Sunday, February 29, 2004

Places Faithful Companion Has Been

  • Montreal, Quebec
  • Washington County, Kentucky
  • Nashville, Tennesee

Pretty good for a dog, huh? Especially a dog of humble beginnings from Brooklyn, New York.

Good Day


Took my dog for a nice long walk. Loaded up the firewood rack I welded. Filled up the woodbox. Burned the trash. Cleaned up the yard a little bit. Thought about putting in a serious vegetable garden in a few weeks. Was hailed by a guy on AOL, a Old Guard Top who smokes cigars and lives in Lambertville, New Jersey. Watched a great softball game on television between the teams culled from the American League and the National League of Major League Baseball. Cleaned the kitchen and vacuumed. Now I'm heading off to the gym, then stopping at Starbucks to sit on the porch and finish up Brave New World and smoke a cigar. Followed by a trip to the supermarket. Then home. Make dinner. Send out a few resumes tonight for dreary but well-paying desk jobs.


Hate that Sunday afternoon moment.

Arbeitet Macht Frey

With respect to the 'boy in chains' pic referenced in a recent post, Diabolique informs me that the artist's name is Frey. D. sent me a few more samples of his works. Beautiful stuff. Gorgeous. Muscle-y youths with fear and desire co-mingled on their faces about to get their tight holes raped by sneering, leather-clad sadists. Hope Mr. Frey shows up at the Tom of Finland Erotic Art Fair in NYC some time.

A Poem For My Brother Who Is Moving To Florida

No more cold winters for you!
No more slipping on the ice and shattering a wee little bone in your
Hand. No more shoveling snow. No more shivering and swearing
Waiting for the car to warm up. No more the smell of wet wool.

Just Hot! Hot hot Hot! And palm trees. And the beach. And
Twelve month tans. And your pool. And orchids. And sunglasses.
And shorts.

But consider: This will be your last glorious
prayedfor hopedfor longedfor finally!

Just Call Me Lance Romance

I detect a pattern. I go to the Bike Stop on Saturday nights hoping to fall in love.

I know. Pathetic, right?

it's not that bad. I go. I talk to buddies of mine. I flirt. I give a 'Woof' to hot men I see. I have a beer (before switching to Coca-Cola). I smoke cigars. I have a good time.

But I'm not looking to hook up really.

I'm hoping to meet an extraordinary man. A man to steal my heart--and my breath--away.

Not necessarily... y'know... for ever. For a night will do.

One night, a million years ago, I was at the Altar. (The Altar, a short-lived NYC venue, will always loom large in my mind as the best you can do for a leatherbar.) Anyway, I saw these two guys. In their forties. Bearish guys. Although I don't remember anyone using that term back then. I happened to see them strike up a conversation, next to each other, leaning up against the bar. Soon they were laughing. Talking more animatedly. Standing now face to face. Then it was like they caught fire. Both had a glint in their eyes. By the end of the night they were kissing, deeply and passionately. Absolutely smitten with one another. Taking time out to sort of look around, grinning from ear to ear. Not quite believing their incredible good fortune. Pinching themselves to see if they were dreaming.

Who knows what became of them. Maybe they're running a tshirt shop in Provincetown now. Maybe that night they swapped numbers but never called. Whatever. Doesn't matter. They both had some time out of time. That night went on for eternity.


Last night, I became aware of another tragic mistake I made.

When I lived in Philadelphia fifteen years ago, I used to hang at the Westbury. There was this guy there, a bartender named Ron. Ron was beautiful. Built, bearded, hairy. Totally stunning. And such a sweetheart! Kind, considerate, warm, friendly.

Mostly, I would go to the Westbury to talk to Ron. I was pretty taken by him. But I figured that he was way outta my league. But I could dream.

So I would go to the Westbury, and Ron would give me free beers. And always find time to talk to me. One night, when I closed down the place, he offered me a ride home. Like I was gonna say no to that. No matter that I lived all of five blocks away. So Ron drove me home in his truck. We sat outside my apartment for about forty-five minutes talking, before I said something like, "Well, I've taken up enough of your time I guess," and ran upstairs to jerk off thinking about Ron. And then, Ron moved in across the street from me. And then, I moved to NYC.

After I moved, I got together with the Baron. "So," I asked, "How are things in Philadelphia?"

"You know who asks about you all the time?" said the Baron, "Ron, the bartender from the Westbury. He really had a thing for you. He always figured he wasn't your type."

Oh. Man.

By then, I was in yet another relationship with a congenitally unhappy guy. So it was all about shoulda woulda coulda.

Well, last night I was talking to a guy who used to be a bartender at the Bike Stop back in the day. I asked him if he knew Ron, a guy who used to bartend at the Westbury.

"Oh yeah," he said, "I knew Ron really well. He was one of my best friends."

"What ever happened to him?" I followed up.

"He's gone. He died about eight years ago."

Quite a kick in the stomach that was.

Okay. I was young. Just a pup then. And stupid.

Please, God, don't let me make a mistake like that again.

"Behold! i stand at the door and knock." Let me hear the knock. Let me stop what I'm doing and go to the door. Let me have the guts to swing that door wide open. Let me invite in the man standing outside.

Saturday, February 28, 2004


When Russell Crowe was up for an Oscar for Gladiator, this plot surfaced. Someone out there wanted to kidnap Russell Crowe and remove his fingers. They planned to strike just before the Oscars. The FBI got involved. Decided it was a credible threat.

I'm not a finger fetishist. If I was going to go through all the trouble of kidnapping Russell Crowe, toothsome morsel that he is, I probably wouldn't pay much attention to his digits. But abduction, mutilation, and torture kinda put him on the map in the landscape of my JO fantasies. As if his role in Romper Stomper didn't.

I haven't heard much about any kidnap plots this year.

Must be kinda weird being a movie star, and knowing--how could they not know?--that you loom so large in the fantasies of a sizeable number of whackos out there. The FBI calls you in for a sit-down and tells you that somebody out there wants your fingers to keep.

I hope, like with any unwanted attention, they'd be flattered.

A guy I was talking to a few weeks ago told me he had a Mr. Benson. This... this... Man contacted him. The Man was wealthy, and he posed to they guy a question: "What would it take for you to belong to me?" The guy checked out the Man. The Man was legit. Senior partner in a brokerage house. Owned a big house just outside of a major city. And apparently he had a cell somewhere in his compound where he wanted to keep this guy I was talking to.

"Wow," I said when I was told the story, "That's pretty hot."

"Yeah," said they guy, "That's real hot." And smiled.

I guess it's probably not gonna really happen. Things like that don't happen in the real world, only in stories in the tattered pages of back issues of Drummer magazine. Think of the logistics! If you have a dog or kids, you can make arrangements when you head off for a long theater weekend in London or whatever. Not so when you've got a man chained up out in the pool house.

But it's kind of the Ur fable of the Master/slave set, huh? Abducted. Sold on the auction block. Spending the rest of your life in slavery to The Master. Retold countless times. The rumors fly on the internet that it "really happens." Back in the days when S/M was for me just a fantasy life, I was willing to believe that again and again when Mastr09754 on AOL (who had no profile and no pic to offer) claimed that that's what he was all about and all I had to do was give my weekly schedule and one night as I was locking up the office at work an unmarked van would pull up and that would be the last the world heard of me.

And now, I'm able to appreciate the Ur-fantasy from the other side, too. That sweet tattooed boy with the sad, lost look in his eyes that filled up my tank at the Sunoco station in Doylestown. How cool would it be... to take him, capture him... the words are so resonant. Keep him chained. Break him by nothing else than the force of my will, my desire to own him and possess him. To take his life and independence from him and make him mine.

Yep. That's the Ur-fantasy.

Here's what I know of dog psychology. Wolves have something called the "hunting cycle." Wolves prowl, and then pick up a scent. They follow the scent. They spot the prey. They stalk the prey. The prey give chase. The wolf runs down the prey, pursuing until fortune or fatigue give opportunity. The kill. The wolf eats its fill, then covers the carcass, marking the area with piss and scat.

Now, here's the thing. If the wolf is interrupted at any part of the hunting cycle, the wolf has to go back to the start. It's been hardwired by evolution. And what we've done with the dog--working dogs in particular--is to tease out elements of the hunting cycle that would be helpful and keep them intact, discarding the others. For example, my dog is mostly hound. So he's big on 'find the scent, follow the scent.' But the other elements of the hunting cycle are gone. I remember once in Jersey City, he found a wounded pigeon while I was walking him one night. I noticed in the dark that he had something in his mouth and bent in to inspect. And sure enough, he had this pigeon in his jaws. But he didn't know what to do with it. He just sat there, looking confused. The shake-it-to-snap-its-neck thing that a differently bred dog would get was lost to him.

And what's the point of this digression?

Well, I think it could be argued that much of S/M is just retelling of discrete elements of the Ur-Fable. Just like the elements of the hunting cycle.


Interesting thought.

But where does the Ur-fable come from? How did that work its way into our collective subconscious? Is it some universal childhood experience? is it something like nest building with birds... it's just in there because of something that Homo Sapiens sapiens had to deal with back there on the veldt a million years ago?

Tell me where is beauty bred? In the heart or in the head?

Well, time for house cleaning.

I'll drop this pic into my blog. It was emailed to me years ago. I have no idea who the artist is, so I can't give attribution. (Any help in this regard would be appreciated.) I think it's way hot.

boy in chains


Last night, after waffling for a couple of hours (maybe I should just stay in ... Nah, it's the weekend, make the most of it ... but I'm kinda tired, bed would feel good ... c'mon, there might be some good tourist dick), I drove doown to the Raven last night.

