does he want at the most basic level what I want to provide?
On this issue, it occurs to me that as a supervisor, I have no patience for details. Spare me the details. I'm not interested in how the wireless network I asked you to build was put together. Does it work and did you do it? Thinking about having a slave report on his practice of celibacy or piss training or adherence to all the other daily prescriptions and procedures that I--in my copious freetime--have laid down... my eyes glaze over just thinking about that. But here's what I am interested in. Keenly. How are you seeing the world differently today? What are your insights about yourself, about the world, about God, about S/M, about slavery, about me?
All about my ego? Yeah. Probably. I'll own that. "Deep in a forest, written on a tree, two little words, "Remember me,'" goes the high school yearbook inscription. That's what I want. And that, I think, is what everyone wants. I want the men I do scenes with to emerge thinking of everything in new ways. That's a good scene. If I get the sense that for you I was just another item checked off on your To Do (or rather, To Get Done By) list, then that strange noise you hear is me grinding my teeth.
And for my slave, I'd want that to be ongoing. If I come to suspect that his deepest desire and that which he fears the most is being dunked in a sewer, better believe he's gonna be smeared in my shit and have that washed off with my piss. (That's just an example. Scat doesn't hold a huge attraction for me.)
Bound and Determined suggested Shock and Awe as a good strategy for initiation. I love that idea. It fires my imagination. And it sounds like a lot of fun. If done well, it could send the message at the deepest levels that it's a whole new ballgame. You're not in Kansas anymore, sweetheart. The risk there is that you're setting up expectations that you will always fall short in meeting down the road. Following Shock and Awe with a phone call along the lines of "Hi. It's me. Wanna go to the movies on Friday?" would not be a wise move.
Rushing things. Rome wasn't built in a day. Yeah yeah yeah. I hate this prescription. Fundamentally, it doesn't make sense to me. Life is so short. So short. Was I ready to become Executive Director of a non profit when I became Executive Director of a non-profit? No. I rushed into it. Overall, it was successful. Did I make mistakes? You betcha I did. But better to have those memories that flit through your mind and make you wince then to dwell forever in the icey frozen hell of ShouldaWouldaCoulda. Look at the fifth act of Hamlet. A stage littered with bodies because someone decided to think things through thoroughly.
But how about the question of expectations? Being on the same page? What if when Special Guy said 'Wanna be boyfriends?' he had in mind 'Wanna be in a monogamous relationship? Wanna move in together this weekend? Wanna stop by the bank tomorrow morning and set up a joint bank account?' and I had heard the question as, 'Wanna fuck tonight?' As it turned out, we did have slightly different ideas, but we worked these out after I gave my Molly Bloom-esque "Yes." But what if Special Guy had shown up at my humble abode with a U-Haul the next morning? In all seriousness, I would have made room in my closet for his stuff. Disaster down the road? Probably. But what if, standing there under the awning at Christopher and Bleecker in the pouring rain, after kissing me deeply, he had said, "Wanna be boyfriends?" and I had said, "Well, that depends on what the meaning of 'boyfriends' is. I have my ideas, but let me hear yours." No no no no no. Just saying "Yes" is a moment I'll cherish forever. My heart was pounding in my chest. It was a jumping off a cliff moment, and I found out I could fly.
In contrast, my seven year relationship, the one that I regret deeply, began with a protracted courtship and endless discussions about what we were getting ourselves into. Before, during, and after each step we took (not seeing other people, moving in together, taking a vacation together, opening a joint bank account... right up to co-signing a mortgage), we talked about it to each other, with our respective therapists, anyone who would listen. Everything was clouded in a haze of analysis. Our eyes were wide open. As a result, there was no faith. We didn't jump off the cliff, we slowly inched our way down the walls of the canyon. There was no myster, and hence there was no joy and rapture. At the bottom of the canyon, I was trapped. The only way out was to risk my life by diving into the rapids of the river at the bottom, fully ready to have my brains dashed on the rocks. I don't regret that.
Now what if Special Guy had asked "Wanna be boyfriends?" and I had given my "Yes," and the next day I had run into Special Guy with some hot boy hanging all over him who he introduced to me as his boyfriend? In other words, what if there had been no follow through. I don't think I would have been shattered. I probably would have thought, "What a dick," and moved on. But that's an important consideration, too. I don't want to be a dick. It's not good to be a dick. Being a dick is bad. So being a Master will need to be my number one priority. In fact, the organizing principle of my life. Now, even the most casual reader of this blog might ask at this point, "Gosh, don't you already have a lot on your plate right now?" And the honest answer there would be "Uh... yeah." But here's the deal. It is my sense that being this man's Master will call forth in me a more rigorous approach to my own life. In essays that Joe Bean developed from talks he gave to an assemblage of members of the Metropolitan Community Church, he discussed the fact that for straights, having a child serves (in most cases) as a big wake-up call, a signal that from here on in, life must be taken much more seriously. I agree. In part, this is probably a function of the responsibilities the parent takes on. You're gonna have to pay for college for this kid. How's your bank account looking? But the more important consideration is probably respect. Will your son and daughter respect you?
I am an officer in GMSMA. I am a writer. I am a skilled, serious and well thought of S/M player. I am a loyal friend. I am a responsible dog owner. I take care of myself. I have a strong and inquisitive mind. My softball team is 8-1 and we're halfway through the season. There's a lot there that's respectable. I would not want to do anything that would tarnish, rather than burnish my image. I want my slave to respect me. And that means I need to be respectable. Self-respect can be chimerical. You're riding that horse and coming into the home stretch, and then the horse stumbles. You find yourself sitting there on the track with your riding silks filthy. A slave (or a child, but not so much, I think, a lover or life partner) can be an externalized respecter of the self. With a slave, that's imparting a lot of power. (Ah, risk again.) But not really. The Master choses to do the respectable thing or not. The slave has no more power than a mirror: you decide to wear that tie with that shirt, the mirror merely reflects the image back at you.
Huh.
"Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each."
I will learn if they will sing for me.
How is initiating a relationship different and the same when the relationship in question is that of Master and slave?
This question, at the moment, is not purely academic. (Yahooooo! Whooopeee! Yes yes yes yes YES! Oh, YEAH! Hoo-HAH!!).
Ahem.
Last night, I sent out email to a collection of folks whose email addresses have found their way into my address book over the years. I can't begin to count the decades of collective experience with Master/slave relationships that this august group can chalk up. I've received a few thoughtful and provacative responses, for which I'm grateful.
Initiation seems so critical. But in a way, it's not. Like so much else that's really important in life, if it's meant to be, it's meant to be, and if not, not. Kismet.
I first laid eyes on Special Guy in an espresson bar on Christopher Street. He was wearing a red tshirt that said 'FIST.' He was damn hot. I checked him out. He checked me out. I was buying a muffin and a latte on my way to work. I left without speaking to him. Two weeks later, I was at the Dugout and there he was. It started going in the direction of a hook up, but then we started talking and things quickly switched gears. We had a lot in common. He had a mind. I wanted to find out more about it. We went to dinner and talked and talked and talked. The next time we saw each other was at a sex party. Mostly his crew, although I knew several of them. I felt 'checked out' and I seemed to have passed the test. Huh. Meeting the family. Our sex was hot. And public, on view to his buddies. I flogged him briefly in the back yard whilst other men ate hotdogs nearby. A few more dates. Then we were trapped in the rainstorm one night on Christopher Street. We took shelter under an awning. He bought me a rose, presented it to me, kissed me deeply, and said, "I wanna be boyfriends with you." We got some time with each other away. Fire Island. Washington DC.
Now it ended in four months, but it remains the most satisfying and happiest relationship of my life, so I look to it as a model. We're still friends. I still love him. And It hink that's mutual.
So it's almost formulaic. We met. Through the fog of desire we ascertained that we had a lot in common intellectually, and in matters of the heart and soul, too. We found that things worked well with each other sexually. Our fantasies and desires were in sync. We managed to spend blocks of time together, seeing how each other ticks in matters of teethbrushing, doing the dishes, dealing with waiters in restaurants, that kind of thing.
Now how would things have gone differently if Special Guy had had that deep down desire to be a slave, to be owned?
First off, there's the movement from the general to the particular: Do I want to be owned by this man? And for me, do I want to own this man? At the risk of being called shallow, Man is a social animal, and we exist in society, and standing in society is as important to us as it is to wolves, chickens, chimps, and other social animals of the more complex orders. So that's a consideration (that Special Guy and I dealt with at the sex party). I walk into a room where all my fellows are gathered with this man on a leash. What do they think? There is, unfortunately, no way of knowing this for sure until you walk into a room where all your fellows are gathered.
Similarly, there's the equally important question of what happens behind the closed doors of the dungeon. Does it work? Does he want at the most basic level what I want to provide?
On this issue, it occurs to me that as a supervisor, I have no patience for details. Spare me the details. I'm not interested in how the wireless network I asked you to build was put together. Does it work and did you do it? Thinking about having a slave report on his practice of celibacy or piss training or adherence to all the other daily prescriptions and procedures that I--in my copious freetime--have laid down... my eyes glaze over just thinking about that. But here's what I am interested in. Keenly. How are you seeing the world differently today? What are your insights about yourself, about the world, about God, about S/M, about slavery, about me?
All about my ego? Yeah. Probably. I'll own that. "Deep in a forest, written on a tree, two little words, "Remember me,'" goes the high school yearbook inscription. That's what I want. And that, I think, is what everyone wants. I want the men I do scenes with to emerge thinking of everything in new ways. That's a good scene. If I get the sense that for you I was just another item checked off on your To Do (or rather, To Get Done By) list, then that strange noise you hear is me grinding my teeth.
And for my slave, I'd want that to be ongoing. If I come to suspect that his deepest desire and that which he fears the most is being dunked in a sewer, better believe he's gonna be smeared in my shit and have that washed off with my piss. (That's just an example. Scat doesn't hold a huge attraction for me.)
Bound and Determined suggested Shock and Awe as a good strategy for initiation. I love that idea. It fires my imagination. And it sounds like a lot of fun. If done well, it could send the message at the deepest levels that it's a whole new ballgame. You're not in Kansas anymore, sweetheart. The risk there is that you're setting up expectations that you will always fall short in meeting down the road. Following Shock and Awe with a phone call along the lines of "Hi. It's me. Wanna go to the movies on Friday?" would not be a wise move.
Rushing things. Rome wasn't built in a day. Yeah yeah yeah. I hate this prescription. Fundamentally, it doesn't make sense to me. Life is so short. So short. Was I ready to become Executive Director of a non profit when I became Executive Director of a non-profit? No. I rushed into it. Overall, it was successful. Did I make mistakes? You betcha I did. But better to have those memories that flit through your mind and make you wince then to dwell forever in the icey frozen hell of ShouldaWouldaCoulda. Look at the fifth act of Hamlet. A stage littered with bodies because someone decided to think things through thoroughly.
But how about the question of expectations? Being on the same page? What if when Special Guy said 'Wanna be boyfriends?' he had in mind 'Wanna be in a monogamous relationship? Wanna move in together this weekend? Wanna stop by the bank tomorrow morning and set up a joint bank account?' and I had heard the question as, 'Wanna fuck tonight?' As it turned out, we did have slightly different ideas, but we worked these out after I gave my Molly Bloom-esque "Yes." But what if Special Guy had shown up at my humble abode with a U-Haul the next morning? In all seriousness, I would have made room in my closet for his stuff. Disaster down the road? Probably. But what if, standing there under the awning at Christopher and Bleecker in the pouring rain, after kissing me deeply, he had said, "Wanna be boyfriends?" and I had said, "Well, that depends on what the meaning of 'boyfriends' is. I have my ideas, but let me hear yours." No no no no no. Just saying "Yes" is a moment I'll cherish forever. My heart was pounding in my chest. It was a jumping off a cliff moment, and I found out I could fly.
In contrast, my seven year relationship, the one that I regret deeply, began with a protracted courtship and endless discussions about what we were getting ourselves into. Before, during, and after each step we took (not seeing other people, moving in together, taking a vacation together, opening a joint bank account... right up to co-signing a mortgage), we talked about it to each other, with our respective therapists, anyone who would listen. Everything was clouded in a haze of analysis. Our eyes were wide open. As a result, there was no faith. We didn't jump off the cliff, we slowly inched our way down the walls of the canyon. There was no myster, and hence there was no joy and rapture. At the bottom of the canyon, I was trapped. The only way out was to risk my life by diving into the rapids of the river at the bottom, fully ready to have my brains dashed on the rocks. I don't regret that.
Now what if Special Guy had asked "Wanna be boyfriends?" and I had given my "Yes," and the next day I had run into Special Guy with some hot boy hanging all over him who he introduced to me as his boyfriend? In other words, what if there had been no follow through. I don't think I would have been shattered. I probably would have thought, "What a dick," and moved on. But that's an important consideration, too. I don't want to be a dick. It's not good to be a dick. Being a dick is bad. So being a Master will need to be my number one priority. In fact, the organizing principle of my life. Now, even the most casual reader of this blog might ask at this point, "Gosh, don't you already have a lot on your plate right now?" And the honest answer there would be "Uh... yeah." But here's the deal. It is my sense that being this man's Master will call forth in me a more rigorous approach to my own life. In essays that Joe Bean developed from talks he gave to an assemblage of members of the Metropolitan Community Church, he discussed the fact that for straights, having a child serves (in most cases) as a big wake-up call, a signal that from here on in, life must be taken much more seriously. I agree. In part, this is probably a function of the responsibilities the parent takes on. You're gonna have to pay for college for this kid. How's your bank account looking? But the more important consideration is probably respect. Will your son and daughter respect you?
I am an officer in GMSMA. I am a writer. I am a skilled, serious and well thought of S/M player. I am a loyal friend. I am a responsible dog owner. I take care of myself. I have a strong and inquisitive mind. My softball team is 8-1 and we're halfway through the season. There's a lot there that's respectable. I would not want to do anything that would tarnish, rather than burnish my image. I want my slave to respect me. And that means I need to be respectable. Self-respect can be chimerical. You're riding that horse and coming into the home stretch, and then the horse stumbles. You find yourself sitting there on the track with your riding silks filthy. A slave (or a child, but not so much, I think, a lover or life partner) can be an externalized respecter of the self. With a slave, that's imparting a lot of power. (Ah, risk again.) But not really. The Master choses to do the respectable thing or not. The slave has no more power than a mirror: you decide to wear that tie with that shirt, the mirror merely reflects the image back at you.
Huh.
"Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each."
I will learn if they will sing for me.
Yo. I am talkin' to You!
This Sunday is Folsom Street East.
You need to get your butt on the volunteer roster if you haven't already done so.
There's no excuse not to.
Oh. So you live in Oklahoma and you think that will get you out of it? Wrong, bub. Hop a flight. Gas up your vee-hicle. Whatever. Just get here by Sunday. If you need a place to stay, I got plenty of room. You can stay over. We'll make Pillsbury Tollhouse Chocolate Chip Cookies. It'll be fun.
