Yeah. Yeah. It Was A Sweet Trip.
Monday, May 31, 2004
BIG TRIP
Oh man.
Where to begin? How to recount an entire weekend and not have a huge and daunting block of text for you, my readers? I'll do my best to operate by headlines and brief-ish blurbs.
The Voyage Out
Not a prob!
Well, not entirely true. The long term parking lot at Newark was filled, so they sent us to the short term parking lot with a green tag that would give us long term rates. But, I drove around the short term lot for forty five minutes before concluding that there were no spaces available here either, and no one coming out the door with luggage that I could track to his car and nab his spot. I had given myself a comfortable window of time, but that window was closing.
What to do?
How about, move some orange cones and park on white stripes and spend the weekend hoping my car hadn't been towed when I got back? Yuh. Okee. So I did that.
And then, I somehow got it into my head that I was flying Continental. They set me straight on that at the Continental check-in counter. In Terminal C. And United, which I was flying, was in Terminal A. So, it was another trip on the tram for me. But, I even had time to stop at Starbucks for a half-caf grande latte before boarding.
Oh. The security guy complemented me on my boots ("Damn! Those are some big beautiful boots!") and my Schott MC jacket ("Yo. Sweet.") and the young woman at Starbucks, who made my drink wrong, told me she wished every customer was as nice as me.
I eat that up like candy.
But, how unnerving was it not wearing Big's collar? Very unnerving. After the Incident of the Wallet Chain at the Detroit Airport, I decided not to chance it. Hated that.
But I got into SFO, and there was Big waiting for me by baggage claim. Looking... well... like one of the hottest men I've ever laid eyes on. We grabbed my bag, headed to the parking lot, threw my bag in his white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and rectified the collar situation.
Friday Night
Big is a very good driver. Maybe SF does that to you. Several times I felt that my skills wouldn't be a match for the not-covered-in-my-high-school-drivers-ed-class challenges presented by the streets, but very quickly I had full and complete confidence in Big. Big is a good driver.
We drove slowly through the Castro so I could get a first look, and then headed up Market Street to Chez Big in Twin Peaks. (On Twin Peaks? Is that a shiboleth?) Once there, I dropped my bags, and big had a light dinner waiting. Minestrone soup and popovers. (Popovers are a Big specialty.) How perfect was that? Perfectly perfect.
And, Big had a gift for me. A complete bootblacking kit. I'll be in touch with Cubby J. Sherwood about figuring how to use it. It's pretty wonderful. I am one grateful boy.
Good Morning, Sunshine
Y'know what rocks about traveling to the West Coast? You can be a lazy slug and stay in bed till noon, and they think you're up and at'em at 9 am. Big fixed us a quick breakfast of last night's popovers and fruit salad, and then we headed for home. 'Home,' in this case, being Starbucks. And this particular Starbucks was the Starbucks in the Castro. One venti iced latte with two pumps of cinnamon and a tall blend of the day with no room later, Big and I were sitting on a bench watching the world go by.
Welcome To The Castro!
We headed to a leather shop that sells second hand stuff, as they were having a sale. I think the idea is brilliant, what a great way to recycle gear! Alas, there was nothing in my size, so no money was spent. Then, we had brunch on the back porch of a nice little eaterie, and stopped by a plant place a few doors down. The enormous rainbow flag was flying at the Harvey Milk memorial, and Big informed me that the leather pride flag had been flying below it over the past few days, as Alan Selby, who put the 'S' in Mr. S had passed away.
Wow. So municipal government not only mounts a huge flagpole to acknowledge the contributions of it LGBT citizenry, but makes room for the kinksters in the citizenry, too? Wow.
Colorful Natives In Their Picturesque Costumes Practicing Their Charming Folkways
Time for touristry! Into the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and off to the site of the exposition, then down to Folsom Street to visit Mr. S, the store. (Nothing purchased. I think I'm pretty much set gear-wise. Imagine that!) Lots of picture taking. Another trip to Starbucks in the Castro. Then, it was time to head back to Chez Big for a nap.