And there they all were. All of the Tims out in force. Getting noggleschlaggered on those big Raven drinks.

But there were two bear guys over in the corner.

It's like were ex-patriots. "Mon confrere! Mon semblable!" It's so funny. We spot each other, and it's like there's nobody else in the place. I got a beer, positioned myself in my spot under the smokeeter, and over came the younger of the two bear guys.

They were weekending in New Hope. Up from the Maryland DC suburbs. We talked about work. We talked about dogs. They asked if I wanted to come back to their room.


So off we went.

Alas, a local guy (who at least had facial hair but seemed to be wearing a Members Only jacket), decided to tag alone.

I got naked and laid back on the bed. Older bear guy (sooooo hot. way hot. well, they both were. beautiful men) was giving me a blow job to beat the band. Local guy waited for him to come up for air and then jumped in. He was kind of masturbatory. On his own trip. Younger bear guy took him aside and politely asked him to leave. Local guy was cool with that.

Then we got down to business.

It was great. Three men enjoying each other's bodies. Enjoying being men. I ended up plowing older bear guy while younger bear guy worked my tits and my hole. Ker-Pow! I shot.

They were having whiskey dick problems, so that was pretty much the Grand Finale. So they made a me sandwich on the bed.

But I had to be home. And they needed some time together as a couple. (They've been together ten years! How sweet is that?)

Out into the cold night, and I drove home once again over those Bucks County back roads.

That felt good.

Friday, February 27, 2004


Well I'm floored! It's incredible!

I'm referring, of course, to the amazing similarities between Vintage '70s Radical Feminism and Early Twenty-First Century Leather.


It's true! Parallel lines really do meet in infinity!

Let's look at the most glaring examples...

Poor Spelling If you're a fan of 'womyn,' they you'll love 'boi.'

Fragrance Free I know a guy who was stopped at the door of the Eagle and turned away because he was wearing patchoulli oil. And I know a woman who was thrown out of her Consciousness Raising group for the same thing.

Hair is Good! Shaving your legs is doing violence to your body in order to conform to the oppressive standards opposed by men! Shaving your chest is... well... being a twink.

Contentious Sashes There were protests at the Miss America Pageant in Atlantic City in 1970. Among the street theater was the burning of uncomfortable lacy undergarments. Hence, feminists were labeld by Archie Bunker types as bra-burners. And you wouldn't believe the flack I got for doing a favor for a friend and competing in the Mr. Northeast Leather Sir competition. Don't hate me because I wear a sash!

Trans-Phobia Sad but true. Women of Transgendered experience aren't welcome at the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival. And at the other side of the state, Men of Transgendered experience aren't welcome at Inferno. (Although I'm informed that at least one managed to make it through the gates and had a pretty good time this past year.)

Ah, the perils of orthodoxy, huh?

Kill Trevor!

Who is Trevor?

Trevor is eleven years old. Eleven is a difficult age. The world is profoundly confusing to any eleven year old. Here comes puberty! That's scary.

One more thing you should know about Trevor. If he could, he'd rule the world. He's already doing a pretty good job. This week, Trevor saw to it that two shock jocks, Howard Stern and something called Bubba the Love Sponge got fired. Trevor didn't like Howard and Bubba. And so they had to go. And, Trevor was the reason there was all of that hullaballoo about Janet Jackson's bosom during the Superbowl.

Y'see, many there are in our society that would like verrrry much to put Trevor in charge of things. Making the world safe for eleven year olds. That's what it's all about. "What if my child saw that?"

Trevor is the stand-in for all of those children. Get it?

Here's why I hate Trevor. I'm not eleven years old! I'm a grown up! If I want to listen to Howard or Bubba or be entertained by Janet Jackson's bared bosom on the half-time show, I should have that option.

But, nooooooo.

Trevor doesn't want that.

Kill Trevor.

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

Toughen Up

When I got home from work, I had email from PunchPig waiting for me in my In-Box. It was the email that I sent to PunchPig after he and I did the face punching scene.

Right on target, PunchPig.

I was reminded of what my motivation was when I started in on this whole bottoming thing. I was having a hard time. Boss Sunshine was the source of much grief. Things were tough financially. My step mother had congestive heart failure. And I sensed that things were gonna get tougher.

So I needed to find my strength. I needed to be reminded that no matter how tough things got, I'd emerge intact. And having Roman Cool put me through my paces in an endurance bondage session like none other, getting clocked by PunchPig, getting my ass beat at Inferno. Push me, wreck me, send me over the edge. Because I know you'll be there to put me back together. So bring it on.

Bring. It. On.

I'm not alone in this. I'll come through.

So now it's here. I'm at the end of my rope. I've been in Top mode lately. Perhaps that's because I just can't take any more hurt and fear and feeling of failure.

yeah. I think that might be it.


But here's the mushy part: I'll be okay. I'll be good. I have resources within I don't know about. And I am loved.

Y'know, this is what leather is all about. This is totally what leather is all about.

Anyway, back to the torment!

Marriage Matters

Will gay marriage become the big issue in the 2004 Presidential election? Pundits everywhere say (emphatically) "Yes!"

I say no.

The President has nothing to gain by making it an issue. And, in fact, he could lose ground.

Y'see, for the vast majority of Americans, the Culture Wars are a non-starter. They might have opinions when asked, but they're a lot more concerned about jobs and such. There is, of course, a constituency for the issue, the hardline, radical Christian right. They'll be mobilized like hell over this, heading to the polls in droves. But they'd be doing that anyway. Bush, who prohibited the use of Federal funds for fetal stem cell research, is already their guy.

But, you might say, they'll be digging deeper into their wallets.

And that's true. But there are two sides to that equation. I don't doubt that the Human Rights Campaign has a fundraising letter going out in today's mail. Gays will be opening up their wallets, too. And our discretionary income outstrips theirs by wide margins.

In fact, I wouldn't be surprised--although I hate to admit the level of my cynicism--that there's probably rejoicing in the Kerry camp. Siince the President made an issue of it by advocating a Constitutional Freakin' Amendment, the Democrats don't really have to worry much about doing anything else for us this year. We're taken care of.

Oh. And if you think about it, there's not a lot of difference between Bush's position on the issue and Kerry's.

How about that.

Straight Eye for the Queer Guy


apparently I missed the Comedy Central parody of Queer Eye, in which five straight men do a makeover on a gay guy. But, it seems that I didn't miss much. According to what the guys at work were saying, it sounds obvious and lame, just played for laughs. Throwing food on the floor of the kitchen. That kind of thing.

I think they missed the mark.

I'd say that there's a lot that gay men (in general) could learn from straight men.

Like what?

Three come to mind.

How to Have an Intimate and Heart-Wrenching Conversation With Another Man Without Using Any Personal Pronouns The secret? It's simple. You talk about sports. Guys like sports because sports are provide entertainment, but that's not the half of it. If you have only a basic familiarity with professional sports, you can have a conversation with any straight man on the planet. And, that conversation will quickly go from the trivial to the meaning of your life and his.


Sports is a sort of code. The ancient Greeks would project their deepest longings and desires, their hopes, fears, and aspirations onto the pantheon of their gods and goddesses and their heroes. We have Wayne Gretsky and Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods and Pete Rose and the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey Team.

That's what sports are all about. Longings, desires, hopes, fears, and aspirations.

Insights into Relationship Management Among straight men, there's this much disparaged concept, often derided as the Virgin-Whore paradox. It's usually expressed as, "There are women you sleep with and women you marry." In other words, the criteria used for determining the fitness of a life partner is different than what you would use for sex partners. It seems to me that gay men confuse those. At least I do. "Oh. My. God. He is so Hot!" does not necessarily translate into "Wanna go steady?" I think that as a rule, straight men get this, but gay men don't.

How to Beat the Bejeezus Out of Your Best Friend Competition is competition. I win today, you win tomorrow. It's all in how you play the game. I think gay men tend to go for the jugular. And if they lose, well then let's just hope they never have to be in the same room ever again. Right off the top of my head, I can think of no less than five such situations. Among gay men. When there's bad blood between straight men, both of them are sort of looking for an opportunity to bury the hatchet. Sports often plays a part in these reconciliations.

Monday, February 23, 2004

Oh. Right.

Last night, after the news, just as I was getting ready to go to bed, this cheesey made-for-television movie came on. My hand on the remote to kill it, suddenly I was transfixed.

The characters were a husband, a wife, and their young son and daughter. Wife was going away on a business trip. Husband was kinda sulky about that. Wife promised the kids that next Saturday they'd go to the circus. Wife came into the bedroom and husband said, 'we need to talk.' Wife said, 'Sure, just let me call Brody and find out what time he's picking me up tomorrow.' Wife gets on the phone with Brody and chit chats. Cut to husband, downstairs watching television. Sulking. Wife comes down. "Sorry about that, Hon'." Wife says, "obviously it's too late to talk about it now..."

Wife: Now wait, this is a pattern we talked about in therapy. I go on a business trip and you don't like that, so we have an argument.
Husband: How would you know. You keep missing our therapy appointments.
Wife: Well let's not fight about that.

They get into bed, lying with their eyes open without touching each other or speaking.

The next morning, Husband is making breakfast. Pancakes. Wife tells him the griddle is too hot. "It's not too hot," he says, with that aire of someone who is barely managing to keep his volcanic rage under control.

Then, one of the kids mentions Wife's promise about the circus. This is news to Husband. Wife apolgizes for not mentioning it last night because they 'got way off track.' He is a statue while she pecks him on the cheek before heading off on her business trip.

Oh yeah.

That's what it's like. That's the relationship mode I remember. Totally.