All you need to do is get in touch with the fabulous Ted Svelink, who's the volunteer coordinator for Folsom Street East. And you can do that at FSEvolunteers@aol.com.
As we whip afficionados like to say... Get crackin'!
This Sunday is Folsom Street East.
You need to get your butt on the volunteer roster if you haven't already done so.
There's no excuse not to.
Oh. So you live in Oklahoma and you think that will get you out of it? Wrong, bub. Hop a flight. Gas up your vee-hicle. Whatever. Just get here by Sunday. If you need a place to stay, I got plenty of room. You can stay over. We'll make Pillsbury Tollhouse Chocolate Chip Cookies. It'll be fun.
All you need to do is get in touch with the fabulous Ted Svelink, who's the volunteer coordinator for Folsom Street East. And you can do that at FSEvolunteers@aol.com.
As we whip afficionados like to say... Get crackin'!
Monday, June 16, 2003
My cable internet connection has been on the fritz. Here are a few days worth of blogs. I seem to be able to receive but not send email. (Sort of like being gagged or muzzled .)
Here goes...
Leather Pride Night...
...was a blast. What a great time. I worked the flea market, which was a cakewalk. The volunteers that were working with me were really really great. A lot of the merchandise was decent. (There was a single bungee cord, like the type you use to secure luggage to a car roof rack... C'mon, I'm not gonna ask for money for something like that.)
It's so much fun working side by side with most everyone I know from the world of Leather here in NYC. Several folks commended me on my thing last night at the contest. But here's the best part. There were these three wonderful bullwhips up for auction. When I first saw them today, I had a pang of sadness. I couldn't imagine giving up any of my whips, and I imagined that the circumstances involved a death. The whips were of very good quality, and had obviously been well cared for. Someone loved those whips. I set my sites on a four foot bullwhip with a two foot fall. It's a little light in terms of weight, but is supple and throws nicely. It was item number 91 in the auction. I informed my fellow flea market coordinator that when it came up, I would be gone. I bid, and I managed to walk away with it for $95.
Perhaps you're asking yourself, "Why in the name of God do you need another whip?" Y'see, it's like this. I've got two snake whips that are not quite 'there' in terms of my accuracy with them, a few signal whips which are shorter and which I usually use when I do scenes at home, and my new eight foot bullwhip with a two foot fall. That is a wonderful whip, but it is way too long to use inside. Using a bullwhip improves my accuracy tremendously. So I want to move into long whips. But eight feet might not have been the place to start, as I can never practice with it. The new whip is a four foot long bullwhip with a two foot fall. And that should be perfect for use in my apartment.
And, the man I whipped at the Chicago Hellfire Clubhouse during IML weekend will be glad to hear of this acquisition. When I whipped him, I didn't leave a mark on him. He commented that he usually doesn't mark for anything less than five feet. Let's hope that a six footer will do the trick. I want another bite of that apple.
Here's the really cool part. As I was heading towards the door, the guy that had donated the three whips to the auction introduced himself. He apparently has a huge collection, and had decided that another whipmaker was better suited to him (this one is made by Bernie of Tasmania, who also made my eight foot bullwhip and my amazing blue signal whip. Bernie works great for me.
Here's another great part. I got to be a presenter at Leather Pride Night. I think I need to own the fact that I'm a ham. I loved being a presenter. And I got to present the third bullwhip.
I also got a few cockrings, some leather straps, and a now out-of-print book by Brushcreek media, a sort of photo essay on Inferno. Hopefully, this will be a help in explaining to vaniller friends what the heck I'm doing in Michigan the first two weeks of September. I should leave it in my softball gear bag. The guys on my softball team have taken to referring to it as Fist Fest. Now, there is fisting that goes on, and I'm not opposed to fisting (quite the reverse), but I find that fisting bottoms are not too hard to come by. But the men at Inferno are lpen to a lot of things that men one is likely to meet on the internet or in a bar are hesiant to undergo. A picture is worth a thousand words, and the book is full of pictures.
And finally, truly one of the best parts of the evening was hearing Diabolique give his acceptance speech upon receiving the Barry Douglas community service award. It was eloquent and beautiful. I need to bug hm for a copy. Perhaps he would allow me to publish it here.
Anyway. I'm bone tired. My tit is oozing. Time to fall into the arms of Morpheus.
Another thing I got from Leather Pride Night: the perfect cock ring. I have at least a half dozen. All of them seem to have some flaw or other. (I was going to say ‘shortcoming,’ but even though I’m honest about the size of my cock always—standard six—saying ‘shortcoming’ when talking about my penis… well, I’m a guy and I just can’t do that.)
Anyway, on the flea market table, towards the end of the night, I scooped up a few things that hadn’t been taken, gave five bucks for them, and didn’t think about them until I got home. In this little grab bag was a cockring. When I got it on, I realized immediately that it was not just any cockring, it’s the perfect cockring. It’s a simple metal ring, and it stays on, and only feels tight when I get hard.
Thank you, Leather Pride Night.
Complicated
S/M is so simple. You get approached or you approach on the internet. You ask about interests and fantasies. If the energy is good, you meet up to do a scene. Then you do aftercare. It’s fun. It’s powerful. It’s beautiful. You go out through the door you walked in.
Regular sex is not simple. Regular sex is complicated. It’s complicated because it goes with dating.
You might remember Alabam’. From my softball team. Hot southern man.
We went home together after meeting up at Ty’s several weeks ago. When back to his place. After interminable talking (because I was nervous), we had sex. It was good. We agreed to get together again. For a date.
Then it got complicated. We agreed to go out on Saturday night a few weeks ago. It was during a period when the telemarketing calls were coming fast and furious so I had my answering machine turned off. I arrived at Alabam’s apartment. The doorman got no answer. Walking the dog. I sat in my car. I got a latte. I sat in my car some more. I called his cell phone. He said he had called and left a message at my apartment letting me know that an Ex having problems had shown up. He asked for a raincheck.
So tonight was our raincheck. Again, I went into Top mode and planned out a great evening for us. And, I packed some rope and a few other things into my toybag. He doesn’t have much experience with S/M but he’s interested, so maybe we could try some simple, unthreatening bondage.
I’m getting ready to leave the house and the phone rings. It’s Alabam’. He’s out on the Island. (That would be the Long one.) A buddy was having problems with his outboard motor. He’d call when they got closer to the city. So I headed across the river. I found parking easy for once. I’m getting out of this car and I’m immediately playing eye hockey with this way hot guy. He stops. Introduced himself. Asks what I’m up to. Tells me he’s a photographer. I said I’m meeting up with a friend for dinner. He gives me his card. I walked over to Barnes & Noble on 6th Avenue and bought a book I had heard discussed on NPR. Coming back towards 8th Avenue, I ran into Roman Cool’s boy. We chatted a bit, comparing notes on contests. I looked at my watch. It was now 8:45. Alabam’ and I were supposed to get together at Seven. I called Alabam’ and left a message. “Hey Cowboy. What’s up?” I went to dinner at Sazerac. Got in my car. At this point it’s eleven. I called the guy I met on the street. Got voicemail. Left a message.
Now what’s up with Alabam’? Does he not want round two? Does he want round two but doesn’t want it in the context of a date? Is he just witless? Does he have a complicated life? When on our first date he said he had left a message at home, he couldn’t have because my machine wasn’t on. Did he forget about our date? Should I have called last night or whenever to make sure we’re still on?
And what’s up with Man on the Street? My read is that I could have gone up to his apartment right then and we could have gotten it on. But considered sex was not on the agenda.
See? Regular sex is just soooooo complicated.
It’s been a long time since I had a date. Perhaps I have forgotten some key elements of how it works.
Special Guy called me. Just calling to see how I’m doing. That kind of thing.
A few weeks ago, I walked into Factory Café (before The Great Change, when Factory Café became a greek diner in every aspect, except they don’t sell chee-burger chee-burger no Coke Pepsi). Special Guy was having coffee with some… some… man. We chatted briefly, and I got the impression that Special Guy was in the middle of a conversation, so I set up in the window. UnFortunate happened to come in, found me, and we were talking, and when I turned around, Special Guy was gone.
At the time, I felt sort of “Gosh, I guess it’s over.” But now Special Guy is calling, just to check in. And say hi. Now, it is over. He introduced me to a friend of his as ‘a guy I dated.’
Just last night I was thinking about him. Naturally. I saw a guy whose skin at the nape of his neck folded similar to Special Guy’s. Special Guy hated that, but he saw a bug, and I saw a feature.
That’s an interesting point to ponder. Bugs and features. There’s an idiosyncratic thing. Those departures from commonly accepted (or more correctly, Madison Avenue’s) ideas of male pulchritude. For example, my teeth are gapped in the front. I grew up thinking this was a bug. In fact, I had a surgical procedure when I was about eleven, removing a bit of muscle between my two front teeth, in the hopes that as my wisdom teeth came in, my two front teeth would move together. But when I got out on the scene and circulating among gay men, I found that no, that’s not a bug, that’s a feature. Me and Lauren Hutton.
Beer gut? That’s a feature, not a bug.
Full beard? Feature. Definitely.
Sloping forehead? Feature.
Smooth chiseled chest? That would be a bug. I like a pelt.
Ditto for washboard abs. I do Drop-Off for my laundry. That’s not a feature, that’s a bug.
Great haircut? Also a bug.
Vascularity? That’s a feature.
Foreskin? For me that’s a bug.
Big nose? That is sucha feature.
Bright white teeth? That’s not a feature. That’s a bug. That’s weird.
Cigar breath? Feature! Feature feature feature feature Feature!
Dewey youth? Bug. I yawn from behind fanned fingers.
So I guess I’ve made my point. One man’s bugs are another man’s features.
So back to Special Guy. That ultimate repository of Features.
He’s soon to move to San Francisco. I wonder if he’d fist me before he left? Special Guy is a big guy. But he has these small, delicate hands. And they fold up to just about nothing. Puno seems to have lost interest in me. Seltzer phenomenon. I’d kinda like to earn that merit badge. And Special Guy would certainly be my first choice to take me there. However, I think that he’s is well aware of the fact that I’m still pretty sweet on him, and he’s moved on, and doesn’t want to get into anything messy as he’s off on this new chapter in his life.
I’ve actually developed a vague concern regarding basanos. He keeps coming out with these right-on-the-mark (though brief) revelations in email. My aspiration—if basanos in person is as impressive as basanos on the internet—is to own him, not to have him as a boyfriend. Blurring those lines will mean that neither will happen.
In david stein’s great book Carried Away, the Master and slave couple devise an interesting approach to the problem. Sometime Matt (the slave) is ‘boy,’ the submissive and deferential companion of Terry (the Master); sometimes Matt is slave: owned, collared, without rights or privileges, answering only ‘Yes, Sir’ or ‘No, Sir,’ carrying out orders; and sometimes Matt is mutt, dogslave, and he is mute, on the floor, obeying the most basic commands such as ‘stay’ and ‘come.’ They set as a goal that they will be able to move seamlessly between the three modes of being together.
I think the danger here would be that Matt and Terry come to have mutt around less and less, and then Master/slave less and less, and eventually Matt the boy becomes Matt the lover. Dominance and submission take a great deal of psychic energy. And they run against the grain of how the world tells us that two people should be in a relationship. (Lately, although I think it could be argued that Ward and June Cleaver were in a Master/slave relationship.)
I read somewhere recently that a couple found it more difficult to plan time for scenes that last for hours—or days—after they were living together than when they were living separately. So true. “I want you to be on your knees at my door on Saturday at 11 a.m. You’ll be in my custody until Sunday at 8 p.m., so clear your calendar,” as opposed to “Good morning. We’d better get ready if we’re gonna make the noon train to get out to the DIA Center.”
I think it would come down to scheduling, and it would best be written out. A minimum weekly requirement of time spent in absolute Master/slave space. Say twenty-four hours. It can be more, but it can’t be less. And if that doesn’t happen before the trip to DIA, then that means that someone is going to be collared, mute, not sitting on furniture, and wearing a tight rope harness for the trip to the DIA.
Here goes...
Leather Pride Night...
...was a blast. What a great time. I worked the flea market, which was a cakewalk. The volunteers that were working with me were really really great. A lot of the merchandise was decent. (There was a single bungee cord, like the type you use to secure luggage to a car roof rack... C'mon, I'm not gonna ask for money for something like that.)
It's so much fun working side by side with most everyone I know from the world of Leather here in NYC. Several folks commended me on my thing last night at the contest. But here's the best part. There were these three wonderful bullwhips up for auction. When I first saw them today, I had a pang of sadness. I couldn't imagine giving up any of my whips, and I imagined that the circumstances involved a death. The whips were of very good quality, and had obviously been well cared for. Someone loved those whips. I set my sites on a four foot bullwhip with a two foot fall. It's a little light in terms of weight, but is supple and throws nicely. It was item number 91 in the auction. I informed my fellow flea market coordinator that when it came up, I would be gone. I bid, and I managed to walk away with it for $95.
Perhaps you're asking yourself, "Why in the name of God do you need another whip?" Y'see, it's like this. I've got two snake whips that are not quite 'there' in terms of my accuracy with them, a few signal whips which are shorter and which I usually use when I do scenes at home, and my new eight foot bullwhip with a two foot fall. That is a wonderful whip, but it is way too long to use inside. Using a bullwhip improves my accuracy tremendously. So I want to move into long whips. But eight feet might not have been the place to start, as I can never practice with it. The new whip is a four foot long bullwhip with a two foot fall. And that should be perfect for use in my apartment.
And, the man I whipped at the Chicago Hellfire Clubhouse during IML weekend will be glad to hear of this acquisition. When I whipped him, I didn't leave a mark on him. He commented that he usually doesn't mark for anything less than five feet. Let's hope that a six footer will do the trick. I want another bite of that apple.
Here's the really cool part. As I was heading towards the door, the guy that had donated the three whips to the auction introduced himself. He apparently has a huge collection, and had decided that another whipmaker was better suited to him (this one is made by Bernie of Tasmania, who also made my eight foot bullwhip and my amazing blue signal whip. Bernie works great for me.
Here's another great part. I got to be a presenter at Leather Pride Night. I think I need to own the fact that I'm a ham. I loved being a presenter. And I got to present the third bullwhip.
I also got a few cockrings, some leather straps, and a now out-of-print book by Brushcreek media, a sort of photo essay on Inferno. Hopefully, this will be a help in explaining to vaniller friends what the heck I'm doing in Michigan the first two weeks of September. I should leave it in my softball gear bag. The guys on my softball team have taken to referring to it as Fist Fest. Now, there is fisting that goes on, and I'm not opposed to fisting (quite the reverse), but I find that fisting bottoms are not too hard to come by. But the men at Inferno are lpen to a lot of things that men one is likely to meet on the internet or in a bar are hesiant to undergo. A picture is worth a thousand words, and the book is full of pictures.