San Francisco Nights
While I napped, Big got dinner dinner ready. Big does a lot more work than any man with a boy should, I think. But who am I to complain?
Dinner was great. Really superb. But if my Sir had served me toast and Kool-Aide, it still would have been a feast. 'Cause my Sir made it for me.
After dinner, I asked Big what he wanted to see his boy wearing that night. Big opted for the chaps, black tshirt, leather armbands. I got myself ready according to Sir's wishes. Sir looked pretty great himself. Natch. And so, the two of us headed out to the Loading Dock.
Big finds the Loading Dock to be all but totally devoid of sexual energy. And maybe it was just because IML was going down a couple of thousand miles away, but I had to agree. It was like those guys were waiting for a bus.
We took it in, relaxed, had beers.
Then, I was inspired. I'd show those San Francisco boys how this East Coast boy honors his Sir, and save Big the trouble of having to explain why he passed over the local options. Down I went, giving my Sir the boot service he deserves, making him proud. Oh man. When did I get such a taste for boot leather? I swear, I was rock hard the entire time. Happy as a pig in a pile of acorns. When I came up for air, Big was glowing, and a semicircle of awed leatherbar patrons had formed around us.
There. Nuff said. Made my point.
Big and I finished our beers and headed home. 'Cuz a certain boy had earned a nice, long, hard, sweaty fuck from the Sir he serves.
Before the fucking ensued, we had a little portrait sitting. Big wanted some pics of us together, and so did I. And since we were both leathered up, it seemed like a good opportunity.
Glorious Sunday
What a great day. Things started out with breakfast in the Castro with a buddy of Big's.
Interesting thing I noticed about San Francisco: you see the same guys over and over again. There at the restaurant was a boy we had just seen the night before at the Loading Dock, one of the awed faces I saw when I looked up from my boot service. And he was one of scores of repeats throughout the weekend. Sure is different from Life in the Megalopolis.
After breakfast, Big and I stocked up on sandwiches. We were going on a picnic.
We headed across the Golden Gate Bridge into the Marin headlands.
As we crossed the bridge, I asked Big if he was familiar with Armistead Maupin's riff from his Tales of the City books on Tonys and Jeannettes. Of course, he was. AM opines--through Michael, if memory serves--that there are two kinds of people who find their way to San Francisco. The first is in line with the sentiments expressed by Jeannette MacDonald in the ditty she made famous... "San Fran Cisco! Open your golden gates! Another stranger waits outside your door!" Wayfaring optimists, leaving behind their humdrum hootervilles to bask in the California Sunshine. The second variety are those who sway to Tony Bennett singing about his departure without his cardium, lyrical romantics, made melancholie by the spell of the City by the Bay. I had always thought of myself as a Jeannette, but I was beginning to think that Big was turning me into a Tony.
First stop was the Point Bonita lighthouse. Much photography ensued. I find something so magical about those golden hills of sand covered with sage and succulents. Then, back in the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and continuing on to Mount Tam. As in, Mount Tamalpais. (Question: 'Malpais' is a fairly common Spanish-language place name meaning 'badlands.' So where does the 'Ta' come in?) We drove and drove and drove, winding our wending way (or is it, 'wending our winding way') up and up and up. Near the top, we pulled off the road and climed the embankment opposite, and made a picnic lunch of our sandwiches. The whole of the Bay area, from Berkeley to Half Moon Bay was spread out before us. It was glorious.
Big pointed out the beach where once a month, the leather community gathers at night around a big bonfire.
*sigh*
I'm gonna say that again. The beach where once a month, the leather community gathers around a big bonfire. Men in leather, smoking cigars, their faces dancing in the firelight. Gathering to enjoy being men in leather, smoking cigars, and watching the faces of their brothers dancing in the firelight.
I guess there's a lot to like about San Francisco.
We drove the balance of the way up to the summit, then headed back across the bridge and into town. First stop was (you guessed it) Starbucks, although not the one in the Castro. Then, Sir told me to tuck my BDU pants into my Wesco's because we were headed for the Eagle.
Cool.
Well. Maybe not.