"No. It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine." He said without any discernible trace of anything pleasant in his voice, in a tone that could take a boiling lobster pot to subzero if it's within earshot.

I couldn't watch anymore. And good thing, since it was past bedtime.

I guess that Tolstoy was wrong. "Every happy family is the same. But each unhappy family is unique in it's unhappiness." Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong WRONG! That could certainly be an excerpt from my years of domestic bliss in Brooklyn.

Usually, when I go to bed, I curl up around my pillow, imagining that it's whatever man happens to be getting my synapses firing that night. If I have his name, I'll wish the pillow goodnight using that name. Not last night. Uh uh. The pillow was the pillow.

Exceptions to that?


Special Guy was the exception.

No Just Before We Go To Bed testiness. Not a one. Never anything wrong that one of us holding the other one tight and kissing him deeply couldn't resolve.

But still, I'm grateful for the reminder that relationships are perilous territory. The bulk of my thirties was taken up with a bad one. I don't need the same thing for my forties.

Try Delt'

Feeling better today than I was last night. Which, arguably, isn't saying a lot.

In part, the Mood was brought on by the realization that I would not be going to Inferno this year. Even if I could get the time off from work (verrrry unlikely), it would be unpaid time off, and I couldn't afford that financial hit, in addition to the money involved in financing the trip.

But I think I can manage Delta.

I realized this whilst messaging back and forth with Keckler on Leather Navigator. One of those moments where something percolated up to the surface that had been brewing for awhile.

Now why am I down on Delta?

For the past two years, I've had the option of doing Delta, but passed it up? Why? Because I've enjoyed doing Set-Up at Inferno, and that conflicts with Delta. And then, there's the layout issue. Y'see, Delta is spread out over a few hundred acres. You take a buss from place to place. Inferno is more condensed. I know myself pretty well. I'll sort of wander around in the woods for a weekend.

[Oh wow! There's a lesbian home owning couple on Monster House. Cool!]

But hey. How likely would it be that I go down to Delta and see no play at all? Surely some boy with the gumption that I lack will approach me with a glint in his eye. And given my MAL experience, would a weekend in the woods with a few hundred leathermen be an unpleasant way to wind down the summer? Not a bit.

But there's another issue, too. There are several guys whom I'm looking forward to seeing at Inferno who won't be going to Delta. Alpha, surely, is chief among them.

But here's a compensating thing. I believe that the majority of the men at Delta are from the Mid-Atlantic states. Locals, in other words. So if I have what Boy Meets Boy and similar shows refer to as a 'Romantic Connection,' the chances are better I'd be able to pursue that without enduring cross country airfare.

So Delta Ho!

A little bit closer to the date, I think I'll send out an email to some of the guys that I won't be seeing at Inferno and let them know how much I'll miss being among them.

Oooooh. Felt a pang there.

This too shall pass. Not like this is the final year for Inferno.

So Delta it will be.

Fear and Self-Loathing in Point Pleasant

Give me wide berth.

I'm in a foul mood. I went to bed last night with a little sing-song of self pity and malice running through my head. When I woke up this morning, it was still there. Here's an attempt to exorcise it. Here's how it goes...

I hate not having any money. I hate that I won't be able to go to Inferno this year but I'll have to content myself with Delta. I hate that after five months here, I haven't been able to meet one single local guy to date. I hate those vapid, stupid men who fill the Raven. I hate that the men I have met who spark my interest live an hour and a half away. I hate that I have no one to go to the movies with. I hate that even if I did have someone to go to the movies with, I probably couldn't afford to go. I hate the cold weather. I hate having to keep the wood box filled. I hate my father's paranoia about the weather. I hate that Baron von Philadelphia spends most of his time not in Philadelphia. I hate that the Baron doesn't own a cell phone, so tracking him down is just about impossible. I hate the fact that I'm totally stuck with writing my book. I hate the fact that something so simple like a long weekend in Fort Lauderdale is totally out of reach. I hate that I have no place to set up a dungeon. I hate the fact that I have this great cage built for me in Rhode Island, but it's out of reach because I need to make a final payment of $275 that I can't afford, and give up a precious weekend to go fetch, and even if I were to bring it back here, I have no place to put it. I hate the fact that being gay at work causes me stress. I hate that I have no one to talk to except my father. I hate that I'm almost forty years old and I live with my dad. I hate that I'm starting to feel trapped here. I hate the fact that my life pretty much remains in boxes out in the garage. I hate getting home from work and having to hear a report from my father of all my creditors who called during the day that I can't afford to pay. I hate not having any vacation time from my job. I hate that there are no homos at my gym. I hate that my brother didn't say it was okay for me to go to his house and use his jacuzzi when he and his wife left for a three week trip to the Adriatic Coast (today, they're touring Dubrovnik). I hate that the disk drive that allows me to transfer pics taken by my digital camera to my harddrive is weirdly missing. I hated realizing that here in Bucks County, my luxuriant moustaches might hold me back in getting a job. I hate dirty, sad, crime-ridden, lame-ass Philadelphia. I hate this feeling that I just have to let a few precious years of my life go swirling down the drain before I get on with the business of enjoying life and being where I want to be.


Feel better?

Actually, no.

Sunday, February 22, 2004

Ralph Nader is an Idiot

When I was in college, every year student government would host a speaker. We didn't have a lot of money, so most of the time the speakers were third tier. One year, we decided to go for broke and get Ralph Nader.

With the other speakers, it was pretty much routine. They'd fly into Philadelphia, someone would drive down and pick them up at the airport, bring them back to Reading, the speaker would have dinner with members of student government, the speaker would speak, get a nice room at the Reading Motor Inn for the night, and we'd take him or her back to the airport in the morning.

This did not fly with Ralph.

First off, he had some issues with the safety record of Philadelphia Airport. He refused to fly into it. Fine. He's only down in DC. So we said we'd make arrangements to pick him up and drive him back. No. It seems that for "safety reasons," he only travels in chauffered limosines.

No, I'm not making that up and I'm not exagerating.

And then, here was the kicker. Ralph refused to have dinner with us! First his people said it was because he was a strict vegetarian. We said fine. We could work with that. We found a restaurant that had some good vegetarian options on the menu and faxed the menu down. Ralph's people got back to us and said the restaurant looked great, but Ralph only dined alone. He would not be sharing the table with us.

He was Ralph Nader after all.

What a total asshole.

And the speech he gave? It was awful. Rambling. Incoherent. All about him. "You should all strive to be me" were words that actually crossed his lips.

How bad was it? When it came time for questions, there were none. Not a one. Not even from one of the nuns, just to be nice. Just tepid applause while he left the stage and got back into his chauffered limo and headed back to Washington DC.

Michael Moore has always struck me as being on the a similar path to insufferable self-proclaimed messiah megalomania. Whaddya bet that eight years from now, Michael Moore will announce his third party candidacy, pretty much assuring President Jeb Bush a second term?

Am I Hot or Not?

I think I've achieved 'Hot.'

I've noticed that men in the upper castes of gay male Hot are... y'know... talking to me.

Now, this is weird. I don't quite know what to do with it. I mean, I'm glad, since I assume that it will give me more options in who I get to hook up with.

I think it's a Philadelphia thing. Being Hot in Philadelphia is like being the tallest building in Venice, Florida, y'know? In NYC, I was definitely not Hot. Hot men there were really hot. As in, Greek gods walk among us.

So what do I do with this information?

I use my powers only for good, to be sure. And, in many cases, Hot is not a determining factor in who I chose to hook up with. So, I'm not at risk of being an asshole about it. I hope not, anyway.

Most Americans, when asked about what socio-economic class they fall into, will say they're middle class, and identify people who are better off than they are as 'upper middle class' and people less well off than they are as 'lower middle class.' This is the case whether the people in question are making $20,000 a year or $300,000 a year.

And it's probably the same with gay men in the meat market. There's guys that are lower down on the scale than you are, and guys who are higher on the scale than you are. There's a great segment of Andrew Holleran's Dancer From The Dance (which I used to read every summer starting when I was sixteen until I was about twenty-two... toldja I was gay) where Sutherland and Mallone are watching a man on the dancefloor, and Sutherland says "I just need to find a flaw... if I could only find a flaw, then I'd make a play for him." Or something like that.

I've known that feeling. "If I could just find a flaw, then I could make a play for him."

And, usually, there's no flaw to be found. Not looking through those eyes.

But then, there are other men. Men I look at through different eyes.

Like the homeless guy at Starbucks. Sitting there by the fire wearing nine layers of clothing reading a 19th Century British novel. About two weeks growth of beard. Good head of hair. Intense gray eyes. Probably not Colt model material. Probably will never be asked to do porn.

But he looks like he knows who he is.

That quality. He knows who he is.

That's kind of what it's all about. Hot goes right out the window. It's a thing beyond Hot.

When you see a man who knows who he is, you want to know who he is, too.

Saturday, February 21, 2004


You just have to buy the book before March 1st. We don't start reading it until then. And you have the whole month of March to get through it. And March hath 31 days.

At Random

Are leather contests going the way of the buffalo and the five and dime? Only six contestants at MAL? Only one for Mr. Philadelphia Leather? i say, cool!

I'm totally in Top mode lately.

On Wednesday, March 10th, GMSMA will present a program on Punching. PunchPig is doing the presentation. And the demo. Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll be the demo bottom. More on this as the date approaches. No doubt.

I found a really cool help wanted ad. I'd need to wear a suit. I'd need to commute to Philadelphia. But it has a really lush salary attached. And I think I'd be great at it.

I'm going down to the Bike Stop tonight. I'm sort of open to the possibility of hooking up. Especially if I run into Harley. But if not, not.