And finally, truly one of the best parts of the evening was hearing Diabolique give his acceptance speech upon receiving the Barry Douglas community service award. It was eloquent and beautiful. I need to bug hm for a copy. Perhaps he would allow me to publish it here.
Anyway. I'm bone tired. My tit is oozing. Time to fall into the arms of Morpheus.
Another thing I got from Leather Pride Night: the perfect cock ring. I have at least a half dozen. All of them seem to have some flaw or other. (I was going to say ‘shortcoming,’ but even though I’m honest about the size of my cock always—standard six—saying ‘shortcoming’ when talking about my penis… well, I’m a guy and I just can’t do that.)
Anyway, on the flea market table, towards the end of the night, I scooped up a few things that hadn’t been taken, gave five bucks for them, and didn’t think about them until I got home. In this little grab bag was a cockring. When I got it on, I realized immediately that it was not just any cockring, it’s the perfect cockring. It’s a simple metal ring, and it stays on, and only feels tight when I get hard.
Thank you, Leather Pride Night.
Complicated
S/M is so simple. You get approached or you approach on the internet. You ask about interests and fantasies. If the energy is good, you meet up to do a scene. Then you do aftercare. It’s fun. It’s powerful. It’s beautiful. You go out through the door you walked in.
Regular sex is not simple. Regular sex is complicated. It’s complicated because it goes with dating.
You might remember Alabam’. From my softball team. Hot southern man.
We went home together after meeting up at Ty’s several weeks ago. When back to his place. After interminable talking (because I was nervous), we had sex. It was good. We agreed to get together again. For a date.
Then it got complicated. We agreed to go out on Saturday night a few weeks ago. It was during a period when the telemarketing calls were coming fast and furious so I had my answering machine turned off. I arrived at Alabam’s apartment. The doorman got no answer. Walking the dog. I sat in my car. I got a latte. I sat in my car some more. I called his cell phone. He said he had called and left a message at my apartment letting me know that an Ex having problems had shown up. He asked for a raincheck.
So tonight was our raincheck. Again, I went into Top mode and planned out a great evening for us. And, I packed some rope and a few other things into my toybag. He doesn’t have much experience with S/M but he’s interested, so maybe we could try some simple, unthreatening bondage.
I’m getting ready to leave the house and the phone rings. It’s Alabam’. He’s out on the Island. (That would be the Long one.) A buddy was having problems with his outboard motor. He’d call when they got closer to the city. So I headed across the river. I found parking easy for once. I’m getting out of this car and I’m immediately playing eye hockey with this way hot guy. He stops. Introduced himself. Asks what I’m up to. Tells me he’s a photographer. I said I’m meeting up with a friend for dinner. He gives me his card. I walked over to Barnes & Noble on 6th Avenue and bought a book I had heard discussed on NPR. Coming back towards 8th Avenue, I ran into Roman Cool’s boy. We chatted a bit, comparing notes on contests. I looked at my watch. It was now 8:45. Alabam’ and I were supposed to get together at Seven. I called Alabam’ and left a message. “Hey Cowboy. What’s up?” I went to dinner at Sazerac. Got in my car. At this point it’s eleven. I called the guy I met on the street. Got voicemail. Left a message.
Now what’s up with Alabam’? Does he not want round two? Does he want round two but doesn’t want it in the context of a date? Is he just witless? Does he have a complicated life? When on our first date he said he had left a message at home, he couldn’t have because my machine wasn’t on. Did he forget about our date? Should I have called last night or whenever to make sure we’re still on?
And what’s up with Man on the Street? My read is that I could have gone up to his apartment right then and we could have gotten it on. But considered sex was not on the agenda.
See? Regular sex is just soooooo complicated.
It’s been a long time since I had a date. Perhaps I have forgotten some key elements of how it works.
Special Guy called me. Just calling to see how I’m doing. That kind of thing.
A few weeks ago, I walked into Factory Café (before The Great Change, when Factory Café became a greek diner in every aspect, except they don’t sell chee-burger chee-burger no Coke Pepsi). Special Guy was having coffee with some… some… man. We chatted briefly, and I got the impression that Special Guy was in the middle of a conversation, so I set up in the window. UnFortunate happened to come in, found me, and we were talking, and when I turned around, Special Guy was gone.
At the time, I felt sort of “Gosh, I guess it’s over.” But now Special Guy is calling, just to check in. And say hi. Now, it is over. He introduced me to a friend of his as ‘a guy I dated.’
Just last night I was thinking about him. Naturally. I saw a guy whose skin at the nape of his neck folded similar to Special Guy’s. Special Guy hated that, but he saw a bug, and I saw a feature.
That’s an interesting point to ponder. Bugs and features. There’s an idiosyncratic thing. Those departures from commonly accepted (or more correctly, Madison Avenue’s) ideas of male pulchritude. For example, my teeth are gapped in the front. I grew up thinking this was a bug. In fact, I had a surgical procedure when I was about eleven, removing a bit of muscle between my two front teeth, in the hopes that as my wisdom teeth came in, my two front teeth would move together. But when I got out on the scene and circulating among gay men, I found that no, that’s not a bug, that’s a feature. Me and Lauren Hutton.
Beer gut? That’s a feature, not a bug.
Full beard? Feature. Definitely.
Sloping forehead? Feature.
Smooth chiseled chest? That would be a bug. I like a pelt.
Ditto for washboard abs. I do Drop-Off for my laundry. That’s not a feature, that’s a bug.
Great haircut? Also a bug.
Vascularity? That’s a feature.
Foreskin? For me that’s a bug.
Big nose? That is sucha feature.
Bright white teeth? That’s not a feature. That’s a bug. That’s weird.
Cigar breath? Feature! Feature feature feature feature Feature!
Dewey youth? Bug. I yawn from behind fanned fingers.
So I guess I’ve made my point. One man’s bugs are another man’s features.
So back to Special Guy. That ultimate repository of Features.
He’s soon to move to San Francisco. I wonder if he’d fist me before he left? Special Guy is a big guy. But he has these small, delicate hands. And they fold up to just about nothing. Puno seems to have lost interest in me. Seltzer phenomenon. I’d kinda like to earn that merit badge. And Special Guy would certainly be my first choice to take me there. However, I think that he’s is well aware of the fact that I’m still pretty sweet on him, and he’s moved on, and doesn’t want to get into anything messy as he’s off on this new chapter in his life.
I’ve actually developed a vague concern regarding basanos. He keeps coming out with these right-on-the-mark (though brief) revelations in email. My aspiration—if basanos in person is as impressive as basanos on the internet—is to own him, not to have him as a boyfriend. Blurring those lines will mean that neither will happen.
In david stein’s great book Carried Away, the Master and slave couple devise an interesting approach to the problem. Sometime Matt (the slave) is ‘boy,’ the submissive and deferential companion of Terry (the Master); sometimes Matt is slave: owned, collared, without rights or privileges, answering only ‘Yes, Sir’ or ‘No, Sir,’ carrying out orders; and sometimes Matt is mutt, dogslave, and he is mute, on the floor, obeying the most basic commands such as ‘stay’ and ‘come.’ They set as a goal that they will be able to move seamlessly between the three modes of being together.
I think the danger here would be that Matt and Terry come to have mutt around less and less, and then Master/slave less and less, and eventually Matt the boy becomes Matt the lover. Dominance and submission take a great deal of psychic energy. And they run against the grain of how the world tells us that two people should be in a relationship. (Lately, although I think it could be argued that Ward and June Cleaver were in a Master/slave relationship.)
I read somewhere recently that a couple found it more difficult to plan time for scenes that last for hours—or days—after they were living together than when they were living separately. So true. “I want you to be on your knees at my door on Saturday at 11 a.m. You’ll be in my custody until Sunday at 8 p.m., so clear your calendar,” as opposed to “Good morning. We’d better get ready if we’re gonna make the noon train to get out to the DIA Center.”
I think it would come down to scheduling, and it would best be written out. A minimum weekly requirement of time spent in absolute Master/slave space. Say twenty-four hours. It can be more, but it can’t be less. And if that doesn’t happen before the trip to DIA, then that means that someone is going to be collared, mute, not sitting on furniture, and wearing a tight rope harness for the trip to the DIA.
Saturday, June 14, 2003
A thought occurs to me. I wonder if my 'fantasy' was too extreme. Talking about grilling Bruce Willis on a spit, abducting Tobey Maguire, and torturing Sylvester Stallone with a cattle prod in the middle of the desert.
Huh. Y'think?
I guess that doesn't reflect the best principles of 'Safe Sane and Consensual.'
But in most of my fantasies, those principles aren't in effect. That's why they're fantasies. When I realize a fantasy, it is all about Safe Sane and Consensual. But for Gosh sakes, I'm a Sadist!
I did this consciously, now that I think about it. I once was talking to a buddy of mine about contests. He hated contests. When he was 17 years old, growing up in Brooklyn, he read in the paper that the Mineshaft was scheduled to close. He didn't know what the Mineshaft was, but he knew he had to get there to see it before it closed. And he did. He's been in the scene and playing hard (he's way into piss and scat) for most of his life, although he's only my age. "Who the hell are these guys?" he'd ask. "I've never even seen them out. They went into the Leatherman and bought a pair of chaps and now they're entering a contest? That's bullshit."
So part of what I was doing was frightening the horses. Or trying to.
Perhaps it worked.
Or, perhaps it was just lame.
I'll never know.
Now, the morning after the night before, it all has a dream-like quality. Did I really do that? Well there's the enormous gift basket of ID lube in all sorts of rebarbative flavors to prove that in fact I did.
Anyway, gotta get a move on. I'm loading up that truck for Leather Pride Night. Last I heard, I'll be working the flea market. Stop by and say hello. And y'know, I think you'd look really good in these chaps... Oh. My. God. Yes! They'd look great on you! Try them on. See? It's like they were made for you.
Huh. Y'think?
I guess that doesn't reflect the best principles of 'Safe Sane and Consensual.'
But in most of my fantasies, those principles aren't in effect. That's why they're fantasies. When I realize a fantasy, it is all about Safe Sane and Consensual. But for Gosh sakes, I'm a Sadist!
I did this consciously, now that I think about it. I once was talking to a buddy of mine about contests. He hated contests. When he was 17 years old, growing up in Brooklyn, he read in the paper that the Mineshaft was scheduled to close. He didn't know what the Mineshaft was, but he knew he had to get there to see it before it closed. And he did. He's been in the scene and playing hard (he's way into piss and scat) for most of his life, although he's only my age. "Who the hell are these guys?" he'd ask. "I've never even seen them out. They went into the Leatherman and bought a pair of chaps and now they're entering a contest? That's bullshit."
So part of what I was doing was frightening the horses. Or trying to.
Perhaps it worked.
Or, perhaps it was just lame.
I'll never know.
Now, the morning after the night before, it all has a dream-like quality. Did I really do that? Well there's the enormous gift basket of ID lube in all sorts of rebarbative flavors to prove that in fact I did.
Anyway, gotta get a move on. I'm loading up that truck for Leather Pride Night. Last I heard, I'll be working the flea market. Stop by and say hello. And y'know, I think you'd look really good in these chaps... Oh. My. God. Yes! They'd look great on you! Try them on. See? It's like they were made for you.
Friday, June 13, 2003
First Runner Up
Alas. Since there was only one other contestant for Leather Sir, that kind of means I lost. But I did get some lovely parting gifts: a Raging Stallion porn DVD (looks vanilla), a Smoking Hunks DVD (playing now), two music CDs, and more lube than I will ever use in my entire life, unless it's also got some protein content.
It was fun, although it was disappointing not to win. Met some new people, and seeing Mondo Contest from backstage was really interesting.
So what's it all about?
Well, I got there, and they fed us. Apparently there were accidents all over the Tri-State area, so everybody was late. (Whaddya know, more crappy rainy weather.) After we ate came The Interview. I stood on-stage as the judges asked me questions. Questions such as, "What does Protocol mean to you? Describe a sex fantasy concerning one of the judges. If you were doing a scene and only had $200 on your Home Depot credit card to buy all the equipment you'll need, what would you get? Why do you like singletail whips so much (Thanks, Walt!)? Since the region you'd represent includes all of New York State and New Jersey, what would you do to bring the region together?" and from the lone woman judge, "If we were in a leather bar and I was the only woman and the other men were making it clear I wasn't wanted there, what would you say to them?"
I think I handled myself pretty well.
Then, backstage, the real fun started. I decided to wear my officer's hat for my introduction. One of the backstage helpers asked me if I was up on protocol for wearing a cover. Uh... Here's how it goes. You take the stage wearing it, but then remove it as a sign of deference. You remove it by either grabbing the crown with one hand or with both hands on either side of the brim, and never let it cross your face, and hold it under your arm.
I mean... like... Uh-oh. I decided to make things simpler for myself my not wearing my hat. Excuse me, my "cover."
And then there was the issue of my boots. They weren't shined, of course, as I don't have a boy. One of the judges let it be known that he was paying special attention to boots and was looking to take off points. Luckily, there was polish and brushes backstage, so the backstage helpers went to work on my boots. Problem solved? Hardly. There are nicks on my boots. (I'm hard on boots.) If they were noticed, there would be points taken off. Also, boots had to be laced all the way up, and your bows can't show.
Next up was my formal introduction to the crowd that had gathered. I decided to say right off the bat that I had never been in a contest before, and had only just decided to enter this one. (This was nothing more or less than an attempt to gain the sympathy from the judges.) I said I was on the Board of GMSMA and an Associate Member of the Chicago Hellfire Club, that my favorite scene was singletail whips, and that I played softball (butch points) and had a dog (points from any fellow dog owners on the panel).
Okay. Then I blew it. The Fantasy Sequence. The Leather boy contestant did this amazing showstopper of a choreographed song he wrote himself, singing about the joys of boyhood (lyrics he wrote himself) to the tune of the 80s hit from the movie Footloose, "Let's Hear It For the Boy." I mean, what chutzpah! He was great. My competition was out on stage for a good fifteen minutes. I have no idea what he did (the report I heard was "There's not a lot he didn't do"), but the guy he did his fantasy with came back in a rope harness and covered with dip spit. My fantasy was pretty pathetic. I worked from notes (points off, I'm sure), and had to awkwardly borrow a music stand from the MC.
I set the stage by saying that we were at the Oscar's, and I was receiving a Lifetime Achievement Award.
And then I said this:
They didn't laugh at the laugh lines. It didn't work.
And finally, there was the jockstrap portion of the evening. I went to the gym before the contest, and upon stepping on the scale learned to my horror that my weight was down to 185. That is horrifying.
So we all filed backstage and changed into something less... jockstrap. Waiting and waiting and waiting for the business on stage, till finally, the magic moment. Out we all went. And it was announced that I was first runner up.
Oh well. I guess I would have come to the same judgment. The other guy has been in and around the world of contests for a while, and was really thrilled to have won it. He definitely deserved it.
So that's over with. Don't know that I'll be heading off in pursuit of a sash again.
Now, I'm off to bed. In ten short hours, I need to be on the scene at the Leather Pride Night storage facility in order to help load the merchandise into the truck to go over to the Puck Building.