It was packed to capacity. Verrry Sunday Beerblast at the Dugout. Only, the vast majority of the crowd were neither bears nor leathermen. They were just... y'know... gay guys. Mebbe because it was IML weekend?
Interestingly enough, someone I had met a few years ago at the Harm Reduction Conference in Seattle where I delivered my presentation on barebacking was receiving an award for service from the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Small world, huh?
Big and I got beers, and took in the scene. Then, Big decided that it was time for me to spend some time on the leash I had gotten him. He clipped it onto my collar.
Schwing!
Oh. Man. Did that feel great or what? Instant hardon.
The crowd got to be a little much, so we headed first for the Lone Star. There was a line, neither of us felt particularly compelled to stand in line, so we headed for home. Nap time again.
I told Big I wanted to take him out to dinner that night, to show my appreciation to my Sir. He was amenable to that.
So we headed home. We decided that a nap was in order, and headed to bed. Really great sex ensued. I mean really great. As in, that weren't no seismic activity, that were boy breeding! I drifted off to sleep in my Sir's arms.
A Man And His boy Dine Out
We awoke at 9 pm, showered and dressed hastily, and headed down to the Castro. The restaurant was ideal. Great food (Great Food!) at reasonable prices.
Big and I talked. And talked and talked and talked.
This man... his mind, his life, his manner, his ways, his predilections... This Man. What have I done that was so selfless, pure, and good to merit wearing his collar?
I'm falling hard for Big. Way hard.
Chance Meeting
After dinner, Big and I took a passegiata so I could mail postcards to my father and the Baron. I'm not a postcard kinda guy, but both of theminsisted requested, so I was happy to oblige. They're winging their way eastward courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service as I speak.
As we walked, in stride, hand in hand, to the mailbox Big knew of, who should come walking the other way but Special Guy.
I'd been keeping half an eye out for him the whole weekend. And there he was. We greeted each other warmly. He looked great. He introduced me to the guy who was with, I introduced him to Big, although, of course, they had met a few days ago outside Starbucks in the Castro.
How uncanny, that I have known the love of two wonderful men. Big and Special Guy. Special Guy and Big. The leathergods are sure looking out for me. And there they both were, in my field of vision at the same time.
This might have been an awkward situation. "Uh... Hello there, guy I used to date. This is the guy I'm dating now." But at the risk of generalizing, I think that the hearts of leathermen are bigger than that. We are men who devote our lives to love. To deep, deep love. We know that our hearts are much larger than we think they are, that our hearts can expand seemingly infinitely, to be filled with so much love. And to give so much love, and still find that we have so much more to give.
Home. Bed.
That was tough. I didn't want the weekend to end. But end it would. In a few short hours, I'd be taken to SFO, and board United Flight 70 bound for EWR.
Tough to leave Big behind. Tough to have to wait three weeks until I see him again. See him. Feel the warmth and strength of his arms around me. Smell him. Taste him. Three weeks. That's tough. Tough to live and work and play thinking all the time that you'd rather be at the other side of North America. Tough.
But I'm tough, too.
Okay. Here's the pics.
Here's a shot by of Exposition Park...
I took it because of the sign that appears to blight the view...
...y'see, that thing about having to pick up after your dog? Well, after Harvey Milk, one of my heroes, was elected to the Board of Supervisors, one of his first actions was to introduce and fight for passage of a bill, then controversial, to make dog owners clean up after their dogs. At the time, this was completely novel, although such laws are now commonplace. In doing so, Milk signaled that he was not simply a gay politician, but had the interests of all San Franciscans at heart. In a way, this sign and others like it are memorials to Harvey.
And here's me at Fort Mason. My father, seeing this picture, was flooded with memories. When he got off the boat, a WAC band was playing to welcome the new soldiers, under a sign saying, 'Welcome Home.'
And here's an obligatory pic of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Here's a few pics from our travels in the Marin Headlands...
And here are the portraits that Big and I took on Saturday night, fresh from the Loading Dock...
Oh man.
Where to begin? How to recount an entire weekend and not have a huge and daunting block of text for you, my readers? I'll do my best to operate by headlines and brief-ish blurbs.
