Stu.
Pendous.

What a great night.

Amazing.

Luckily, I got an early start, leaving the house at twenty minutes after five. Traffic was heavy on I-78, but I managed to maintain seventy-two miles per hour most of the way. Once through the Holland Tunnel (Hi, Holland Tunnel! Miss you like herpes!), things slowed down considerable as Hudson Street was a parking lot. After only one or two tours of the block, I managed to find parking. A quick stop at Starbucks for a latte, and I made it to the Center before the program got started. As I walked down Twelfth Street, I heard a guy repeating the mantra, "Marlboro five bucks... Five bucks for Marlboro... I got Marlboro for five bucks." Interesting. When I first moved to NYC, the streets were littered with drug dealers who kept up their own particular little rap, "Smoke. Smoke. Sens. Smoke. Smoke," selling oregano to NYU students. And now it's come to this. What hath Bloomberg wrought? And then, I ran into a politico I knew from my last job. Quick bout of gossiping--I still haven't been replaced, Boss Sunshine is in something of a political decline.

And then, I had arrived at the Center. The GMSMA meeting was in room 101. Wow. I used to facilitate ACT UP meetings in that room. Those walls have witnessed many important moments in my life. And now, they were gonna see another one.

Way cool.

There was PunchPig. There was everybody. A good crowd.

I said my hellos then ducked into a stairwell to change into my singlet. PunchPig liked the singlet. I liked that PunchPig liked the singlet. We started on time.

"W.C. Fields said never work with dogs or smalll children, but I think he would have included this guy in a singlet getting tied up," was PunchPig's opener, as JoeyRope, the current President of GMSMA did the honors and wove me into a nice, tight, secure, and immobilizing rope harnesss. PunchPig talked, taking care of the 'How To Make A Meatloaf' section of the program, then I did my little spiel--I couldn't talk with my hands!--about why I liked the scene, how it was about adrenaline rather than endorphins and how to work with that, and the scene we did last August. All very well received.

Then PunchPig talked some more. Explaining about the gear he had brough with him, the weights of various gloves, his preference for bare knuckles, that kind of thing. And as he talked, he incorporated a few jabs at me into what he was saying. In short order, the blah-blah-blah became less and less, and the punches I was taking became more and more.

And there I was. Tied in a chair wearing a slutty sweaty singlet in front of a crowd of eighty men getting punched in the face.

I did my best to stay in the Anger place, yelling through my mouthpiece, pounding my feet. PunchPig was great. He is such the magician, conjuring an intense and deep soul connection, even there on stage. He's a twisted, bearded Circe in wrestling togs, enticing and enchanting, turning me into a howling beast.

And I broke. I lay my head down on PunchPig's boxing gloved hand, and cried. The audience responded by laughing. As though I had just taken a prat fall. "They don't get it!" I thought, they think this is some kind of an act!" But I discharged this thought off into the void: that was nervous laughter. Their defenses were being penetrated, too. They got it all right.

True to form, PunchPig didn't let a few tears get in the way of messing up my face some more. Pow. Pow. Sock.

And then, it was done. I took the last blow of the evening. JoeyRope freed me from my bonds.

As the final Q&A started, I was glowing. I felt incandescent. Radiant. I jumped in for a few questions. Explained--only realizing it just then--that I would probably undergo a mild depression over the next couple of days.

I think we did our job. I think that eighty guys had a good evening out, got their five dollars worth, and now have a pretty good idea of what the scene is all about.

Very cool.

Then, Diabolique, PunchPig, and I repaired to the Village Den for a brief repast. I should have just hit the road, but I didn't want to let the evening end. PunchPig and Diabolique seemed to hit it off. We talked Deep Talk. What It All Means talk. It was like being in Moscow. Verrrrry russian. No small talk. What's it all mean? Who's your God?

Then, the Program Chair showed up and all of us walked to my car. Y'see, Program Chair asked me to lend my St. Andrews Cross to The Cause. In two weeks, GMSMA is having a Master of the Whip program with an amazing man from San Francisco. They need a cross. Mine is just gathering dust and mouse shit out in the garage, so I was only too happy to help out there. It's good that it will get some use.

I was considering heading up to NYC in two weeks for the Master of the Whip program.

Uh uh.

This morning, I'm totally whiped out. Hoping to get into work around nine, only losing two hours of my day. (I have forty five minutes of overtime, so I'll only be an hour and fifteen short in my paycheck.)

Anyway, time to hit the showers.

And dang. No black eye. Not a mark on me. Nothing to show for it except... well, except an intense rearranging of my interior landscape.

The shower calls.

---