My First Runner Up Medalion will go next to my softball trophy. Well, behind my softball trophy.
Alas. Since there was only one other contestant for Leather Sir, that kind of means I lost. But I did get some lovely parting gifts: a Raging Stallion porn DVD (looks vanilla), a Smoking Hunks DVD (playing now), two music CDs, and more lube than I will ever use in my entire life, unless it's also got some protein content.
It was fun, although it was disappointing not to win. Met some new people, and seeing Mondo Contest from backstage was really interesting.
So what's it all about?
Well, I got there, and they fed us. Apparently there were accidents all over the Tri-State area, so everybody was late. (Whaddya know, more crappy rainy weather.) After we ate came The Interview. I stood on-stage as the judges asked me questions. Questions such as, "What does Protocol mean to you? Describe a sex fantasy concerning one of the judges. If you were doing a scene and only had $200 on your Home Depot credit card to buy all the equipment you'll need, what would you get? Why do you like singletail whips so much (Thanks, Walt!)? Since the region you'd represent includes all of New York State and New Jersey, what would you do to bring the region together?" and from the lone woman judge, "If we were in a leather bar and I was the only woman and the other men were making it clear I wasn't wanted there, what would you say to them?"
I think I handled myself pretty well.
Then, backstage, the real fun started. I decided to wear my officer's hat for my introduction. One of the backstage helpers asked me if I was up on protocol for wearing a cover. Uh... Here's how it goes. You take the stage wearing it, but then remove it as a sign of deference. You remove it by either grabbing the crown with one hand or with both hands on either side of the brim, and never let it cross your face, and hold it under your arm.
I mean... like... Uh-oh. I decided to make things simpler for myself my not wearing my hat. Excuse me, my "cover."
And then there was the issue of my boots. They weren't shined, of course, as I don't have a boy. One of the judges let it be known that he was paying special attention to boots and was looking to take off points. Luckily, there was polish and brushes backstage, so the backstage helpers went to work on my boots. Problem solved? Hardly. There are nicks on my boots. (I'm hard on boots.) If they were noticed, there would be points taken off. Also, boots had to be laced all the way up, and your bows can't show.
Next up was my formal introduction to the crowd that had gathered. I decided to say right off the bat that I had never been in a contest before, and had only just decided to enter this one. (This was nothing more or less than an attempt to gain the sympathy from the judges.) I said I was on the Board of GMSMA and an Associate Member of the Chicago Hellfire Club, that my favorite scene was singletail whips, and that I played softball (butch points) and had a dog (points from any fellow dog owners on the panel).
Okay. Then I blew it. The Fantasy Sequence. The Leather boy contestant did this amazing showstopper of a choreographed song he wrote himself, singing about the joys of boyhood (lyrics he wrote himself) to the tune of the 80s hit from the movie Footloose, "Let's Hear It For the Boy." I mean, what chutzpah! He was great. My competition was out on stage for a good fifteen minutes. I have no idea what he did (the report I heard was "There's not a lot he didn't do"), but the guy he did his fantasy with came back in a rope harness and covered with dip spit. My fantasy was pretty pathetic. I worked from notes (points off, I'm sure), and had to awkwardly borrow a music stand from the MC.
I set the stage by saying that we were at the Oscar's, and I was receiving a Lifetime Achievement Award.
And then I said this:
This is a tremendous honor for me. Really.
People always ask me, what about Shakespeare? What about Williams or Ibsen? Why limit yourself to playing the Bad Guy in Action movies?
The answer is because I love it (I punctuated this by cracking a signal whip). And the screenwriters and directors I’ve worked with have been great, always willing to use suggestions I make in the scripts that I’ve worked on. It’s been such a great experience.
There are so many people I want to thank, but some of the great actors I’ve worked with really stand out.
Bruce Willis. Is Bruce here? I had a blast in Die Hard IV working with Bruce. Lashing him to a spit and grilling him like the pig he is was a hoot. Body hair grow back alright, Bruce?
The most fun I ever had doing a whipping scene was with Arnold Schwarzenegger. What a guy. Y’know, Arnold wouldn’t use a stunt man or a body double for that scene. That was really Arnold’s blood. And real tears he was crying.
Vin Diesel. What a performance. He even looked great chained at my feet and soaked in my piss. In fact, I’d say he never looked better.
Keanu Reeves. During that great scene where I had Keanu handcuffed in a chair and was working him over bareknuckled, messing up that pretty face of his, the director yelled ‘Cut!’ three times before I heard him. He was yelling ‘cut!’, Keanu was yelling ‘cut!’ everybody was yelling cut, but I was too into it to hear.
Sylvester Stallone. If you ever have the chance to drive Sly out into the Nevada desert in the trunk of your car, stake him out spread eagle, and work him over with a cattle prod like I did, take that opportunity.
And finally, on a somber note, as one of the last people to see Tobey Maguire before his strange disappearance, when he came out to meet with me before we were to work together on the next Spider-Man movie, I join with everyone here in mourning this terrible loss. Tobey, wherever you are, I hope you’re safe and sound. And I urge you—if anyone can make sense of the strange message he left when he called his agent from his cell phone (Stupid!) about the steel collar and the dog cage, please, Please! Notify the LAPD.
Thank you very much.
They didn't laugh at the laugh lines. It didn't work.
And finally, there was the jockstrap portion of the evening. I went to the gym before the contest, and upon stepping on the scale learned to my horror that my weight was down to 185. That is horrifying.
So we all filed backstage and changed into something less... jockstrap. Waiting and waiting and waiting for the business on stage, till finally, the magic moment. Out we all went. And it was announced that I was first runner up.
Oh well. I guess I would have come to the same judgment. The other guy has been in and around the world of contests for a while, and was really thrilled to have won it. He definitely deserved it.
So that's over with. Don't know that I'll be heading off in pursuit of a sash again.
Now, I'm off to bed. In ten short hours, I need to be on the scene at the Leather Pride Night storage facility in order to help load the merchandise into the truck to go over to the Puck Building.
My First Runner Up Medalion will go next to my softball trophy. Well, behind my softball trophy.
Next Saturday night, GMSMA is sponsoring a Folsom Street East party at the Eagle. Demos are planned, and I loe to demo. Must see about finding a demo bottom.
I'd like to do a singletail scene. With blood. "Going there" at the Eagle tickles my fancy.
I learned at the FSE planning meeting last night that the Eagle is really falling all over themselves to support Folsom Street East. So I'm liking them a little more. (Henceforth, I'll call them the Eagle rather than the Spiegel.)
Must find a bottom. I have eight days to do that.
Perhaps I'll give boy wonderful a call.
If you recall, I was on my way over to his well appointed penthouse to whip him when I gave a call to let him know I was on the way. He responded by saying that because there had been a fire and a flood and much drama with his incredible family situation (the Columbo episode), he would have to cancel. I was sort of pissed off. I mean, couldn't he have called? Or asked one of his staff to call? (Whatever...) I told (in even, measured tones) to give me a call when things had settled down and we would get together then. That was the last time we had spoken. I sort of assumed that I 'did something wrong' and he was no longer interested.
But, the other night at theSpiegel Eagle I ran into Roman Cool's boy. RC's boy is reportedly a creative and competent bondage Top. He asked me if I knew boy wonderful, and I said that I did. He and boy wonderful had apparently met recently and my name came up. "Huh," I said, "Did he say good things about me or bad things about me." RC's boy assured me that boy wonderful said good things. So perhaps I'll give him a call.
Complicated though his life may be, boy wonderful is one of the most enjoyable whipping bottoms I've ever known. From just about the first stroke, he's full of bliss, getting this smile on his face that I can only describe as beatific. Just flying. He just loves getting whipped. Loves it. Soon, both of us are giggling. Not the usual way that a whipping scene progresses. No need to take a break and offer comfort. When I do he sort of gives me this "Will you please just get on with it" look. boy wonderful wants more. And that's why he's boy wonderful.
I'd like to do a singletail scene. With blood. "Going there" at the Eagle tickles my fancy.
I learned at the FSE planning meeting last night that the Eagle is really falling all over themselves to support Folsom Street East. So I'm liking them a little more. (Henceforth, I'll call them the Eagle rather than the Spiegel.)
Must find a bottom. I have eight days to do that.
Perhaps I'll give boy wonderful a call.
If you recall, I was on my way over to his well appointed penthouse to whip him when I gave a call to let him know I was on the way. He responded by saying that because there had been a fire and a flood and much drama with his incredible family situation (the Columbo episode), he would have to cancel. I was sort of pissed off. I mean, couldn't he have called? Or asked one of his staff to call? (Whatever...) I told (in even, measured tones) to give me a call when things had settled down and we would get together then. That was the last time we had spoken. I sort of assumed that I 'did something wrong' and he was no longer interested.
But, the other night at the
Complicated though his life may be, boy wonderful is one of the most enjoyable whipping bottoms I've ever known. From just about the first stroke, he's full of bliss, getting this smile on his face that I can only describe as beatific. Just flying. He just loves getting whipped. Loves it. Soon, both of us are giggling. Not the usual way that a whipping scene progresses. No need to take a break and offer comfort. When I do he sort of gives me this "Will you please just get on with it" look. boy wonderful wants more. And that's why he's boy wonderful.
pus
I had really bad acne during my teenage years. Well, not really bad. But it felt really bad. Between the ages of about 14 and 20, every significant event in my life (first date, dances, driver's license test, graduation, proms, job interviews) was accompanied by a big ol' zit somewhere on my face. I was a popper. I remember one in particular which with the slightest squeezing squirted out and hit the mirror. It was all about pus.
So my right piercing is infected. Not sure where this came from. It's been almost a year. UnFortunate said that his piercings act up from time to time, although he's had them for years. He usually ignores it and it goes away.
I've been doing saltwater soaks, Bactine washes, and as of last night, hot compresses.
The problem seems to be aggravated by the fact that in the circles in which I tend to travel, tweaking of nipples is a common greeting. In the case of my right one, it really hurts. Bad hurt. Ouch. I resist the urge to take a swing at the person. So far, I've been successful in resisting that urge.
Last week, I ran into Almost Bruiser at Ty's. Sure enough, his nimble fingers went to my tits. Ow! To punish him, I said in a really loud voice so that most of the people standing around us could hear, "Hey! I've got an infection there! Now you've got pus all over your hands! Go wash your hands. Do it now! Go wash the pus off your hands."
So the right nipple looks pretty bad today. Swollen. Red. And tonight I'll be resplendent in jockstrap and harness. whipping boy sent email to wish me luck and suggest I pack everything in terms of gear and leather. Everything is a lot. I'll do my best to hold back.
Hope there's not a moment during the contest when Will Clark, the porn star MC, doesn't stop mid-sentence and say, "uh... let me get you a tissue. Your nipple seems to be oozing pus." That could cost me points with the judges, right?
Hopefully, the net effect will be to have my nipples enlarge. I really like large nipples. Mine have grown a lot from the attention they get. I used to have teeny tiny pencil eraser nipples. I was always in awe of my friend George. The knobs on that guy! They'd show even if George was wearing a cable knit sweater.
Wonder if I could borrow one of those suction tube things to suck the pus out? A boy would do in a pinch, but that's just off the map in terms of 'exchange of bodily fluids' concerns, huh?
I'm desensitized to pus. In part because of all those zits I popped in my formative years, but also because my second mother, when she was in the throes of cancer, fell and broke her hip. They put a pin in her leg and her body rejected it. So her leg was swollen, and the incision made during the surgery, which never healed, would ooze pus. And I'd help her wipe it away.
I've been thinking off and on about the body. In the modern world--well, perhaps always--we seem to be in flight from our bodies. Our bodies are often viewed as grotesque, to be obliterated or at least covered. Deoderant, liposuction, weight training, anorexia, clothing in general. At Great Adventure on Monday, the sun came out and it was a beautiful day and I took my shirt off. One of my fellow Ballbreakers told me that it's a rule that you have to keep your shirt on in the park.
Near the house in which I grew up was a swimming hole, a deep part of a creek. It was called the Sheepee, because in days of yore local sheep farmers would take their flocks down there and throw the sheep in to cool them off on hot days. It was largely a nude swimming hole. More of an impulse visit than an outing: "Gosh it's hot today. Let's stop at the Sheepee on our way back from the village." No one had their bathing suits with them.
I would ride my bike down there, strip down, dive in, sit back underneath the waterfall, find a nice sunny rock where I could lay out and get brown as a berry, and share that experience with my neighbors of all shapes and ages. Because I grew up there, it didn't seem odd to me that I would see all these people either naked at the Sheepee or when I stopped by their house trick-or-treating on Hallowe'en.
Early on, I learned that naked isn't titillating. Naked is usually the opposite of titillating.
So why this fear and hatred of the body?
I think it has something to do with the fact that the body is also the locus of pleasure. Just like with drugs. Drugs that heal are legal; drugs that induce pleasure are illegal. Viagra was the quickest drug to make it through the FDA approval process. If Viagra caused you to have an orgasm rather than just to get an erection, it would have been banned moments after the compound was identified.
Part of the growing popularity of S/M probably has a lot to do with people longing for their bodies. S/M is all about the body. Touch it, slap it, pinch it, cut it. And it embraces the messiness of the body. Not just muscle and dick and squeaky clean rosebud assholes, but piss and shit and sweat and smell and blood and... pus.
I had really bad acne during my teenage years. Well, not really bad. But it felt really bad. Between the ages of about 14 and 20, every significant event in my life (first date, dances, driver's license test, graduation, proms, job interviews) was accompanied by a big ol' zit somewhere on my face. I was a popper. I remember one in particular which with the slightest squeezing squirted out and hit the mirror. It was all about pus.
So my right piercing is infected. Not sure where this came from. It's been almost a year. UnFortunate said that his piercings act up from time to time, although he's had them for years. He usually ignores it and it goes away.
I've been doing saltwater soaks, Bactine washes, and as of last night, hot compresses.
The problem seems to be aggravated by the fact that in the circles in which I tend to travel, tweaking of nipples is a common greeting. In the case of my right one, it really hurts. Bad hurt. Ouch. I resist the urge to take a swing at the person. So far, I've been successful in resisting that urge.
Last week, I ran into Almost Bruiser at Ty's. Sure enough, his nimble fingers went to my tits. Ow! To punish him, I said in a really loud voice so that most of the people standing around us could hear, "Hey! I've got an infection there! Now you've got pus all over your hands! Go wash your hands. Do it now! Go wash the pus off your hands."
So the right nipple looks pretty bad today. Swollen. Red. And tonight I'll be resplendent in jockstrap and harness. whipping boy sent email to wish me luck and suggest I pack everything in terms of gear and leather. Everything is a lot. I'll do my best to hold back.
Hope there's not a moment during the contest when Will Clark, the porn star MC, doesn't stop mid-sentence and say, "uh... let me get you a tissue. Your nipple seems to be oozing pus." That could cost me points with the judges, right?