The Voyage Out
Not a prob!
Well, not entirely true. The long term parking lot at Newark was filled, so they sent us to the short term parking lot with a green tag that would give us long term rates. But, I drove around the short term lot for forty five minutes before concluding that there were no spaces available here either, and no one coming out the door with luggage that I could track to his car and nab his spot. I had given myself a comfortable window of time, but that window was closing.
What to do?
How about, move some orange cones and park on white stripes and spend the weekend hoping my car hadn't been towed when I got back? Yuh. Okee. So I did that.
And then, I somehow got it into my head that I was flying Continental. They set me straight on that at the Continental check-in counter. In Terminal C. And United, which I was flying, was in Terminal A. So, it was another trip on the tram for me. But, I even had time to stop at Starbucks for a half-caf grande latte before boarding.
Oh. The security guy complemented me on my boots ("Damn! Those are some big beautiful boots!") and my Schott MC jacket ("Yo. Sweet.") and the young woman at Starbucks, who made my drink wrong, told me she wished every customer was as nice as me.
I eat that up like candy.
But, how unnerving was it not wearing Big's collar? Very unnerving. After the Incident of the Wallet Chain at the Detroit Airport, I decided not to chance it. Hated that.
But I got into SFO, and there was Big waiting for me by baggage claim. Looking... well... like one of the hottest men I've ever laid eyes on. We grabbed my bag, headed to the parking lot, threw my bag in his white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and rectified the collar situation.
Friday Night
Big is a very good driver. Maybe SF does that to you. Several times I felt that my skills wouldn't be a match for the not-covered-in-my-high-school-drivers-ed-class challenges presented by the streets, but very quickly I had full and complete confidence in Big. Big is a good driver.
We drove slowly through the Castro so I could get a first look, and then headed up Market Street to Chez Big in Twin Peaks. (On Twin Peaks? Is that a shiboleth?) Once there, I dropped my bags, and big had a light dinner waiting. Minestrone soup and popovers. (Popovers are a Big specialty.) How perfect was that? Perfectly perfect.
And, Big had a gift for me. A complete bootblacking kit. I'll be in touch with Cubby J. Sherwood about figuring how to use it. It's pretty wonderful. I am one grateful boy.
Good Morning, Sunshine
Y'know what rocks about traveling to the West Coast? You can be a lazy slug and stay in bed till noon, and they think you're up and at'em at 9 am. Big fixed us a quick breakfast of last night's popovers and fruit salad, and then we headed for home. 'Home,' in this case, being Starbucks. And this particular Starbucks was the Starbucks in the Castro. One venti iced latte with two pumps of cinnamon and a tall blend of the day with no room later, Big and I were sitting on a bench watching the world go by.
Welcome To The Castro!
We headed to a leather shop that sells second hand stuff, as they were having a sale. I think the idea is brilliant, what a great way to recycle gear! Alas, there was nothing in my size, so no money was spent. Then, we had brunch on the back porch of a nice little eaterie, and stopped by a plant place a few doors down. The enormous rainbow flag was flying at the Harvey Milk memorial, and Big informed me that the leather pride flag had been flying below it over the past few days, as Alan Selby, who put the 'S' in Mr. S had passed away.
Wow. So municipal government not only mounts a huge flagpole to acknowledge the contributions of it LGBT citizenry, but makes room for the kinksters in the citizenry, too? Wow.
Colorful Natives In Their Picturesque Costumes Practicing Their Charming Folkways
Time for touristry! Into the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and off to the site of the exposition, then down to Folsom Street to visit Mr. S, the store. (Nothing purchased. I think I'm pretty much set gear-wise. Imagine that!) Lots of picture taking. Another trip to Starbucks in the Castro. Then, it was time to head back to Chez Big for a nap.
San Francisco Nights
While I napped, Big got dinner dinner ready. Big does a lot more work than any man with a boy should, I think. But who am I to complain?
Dinner was great. Really superb. But if my Sir had served me toast and Kool-Aide, it still would have been a feast. 'Cause my Sir made it for me.