Massage Boy had a great time and wants to do it again. I sort of feel the way I did when I realized that even though I had these fantasies about doing mean, painful things to men, there were men in the world who had fantasies about someone doing mean, painful things to them. "You mean... I come to your house, get naked, stink up the place with cigars, receive an unreciprocated blow job, then leave, and not only are you not pissed off, you want to do it again?" It's a pretty perfect world, huh?

There was one problematic guy on my softball team. He took things way way way too seriously. Well, our coach had a talk with him, and he's not going to play with us this year. Alas, his lover, whom we all love, is not going to play with us either.

There's this really hot man I've seen a few times at Starbucks. I think he's homeless. That is, he always is wearing like half a dozen layers. Today, he was reading Thacherey's Vanity Fair. No eye hockey from him, but he's nice to look at.

George Bush's dog died! That is terrible! The poor guy.

I have to get tested for HIV. And get a new battery for my watch. And make an appointment with my new doctor. (Who is also my father's doctor. How will Doc react when I explain that I'm a sexually active gay man? We'll soon see!) And I have to get car insurance. And I have to take my jeep in because there was a recall that sounds serious.

I'm back at the gym again! And the workout is going well. I've put on five pounds this week, up to 185 from 180. I did squats the other day for the first time since I wrecked my back. Watched my form this time, so it was fine.

Arena football is like PeeWee soccer. Whoever gets possession of the ball gets to score, unless somebody does something really really stupid.

I think about my Household idea about thirty times a day.

Tonight for dinner I made cock-a-leekie soup. it rocked. Dad liked it. And now I've gotta clean up the kitchen and get down to Philadelphia.

I am really really really tired of having no money.

Oh Boy! It's a Meme!

This is from Edge's page...

A - Age: 39
B - Band listening to right now: Uh, I'm not. But Emmylou Harris' last album is getting a lot of play while I drive
D - Dad's name: Howard
E - Easiest person to talk to: Baron von Philadelphia
F - Favorite song at the moment: Uh... Just one? Hmmm. I guess I'd have to pick 'Thunder Road,' by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. "The screendoor slams, Harry's old dog bays. Like a vision he strides across the porch as the radio plays. That's Morrissey singing for the lonely, hey that's me and I want you only. Don't turn me down again I just can't stand myself alone. Don't run back inside Harry, you know just what I'm here for. So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore. Show a little faith, there's magic in the night. You ain't Vin Diesel but hey, you're alright, and that's alright with me."
Oh. Wait. That's not quite how it goes.
G - Gummy Bears or Gummy Worms: Bears
H - Hometown: Point Pleasant, Pennsylvania. Where I live now.
I - Instruments: None. Not a one. Can't read music. In elementary school I played the recorder, but not well.
J - Job title: Drone. Well, actually I don't have one. That I know of. 'Finisher,' I guess.
K - Kids: Just Faithful Companion!
L - Longest car ride ever: I guess heading out to Chicago from home in Jersey City for IML takes the prize. It took me two days to get there. Although, maybe Inferno, even though it's a little bit east of Chicago, might be longer.
M - Mom's name: Which one? Birth mother was Jeannette. Actually, on her birth certificate, Maria Janina, as her father was Polish. My first step mother was Robina, called Ruby; and my second step mother's name was Kathleen. Called... uh... Kathleen.
N - Number of siblings: Two. One deceased.
O - Oldest sibling: My brother, who is fifteen years my senior
P - Phobia[s]: Snakes, kinda. Needles (ironic given the fact that I used to run a needle exchange; I got myself to the point that I could talk our clients through safer injection.) The sight of my own--but definitely not someone else's--blood.
Q - Quote you like: "A ship is safe in the harbor, but what's a ship for?" That was the 'favorite quote' offered by a football player in the Sports pages. I put it up on my AOL profile, which also asks for 'Favorite Quote.' Right up there with, "For a Sadist, I'm a pretty nice guy." I came up with that one.
R - Reason to smile: A good day at work.
S - Song you sang last: On Friday at work, I was singing an REM song, "I Believe." "Trust in your calling, make sure your calling is true; think of others, and the others, think of you--silly rule. Practice practice makes perfect; perfect is a thought and thought lines change... Oooh, I believe, my coat is wearing thin and change is what I believe in."
T - Time you wake up: 5 am on work days. Whatever I can get away with on weekends.
U - Unknown fact about me: Okay. This this is weird. I had a congenital birthmark. On the top of my head. When I was in junior high school, I got a wart on my birthmark. The wart went to town. We saw a doctor, and they removed my birthmark in two operations, stretching the skin of my scalp up to replace the skin removed with the birthmark and the wart. So essentially, I had a face lift when I was about twelve years old. This is the only operation I've ever had.
V - Vegetable you hate: The three things I don't eat: Okra, coconut, and eggplant. And I usually say no to tripe, too.
X - X-rays you've had: More than I can count from dentists.
Y - Yummy food: Buttered toast.
Z - Zodiac sign: Scorpio. With Libra rising. So I can passionately and intensely argue both sides of an issue with myself. And frequently, I do. It's my cross to bear.

Massage Boy Comes Through!

After spending an hour and a half in Starbucks in New Hope waiting for Massage boy twice, when he told me he hoped we could get together, I said, "Sure. Give me your address and I'll be there Friday night."

Now, I much prefer to go the Starbucks route. It leaves either party the option of gracefully bowing out if in person it seems that things are not gonna work out. (As Lolita famously put it, "The internet doesn't mean anything. You gotta smell'em.") But enough is enough! I wanted my massage.

Sooooo... I rolled up outside Massage Boy's Village II digs, knocked on the door of his condo, and made it happen. A nice guy, he looked like the pic that he sent me, seemed pleasant enough.

But, I had no time for pleasantries. I wanted my massage!

I stripped and was stretched out on massage boy's bed within three minutes after I arrived.

Massage Boy got to work. He has no formal training, but did a good job. Alas, he neglected my scalp, my face, and my feet. When I give a massage, I always hit the scalp and the scalp, face, and feet. They rock. It feels wonderful to be touched there. Next time, I'd also make the suggestion that Massage Boy get some aromatherapy candles or something. But his Aveda massage oil did the trick.

When I had exhausted Massage Boy (I have no idea how long he was at it, as I was pleasantly drifting in and out of consciousness), Massage Boy revealed his Hidden Agenda: having sex with me! I was up for that. Although, I was still very much in 'getting-a-massage-mode,' so sex was all about touching and stroking and holding. To be more specific, Massage Boy touching, stroking,and holding me.

Yeah, last night I was a selfish lover. Do me, Massage Boy! Make me feel good! It was all about service, as in (for a change), me being serviced.

When I started to feel a little bit tired and decided it was time to head home, I figured out how to get Massage Boy off (biting his nipple and working his dick did it), shot my own load, and hit the road.

I mean, I almost feel like I should have paid for that... There was no give and take with Massage Boy. It was all about him giving and me taking. Like having sex with your slave. Haven't yet called Massage Boy, but I sure will. I want to thank him, and also want to make sure that he enjoyed his night as a service bottom. And... y'know... that he'd be up for it again. Like, maybe three or four times a week. Only with aromatherapy candles.

I am such a pig.

Friday, February 20, 2004

Whhoooo Whooo Who

I need to get in the shower or I'm gonna be late for work.

But a parliament of hoot owls is going to town outside my window.

And I'm enjoying listening to them.

Blood in the Water


That nutty Ann Coulter does have a point! There is often a fundamental liberal bias to much of the media. W.'s polling numbers are dropping, and it's a game of Pile on POTUS. Every news cycle brings some new 'issue,' most of which aren't really issues.

Look at the thing about the 2.6 million jobs created this year. Reported, I believe, by the Wash Post. The 'story' is that the President said he would create 2.6 million jobs this year, but now, when economic data isn't supporting that, the Administration is 'backing away' from those numbers.

Well... not quite.

The report that envisioned 2.6 million new jobs was the work on the President's Council of Economic Advisors. They're charged with making an annual predictive report. First off, we're talking about economics. Not to dismiss it as tea leave reading, but it's an attempt to take a chaotic system and make assumptions about it. Not unlike predicting the weather. And unless meteorologists are telling you what's happening now, it's a crapshoot. Although I haven't read the report, I doubt very much that the language is anything along the lines of "we'll stake our reputations as economists on our firm belief that everything we have looked at points to the creation of 2.6 million jobs during 2004 at the very least." It's probably more along the lines of, "with factory orders on the upswing and the manufacturing sector becoming increasingly confident in the recovery, it is feasible to conclude that there will be an expansion in hiring, possibly as great as 2.6 million new jobs, based on the following assumptions and data we've reviewed as of this writing..."

So, no. Technically, the President never 'said' "I'm going to create 2.6 million jobs this year." So when he's asked the question, "Well, didn't you say yyou're going to create 2.6 million jobs this year?", he's probably going to try to back away from that.

My point is not to defend the President or--heaven forfend--say, "He's doing a great job!" What I think is interesting is that the news establishment as a whole is pretty much bashing Bush. But before you take too much delight in this, realize that this is an arbitrary thing. They could just as easily be bashing John Kerry. And, if Kerry pulls it out over Edwards on Super Tuesday, they probably will be doing that at some point.

It all depends on whose ox is being gored. As usual.

What do I mean by bashing? Well, if the Washington Post had done a story on that interesting 2.6 million jobs thing, and the President's approval ratings were something like 56%, then that probably would have been the end of it.

But noooooo. Because Bush's approval ratings have dipped below 50%, other news outlets are scouring all the other news outlets for negative stuff, so they can do backgrounders and analyses. ("As reported by the Washington Post... ...and indeed it seems that given the rate of growth in new jobs thus far according to Princeton Economist...")