Hopefully, the net effect will be to have my nipples enlarge. I really like large nipples. Mine have grown a lot from the attention they get. I used to have teeny tiny pencil eraser nipples. I was always in awe of my friend George. The knobs on that guy! They'd show even if George was wearing a cable knit sweater.
Wonder if I could borrow one of those suction tube things to suck the pus out? A boy would do in a pinch, but that's just off the map in terms of 'exchange of bodily fluids' concerns, huh?
I'm desensitized to pus. In part because of all those zits I popped in my formative years, but also because my second mother, when she was in the throes of cancer, fell and broke her hip. They put a pin in her leg and her body rejected it. So her leg was swollen, and the incision made during the surgery, which never healed, would ooze pus. And I'd help her wipe it away.
I've been thinking off and on about the body. In the modern world--well, perhaps always--we seem to be in flight from our bodies. Our bodies are often viewed as grotesque, to be obliterated or at least covered. Deoderant, liposuction, weight training, anorexia, clothing in general. At Great Adventure on Monday, the sun came out and it was a beautiful day and I took my shirt off. One of my fellow Ballbreakers told me that it's a rule that you have to keep your shirt on in the park.
Near the house in which I grew up was a swimming hole, a deep part of a creek. It was called the Sheepee, because in days of yore local sheep farmers would take their flocks down there and throw the sheep in to cool them off on hot days. It was largely a nude swimming hole. More of an impulse visit than an outing: "Gosh it's hot today. Let's stop at the Sheepee on our way back from the village." No one had their bathing suits with them.
I would ride my bike down there, strip down, dive in, sit back underneath the waterfall, find a nice sunny rock where I could lay out and get brown as a berry, and share that experience with my neighbors of all shapes and ages. Because I grew up there, it didn't seem odd to me that I would see all these people either naked at the Sheepee or when I stopped by their house trick-or-treating on Hallowe'en.
Early on, I learned that naked isn't titillating. Naked is usually the opposite of titillating.
So why this fear and hatred of the body?
I think it has something to do with the fact that the body is also the locus of pleasure. Just like with drugs. Drugs that heal are legal; drugs that induce pleasure are illegal. Viagra was the quickest drug to make it through the FDA approval process. If Viagra caused you to have an orgasm rather than just to get an erection, it would have been banned moments after the compound was identified.
Part of the growing popularity of S/M probably has a lot to do with people longing for their bodies. S/M is all about the body. Touch it, slap it, pinch it, cut it. And it embraces the messiness of the body. Not just muscle and dick and squeaky clean rosebud assholes, but piss and shit and sweat and smell and blood and... pus.
Thursday, June 12, 2003
I know I said I wasn't going to do it. But I decided to do it anyway. Tomorrow night is the Mr. Northeast Leather Sir/boy contest. I'm going to compete.
Wha' happened?
Well, I ran into one of the organizers. She was nervous about how things were shaping up. She's never taken on anything like this. She didn't beg, but she did say she would be grateful if I would put in an application.
I'm thinking of the 1970 Miss America Pageant. Second Wave Feminism was at it's apex then. There was a demonstration down in Atlantic City to protest the pageant. The pageant presented idealized images of femininity, turning women into commodities. It was wrong, and women were hurt by it as they were not taken seriously. As part of the protest, a few women burned their bras. That's where the term 'bra-burning feminist' comes from.
Why bring that up? Well... Did those women have a point? Absolutely. Yes they did. No argument there. But at the same time, it's just a beauty pageant. It doesn't mean anything. Having been involved in direct action activism, I can hear the discussion that went on. There will be lots of media there, we'll be able to get a point across, Atlantic City isn't too far from NYC...
So I have no arguments to counter those that have been presented to me by folks that I respect. All I can say in my defense is that it's just a contest. Whether I win or lose, enter or don't, it doesn't matter much. However, I'll be doing a favor for people of whom I think highly and who have put a lot of work into this. I wouldn't want to let them down.
Incidently, I raised the issue today with my therapist. She's supported me entering the contest from when I first raised the issue many months ago. "It'll be fun and you should have fun" is essentially her rationale. She asked the name and address of the bar where it will be held (The Slide, at 4th Street and the Bowery), and may very well show up.
I'm basically planning on winging it. The trickiest thing is going to be the Fantasy segment. Frankly, I'm stumped. I don't have any fantasies that I haven't realized in one way or another. And, the chances of rounding up a bottom in the next nineteen hours are slim to none. So, I'm going to read a little something I wrote. It's in a humorous vein. Be reassured: I'm not taking this too seriously.
At the Folsom Street East planning meeting tonight, when the issue came up and I mentioned sotto voce that I'd be competing, I think I saw Diabolique grit his teeth. It crossed my mind to just do it and not tell a living soul that I did it, regardless of the outcome, but that wouldn't work. Especially not with Diabolique, plugged in as he is.
It ought to make interesting reading. Stay tuned.
Wha' happened?
Well, I ran into one of the organizers. She was nervous about how things were shaping up. She's never taken on anything like this. She didn't beg, but she did say she would be grateful if I would put in an application.
I'm thinking of the 1970 Miss America Pageant. Second Wave Feminism was at it's apex then. There was a demonstration down in Atlantic City to protest the pageant. The pageant presented idealized images of femininity, turning women into commodities. It was wrong, and women were hurt by it as they were not taken seriously. As part of the protest, a few women burned their bras. That's where the term 'bra-burning feminist' comes from.
Why bring that up? Well... Did those women have a point? Absolutely. Yes they did. No argument there. But at the same time, it's just a beauty pageant. It doesn't mean anything. Having been involved in direct action activism, I can hear the discussion that went on. There will be lots of media there, we'll be able to get a point across, Atlantic City isn't too far from NYC...
So I have no arguments to counter those that have been presented to me by folks that I respect. All I can say in my defense is that it's just a contest. Whether I win or lose, enter or don't, it doesn't matter much. However, I'll be doing a favor for people of whom I think highly and who have put a lot of work into this. I wouldn't want to let them down.
Incidently, I raised the issue today with my therapist. She's supported me entering the contest from when I first raised the issue many months ago. "It'll be fun and you should have fun" is essentially her rationale. She asked the name and address of the bar where it will be held (The Slide, at 4th Street and the Bowery), and may very well show up.
I'm basically planning on winging it. The trickiest thing is going to be the Fantasy segment. Frankly, I'm stumped. I don't have any fantasies that I haven't realized in one way or another. And, the chances of rounding up a bottom in the next nineteen hours are slim to none. So, I'm going to read a little something I wrote. It's in a humorous vein. Be reassured: I'm not taking this too seriously.
At the Folsom Street East planning meeting tonight, when the issue came up and I mentioned sotto voce that I'd be competing, I think I saw Diabolique grit his teeth. It crossed my mind to just do it and not tell a living soul that I did it, regardless of the outcome, but that wouldn't work. Especially not with Diabolique, plugged in as he is.
It ought to make interesting reading. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
When I got back from Great Adventure on Monday night, a Fedex package containing my SAP gloves was waiting at my door.
Yipee!
SAP gloves are made by Damascus of incredibly soft doeskin. About the knuckles, they're weighted with a few pounds of lead shot. So they pack a wallop. In addition to the force you put into throwing your fist, it's like swinging around a sock filled with ballbearings.
Sweet, huh?
Oddly, I seem to have ordered two pair. PunchPig is interested in the second pair. I couldn't think of a better home for them.
Also in the mail was my tax refund check from New York State. Just enough money to use to purchase the cage. And, hopefully, I'll have an occupant for the cage. Can't wait for that.
Life, as they say, is good.
Yipee!
SAP gloves are made by Damascus of incredibly soft doeskin. About the knuckles, they're weighted with a few pounds of lead shot. So they pack a wallop. In addition to the force you put into throwing your fist, it's like swinging around a sock filled with ballbearings.
Sweet, huh?
Oddly, I seem to have ordered two pair. PunchPig is interested in the second pair. I couldn't think of a better home for them.
Also in the mail was my tax refund check from New York State. Just enough money to use to purchase the cage. And, hopefully, I'll have an occupant for the cage. Can't wait for that.
Life, as they say, is good.
Impatiens, Coleus, Begonias, Petunias
Just back from Bucks County.
First off, things look bleak as far as the guy that's in my house moving down to Florida. Immigration is giving him problems, looking with a (rightfully) jaundiced eye at his sham marriage. Alas. I think I need a Plan B. One possible Plan B is the house across the street from my parents. The couple who lived there have been dead for several years. Their son owns a house down the road, and now, also the house across the street. For a while, the son's son and his friends were living there. Son's son is now married and living in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. The son's son's friends are departed as well, gone in a blaze of wild Saturday night parties that the neighborhood is still talking about. Anyway, the place is empty. Perhaps I can move in there until my deceased sister's ex-husband's cousin moves out of my house.
Tuesday was interesting. Very. My purpose in going down there was to go with my step-mother to buy some annuals for the flowerbeds in front of the house. My step-mother suffers from congestive heart failure. Her heart is not doing the job it once was of getting oxygenated blood to her brain and body. She is confused and has not much at all in the way of short term memory, so she tends to ask the same few questions over and over again. (Interestingly, one line of questioning this trip was "Think you'll ever get married?" and "Got a girlfriend at least?" put to me.) So on Tuesday, my Dad was all about hustling her out of the house so we could go grocery shopping and pick up some annuals. Step-mother wanted to get something to eat, and then was reminded of the time every fifteen minutes or so by my Dad. We got to the grocery store, and had just started to make the rounds when she had to vomit. This was bad, as it meant that she would lose her pills. She vomited once more before we were done grocery shopping. We headed to the plant place. She sat in the car and vomited two or three more times while I picked out plants.
On the drive home--a little unsettled--it struck me how weird that was. We all know the outlines of my step-mother's illness. The oxygen. She vomits because not enough blood is getting to her stomach to digest her food. That being the case, what she should do after she eats is sit quietly--or take a nap--for a few hours. Why did my Dad insist on getting us out the door?
The only answer I can divine is that he wanted to have her out of his hair for a few hours. She does the three questions over-and-over-and-over thing with him all day long. The fact that this was not the best thing for her to do was not apparently on his radar.
But we did get plants. I planted them this morning. The petunias are pale pink. Everything else is white or off-white flowers with a variety of foliage, ranging from chartreuse to deep green to reddish. It's simple, but I think it's a nice arrangement, and it should last all summer. I also got a few trays of marigolds for the various pots that my parents have about.
It felt sooooo good to have my hands in the dirt. Just glorious.
My dog had a good time being out in the country, although I'll be pulling ticks off of him for weeks to come.
Tuesday night, I made dinner (spaghetti and meatballs), and my brother came over to eat with us. We ate out on the screened porch, just the four of us. My brother's wife is down in Florida. After dinner, my brother and I went first to Dilly's Corner in Centre Bridge for the best ice cream anywhere. Alas, it was closed. So, we headed to Gerenser's in New Hope and got a couple of cones.
My brother and I sat on a bench on Main Street in New Hope, eating our ice cream cones and talking. As best I can remember, my brother and I have never ever done this before. Ever. It was mostly annecdotal. I learned that my brother has been seeing a psychiatrist or a psychologist on and off since he was sixteen. Something I didn't know. He did this, and persisted in doing this, despite opposition from our family and now his wife, who feel that unless there's something 'wrong' with you, you shouldn't be doing it. I told my brother about how I came into my own while caring for our grandfather before his death, taking the opportunity to go down and stay with him, because it got me away from my step-mother, who was giving me a really hard time back then. I also told my brother about how when I was thirteen or fourteen, my friend Jeff and I planned to run away to England. We had almost five hundred dollars saved. All the 'stuff' we would need was stockpiled under my bed. We would take a taxi to Trenton, take the train to New York City, and then fly to London on Laker Airways for $99 each. At that time, there were no age restrictions on working. Alas, correspondence from the British consulate informed me that to immigrate, you needed something like $2,000, and this was well beyond our ability to save.
Visiting Bucks County has left me wanting to move back there. It all felt so right. It's beautiful this time of year. The ride to and from was no big deal. I'd easily be able to do that for GMSMA or whatever. I saw an ad in the local paper looking to hire police officers. Now that would be a great job. Officer Singletails, reporting for duty. And I know how to use a nightstick.
Just back from Bucks County.
First off, things look bleak as far as the guy that's in my house moving down to Florida. Immigration is giving him problems, looking with a (rightfully) jaundiced eye at his sham marriage. Alas. I think I need a Plan B. One possible Plan B is the house across the street from my parents. The couple who lived there have been dead for several years. Their son owns a house down the road, and now, also the house across the street. For a while, the son's son and his friends were living there. Son's son is now married and living in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. The son's son's friends are departed as well, gone in a blaze of wild Saturday night parties that the neighborhood is still talking about. Anyway, the place is empty. Perhaps I can move in there until my deceased sister's ex-husband's cousin moves out of my house.
Tuesday was interesting. Very. My purpose in going down there was to go with my step-mother to buy some annuals for the flowerbeds in front of the house. My step-mother suffers from congestive heart failure. Her heart is not doing the job it once was of getting oxygenated blood to her brain and body. She is confused and has not much at all in the way of short term memory, so she tends to ask the same few questions over and over again. (Interestingly, one line of questioning this trip was "Think you'll ever get married?" and "Got a girlfriend at least?" put to me.) So on Tuesday, my Dad was all about hustling her out of the house so we could go grocery shopping and pick up some annuals. Step-mother wanted to get something to eat, and then was reminded of the time every fifteen minutes or so by my Dad. We got to the grocery store, and had just started to make the rounds when she had to vomit. This was bad, as it meant that she would lose her pills. She vomited once more before we were done grocery shopping. We headed to the plant place. She sat in the car and vomited two or three more times while I picked out plants.
On the drive home--a little unsettled--it struck me how weird that was. We all know the outlines of my step-mother's illness. The oxygen. She vomits because not enough blood is getting to her stomach to digest her food. That being the case, what she should do after she eats is sit quietly--or take a nap--for a few hours. Why did my Dad insist on getting us out the door?
The only answer I can divine is that he wanted to have her out of his hair for a few hours. She does the three questions over-and-over-and-over thing with him all day long. The fact that this was not the best thing for her to do was not apparently on his radar.
But we did get plants. I planted them this morning. The petunias are pale pink. Everything else is white or off-white flowers with a variety of foliage, ranging from chartreuse to deep green to reddish. It's simple, but I think it's a nice arrangement, and it should last all summer. I also got a few trays of marigolds for the various pots that my parents have about.
It felt sooooo good to have my hands in the dirt. Just glorious.
My dog had a good time being out in the country, although I'll be pulling ticks off of him for weeks to come.
Tuesday night, I made dinner (spaghetti and meatballs), and my brother came over to eat with us. We ate out on the screened porch, just the four of us. My brother's wife is down in Florida. After dinner, my brother and I went first to Dilly's Corner in Centre Bridge for the best ice cream anywhere. Alas, it was closed. So, we headed to Gerenser's in New Hope and got a couple of cones.