After dinner, I asked Big what he wanted to see his boy wearing that night. Big opted for the chaps, black tshirt, leather armbands. I got myself ready according to Sir's wishes. Sir looked pretty great himself. Natch. And so, the two of us headed out to the Loading Dock.
Big finds the Loading Dock to be all but totally devoid of sexual energy. And maybe it was just because IML was going down a couple of thousand miles away, but I had to agree. It was like those guys were waiting for a bus.
We took it in, relaxed, had beers.
Then, I was inspired. I'd show those San Francisco boys how this East Coast boy honors his Sir, and save Big the trouble of having to explain why he passed over the local options. Down I went, giving my Sir the boot service he deserves, making him proud. Oh man. When did I get such a taste for boot leather? I swear, I was rock hard the entire time. Happy as a pig in a pile of acorns. When I came up for air, Big was glowing, and a semicircle of awed leatherbar patrons had formed around us.
There. Nuff said. Made my point.
Big and I finished our beers and headed home. 'Cuz a certain boy had earned a nice, long, hard, sweaty fuck from the Sir he serves.
Before the fucking ensued, we had a little portrait sitting. Big wanted some pics of us together, and so did I. And since we were both leathered up, it seemed like a good opportunity.
Glorious Sunday
What a great day. Things started out with breakfast in the Castro with a buddy of Big's.
Interesting thing I noticed about San Francisco: you see the same guys over and over again. There at the restaurant was a boy we had just seen the night before at the Loading Dock, one of the awed faces I saw when I looked up from my boot service. And he was one of scores of repeats throughout the weekend. Sure is different from Life in the Megalopolis.
After breakfast, Big and I stocked up on sandwiches. We were going on a picnic.
We headed across the Golden Gate Bridge into the Marin headlands.
As we crossed the bridge, I asked Big if he was familiar with Armistead Maupin's riff from his Tales of the City books on Tonys and Jeannettes. Of course, he was. AM opines--through Michael, if memory serves--that there are two kinds of people who find their way to San Francisco. The first is in line with the sentiments expressed by Jeannette MacDonald in the ditty she made famous... "San Fran Cisco! Open your golden gates! Another stranger waits outside your door!" Wayfaring optimists, leaving behind their humdrum hootervilles to bask in the California Sunshine. The second variety are those who sway to Tony Bennett singing about his departure without his cardium, lyrical romantics, made melancholie by the spell of the City by the Bay. I had always thought of myself as a Jeannette, but I was beginning to think that Big was turning me into a Tony.
First stop was the Point Bonita lighthouse. Much photography ensued. I find something so magical about those golden hills of sand covered with sage and succulents. Then, back in the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and continuing on to Mount Tam. As in, Mount Tamalpais. (Question: 'Malpais' is a fairly common Spanish-language place name meaning 'badlands.' So where does the 'Ta' come in?) We drove and drove and drove, winding our wending way (or is it, 'wending our winding way') up and up and up. Near the top, we pulled off the road and climed the embankment opposite, and made a picnic lunch of our sandwiches. The whole of the Bay area, from Berkeley to Half Moon Bay was spread out before us. It was glorious.
Big pointed out the beach where once a month, the leather community gathers at night around a big bonfire.
*sigh*
I'm gonna say that again. The beach where once a month, the leather community gathers around a big bonfire. Men in leather, smoking cigars, their faces dancing in the firelight. Gathering to enjoy being men in leather, smoking cigars, and watching the faces of their brothers dancing in the firelight.
I guess there's a lot to like about San Francisco.
We drove the balance of the way up to the summit, then headed back across the bridge and into town. First stop was (you guessed it) Starbucks, although not the one in the Castro. Then, Sir told me to tuck my BDU pants into my Wesco's because we were headed for the Eagle.
Cool.
Well. Maybe not.
It was packed to capacity. Verrry Sunday Beerblast at the Dugout. Only, the vast majority of the crowd were neither bears nor leathermen. They were just... y'know... gay guys. Mebbe because it was IML weekend?
Interestingly enough, someone I had met a few years ago at the Harm Reduction Conference in Seattle where I delivered my presentation on barebacking was receiving an award for service from the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Small world, huh?