But, I hope that when the press does start circling Senator Kerry, he'll be as canny about this as the Administration has been in the past. Personally, although I think he has a great resume,I don't find anything particularly inspiring about John Kerry. In a way, he reminds me of George Herbert Walker Bush in the way he's being presented: war hero, smart guy, decent... And GHWB's downfall was 'the vision thing.' I don't see a lot of vision coming from the Senator from Massachusetts.


Thursday, February 19, 2004

Oh For Ford's Sake! It's the SingleTails Book Club!

That's right! The folks in the New Initiatives and Programs Department here at the SingleTails Compound (the I.M. Pei renovated Bucks County farm we call home) have come up with another idea. It's a Book Club! ("It worked pretty well for Oprah," was the opener on the White Paper that crossed my desk.)

So I'm game. I was an English Major in college, don't forget.

The first book we'll look at is Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. I know I know I know. You read it in high school. But let's all read it again, shall we? You have until March 1st to run out and buy yourself a copy and then dig in. As I've previously written here, I think the book has a lot to say about S/M. But we'll see.

So dig in, folks!

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

Five Year Plan Revised

Remember my Five Year Plan? House, minimally furnished, let-the-materials-speak-for-themselves design? Water? Dogs? Rural? Within two hours of a major airport? Lots of room for guests? Woodshop and metal shop? Dungeon?

Well, my household idea has really stirred me.

I've worked out a tentative budget and financial plan. If I found five compatible guys, I could make it work. Including the build out. With five other men sharing the responsibilities, it would run fairly smoothely.

I spent a summer living in a Benedictine monastery in St. Louis, Missouri when I was in college. Monks, like leathermen, tend to have strong personalities, too. I was struck then and now by the balances that were struck. Together and alone, silence and communication, work and prayer.

I once heard that when looking at a potential new apartment, you should visualize yourself going through the routine of your day there. If it works, then it will work.

I have no problem at all imagining myself going through the routines of my day at the household.

Maybe a pipe dream, but I wonder.

Monday, February 16, 2004

Something to Think About

Have I crossed a line that I should not have crossed?

With this here weblog.

If I write about my most intimate experiences here, doesn't that devalue them? I mean, for one thing, how "intimate" is something that's published on the World Wide Internet? Is anything intimate? What's the impact on me?

It's almost a question of epistemology. [Epistemology, in case you didn't take any Philosophy electives in college, is the area of inquiry dealing with knowledge. What do we know? How do we know what we know? How do we determine if something is true or not? How do you know that your life isn't the dream (or nightmare) of a Buddhist monk sleeping in the garden of his monastery when he should be praying? That kind of thing.]

Who am I? Do you, reading this weblog, come to know who I am? I mean, there is truthfully not a lot I hold back. Could you, for example, fall in love with me by reading my weblog? And if you met me, would you still feel that way?

A million years ago, I lived for six months at International House, housing for foreign students attending the University of Pennsylvania. In my suite, there was a group of men from the People's Republic of China. I was chummy with one in particular, whose name when translated meant 'Plum Trees Blossoming.' When they were together, they were very guarded in what they said. But one on one, they would talk. I heard all about the Cultural Revolution, about the toll it took on you when every move you made at work, at home, in the market, at school, was scrutinized.

But I'll always remember Plum Trees Blossoming telling me about The File. In the People's Republic, when you're born, a file is opened on you. Your teachers, the local Communist Party officials, your neighbors, your friends, your employers, anyone really, can contribute information to your file. When you go for a job, or apply to school, the decision is made on the basis of your file. The file is kept by the local Communist Party apparatchiks. They can--and do--review it regularly.

Now here's the thing. Your file becomes sort of an alter ego. It isn't you, but in a way, it is you.

And, you never get to see what's in your file. So imagine that something gets in your file. Say your third grade teacher decides that you are too greedy and won't share with other students. That could be it for you. Your prospects from there on in are in the toilet.

This blog is sort of my file. My alter ego. It's me, but it's not me. But when I try to figure out how Singletails is not me, I get stuck. I can't think of anything. So am I a sort of fictional character? Do I have a reality independent of Singletails?

Now I'm thinking of Sylvia Plath. Plath is probably singlehandedly responsible for more bad poetry written by high school juniors than any other human being in history. Her poetry--in style and subject matter--has come to be called 'Confessional.' Open up a new window and Google Sylvia Plath's poem 'Daddy.' Read it. I mean, Yikes! How would her husband, the poet Ted Hughes, feel reading that poem, which essentially calls him a cruel and brutal Nazi?

I can picture Sylvia looking over the breakfast table, wiping a few stray toast crumbs from her lips, and cooly telling him, "It's only a poem, Darling. Don't get so excited."

And here's another thing. My life begets Singletails, and not the other way around. It's not like I go out and make play dates or pack up my car and head off to Inferno in search of 'material.' But, since I was in high school, I've been a relentless keeper of a journal. And after my step mother, perhaps in an attempt to add the sobriquet 'Wicked,' read my journal cover to cover and confronted me with the contents, an act repeated twenty years later by my Ex, I've fought against keeping a journal in elaborate code. When I read back over my journals from college, when the experience was still pretty raw, I can't make heads or tales of it. What in the sam hell am I talking about? Did I make another trip to the dirty book store for an anonymous blow job? Is that what I mean by going on and on about 'a trip to the fortune teller?'

Other than the at times rococo system of names that I've worked out, there's no code here on Singletails. And that was an important thing for me.


So back to the jumping off question.

Am I violating something here by letting the world into my head? And, more importantly, into my bedroom?

Let's look at Special Guy.

I never gave him the url to Singletails. As far as I know, he has no idea that it exists. What's up with that? Should I have? I published the John the Baptist poem I wrote for him here. Was that a good move? I'll have to read back. How far did I go? I mean, it's one thing to describe 'we did this, and then we did this, and then we did this.' But if Special Guy had... Idaknow... had disclosed to me something intimate, I wouldn't have--and in fact didn't talk about that here.

I tell myself that I write here as a public service. Maybe there's a guy out there in Sandusky, Ohio, who has these fantasies. But he's afraid to go anywhere with them. Maybe he'll happen upon Singletails, and see that there is this rich, wonderful world out there, a journey with amazing experiences and incredible fellow travelers... Yada-yada-yada.

But, of course, there's another reason. My need to be liked. And my need for validation.

I'm a good cook. Recently I was accused of a lack of modesty for making that statement. Uh uh. That, in fact, is the only think I can point to about myself with some surety. I can roast a chicken! Everything else is up for grabs. There is nothing I do that I can't or don't question whether the end product is any good. And most of the time, I suspect that it's not very good, but that the praise I garner is the result of hoodwinking.

It would absolutely mean the world to me if I came to believe that I am as good a writer as I am a cook.

I'm sort of obsessive about my hit counter. Every time someone stops by Singletails and takes a gander, it's like another stone laid in the foundation of the edifice that will one day (I hope) be Me the Writer. I'm read. I'm read I'm read I'm read I'm read I'm read. I'm read.

Not if I keep on with blather like this, huh?

Yeah, well.

Had some issues I had to work out. Or try to.

And where else would I do that if not here?

Massage boy a No-Show Again!!!

An AOL guy. A New Hope resident. Who wants to give me a massage. Like I'd say no to that? We agree to meet at Starbucks in New Hope. I show up, get a latte, open my book, and an hour and a half later I pack it in. This was last Monday. And then, three days later (!), Massage boy flags me down on line. No apology. Just "I was sick this week. Feeling better now." He asks when he's gonna get to give me that massage. We reschedule for tonight. Seven o'clock finds me at Starbucks. At 8:09 p.m., I decided to pack it in.

Unbelievable. Is he psychotic? Is he the flakiest boy that ever was? I have to admit I'm sort of intrigued. Give him a third chance? Yeah. I probably would. Why? For one thing, I'd really like a massage. For another thing, somehow it doesn't feel like being stood up when it means spending an hour and a half reading my book at Starbucks. And finally, I wanna meet this boy.



How could I not see what I was dancing around the other night? it's pretty obvious when you think about it.

From time immemorial, believers of whatever stripe have decided to solve the problem of being 'in the world but not of the world' by joining together in communal living. In other words, they set up house together.

How cool would that be? A network of Leather houselholds, from Portland, Maine, to San Diego, California. Now, such households currently exist, but they tend to be organized along the lines of a Master with means and his boys and slaves. I'm thinking of a looser, and perhaps more egalitarian structure. Simply a group of men for whom BDSM is a key aspect of their lives living together. Setting up house. Each one receiving according to his needs, and contributing according to his abilities. Or whatever Karl Marx said.