My brother and I sat on a bench on Main Street in New Hope, eating our ice cream cones and talking. As best I can remember, my brother and I have never ever done this before. Ever. It was mostly annecdotal. I learned that my brother has been seeing a psychiatrist or a psychologist on and off since he was sixteen. Something I didn't know. He did this, and persisted in doing this, despite opposition from our family and now his wife, who feel that unless there's something 'wrong' with you, you shouldn't be doing it. I told my brother about how I came into my own while caring for our grandfather before his death, taking the opportunity to go down and stay with him, because it got me away from my step-mother, who was giving me a really hard time back then. I also told my brother about how when I was thirteen or fourteen, my friend Jeff and I planned to run away to England. We had almost five hundred dollars saved. All the 'stuff' we would need was stockpiled under my bed. We would take a taxi to Trenton, take the train to New York City, and then fly to London on Laker Airways for $99 each. At that time, there were no age restrictions on working. Alas, correspondence from the British consulate informed me that to immigrate, you needed something like $2,000, and this was well beyond our ability to save.
Visiting Bucks County has left me wanting to move back there. It all felt so right. It's beautiful this time of year. The ride to and from was no big deal. I'd easily be able to do that for GMSMA or whatever. I saw an ad in the local paper looking to hire police officers. Now that would be a great job. Officer Singletails, reporting for duty. And I know how to use a nightstick.
Golden
Great Adventure with the Ballbreakers. Wonderful.
I managed to make it to the Dugout by 8 am, the agreed upon meeting place and time. There were seven of us, and we headed south on the Jersey Turnpike bound for Great Adventure. (For no good reason, the German translation of 'Great Adventure,' 'Grossen Abenteur,' was in my head all day long.
We were at the gates of the park a good fifteen minutes before they opened. Arriving so early was a sound strategy. When they dropped the ropes, all of us sprinted to the Superman ride. Superman iw a great ride. The apparatus they use to secure you in those seats is... uh... something I'd like to have in my own home. After Superman, we enjoyed Rolling Thunder (a wooden rollercoaster, I love wooden roller coasters), Medusa, and, unfortunately, Viper. Stay away from Viper. G.A. shut down Viper a while back after many complaints. The ride knocks you around a lot. You walk down the gangplank sore and bruised. Kind of like a date with me.
Before noon, we had been on just about all of the rollercoasters. Some of us (me and two other guys) were feeling a wee bit queasy from all the Negative G's we had been pulling that morning. Some of us (the other four) are ready for astronaught training with NASA. We grabbed a light lunch and went to see the dolphin show to ensure it stayed down. The dolphins and sealions were great. Dolphins, and especially sea lions, remind me of dogs. And I love dogs.
After the dolphin show, we fell into a routine of going on a ride, eating crappy food, going on a ride, eating crappy food... A passably pleasant way to spend an afternoon. We also hit the Batman rollercoaster, the Buccaneer, and both of the floom (or is that 'flume'?) rides. The second flume (I'll alternate) was fun as we were directly behind two hot skinhead boys. Alas, they got soaked but didn't take off their wet shirts.
We Ballbreakers were indeed breaking one another's balls. Relentlessly.
Example:
Ballbreaker 1: Oh my God. I was screaming like a bitch. I had my eyes closed tight. I couldn't wait for it to be over.
Ballbreaker 2: That sounds like a hot date. And how did you like the ride just now?
After the morning haze lifted, the day was beautiful. Gorgeous. Hot and sunny, but none too humid.
It was all just sublime. The whole day was unmarred by anything bad whatsoever.
Perfect.
Golden.
Great Adventure with the Ballbreakers. Wonderful.
I managed to make it to the Dugout by 8 am, the agreed upon meeting place and time. There were seven of us, and we headed south on the Jersey Turnpike bound for Great Adventure. (For no good reason, the German translation of 'Great Adventure,' 'Grossen Abenteur,' was in my head all day long.
We were at the gates of the park a good fifteen minutes before they opened. Arriving so early was a sound strategy. When they dropped the ropes, all of us sprinted to the Superman ride. Superman iw a great ride. The apparatus they use to secure you in those seats is... uh... something I'd like to have in my own home. After Superman, we enjoyed Rolling Thunder (a wooden rollercoaster, I love wooden roller coasters), Medusa, and, unfortunately, Viper. Stay away from Viper. G.A. shut down Viper a while back after many complaints. The ride knocks you around a lot. You walk down the gangplank sore and bruised. Kind of like a date with me.
Before noon, we had been on just about all of the rollercoasters. Some of us (me and two other guys) were feeling a wee bit queasy from all the Negative G's we had been pulling that morning. Some of us (the other four) are ready for astronaught training with NASA. We grabbed a light lunch and went to see the dolphin show to ensure it stayed down. The dolphins and sealions were great. Dolphins, and especially sea lions, remind me of dogs. And I love dogs.
After the dolphin show, we fell into a routine of going on a ride, eating crappy food, going on a ride, eating crappy food... A passably pleasant way to spend an afternoon. We also hit the Batman rollercoaster, the Buccaneer, and both of the floom (or is that 'flume'?) rides. The second flume (I'll alternate) was fun as we were directly behind two hot skinhead boys. Alas, they got soaked but didn't take off their wet shirts.
We Ballbreakers were indeed breaking one another's balls. Relentlessly.
Example:
Ballbreaker 1: Oh my God. I was screaming like a bitch. I had my eyes closed tight. I couldn't wait for it to be over.
Ballbreaker 2: That sounds like a hot date. And how did you like the ride just now?
After the morning haze lifted, the day was beautiful. Gorgeous. Hot and sunny, but none too humid.
It was all just sublime. The whole day was unmarred by anything bad whatsoever.
Perfect.
Golden.
Sunday, June 08, 2003
Man.
Made it to the gym and had a fairly good workout. When Chelsea muscleboys twice my size play eye hockey with me while I'm lifting, I figure I must be doing something right.
Next stop after the gym was the Factory Cafe on Christopher Street. Now, I have lately noticed some changes at Factory. A week ago I was in and there was this... this... guy who was sort of directing things. Then, yesterday when I had my meeting with Brawler, all the funky thriftshop tables and chairs had been replaced with tables and chairs out of a high school cafeteria. And there seemed to be a new cast of characters working there. Tonight, my worst fears have been confirmed by one of the few remaining familiar faces behind the counter. Factory Cafe, fondly referred to by me and others as 'the office,' where I could get my mail delivered, has changed hands. The new management is straight, and all of the people who have been fixing my lattes and sandwiches these past many months have left. He's making them wear these goofy aprons. It's a bad thing.
And that was sort of a portent of more bad things. I ran into a guy I know. We were talking and he mentioned that of late he's been having a tough time with things. I asked what was up, and immediately regretted it, because I knew what the answer would be. Sure enough, he tested positive a couple of weeks ago. He went through a bad and self-destructive period when he was having a problems awhile ago, and this, it seems, is the result.
I never quite know how to respond under these circumstances. I did my best to offer words of encouragement.
I grew up in a krankhaus of sorts. Most of my memories of my second mother, Ruby, who was Scots, are of her being sick. After several years, she died of cancer. I took care of my grandfather when he was ill at the end of his life when I was a teenager. My sister's illness was terrible for everyone involved, slowly robbing her of life and joy. My response to illness is to do things. And there's no end to what I won't do. I've cleaned shitty sheets, emptied urinals, wiped away pus, dialed 911, administered medication, and most of this before my eighteenth birthday.
But here's the thing. I never know what to say. When people I know are in the hospital, I will do whatever I can to avoid going and visiting. Because there's nothing to do. It's all about talking. And under those circumstances, I just don't know what to say. When my friend George Catravas was in the hospital, I had no problems visiting him. A sinus infection he had somehow backed up into his brain. So he was there but not there, in sort of a weird panic attack, unable to communicate. I would go and just spend time with him, massaging him, making sure that his tapes of Maria Callas were playing in his hospital room. When folks from work at my old job were in the hospital, I managed not to go, though. That would involve talking.
I'm a good talker. I had a ball in Moscow largely because as a Russian for directions and you end up very quickly talking about theology, poetry, or geopolitics. Love that. Small talk just aggravates me. I'd rather be quiet.
Anyway, I'll probably switch into case management mode next time I see my friend who got the bad news, making sure he has a good doctor, discussing what services are available, listening. That sounds like it would be talking, but actually it's doing.
And praying for him. That's something I can do as well.
Anyway. Off to bed. This might be the last I blog between now and Wednesday night. I probably won't have time before I head to my parents' house tomorrow night, and Point Pleasant is pretty much an internet free zone.
Tomorrow Great Adventure. Tuesday doing a garden for my step-mother. It's supposed to be sunny on Tuesday, which is great. I'll be able to get things in the ground. Man it will be great to get my hands in the dirt again.
'Night for now.
And even though you don't know the guy, say a prayer for him. He's a sweet man.
Made it to the gym and had a fairly good workout. When Chelsea muscleboys twice my size play eye hockey with me while I'm lifting, I figure I must be doing something right.
Next stop after the gym was the Factory Cafe on Christopher Street. Now, I have lately noticed some changes at Factory. A week ago I was in and there was this... this... guy who was sort of directing things. Then, yesterday when I had my meeting with Brawler, all the funky thriftshop tables and chairs had been replaced with tables and chairs out of a high school cafeteria. And there seemed to be a new cast of characters working there. Tonight, my worst fears have been confirmed by one of the few remaining familiar faces behind the counter. Factory Cafe, fondly referred to by me and others as 'the office,' where I could get my mail delivered, has changed hands. The new management is straight, and all of the people who have been fixing my lattes and sandwiches these past many months have left. He's making them wear these goofy aprons. It's a bad thing.
And that was sort of a portent of more bad things. I ran into a guy I know. We were talking and he mentioned that of late he's been having a tough time with things. I asked what was up, and immediately regretted it, because I knew what the answer would be. Sure enough, he tested positive a couple of weeks ago. He went through a bad and self-destructive period when he was having a problems awhile ago, and this, it seems, is the result.
I never quite know how to respond under these circumstances. I did my best to offer words of encouragement.
I grew up in a krankhaus of sorts. Most of my memories of my second mother, Ruby, who was Scots, are of her being sick. After several years, she died of cancer. I took care of my grandfather when he was ill at the end of his life when I was a teenager. My sister's illness was terrible for everyone involved, slowly robbing her of life and joy. My response to illness is to do things. And there's no end to what I won't do. I've cleaned shitty sheets, emptied urinals, wiped away pus, dialed 911, administered medication, and most of this before my eighteenth birthday.
But here's the thing. I never know what to say. When people I know are in the hospital, I will do whatever I can to avoid going and visiting. Because there's nothing to do. It's all about talking. And under those circumstances, I just don't know what to say. When my friend George Catravas was in the hospital, I had no problems visiting him. A sinus infection he had somehow backed up into his brain. So he was there but not there, in sort of a weird panic attack, unable to communicate. I would go and just spend time with him, massaging him, making sure that his tapes of Maria Callas were playing in his hospital room. When folks from work at my old job were in the hospital, I managed not to go, though. That would involve talking.
I'm a good talker. I had a ball in Moscow largely because as a Russian for directions and you end up very quickly talking about theology, poetry, or geopolitics. Love that. Small talk just aggravates me. I'd rather be quiet.
Anyway, I'll probably switch into case management mode next time I see my friend who got the bad news, making sure he has a good doctor, discussing what services are available, listening. That sounds like it would be talking, but actually it's doing.
And praying for him. That's something I can do as well.
Anyway. Off to bed. This might be the last I blog between now and Wednesday night. I probably won't have time before I head to my parents' house tomorrow night, and Point Pleasant is pretty much an internet free zone.
Tomorrow Great Adventure. Tuesday doing a garden for my step-mother. It's supposed to be sunny on Tuesday, which is great. I'll be able to get things in the ground. Man it will be great to get my hands in the dirt again.
'Night for now.
And even though you don't know the guy, say a prayer for him. He's a sweet man.
The week ahead
Tomorrow I go to Great Adventure with my softball team. Chance of showers, natch.
Tomorrow night is the GMSMA Program Committee meeting where we will plan out the schedule for next year. Hopefully I'll be getting back into NYC in time to take part.
Then, after the meeting, I come home, pack a bag, load up my dog in the back of the Jeep, and head south to Bucks County. My step-mother is keen to get a garden in, so Tuesday we'll go buy some annuals, and plant them. Spoke to her last night on the phone and she sounds pretty coherent. I stay over night on Wednesday and come back into town on Wednesday night for the GMSMA annual meeting. Should be short, sweet, and to the point. Also, I may be picking up the Baron von Philadelphia on my way back. He was planning on staying with me so he can attend the New York City Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. I'll be busy next weekend with Leather Pride Night. I made an offer to man the flea market. Lord knows I do enough buying of leather-bdsm-kink-fetish gear, so I don't think that pricing will be a problem. Just asking myself, "How much would I pay for this?" After that, it's all about salesmanship ("It's You!"). My goal will be to clear the racks by 10 pm so I can attend the auction.
Huh. Last year, on the day of Leather Pride Night, Special Guy and I had our first date. Sort of. We went to a musclebear sex party in Weehauken. We had a really really good time, hot mostly for each other.
So I'm kinda feeling blah today. Gotta get outta the house and into the city. Get in the mix. Feel some energy. Then come back here and write some more.
Tomorrow I go to Great Adventure with my softball team. Chance of showers, natch.
Tomorrow night is the GMSMA Program Committee meeting where we will plan out the schedule for next year. Hopefully I'll be getting back into NYC in time to take part.
Then, after the meeting, I come home, pack a bag, load up my dog in the back of the Jeep, and head south to Bucks County. My step-mother is keen to get a garden in, so Tuesday we'll go buy some annuals, and plant them. Spoke to her last night on the phone and she sounds pretty coherent. I stay over night on Wednesday and come back into town on Wednesday night for the GMSMA annual meeting. Should be short, sweet, and to the point. Also, I may be picking up the Baron von Philadelphia on my way back. He was planning on staying with me so he can attend the New York City Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. I'll be busy next weekend with Leather Pride Night. I made an offer to man the flea market. Lord knows I do enough buying of leather-bdsm-kink-fetish gear, so I don't think that pricing will be a problem. Just asking myself, "How much would I pay for this?" After that, it's all about salesmanship ("It's You!"). My goal will be to clear the racks by 10 pm so I can attend the auction.
Huh. Last year, on the day of Leather Pride Night, Special Guy and I had our first date. Sort of. We went to a musclebear sex party in Weehauken. We had a really really good time, hot mostly for each other.
So I'm kinda feeling blah today. Gotta get outta the house and into the city. Get in the mix. Feel some energy. Then come back here and write some more.
As Bill Clinton pointed out during the '92 campaign, "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result." (Actually, he said this as part of a larger scheme to get people involved in 12-step programs to vote for him. Really.)