Big and I got beers, and took in the scene. Then, Big decided that it was time for me to spend some time on the leash I had gotten him. He clipped it onto my collar.
Schwing!
Oh. Man. Did that feel great or what? Instant hardon.
The crowd got to be a little much, so we headed first for the Lone Star. There was a line, neither of us felt particularly compelled to stand in line, so we headed for home. Nap time again.
I told Big I wanted to take him out to dinner that night, to show my appreciation to my Sir. He was amenable to that.
So we headed home. We decided that a nap was in order, and headed to bed. Really great sex ensued. I mean really great. As in, that weren't no seismic activity, that were boy breeding! I drifted off to sleep in my Sir's arms.
A Man And His boy Dine Out
We awoke at 9 pm, showered and dressed hastily, and headed down to the Castro. The restaurant was ideal. Great food (Great Food!) at reasonable prices.
Big and I talked. And talked and talked and talked.
This man... his mind, his life, his manner, his ways, his predilections... This Man. What have I done that was so selfless, pure, and good to merit wearing his collar?
I'm falling hard for Big. Way hard.
Chance Meeting
After dinner, Big and I took a passegiata so I could mail postcards to my father and the Baron. I'm not a postcard kinda guy, but both of them
As we walked, in stride, hand in hand, to the mailbox Big knew of, who should come walking the other way but Special Guy.
I'd been keeping half an eye out for him the whole weekend. And there he was. We greeted each other warmly. He looked great. He introduced me to the guy who was with, I introduced him to Big, although, of course, they had met a few days ago outside Starbucks in the Castro.
How uncanny, that I have known the love of two wonderful men. Big and Special Guy. Special Guy and Big. The leathergods are sure looking out for me. And there they both were, in my field of vision at the same time.
This might have been an awkward situation. "Uh... Hello there, guy I used to date. This is the guy I'm dating now." But at the risk of generalizing, I think that the hearts of leathermen are bigger than that. We are men who devote our lives to love. To deep, deep love. We know that our hearts are much larger than we think they are, that our hearts can expand seemingly infinitely, to be filled with so much love. And to give so much love, and still find that we have so much more to give.
Home. Bed.
That was tough. I didn't want the weekend to end. But end it would. In a few short hours, I'd be taken to SFO, and board United Flight 70 bound for EWR.
Tough to leave Big behind. Tough to have to wait three weeks until I see him again. See him. Feel the warmth and strength of his arms around me. Smell him. Taste him. Three weeks. That's tough. Tough to live and work and play thinking all the time that you'd rather be at the other side of North America. Tough.
But I'm tough, too.
Okay. Here's the pics.
Here's a shot by of Exposition Park...
I took it because of the sign that appears to blight the view...
...y'see, that thing about having to pick up after your dog? Well, after Harvey Milk, one of my heroes, was elected to the Board of Supervisors, one of his first actions was to introduce and fight for passage of a bill, then controversial, to make dog owners clean up after their dogs. At the time, this was completely novel, although such laws are now commonplace. In doing so, Milk signaled that he was not simply a gay politician, but had the interests of all San Franciscans at heart. In a way, this sign and others like it are memorials to Harvey.
And here's me at Fort Mason. My father, seeing this picture, was flooded with memories. When he got off the boat, a WAC band was playing to welcome the new soldiers, under a sign saying, 'Welcome Home.'
And here's an obligatory pic of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Here's a few pics from our travels in the Marin Headlands...
And here are the portraits that Big and I took on Saturday night, fresh from the Loading Dock...
Big Trip
Oh man.
Where to begin? How to recount an entire weekend and not have a huge and daunting block of text for you, my readers? I'll do my best to operate by headlines and brief-ish blurbs.
The Voyage Out
Not a prob!
Well, not entirely true. The long term parking lot at Newark was filled, so they sent us to the short term parking lot with a green tag that would give us long term rates. But, I drove around the short term lot for forty five minutes before concluding that there were no spaces available here either, and no one coming out the door with luggage that I could track to his car and nab his spot. I had given myself a comfortable window of time, but that window was closing.