Here would be the benefits:

  • Pooled resources mean better quality of life for all involved. Back in my grassroots activism days, we were all deeply envious of the MNS folks we knew. They all had minimal work responsiblilites, but lived pretty well considering.
  • Extra bedrooms to accommodate long-term and short-term visitors, including those interested in joining the community, could be an additional source of income.
  • A great dungeon. A fabulous dungeon.
  • The disabled could be cared for by the able bodied members of the community, obviating the need to shuffle off to an Assisted Living place where they frown on cigar smoking
  • Different households would have a different 'spirit,' some might be more a collection of loners who keep to their rooms, some might be almost monastic, some might be relaxed and others highly structured, depending on the particular charism of the men involved, and changing over time.
  • How cool would it be to share your life with other men, some of whom are younger than you, some of them older than you, eating, drinking, playing, learning, living, evolving, and, probably, dying, together? How incredibly enriching would that be?
  • Necessarily, these households would be places of learning and exploration.
  • This isn't an entirely new thing. Plenty of models exist. From ancient monastic Rules, to contemporary attempts. For example, since the '70s, there was--and possibly still is--a thing in Philadelphia called Movement for a New Society. MNS was organized, I believe, under the auspices of the American Friends Service Committee (those nutty Quakers!). The idea was that people could live cheaply together and do social justice work. They put out a series of publications on How To Do This that are probably still around. (For example, if you've ever been involved with a grassroots political group where meetings were conducted on a loose version of Roberts' Rules of Order and lead by a "Facilitator," that method was devised by MNS.)
  • One thin reed out there all alone will be broken by the wind, but when you bundle reeds together, they're strong. It's tough to keep the faith when you're farflung (as I'm finding). Even though you may not particularly like or have much in common with the men you're living with, you'll be better off with them than without them.
  • And just how were you planning on spending your old age? Hmmmm? In that fifth floor walk up in Lower Manhattan? Or being carted off to a retirement community somewhere? Wouldn't it be better to know that your final years will be spent among men who you have chosen to be with and have grown to love?
  • In the craziness of the pace and placelessness of modern society, how are the young going to be taught by the old? How are traditions and folkways going to be passed on? Do we even know what our traditions and folkways are at this point?

And there would be downsides...

  • "Who is responsible for that obscene window treatment in the library?" It's gay men we're talking about, and many of us have verrrrrry strong feelings about design and the a thousand other minute details of daily living. And... Oh. My. God... the food issues! Being in a relationship--any relationship--means that you're never again going to get 100% of what you want for as long as that relationship endures. You might on a really good day get into the 96 or 97 percentiles, but those occasions are rare. Some of us are much more skilled than others at conflict resolution ("Where's Jim?" "He's sulking in his room again about Walter's window treatment in the library.")
  • But it takes time. Lots of time. We're thinking of getting plumbing out in the dungeon. It's going to be expensive. This will require a six hour house meeting to discuss. Paul is adamant about having a wash sink and a urinal, but Carl likes the arrangement of the bondage frame and the cross that would definitley have to be moved if we were going to go that route. Get the picture?
  • A life of constant change and novelty can be challenging. This would not be about settling down and knowing that tomorrow will pretty much be a lot like today. Men will leave, new men will come to take their places, and every knew personality will fundamentally change the group as a whole. Just when you're getting comfortable and liking how things are going, there's a new pup in the pack.
  • Similarity or diversity? What works best? A house full of academics? Or making sure that the bookish are spread out in various households?
  • What about your stuff? All of us have stuff, and some of that stuff might not fit in the common areas of the house or our bedroom. Would you be able to give up your stuff? That dry sink that belonged to your Great Aunt Opal? Can you put that out on the curb?
  • Start-up costs might be prohibitive. And how to protect the investment--since we're talking about buying real estate--should someone decide to move on?

But by my calculus, the benefits far outweigh the downsides. I would definitely want to live this way.


I love logistics!

First off, to organize something like this, it would take something like a national clearinghouse. The only organization of national scope we have available to us is the Leather Archives and Museum. Even though it's somewhat outside of their purview, I think it would be worthwhile for them to devote .5 FTE to a project like this. Essentially, a questionnaire would be developed about habits, income, personality profile, location, and when groups of three or four emerge that have possibilities, these folks would be put in touch with each other. And, I don't doubt that we have the resources within the community (lawyers, real estate developers, the investment savvy, psychologists, architects) who would be willing to donate their skills to put together a boilerplate.

Dang. How cool would this be?

Starbucks ¡No!, Dunkin Donuts ¡Si! ?
The Episcopal Church as a Spiritual Home for Leathermen ?
...A Reader Writes...

I got email!
We love email in response to stuff you've read here at Singletails!

Here's the reply I dashed off...

I am *no* stranger to the excellent coffee at Dunkin Donuts. On the road, it's the place to go!

However, I'm not sure about the crowd at your Dunkin D., but the folks who tend to linger at mine are a wee bit further downby a couple of echelons. Working class? Nay. Nothing that looks like employment here. And I am and always have been the only person I've seen reading a book in a Dunkin Donuts shop. And all the cops in Doylestown are now hanging at the Starbucks. If only to keep the kids from marrauding (sp?).

I hope I didn't imply in my blog that the Episcopal Church is a place with Answers! It's all about the asking of Questions. I've never heard an answer. Not once. (The Laird be thankee.) My long held beef with the Episcopal Church is that it tends to be the preserve of literate, college educated white people from the upper tax brackets. This, in part, lead me to dabble in the Roman Church during my early twenties. I found something refreshing about sitting in the pews with... well... with thhe folks that hang out in your Dunkin Donuts. And good meat and potatoes sermons, concretizing the gorgeous formal unity of Thomistic theology (All those Answers!). No allusions to Auden's poetry here. None that go unattributed cuz the folks listening would feel that the attribution would insult their intelligence anyway. But, as it became abundantly clear that part and parcel of the moral theology was that I personally was ecluded from the Body of Christ, well... I don't stay long at parties where I'm not invited. And I've made my peace with the class issues of the Episcopal church: over-educated swells need a place where they can grow in their love of God and their brothers and sisters in Christ, too!

Preaching to a crowd of leathermen, huh? I always tote my Book of Common Prayer with me to Inferno. I'm pretty attached to Compline. Here's my fantasy: I would love--but I've never had the testicular fortitude required to make it happen--to organize saying Morning Prayer on Sunday morning. Or Evening Prayer on Saturday night. Chanting psalms with my brothers in leather... I suspect that there would be a few takers. But I totally get what you mean. I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I make sense of my S/M journey within the context of my Christian faith, and I'm sure that there are others out there who do as well, and I want us to all join together overtly in prayer and praise about it.

And thanks so much! Thoughtful responses to my writing are always welcome! Honestly, *any* response to my writing brings me joy.

Your leather brother in Christ,


Sunday, February 15, 2004

One Good Three Hour Round Trip Drive Down To Philadelphia In Order To Visit The Bike Stop Deserves Another, No?

Sure it does!

So that's what I did.

The crowd was thinner than last night. For no good reason I was expecting the guys to be out in droves like last night, it being a three day weekend and all. And it was probably a bit healthier than the usual Sunday night. I was chatting with the bartender/manager and scoping out the possibilities, when in came Skin with another guy. I sauntered over and greeted them. The other guy turned out to be something of a protege of Skin's, or as protege put it, "He's showing me the ropes."

Well that speaks well of Skin! That is noble and good!

More lively and thought provoking conversation ensued. Always a good thing.

Protege once again brought to mind a salient fact: there needs to be a GMSMA in every city, town, village, and hamlet in the world. Why? Because were are guys like protege gonna go? Luckily for Protege, he happened to meet up with Skin, and he seems to be in good hands.


Forty years ago, it's my understanding that when guys like protege wandered into a leather bar for the first time, they would suffer animadversion but a tentative welcome by the men they found there. If they seemed like good guys, introductions would be made, and an apprenticeship of sorts would ensue. Alas, no more. Not since the 1980s when leathermen were too busy burying their brothers and this whole practice fell by the wayside.

Luckily, for New York City and a few other cities that rose to the fore in imitation, GMSMA met that need. Absent this august and praise-worthy initiative, how are guys going to learn how to tie one another spread eagle on the bed and drip hot candle wax in breath-taking patterns on their partners who struggle in vain against the bonds that hold them. I mean, it's not rocket science, and no doubt someone of average intelligence could figure it out on his own, but I'd hate to be the bottom during one of the initial ventures. Spend an afternoon at a GMSMA educational workshop (and carefully review the handout) and you're good to go, Mack!

Another pretty disturbing revalation. Protege, it turns out, is an officer of the law. And he told us that State Troopers made a point of keeping an eye out for cars with pink triangle or rainbow stickers on their bumpers. So they could stop them. Apparently, Smokey hasn't caught on to the signifcance of the leather pride flag, because my silver Jeep Liberty has never garnered this attention.

Oh. And over the next 30 days or so, there's gonna be a sting operation in effect in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Pass the word.


Alas, no sign of Harley. I asked the bartender for the 411. He knew just about immediately who I was talking about. Apparently, Harley is a non-negotiable Top, and has a good reputation. I was kinda hoping that Harley was a bottom. Or at least vers. Lately I'm big into the idea of Topping musclebears. Even if it means lugging 200 pounds of chain out of my car.

So, it was another good night at the Bike Stop.


Wow. Get a load of this. From Habits of the Heart by Robert Bellah.

We b elieve that much of the thinking about the self of educated Americans, thinking that has become almost hegemonic in our univ ersites and much of our middle class, is based on inadequate social science, impoverished philosophy, and vacuous theology. There are truths we do not see when we adopt the language of radical individualism. We find ourselves not independently of other people and institutions but through them. We never get to our selves on our own. We discover who we are face to face and side by side with others in work, love, and learning. All of our activity goes on in relationships, groups, associations and communities ordered by institutional structures and interpreted by them.

And this... from David Brooks' Bobos in Paradise, where the above was quoted.

But the ultimate problem with spiritual freedom is that it never ends. As [the American philosopher Richard]Rorty points out, it widens endlessley, Freedom means always keeping your options open, so it means you never settle on truth, you never arrive, you can never rest. The accumulation of spiritual peak experiences can become like the greedy person's accumulation of money. The more you get, the more you hunger for more. The life of perpetual choice is a life of perpetual longing as you are prodded by the inextinguishable desire to try the next new thing. But maybe what the soul hungers for is ultimately not a variety of interesting and moving insights but a single universal truth. Dostoeyevsky has the Grand Inquisitor say, "For the secret of man's being is not only to live but to have something to live for. Without a stable conception of the object of life, man would not consent to go on living."