So insanity is probably where I'm headed. Let's get all leathered up and go to the Spiegel where we can hang out with guys in white sneakers!
*sigh*
Actually there were fewer guys in white sneakers there tonight than I've seen ever. But, there were enough to get me all awnry like.
I was sort of planning on going to El Mirage tonight, but I heard that it was 'Spank Me Hard.' I think spanking is fine for a part of a scene, but I wouldn't want to spend an entire night doing it.
Ah well.
And no going out tomorrow. I'm joining my softball team to go to Great Adventure on Monday and we're meeting up at 8:00 a.m. That will be an early night. Although maybe I'll stop in on the Dugout for Beer Blast. Something I haven't done in a while.
Oh. A week later, Alabam' gave me a call. Hopes we can finally have our date. I'm up for that. Play it as it lays.
But what I'd really like is to have gone to the Spiegel to frighten the horses by showing off my slaves freshly whipped back. And now have him waiting on his knees in the next room. Some sexual service, and then chain him up, and have him give me a massage until I drift off into the arms of Morpheus. That's what I'd really like.
So insanity is probably where I'm headed. Let's get all leathered up and go to the Spiegel where we can hang out with guys in white sneakers!
*sigh*
Actually there were fewer guys in white sneakers there tonight than I've seen ever. But, there were enough to get me all awnry like.
I was sort of planning on going to El Mirage tonight, but I heard that it was 'Spank Me Hard.' I think spanking is fine for a part of a scene, but I wouldn't want to spend an entire night doing it.
Ah well.
And no going out tomorrow. I'm joining my softball team to go to Great Adventure on Monday and we're meeting up at 8:00 a.m. That will be an early night. Although maybe I'll stop in on the Dugout for Beer Blast. Something I haven't done in a while.
Oh. A week later, Alabam' gave me a call. Hopes we can finally have our date. I'm up for that. Play it as it lays.
But what I'd really like is to have gone to the Spiegel to frighten the horses by showing off my slaves freshly whipped back. And now have him waiting on his knees in the next room. Some sexual service, and then chain him up, and have him give me a massage until I drift off into the arms of Morpheus. That's what I'd really like.
Saturday, June 07, 2003
New Music
The guys in my car going to Randall's Island to play softball were in their mid twenties, and music hounds as guys in their mid twenties tend to be. M. perused my CD collection and was approving of everything until he came upon my Limp Bizkit CD. He's not a big fan of our guy Fred.
Anyway, I stopped by a store on Sixth Avenue and bought some new CDs. Or rather, Bank One bought some CDs, and I get to listen to them and when I either get an advance check on my book or sell my condo in Fort Lauderdale, I'll pay them back and then they'll be mine. (Thanks Bank One!)
Here's what I bought:
The guys in my car going to Randall's Island to play softball were in their mid twenties, and music hounds as guys in their mid twenties tend to be. M. perused my CD collection and was approving of everything until he came upon my Limp Bizkit CD. He's not a big fan of our guy Fred.
Anyway, I stopped by a store on Sixth Avenue and bought some new CDs. Or rather, Bank One bought some CDs, and I get to listen to them and when I either get an advance check on my book or sell my condo in Fort Lauderdale, I'll pay them back and then they'll be mine. (Thanks Bank One!)
Here's what I bought:
- Red Dirt Girl by Emmylou Harris (don't have this, and long wished I did)
- World Without Tears by Lucinda Williams (Vanity Fair says, "Lucinda Willliams has made the record of a lifetime...a profoundly chilling, heartbreaking, important record." Can't wait. Love Lucinda. No one sings lust the way she does.)
- Bust a Groove by Paul Oakenfold (I snagged a couple of tracks by Mr. Oakenfold off of Limewire, liked it, and decided to buy a CD. See, Music Industry? Music Piracy is not a bad thing!)
- American Life by Madonna (Listened to this in the car on the way back across the river and liked it. I actually have never bought Madonna before, because I haven't needed to. You always here her everywhere. Not the case this time. Has an adult kind of sound I like.)
- Mutter by Rammstein (They are the band that's playing in the opening sequence of Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel's movie XXX. I liked their sound a lot. And, I bought it thinking of basanos. He's into that. If I do indeed end up collaring him, I think I'll give him the responsibility of Music Management. It would be good to expand my musical horizons.)
Punch, No Judy
After softball, and after pizza and beer at Ty's, I met up with the chair of GMSMA's Program Committee and a man we'll call Brawler of Brawler's Fight Club fame to discuss our program on Wednesday, June 25th, on punching.
Let me tell ya, it's really gonna be good. Sadly, PunchPig couldn't make the meeting. And he's iffy about making the program on June 25th. His mother had a heart attack recently, and she's in pretty bad shape. My thoughts and prayers go out to PunchPig and his mom. It became clear talking to Mr. Brawler that PunchPig is pretty integral to the whole thing. Brawler has been punchmeat, and PunchPig provided, in part, the inspiration to start Brawler's Fight Club.
The conversation we had was great. Brawler's was at an interesting intersection. Know what a Venn Diagram is? It's used in mathematics to provide a visual representation of relationships between sets. Each set is a circle. Circles can overlap. So for example, if you want to represent "Blond Men" with a Venn diagram, you would have two circles that overlap. One circle would represent the set of all people who are blond. The other circle would represent the set of all men. Where the circles intersect, you have s shaded area that represents Blond Men, but it is evident looking at the diagram that there are people who are blond who are not men (as in, women), and that there are men who are not blond. Okay, that was lengthy. But picture three circles that intersect. Each circle intersects with the two other circles where they meet, and all three circles intersect and overlap in the middle. One circle is the set of men who are into S/M. One circle is the set of men who are into fighting. One circle is the set of men who eroticize fighting. (So, for example, there are men into S/M who eroticize fighting, and there are men who are into S/M who like fighting but keep their dicks in their pants, and there are men into fighting and who get off on it but who aren't into S/M necessarily. In the area where these three sets overlap was Brawler's Fight Club. Brawler would get straight guys who were just there to fight, S/M guys who liked to tie up other men and use them as punching bags, and guys who would fight and then go into the backroom to take care of getting all hot and bothered by wrestling with each other. A beautiful thing, no?
Apparently a lot of gay men are drawn to this. After a story was published in HX magazine about Brawler's, the next week there were over two hundred guys who turned out, mostly, unfortunately, to watch. Brawler, Program Chair, and I talked about the possible roots of this fascination. The only conclusion we could draw was that it felt great for men who either were big sissies or who lived in dread of being sissies to have the opportunity to work out those issues in what is probably the ultimate arena of masculinity: going at another man with your fists while he's going at you. Brawler, in fact, was on his way up to Connecticut to wrestle with his boyfriend, whom he met at the Fight Club.
Most of what went on at the Fight Club was wrestling. The exception to that was any night that PunchPig happened to be in attendance. Then there was punching. As in, blows to the face.
Brawler mentioned at one point that he would really love to be PunchPig's punchmeat for the demo on June 25th. I don't know if he sensed my hackles going up. I wanna be the punchmeat that night.
Another thing that interests me about this whole scene is adrenaline. In the S/M world, endorphins get all the good press. After a good whipping scene, the bottom has this big goofy grin on his or her face. The endorphins are coursing through their veins. They're flying. Endorphins, after all, have much the same effect as opium. Feeling of pleasure, sense of well being.
And then there's adrenaline. If endorphins are opiates, adrenaline is speed. Adrenaline is associated with the Fight or Flight response. Your higher cognitive faculties shut down. You don't need to be focusing on details, and you're not gonna think your way out. Thinking will only get in the way. The blood flows out of your body core to your limbs, which will need the supply of oxygen. You have an incredibly enhanced sense of self-efficacy. In other words, you can do fuckin' anything. And, incidently, if you're really flying, your bladder and bowels will void by relaxing. That's why it's so much easier to get fisted when you're on crystal meth: your anal sphincter is very very relaxed, and there's not a doubt in your mind that you can, in fact, take that fist.
The adrenaline rush, which any athlete will tell you is a great and wonderful thing, is possibly viewed with jaundiced eye in the S/M world because of the faulty decision-making that goes along with it. But, perhaps, also because it feels a lot like anger. We as a society are afraid of anger. In Italy, I am informed, when someone cuts you off at an intersection, you get out of your car and start screaming, and the other guy gets out of his car and starts screaming. It's anger on display. Although this happens in NYC as well, you're likely to get disapproving looks from bystanders. Not so in sunny Napoli, where it's not considered to be inappropriate behavior. I don't think that S/M practitioners are immune to this bias.
In the world of competitive powerlifting, one trick of the trade is to have a buddy of yours punch you in the face before you go out and bench press several hundred pounds. The adrenaline rush gives you a competive edge.
Here's a scene I'd like to do. I'd like to restrain a man who is more powerful than me, and start beating him. And in not a nice way, with all the billing and cooing that Tops usually do when they're topping. I want it to be about brutality. Because what I want to inspire in the bottom is not "It feels good because I'm taking this for my Sir" but rather "I'm gonna kill that mutherfuckin sack of shit with eyes when these chains come off." I want to beat him and taunt him and really (really!) get his adrenaline flowing. To the point when after he pisses his pants, then I'll fuck him. At that point, he should be pretty loosey-goosey.
I wonder what the aftermath would be? I think if I did do this scene, I'd better keep him restrained awhile afterwards until he cools down. Then I'll ask him how that adrenaline rush felt.
After softball, and after pizza and beer at Ty's, I met up with the chair of GMSMA's Program Committee and a man we'll call Brawler of Brawler's Fight Club fame to discuss our program on Wednesday, June 25th, on punching.
Let me tell ya, it's really gonna be good. Sadly, PunchPig couldn't make the meeting. And he's iffy about making the program on June 25th. His mother had a heart attack recently, and she's in pretty bad shape. My thoughts and prayers go out to PunchPig and his mom. It became clear talking to Mr. Brawler that PunchPig is pretty integral to the whole thing. Brawler has been punchmeat, and PunchPig provided, in part, the inspiration to start Brawler's Fight Club.
The conversation we had was great. Brawler's was at an interesting intersection. Know what a Venn Diagram is? It's used in mathematics to provide a visual representation of relationships between sets. Each set is a circle. Circles can overlap. So for example, if you want to represent "Blond Men" with a Venn diagram, you would have two circles that overlap. One circle would represent the set of all people who are blond. The other circle would represent the set of all men. Where the circles intersect, you have s shaded area that represents Blond Men, but it is evident looking at the diagram that there are people who are blond who are not men (as in, women), and that there are men who are not blond. Okay, that was lengthy. But picture three circles that intersect. Each circle intersects with the two other circles where they meet, and all three circles intersect and overlap in the middle. One circle is the set of men who are into S/M. One circle is the set of men who are into fighting. One circle is the set of men who eroticize fighting. (So, for example, there are men into S/M who eroticize fighting, and there are men who are into S/M who like fighting but keep their dicks in their pants, and there are men into fighting and who get off on it but who aren't into S/M necessarily. In the area where these three sets overlap was Brawler's Fight Club. Brawler would get straight guys who were just there to fight, S/M guys who liked to tie up other men and use them as punching bags, and guys who would fight and then go into the backroom to take care of getting all hot and bothered by wrestling with each other. A beautiful thing, no?
Apparently a lot of gay men are drawn to this. After a story was published in HX magazine about Brawler's, the next week there were over two hundred guys who turned out, mostly, unfortunately, to watch. Brawler, Program Chair, and I talked about the possible roots of this fascination. The only conclusion we could draw was that it felt great for men who either were big sissies or who lived in dread of being sissies to have the opportunity to work out those issues in what is probably the ultimate arena of masculinity: going at another man with your fists while he's going at you. Brawler, in fact, was on his way up to Connecticut to wrestle with his boyfriend, whom he met at the Fight Club.
Most of what went on at the Fight Club was wrestling. The exception to that was any night that PunchPig happened to be in attendance. Then there was punching. As in, blows to the face.
Brawler mentioned at one point that he would really love to be PunchPig's punchmeat for the demo on June 25th. I don't know if he sensed my hackles going up. I wanna be the punchmeat that night.
Another thing that interests me about this whole scene is adrenaline. In the S/M world, endorphins get all the good press. After a good whipping scene, the bottom has this big goofy grin on his or her face. The endorphins are coursing through their veins. They're flying. Endorphins, after all, have much the same effect as opium. Feeling of pleasure, sense of well being.
And then there's adrenaline. If endorphins are opiates, adrenaline is speed. Adrenaline is associated with the Fight or Flight response. Your higher cognitive faculties shut down. You don't need to be focusing on details, and you're not gonna think your way out. Thinking will only get in the way. The blood flows out of your body core to your limbs, which will need the supply of oxygen. You have an incredibly enhanced sense of self-efficacy. In other words, you can do fuckin' anything. And, incidently, if you're really flying, your bladder and bowels will void by relaxing. That's why it's so much easier to get fisted when you're on crystal meth: your anal sphincter is very very relaxed, and there's not a doubt in your mind that you can, in fact, take that fist.
The adrenaline rush, which any athlete will tell you is a great and wonderful thing, is possibly viewed with jaundiced eye in the S/M world because of the faulty decision-making that goes along with it. But, perhaps, also because it feels a lot like anger. We as a society are afraid of anger. In Italy, I am informed, when someone cuts you off at an intersection, you get out of your car and start screaming, and the other guy gets out of his car and starts screaming. It's anger on display. Although this happens in NYC as well, you're likely to get disapproving looks from bystanders. Not so in sunny Napoli, where it's not considered to be inappropriate behavior. I don't think that S/M practitioners are immune to this bias.
In the world of competitive powerlifting, one trick of the trade is to have a buddy of yours punch you in the face before you go out and bench press several hundred pounds. The adrenaline rush gives you a competive edge.
Here's a scene I'd like to do. I'd like to restrain a man who is more powerful than me, and start beating him. And in not a nice way, with all the billing and cooing that Tops usually do when they're topping. I want it to be about brutality. Because what I want to inspire in the bottom is not "It feels good because I'm taking this for my Sir" but rather "I'm gonna kill that mutherfuckin sack of shit with eyes when these chains come off." I want to beat him and taunt him and really (really!) get his adrenaline flowing. To the point when after he pisses his pants, then I'll fuck him. At that point, he should be pretty loosey-goosey.
I wonder what the aftermath would be? I think if I did do this scene, I'd better keep him restrained awhile afterwards until he cools down. Then I'll ask him how that adrenaline rush felt.
Undefeated
Softball was good today. Our first game was scheduled at 1 pm, so we didn't have to meet up until 11:30. A luxury. It was raining when we met. I checked the website before I left the house, and there was no indication that the game was called off. We drove out to Randall's Island, and the other team, the Noreasters, was nowhere in evidence. They didn't show up, ergo, they forfeited, ergo, the Ballbreakers remain undefeated. Because if we had left before the second game started and they showed up than it would have meant that we forfeited, we waited until the time the second game would start. What to do in the interim? How about batting practice in the rain.