What to do?
How about, move some orange cones and park on white stripes and spend the weekend hoping my car hadn't been towed when I got back? Yuh. Okee. So I did that.
And then, I somehow got it into my head that I was flying Continental. They set me straight on that at the Continental check-in counter. In Terminal C. And United, which I was flying, was in Terminal A. So, it was another trip on the tram for me. But, I even had time to stop at Starbucks for a half-caf grande latte before boarding.
Oh. The security guy complemented me on my boots ("Damn! Those are some big beautiful boots!") and my Schott MC jacket ("Yo. Sweet.") and the young woman at Starbucks, who made my drink wrong, told me she wished every customer was as nice as me.
I eat that up like candy.
But, how unnerving was it not wearing Big's collar? Very unnerving. After the Incident of the Wallet Chain at the Detroit Airport, I decided not to chance it. Hated that.
But I got into SFO, and there was Big waiting for me by baggage claim. Looking... well... like one of the hottest men I've ever laid eyes on. We grabbed my bag, headed to the parking lot, threw my bag in his white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and rectified the collar situation.
Friday Night
Big is a very good driver. Maybe SF does that to you. Several times I felt that my skills wouldn't be a match for the not-covered-in-my-high-school-drivers-ed-class challenges presented by the streets, but very quickly I had full and complete confidence in Big. Big is a good driver.
We drove slowly through the Castro so I could get a first look, and then headed up Market Street to Chez Big in Twin Peaks. (On Twin Peaks? Is that a shiboleth?) Once there, I dropped my bags, and big had a light dinner waiting. Minestrone soup and popovers. (Popovers are a Big specialty.) How perfect was that? Perfectly perfect.
And, Big had a gift for me. A complete bootblacking kit. I'll be in touch with Cubby J. Sherwood about figuring how to use it. It's pretty wonderful. I am one grateful boy.
Good Morning, Sunshine
Y'know what rocks about traveling to the West Coast? You can be a lazy slug and stay in bed till noon, and they think you're up and at'em at 9 am. Big fixed us a quick breakfast of last night's popovers and fruit salad, and then we headed for home. 'Home,' in this case, being Starbucks. And this particular Starbucks was the Starbucks in the Castro. One venti iced latte with two pumps of cinnamon and a tall blend of the day with no room later, Big and I were sitting on a bench watching the world go by.
Welcome To The Castro!
We headed to a leather shop that sells second hand stuff, as they were having a sale. I think the idea is brilliant, what a great way to recycle gear! Alas, there was nothing in my size, so no money was spent. Then, we had brunch on the back porch of a nice little eaterie, and stopped by a plant place a few doors down. The enormous rainbow flag was flying at the Harvey Milk memorial, and Big informed me that the leather pride flag had been flying below it over the past few days, as Alan Selby, who put the 'S' in Mr. S had passed away.
Wow. So municipal government not only mounts a huge flagpole to acknowledge the contributions of it LGBT citizenry, but makes room for the kinksters in the citizenry, too? Wow.
Colorful Natives In Their Picturesque Costumes Practicing Their Charming Folkways
Time for touristry! Into the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and off to the site of the exposition, then down to Folsom Street to visit Mr. S, the store. (Nothing purchased. I think I'm pretty much set gear-wise. Imagine that!) Lots of picture taking. Another trip to Starbucks in the Castro. Then, it was time to head back to Chez Big for a nap.
San Francisco Nights
While I napped, Big got dinner dinner ready. Big does a lot more work than any man with a boy should, I think. But who am I to complain?
Dinner was great. Really superb. But if my Sir had served me toast and Kool-Aide, it still would have been a feast. 'Cause my Sir made it for me.
After dinner, I asked Big what he wanted to see his boy wearing that night. Big opted for the chaps, black tshirt, leather armbands. I got myself ready according to Sir's wishes. Sir looked pretty great himself. Natch. And so, the two of us headed out to the Loading Dock.
Big finds the Loading Dock to be all but totally devoid of sexual energy. And maybe it was just because IML was going down a couple of thousand miles away, but I had to agree. It was like those guys were waiting for a bus.