I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about S/M as a spiritual path. And, I've spent my life in the Episcopal church. Spirituality and religion.

The Christian tradition has a lot to offer. Birth, marriage, death are given meaning and a context. There is a place to go--a safe harbor--when things go really really wrong. My experience is not about People With Answers. It's about a group of people who are sure that they don't know. And together, they ask questions and try to find answers.

And S/M has a lot to offer. Connection with your body, and with the man you play with, exploration of the limits of human experience, alternate states of consciousness.

Can the two be brought together? Well, that's not a great idea. I'm not sure how I'd feel about whipping in church. Put it this way: is there a way to import the community and the tradition of organized religion to the diffuse collection of people who engage in kink?



DJ Saved My Life Last Night

What a great night!

Yesterday, I headed down to Philadelphia. I met up with Baron von Philadelphia at a sehr gemuttlichkeit coffee place on 15th Street between Walnut and Locust. We talked endlessly, headed to a mexican place for some chow, visited Giovanni's Room, had desert at More Than Just Ice Cream, chatted with a couple of leather dykes from Long Island, then parted ways outside of the Bike Stop. (The Baron was wearing a fluffy down coat, and opted not to intrude.)

I had planned to make it to the Mr. and Ms. Philadelphia Leather contest, but decided not to. Word reaches me that there was only one contestant for Mr. Philadelphia Leather (and he won!). The step down speeches went on too long. Whatever.

One might be inclined to think that this spoke ill of the health of the leather community in Philadelphia, this lack of interest in the contest. Uh uh. I think just the opposite. We ain't about no contests. We're about cammeraderie.

For example, the Bike Stop was packed. I checked my coat with Piss Boss ("Y'know, boy, you can give me a call sometime just to talk." "Thanks for that, Sir, I sure will.") and headed downstairs. Evvvverybody was in leather. Men and women crowded into the basement bar. There was this general aire of good feelings all around. I chatted with a Hellfire Brother with whom I'd planted the seed about forming a Philadelphia S/M Discussion Group. It seems my diabolical plan is working perfectly (BeewaHaHaHaHaaaaa!): Next Saturday, at 5pm, I'm going to a planning meeting about forming a new group. It's pan, rather than gay male, but we'll see how it goes.

So then, I met up with this musclebound fisting Top skinhead who writes. I'm not kidding! I really did! At the Bike Stop in Philadelphia! He and I talked, having this conversation (!) about writing and leather contests and marriage--I plyed him with my argument that the emphasis on marriage devalues other kinds of relationships at which gay men excel. I mean, it was a conversation (!) more appropriate to relaxing over the second bottle of wine after dinner, Symposium-esque, but there we were, right there in the basement of the Bike Stop!

And in came the Dynamic Duo from Pottstown, other Hellfire brothers of mine. Natch, they knew the skinhead, and half of the Duo took several loads of piss off of Skin over the course of the evening. Right there in the basement of the Bike Stop! I provided cover and wore the officer's hat of the evenings pissboy. So I was sort of cover and covering the cover. We talked, we manhandled each other's meaty pecs, we drank beer, we had a fun little watersports scene. Right there in the basement of the Bike Stop!

Then I saw the hot Bear Dad from New Jersey who likes to work my nips, leaving them sore for days. So this morning, they're sore. He was there with his collared bear boy. While we were talking, I saw this unbelievably hot man: bald, bushy goatee, great tats, wearing a Harley Davidson tee shirt. He was looking at me, and I was looking at him. I sidled up and said hello. He asked me if I had been walking down 12th Street about two hours earlier. I said I had been. He had seen me out of the cab of his pickup truck. And I had seen him. Woof!

Dynamic Duo and Skin wanted a minute with me. They were going back to the Duo's well-appointed Philadelphia digs and wanted me to come along. Alas, I had commitments, namely dog and dad. I'd have to take a raincheck. In truth, I could've gone along, but I almost didn't want to. My needs were met, spending a night having good talk with hot men, meeting and flirting, right there in the basement of the Bike Stop!

Last call was announced. I headed upstairs. And there was Harley Dad. We talked some more. We talked about swimming in the Delaware River off the wing dam in Lumberville. Call me smitten. Harley Dad headed out into the night. I hope and pray I see him again sometime. He's a man I would definitely like to get to know. I retrieved my coat from Piss Boss and headed out the door, went to my car, and drove home.

So everything is good. Everything is very good.

What magic! Beer and cigars and men and talk and piss and eye hockey and leather and muscle and my sore nips. Truly, it doesn't get better than that.

Tonight, I'm heading down again for a second dose, as I have the day off of work tomorrow. Maybe Skin will be there. Maybe Harley Dad will be there. Maybe I'll meet some new boy or Sir. There's not a lot more I need than that.

Saturday, February 14, 2004

Hey Pal, I'm a Pro. Let me handle this.

Wow your coffee date! Step up to the counter at Starbucks and order one of the following:

  • Doppio ristretto con panna with a shot of valencia
  • Tall breve latte with cinnamon
  • Iced venti vanilla soy chai latte

Yeah yeah yeah. So I'm doing Starbucks marketing work for them. But just why is that a bad thing? As I've stated before here, I believe in Starbucks.

Here's why. Once again.

There you are, at a dungeon party in some strange city and you need a wee pick me up before you flog into the night. There are the choices, the local coffee bar or Big Bad Corporate Starbucks. I'll go to Starbucks. Why? Because you have no idea what you're gonna find in your cup at the local place. Sure, it might be good. But maybe the fledgling teenager working the espresso machine is still finding his way around the doppios. Maybe he's been weened on Coca-Cola and doesn't really give a damn. At Starbucks, you know what you're getting.

And the same goes for atmosphere. I've been in enough of them so that at this point, it feels like my living room. So if I need a moment to collect myself before the dungeon party in the strange city, forty five minutes in Starbucks will do the trick. My home away from home.

Now what about geo-politics? Isn't Starbucks all about creeping globalization? What will I say to my radical liberal friends when they see me with the tell-tale white and green paper cup with the sip lid? Just look them in the eye and say, "Starbucks is the reason that East Timor is free." Y'see, East Timor is a region where some of the best coffee in the world is grown. Because of this valuable natural resource, East Timor was annexed by Indonesia. Their harsh indonesian overlords nationalized all the coffee plantations, and reduced the growers to poverty. All the profits went to Djakarta. Enter Starbucks. Starbucks has a policy of only dealing directly with the coffee growers. They wouldn't buy from the indonesians, only the growers in East Timor. And in doing so, they allowed the growers to get a little bit of capital of their own. And soon, those growers were thinking, "Why do we need to be ruled by a foreign people who skim all the profits off the top and keep us at subsistence level?" And revolution began to foment. And the growers started taking those checks they got from Starbucks and put it towards the cause of economic and political self-determination. And the people rose up and threw off the indonesians. So let's give a cheer for Starbucks, spreading liberal democracy and free-market capitalism! (If Iraq had cool, damp coffee-growing mountain uplands instead of oil, the Iraqi people would probably be welcoming their first democratically elected president into office about now if Starbucks had anything to do with it.) Not quite believing all of this? Well then go here for confirmation.

Here's what you'd be getting in your cup with the orders above...

Doppio ristretto con panna with a shot of valencia You get two shots of espresso 'pulled short,' meaning you're not getting the dregs in your cup, which tend to be bitter. There's a dollop of whipped cream on top, and one shot of orange syrup.
Tall breve latte with cinnamon It's two shots of espresso combined with steamed half-and-half, and one shot of cinnamon syrup to perk things up.
Iced venti vanilla soy chai latte On a hot summer day, this rocks. It's the really really big drink you get at Starbucks, their venti size. Made with soy milk, rather than cow's milk, with chai flavoring and sweetened with a shot of vanilla syrup.


On Second Thought...

I'd rather be at Leather Weekend in Philadelphia!

'Tis here!

This weekend will see the bestowing of the titles on Mr. and Ms. Philadelphia Leather. Last night was the Meet and Greet, tonight is the contest (7 pm at the Two-Four Club), and tomorrow is the Victory Celebration at the Bike Stop. I'm planning on being there for the whole nine yards. Not so much because I care about the contest (I politely but firmly declined to enter), but because it means leatherfolk will be out and about in the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection.

And that can only be good news.

See you there!

I Like This

The following quote by Oliver Wendell Holmes was used by Jane Jacobs to open her groundbreaking book, "The Death and Life of American Cities." You know, the one that shuffled all of those International Style architects I admire off the scene, as far as residential architecture is concerned.

Something keeps biting me when I read this quote, and I'm not sure what it is. It looks like a cool crick with a pebbly bed on a hot day that you wade right into, full of self satisfaction. But there's something in there that's nipping at your toes. Maybe drawing a little blood.

The chief worth of civilization is just that it makes the means of living more complex, because the more complex and intense intellectual efforts mean a fuller and richer life. They mean more life. Life is an end in itself, and the only question as to whether it is worth living is whether we have enough of it.

Thursday, February 12, 2004

Pleasure and Danger

When was the last time you did something for the sheer pleasure of it, even though it was bad for you? In fact, knowing it was bad for you added to the pleasure.


Is hedonism dead?

(Yeah yeah yeah. I've read my pre-Socratics. I know that the Hedonists ranked pleasures, and spiritual pleasures were more worthy than intellectual pleasures which were more worthy than mere pleasures of the flesh.)

Here's what I'm thinking of.