So, even though there wasn't a game per se, it was good. Actually, it was transcendent. I had a moment, standing out there in Centerfield, (having missed two flyballs that basically came right too me), when I just had this feeling of bliss. "It doesn't get any better than this," I thought. A game I love, guys I love, practicing, laughing, cheering each other on... softball is sublime.
Softball was good today. Our first game was scheduled at 1 pm, so we didn't have to meet up until 11:30. A luxury. It was raining when we met. I checked the website before I left the house, and there was no indication that the game was called off. We drove out to Randall's Island, and the other team, the Noreasters, was nowhere in evidence. They didn't show up, ergo, they forfeited, ergo, the Ballbreakers remain undefeated. Because if we had left before the second game started and they showed up than it would have meant that we forfeited, we waited until the time the second game would start. What to do in the interim? How about batting practice in the rain.
So, even though there wasn't a game per se, it was good. Actually, it was transcendent. I had a moment, standing out there in Centerfield, (having missed two flyballs that basically came right too me), when I just had this feeling of bliss. "It doesn't get any better than this," I thought. A game I love, guys I love, practicing, laughing, cheering each other on... softball is sublime.
Worth Waiting For
Whilst messaging back and forth on WorldLeathermen today, basanos threw me a curve, quoting from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer of the Episcopal Church in America. Right then and there, I had to go jerk off. The masturbatory fantasy involved a visit to a kinky iron monger who would weld a thick, steel collar around his neck and cuffs on each wrist. Just that was plenty to get me off.
Gotta hold back. I fight back the urge to get him to come down here to NYC before the date he gave me, June 22nd. Or in the alternative, to gas up the Jeep Liberty and drive up there to Albany. After the severus episode, I just want to confirm that he exists, although I actually don't have a lot of doubt about that.
But no. Sit back. Take it easy. Relax. If it's in the cards, it's in the cards. If not, then not. Only time will tell. No sense rushing into things. I've been invited to a party on July 3rd, hosted at the home of two Hellfire members who live outside of Philadelphia. I'd love to attend with basanos on a leash. "Hi! How's it going? Good to see you! This is my slave, basanos. basanos, show this man some respect."
But that would be an overly ambitious time table.
Because I wouldn't want it to be a slave-for-a-day kind of thing. That is too much mixing of fantasy and reality. I want it to be all about reality if indeed it happens. And there are a lot of details to work out before that happens.
At TESFest, an excellet workshop I attended was conducted by a woman who is an experienced slave owner, and a lawyer. She spoke convincingly about having a contract in place. To be sure, such a contract is not legally enforceable, but it serves an important purpose in letting both parties put in writing their needs, wants, and expectations, and then sit down and hammer out something that works for both of them. That way, a breach of the contract will be immediately evident to both Master and slave. That ought to suffice to prevent the relationship from devolving into boyfriends or something. And, she recommended that initially, the term of the contract be for a shorter period of time (say six weeks or three months). No one can say "Deals off, it's not working" until the term of the contract expires. At the end of the contract is the time to decide whether or not it's working or not.
The penalty for breach of the contract? Well, in most cases it's 'you gotta sit down and talk about it.' Best not to put everything in terms of 'and if the slave does not keep all of my boots shined at all times then the slave will be dismissed' or whatever. A slave is looking for security, and having abandonment constantly hanging over his head doth not security provide. The most severe penalty is for either party acting in bad faith. The penalty there is dishonor.
I like that. There's not enough attention paid to honor and dishonor in the world today.
Anyway. Maybe I'm spinning wheels way too much on a man I've never met.
But still... The Book of Common Prayer???!! Wow.
Whilst messaging back and forth on WorldLeathermen today, basanos threw me a curve, quoting from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer of the Episcopal Church in America. Right then and there, I had to go jerk off. The masturbatory fantasy involved a visit to a kinky iron monger who would weld a thick, steel collar around his neck and cuffs on each wrist. Just that was plenty to get me off.
Gotta hold back. I fight back the urge to get him to come down here to NYC before the date he gave me, June 22nd. Or in the alternative, to gas up the Jeep Liberty and drive up there to Albany. After the severus episode, I just want to confirm that he exists, although I actually don't have a lot of doubt about that.
But no. Sit back. Take it easy. Relax. If it's in the cards, it's in the cards. If not, then not. Only time will tell. No sense rushing into things. I've been invited to a party on July 3rd, hosted at the home of two Hellfire members who live outside of Philadelphia. I'd love to attend with basanos on a leash. "Hi! How's it going? Good to see you! This is my slave, basanos. basanos, show this man some respect."
But that would be an overly ambitious time table.
Because I wouldn't want it to be a slave-for-a-day kind of thing. That is too much mixing of fantasy and reality. I want it to be all about reality if indeed it happens. And there are a lot of details to work out before that happens.
At TESFest, an excellet workshop I attended was conducted by a woman who is an experienced slave owner, and a lawyer. She spoke convincingly about having a contract in place. To be sure, such a contract is not legally enforceable, but it serves an important purpose in letting both parties put in writing their needs, wants, and expectations, and then sit down and hammer out something that works for both of them. That way, a breach of the contract will be immediately evident to both Master and slave. That ought to suffice to prevent the relationship from devolving into boyfriends or something. And, she recommended that initially, the term of the contract be for a shorter period of time (say six weeks or three months). No one can say "Deals off, it's not working" until the term of the contract expires. At the end of the contract is the time to decide whether or not it's working or not.
The penalty for breach of the contract? Well, in most cases it's 'you gotta sit down and talk about it.' Best not to put everything in terms of 'and if the slave does not keep all of my boots shined at all times then the slave will be dismissed' or whatever. A slave is looking for security, and having abandonment constantly hanging over his head doth not security provide. The most severe penalty is for either party acting in bad faith. The penalty there is dishonor.
I like that. There's not enough attention paid to honor and dishonor in the world today.
Anyway. Maybe I'm spinning wheels way too much on a man I've never met.
But still... The Book of Common Prayer???!! Wow.
Friday, June 06, 2003
Blow out the candles, Bay-beee!
SingleTails is one year old. And what a year it's been.
Here is my very first posting, reprinted for your reading pleasure...
The link that I was probably trying for, but didn't know how to provide, was for the Bullwhip Page.
SingleTails is one year old. And what a year it's been.
Here is my very first posting, reprinted for your reading pleasure...
So it begins. By way of introduction, I'm a 37 year old gay man, living in Jersey City and working in Lower Manhattan. I grew up in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. I recently purchased a condo in Fort Lauderdale. Part real estate investment, part weekend getaway. My project (as Jean Paul Sartre used that term) is to build for myself a full and happy life as a single, childless man. Sort of a secular monk.
And what's the thing about 'single tails?' Well, everybody needs a hobby. Mine happens to be throwing whips. Primarily I work with snake whips, which are distinct from bullwhips in that a bullwhip has a wooden handle at the end, and a snake whip has a shot-loaded butt on it. I work with a 5' kangaroo snake whip with a 2' fall, a 4' kangaroo snake whip with a 2' fall, and a 5' kangaroo signal whip. What's to like? Absolutely the feeling of wielding that power (the crack from throwing a whip occurs because the power of the throw is concentrated in the tip, which breaks the sound barrier). Also because there is a zen quality to throwing. Like splitting wood. Like target practice. If you think about it, you screw it up. You rely on your body's knowledge, find your center, and throw. Here's an informative link on the subject:
The link that I was probably trying for, but didn't know how to provide, was for the Bullwhip Page.
Oh. And another cool thing about Bucks County. They have Tasty Kakes there. We're talking chocolate cream-filled cupcakes, Tandy Cakes, Butterscotch Krimpets. All of it. Y'know what benighted New Yorkers have? Hostess. Absolute dreck. Today I made the mistake of buying what I thought were little chocolate donoughts. I picked up a box of "Hostess Frosted Donuts." They taste like how I imagine upholstery to taste. Y'know why they're called "Frosted Donuts" instead of "Chocolate Frosted Donuts?" Because the good people at Hostess doesn't put enough chocolate in there for them to legally label them as being chocolate. Trust me on that. I'm the son of a food inspector. At MacDonald's, you can get a 'shake' with your Big Mac and fries, but you can't get a milkshake. Why? Because there isn't a sufficient percentage of milk in there. I've never had the courage to ask for a list of ingredients. In high school, it was said that shakes were made of 'edible plastic.' I have no idea whether or not this is true. Probably not, as plastic is a petroleum product and I can't imagine what you would have to do to a petroleum product to make it edible.
Rarely rarely I've run across Tasty Kakes in New York City. I can get them at my supermarket here in Jersey City. If you see them, pick up a sampling. You won't be disappointed. And my Dad used to inspect the bakery where they were made. They're made with milk, butter, flour, eggs, chocolate, and other things that you associate with a cupcake. And their chocolate donoughts are called "Chocolate
Donoughts."
Rarely rarely I've run across Tasty Kakes in New York City. I can get them at my supermarket here in Jersey City. If you see them, pick up a sampling. You won't be disappointed. And my Dad used to inspect the bakery where they were made. They're made with milk, butter, flour, eggs, chocolate, and other things that you associate with a cupcake. And their chocolate donoughts are called "Chocolate
Donoughts."
Can't wait
Beginning on June 16th, filming will begin on a remake of the Stepford Wives, starring Bette Midler, Nicole Kidman, and Glenn Close.
Read that over again. Let it sink in.
Life is good, huh?
Oh. And a propos of the post below, I think I'll make San Francisco residency an inside joke where I'm the only one on the inside. Here's the code:
"San Franciscan" means "Annoying Asshole"
"You strike me as someone who would really thrive in San Francisco" means "You are a totally annoying asshole, aren't you?"
"I though he moved to San Francisco" means "What an annoying asshole he is."
Huh. Another thought occurs to me. There are several people I've known both before and after they moved to New York City. NYC changes a person. (Except me. Same as always. Swear to God.) But I wonder if living in San Francisco is something of a tonic for irritating assholes, and that's why they move there. At some level, they know that they're irritating assholes. They've seen the eyes glaze over when they break into conversation to deliver a lecture to the people they're talking to. And even though they hate themselves for doing this, they can't stop. And perhaps they thing, "If I lived in San Francisco, maybe I would be able to relax and not be an irritating asshole any more." Since San Francisco is arguably the Gay Sex Capitol of the World, they could be right about this intuition. Maybe what they really need is to get laid. A lot. And since that's so much easier to do in San Francisco than in New York or Philadelphia, perhaps that did the trick.
Beginning on June 16th, filming will begin on a remake of the Stepford Wives, starring Bette Midler, Nicole Kidman, and Glenn Close.
Read that over again. Let it sink in.
Life is good, huh?
Oh. And a propos of the post below, I think I'll make San Francisco residency an inside joke where I'm the only one on the inside. Here's the code:
"San Franciscan" means "Annoying Asshole"
"You strike me as someone who would really thrive in San Francisco" means "You are a totally annoying asshole, aren't you?"
"I though he moved to San Francisco" means "What an annoying asshole he is."
Huh. Another thought occurs to me. There are several people I've known both before and after they moved to New York City. NYC changes a person. (Except me. Same as always. Swear to God.) But I wonder if living in San Francisco is something of a tonic for irritating assholes, and that's why they move there. At some level, they know that they're irritating assholes. They've seen the eyes glaze over when they break into conversation to deliver a lecture to the people they're talking to. And even though they hate themselves for doing this, they can't stop. And perhaps they thing, "If I lived in San Francisco, maybe I would be able to relax and not be an irritating asshole any more." Since San Francisco is arguably the Gay Sex Capitol of the World, they could be right about this intuition. Maybe what they really need is to get laid. A lot. And since that's so much easier to do in San Francisco than in New York or Philadelphia, perhaps that did the trick.
San Francisco, Open your Golden Gate...
I've written before about the beef I have with San Francisco. I've visited everywhere on the West Coast from Vancouver to San Diego, and most of the points in between, but somehow I've avoided San Francisco. I can never quite put my finger on why I have this thing with San Francisco. But, just the other I realized something. Time and time again in my life, San Francisco has done me a service. There'd be some totally annoying guy that just got right under my skin. Drove me nuts. Made it really difficult to maintain my Prime Directive of Always Be A Nice Guy. And then, problem solved: he'd move to San Francisco and get out of my hair. I swear, again and again it's happened. I'd greet the news with a sigh of relief. And it was always San Francisco.
So I imagine it to be a town populated with men who drive me nuts, have me clenching my teeth and balling my fists in my pockets. Last Refuge of the Fatuous.
Just yesterday, I was talking to UnFortunate and the name of a guy I knew from ACT UP came up. Total narcissistic idiot. You could see him start to twitch when attention was diverted from him for a moment. His argument for or against everything was usually delivered tearfully, and was all about how this made his life a wee bit more challenging. UnFortunate mentioned that he's moved to San Francisco.
Thank the Lord for small mercies.
But I've now met some men I like from San Francisco (such as Sweetheart Sir and a few others), and Special Guy will soon be moving to San Francisco, and I plan on visiting him as often as he'll have me. Walking around NYC with Special Guy is a great thing. He knows everybody, is infinitely charmed and excited, and just makes the place seem so much more interesting. No doubt that this former Daddy's bartender will be a great person to tour SF with.
Even though I'll be running the risk of encountering all of those way-off-the-asshole-meter guys that have spared me continued irritation by making the City by the Bay their home.
I've written before about the beef I have with San Francisco. I've visited everywhere on the West Coast from Vancouver to San Diego, and most of the points in between, but somehow I've avoided San Francisco. I can never quite put my finger on why I have this thing with San Francisco. But, just the other I realized something. Time and time again in my life, San Francisco has done me a service. There'd be some totally annoying guy that just got right under my skin. Drove me nuts. Made it really difficult to maintain my Prime Directive of Always Be A Nice Guy. And then, problem solved: he'd move to San Francisco and get out of my hair. I swear, again and again it's happened. I'd greet the news with a sigh of relief. And it was always San Francisco.
So I imagine it to be a town populated with men who drive me nuts, have me clenching my teeth and balling my fists in my pockets. Last Refuge of the Fatuous.
Just yesterday, I was talking to UnFortunate and the name of a guy I knew from ACT UP came up. Total narcissistic idiot. You could see him start to twitch when attention was diverted from him for a moment. His argument for or against everything was usually delivered tearfully, and was all about how this made his life a wee bit more challenging. UnFortunate mentioned that he's moved to San Francisco.
Thank the Lord for small mercies.
But I've now met some men I like from San Francisco (such as Sweetheart Sir and a few others), and Special Guy will soon be moving to San Francisco, and I plan on visiting him as often as he'll have me. Walking around NYC with Special Guy is a great thing. He knows everybody, is infinitely charmed and excited, and just makes the place seem so much more interesting. No doubt that this former Daddy's bartender will be a great person to tour SF with.
Even though I'll be running the risk of encountering all of those way-off-the-asshole-meter guys that have spared me continued irritation by making the City by the Bay their home.
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