Years ago, when I was still with the Ex of Seven and a Half Years, living in brownstone Brooklyn, we had a dispute with a neighbor of ours named Loren Duckman. If you live in the Greater New York City Metropolitan Area, that name might be vaguely familiar. He was a judge who was removed from the bench by Governor Pataki, with the support of then-mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani. The big reason was that he was belligerent and hostile on the stand. The basis of the dispute was trivial (involving the obsessiveness of my Ex), but one day, Judge Duckman invited us over for cocktails in the hopes that we could bury the hatchet.


My Ex was a non-drinking alcoholic. I had recently returned from a jaunt to Moscow, and I had a nice bottle of vodka sitting in the freezer I had brought back with me. It would probably still be in the freezer if it hadn't occurred to me to take it along as a bury-the-hatchet gift to the host of the bury-the-hatchet cocktail party.

So at the appointed time, on a glorious late-summer Sunday afternoon, we trotted around the corner to Judge Duckman's house for cocktails.

Now, I sort of assumed going into it that 'cocktails' would mean a cheese board, maybe some sandwiches, served up with white wine. No. Cocktails meant cocktails. As in, a wedge of cheddar and some crackers that nobody touched, and the question, "What are you drinking?" fired at us when we sat down.

I had a vodka with a twist of lime.

Over the course of the afternoon, the five of us, the judge, his wife, his elderly neighbor lady, the Ex, and me, proceeded to get completely noggleschlauggered. Well... except for the Ex, who didn't drink. Probably the drunkest I've been throughout my 30s. And there was no keeping up with judge, wife, and neighbor lady. They were pros. For them, Sunday afternoon meant cocktails.

Later, when my head was clear again (probably the following Thursday or so), I had the impression that I had been time traveling. That I'd been on a trip to some previous decade. I mean, we got drunk. And that was the point. We got really drunk.

Nobody does that anymore.

When I was in Ireland on vacation several years ago, I was amazed to see drunks zig-zagging down the sidewalk, tacking into the wind as it were, everywhere. When was the last time you saw someone drunk on the sidewalks of your town? Someone who wasn't evidently homeless? Since never, right?

The kids I work with get hammered every weekend. Jagermeister and marijuana seem to be the preferred intoxicants. I guess they ought to be doing something more fruitful with their time off, like going to museums or tractor pulls or something, but it seems to be all about obtaining these substances and getting as fucked up as possible. Vomiting, passing out, brushes with the Law, and physical injury are all part of the picture. I teasingly tell them to say nice things about me when they end up in 12-step program.

So where's this going?

I'm not sure.

I'm just wondering how it came to be that pleasure without a point is so deeply suspect nowadays. And that goes for sex, too, doesn't it? It's for intimacy, or for connection, or for bonding, or for exploration, or for something? How about for getting your rocks off?


Wednesday, February 11, 2004


The shop floor staff at work consists of about forty men and one woman. I like the woman a lot. She's an art school grad with some nice ink. Anyway, today, as she was heading into the spray room, she stopped by where I was working...

Woman of Wood: Hey Dutch, what's that sticker on the back of your car? It's blue and black, and has a heart...?
Yours Truly: Leather Pride. Y'know, as in S/M.
Woman of Wood: Oh. Okay.
Yours Truly: Too much information?
Woman of Wood: Nah. Cool.

Maybe she'll keep it to herself. Maybe she ran into the spray room and made an announcement beginning with "Guess what!" But I didn't say, "Uhhh... It was there when I got the car" or "I don't know but I thought it was a coll design" or something lame like that.


Tuesday, February 10, 2004

All Politics Is Loco

Tonight, I took my father to a meeting of the Plumstead Township Democratic Committee. Quite the packed agenda. We heard from candidates vying for the support of the party for Pennsylvania Assembly in the 143 District and United States Congress for the 8th Pennsylvania Congressional District.

It was pretty scarey. Most of the folks were pretty nice. But there sure were some cranks. Whether it's the West 10th Street Block Association in Greenwich Village, Community Board #3 on the Lower East Side, or a coalitions of people of transgendered experience working for passage of an inclusive civil rights bill in New York State, there's gotta be cranks. Politics attracts them like sharks to chum.

A woman who would be our candidate for Assembly opened up her comments by saying, "I want you all to see this!" and with a flourish held up her pocketbook. There was a moment or two of uneasy silence, as all of us tried to gauge whether she was perhaps inviting an evaluation of her fashion choices. Her pocketbook was obviously pleather, but nicely unadorned. Alas, it wasn't a good match for her scuffed white Avias, but I did give her points for her nifty scarf. But, it turned out that she wanted to show us that she carried with her voters registration forms so she could harrass her fellow shoppers at the supermarket.

And then there was a guy who was a Republican a few months ago. Now, he's asking for our support as a Democrat. His rationale for running seems to be an elaborate conspiracy theory involving what the "Republican Machine" is up to in the lower end of the county. When asked about his stances on issues of national import such as the Patriot act, he referred us to his literature, although he didn't have any with him (at an endorsement meeting) and would have to "get it" to us. Since pocketbook woman (inadvertently) put fashion choices on the table, I couldn't help but note that conspiracy theorist was dressed in his "I'm A Kook!" best, wearing Dickie pants, a shiny black polyester rollneck sweater, and a cheap polyester sports jacket of an indeterminate shade of blue that must have taken some hunting in the seedier thrift shops since not even K-Mart sells crappy threads like that anymore.

Be that as it may, there was a guy running against the woman with the pocketbook that I couldn't help but take notice of. He's smart, works in marketing, and seems to have put in a lot of work revitalizing the party locally. He was wearing chinos (pleated, alas), a perfectly pressed shirt, a natty sports jacket, and a Christian Dior tie that I would be glad to own.

So I was toying with the idea of working for him. Sitting there at the meeting, I had a few ideas that might resonate with voters here in the 143rd. (Free tuition for children of farm families at state universities; a provision in state law whereby local townships and municipalities can devise their own re-zoning plans thus giving control back to the people; a preservation initiative to keep the unique and wonderful architectural venacular from going; reintroduction of the timber wolf; okay, maybe not bringing back the wolves...) I'll think about it. it could be fun. And give me something to occupy my time between now and November.

So, y'know... something to think about.

An Army of Lovers

Still flying in the wake of last night's realization concerning those Sirs of mine, the support that's there for me and all I need to do is be open to it.

And I realized something else at the sanding table at work today. I've got boys to think about. Not... y'know... formally. I'm not lucky enough to have a boy wearing my collar. But still, they're out there. Some I've played with, some I've only met, some are disembodied denizens of the internet. Regardless, boys are boys. And I'm a Sir. And so there's a responsibility there. To guide, to give my time to, to listen to, to offer a new perspective to when I have one. After all, it's what a Sir does.

Wouldn't it be cool if there were something like Friendster to track all of this? For the uninitiated, Friendster is an internet phenomenon. You sign in, and then look up your friends who have also signed in, and register them. The thing that has made Friendster take off is that it's searchable. Let's say you're interested in meeting a certain celebrity. We'll pick... ohIdaknow... Vin Diesel. So say I'm on Friendster, and I decide to figure out if I know anyone who is friends with Vin. I enter Vin's name, and voila! Friendster can tell me how many degrees of separation there are between me and Vin. And I will learn that if cubby used to hang with Vin back in the days and every time he's in town he looks her up and they get together for lunch to catch up. Thus, only a carefully worded email--probably starting out "oh by the way" or something--stands between me and getting to whip... I mean meet Vin Diesel.

(Nota Bene: I wish. As far as I know, neither cubby nor anyone else I know is chummy with the Vinster.)

Anyway, how cool would it be, listing my Sirs and boys, and all the other Sirs and boys out there listing theirs. Then, we'd have a snapshot of a worldwide network of collars and leashes.

Regardless, it's out there. All of those connections. All of those men, and women, looking out for one another, relying on one another, getting a smile and a twinkle in the eye when thoughts of one another flit through the mind.

This is such an important thing, no?

So much love in the world.

Monday, February 09, 2004

Sirs of Mine

I've been blind. I've been wrong.

In the S/M and Spirituality group, one of the members shared that he has been instructed by his Master/Guardian to spend a week addressing all the people in his life as either Sir or Ma'am. He's a little staggered by that. How will his boss respond? How will his 27-year-old assistant respond?

Suddenly, I see the value of that.

I don't have a Sir, regardless of how badly I want one. But I have Sirs. I am rich with Sirs.

I had a good conversation with the Boss tonight. The man who held me in his strong arms while I cried during MAL. The man who presented me with a chain collar secured with a padlock that I wear to bed every night. He held me while I cried. He is definitely my Sir.

But in that, he's not alone. Orlando Sir, who showed me so much about what I need is my Sir, too. And BootSir. And Piss Boss. And definitely PunchPig. And Diabolique. And ARt. And the man in Fort Lauderdale who was there when I made my debut as a whipping Top. And gosh, even my father. Especially my father.

All of these men, with the exception of Diabolique and my father, I've addressed as 'Sir.' But I've done so... maybe not casually, but more for practice. For when Sir presents himself.

Nope. Off the mark. Wrong again. All of these men have helped me on my journey. Helped me. Guided me. Shown me hidden parts of myself. And I don't think I'm going out on a limb to say that they care for me. They think I'm a pretty special boy.

Oh yeah.

I've got more than I need. I just didn't see that. A cornucopia of Sirs. There's love there. And someone in my corner.


Sir, if you're reading this, I want you to know something. Tonight, when I put that collar around my neck, that's your collar, Sir. I'll sleep tonight wearing your collar. And tomorrow night, too. And many nights to come.

Thank you, Sir, for your love and support, and for the sense of security that collar imparts.

I'm grateful, Sir.