We took it in, relaxed, had beers.
Then, I was inspired. I'd show those San Francisco boys how this East Coast boy honors his Sir, and save Big the trouble of having to explain why he passed over the local options. Down I went, giving my Sir the boot service he deserves, making him proud. Oh man. When did I get such a taste for boot leather? I swear, I was rock hard the entire time. Happy as a pig in a pile of acorns. When I came up for air, Big was glowing, and a semicircle of awed leatherbar patrons had formed around us.
There. Nuff said. Made my point.
Big and I finished our beers and headed home. 'Cuz a certain boy had earned a nice, long, hard, sweaty fuck from the Sir he serves.
Before the fucking ensued, we had a little portrait sitting. Big wanted some pics of us together, and so did I. And since we were both leathered up, it seemed like a good opportunity.
Glorious Sunday
What a great day. Things started out with breakfast in the Castro with a buddy of Big's.
Interesting thing I noticed about San Francisco: you see the same guys over and over again. There at the restaurant was a boy we had just seen the night before at the Loading Dock, one of the awed faces I saw when I looked up from my boot service. And he was one of scores of repeats throughout the weekend. Sure is different from Life in the Megalopolis.
After breakfast, Big and I stocked up on sandwiches. We were going on a picnic.
We headed across the Golden Gate Bridge into the Marin headlands.
As we crossed the bridge, I asked Big if he was familiar with Armistead Maupin's riff from his Tales of the City books on Tonys and Jeannettes. Of course, he was. AM opines--through Michael, if memory serves--that there are two kinds of people who find their way to San Francisco. The first is in line with the sentiments expressed by Jeannette MacDonald in the ditty she made famous... "San Fran Cisco! Open your golden gates! Another stranger waits outside your door!" Wayfaring optimists, leaving behind their humdrum hootervilles to bask in the California Sunshine. The second variety are those who sway to Tony Bennett singing about his departure without his cardium, lyrical romantics, made melancholie by the spell of the City by the Bay. I had always thought of myself as a Jeannette, but I was beginning to think that Big was turning me into a Tony.
First stop was the Point Bonita lighthouse. Much photography ensued. I find something so magical about those golden hills of sand covered with sage and succulents. Then, back in the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and continuing on to Mount Tam. As in, Mount Tamalpais. (Question: 'Malpais' is a fairly common Spanish-language place name meaning 'badlands.' So where does the 'Ta' come in?) We drove and drove and drove, winding our wending way (or is it, 'wending our winding way') up and up and up. Near the top, we pulled off the road and climed the embankment opposite, and made a picnic lunch of our sandwiches. The whole of the Bay area, from Berkeley to Half Moon Bay was spread out before us. It was glorious.
Big pointed out the beach where once a month, the leather community gathers at night around a big bonfire.
*sigh*
I'm gonna say that again. The beach where once a month, the leather community gathers around a big bonfire. Men in leather, smoking cigars, their faces dancing in the firelight. Gathering to enjoy being men in leather, smoking cigars, and watching the faces of their brothers dancing in the firelight.
I guess there's a lot to like about San Francisco.
We drove the balance of the way up to the summit, then headed back across the bridge and into town. First stop was (you guessed it) Starbucks, although not the one in the Castro. Then, Sir told me to tuck my BDU pants into my Wesco's because we were headed for the Eagle.
Cool.
Well. Maybe not.
It was packed to capacity. Verrry Sunday Beerblast at the Dugout. Only, the vast majority of the crowd were neither bears nor leathermen. They were just... y'know... gay guys. Mebbe because it was IML weekend?
Interestingly enough, someone I had met a few years ago at the Harm Reduction Conference in Seattle where I delivered my presentation on barebacking was receiving an award for service from the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Small world, huh?
Big and I got beers, and took in the scene. Then, Big decided that it was time for me to spend some time on the leash I had gotten him. He clipped it onto my collar.
Schwing!
Oh. Man. Did that feel great or what? Instant hardon.
The crowd got to be a little much, so we headed first for the Lone Star. There was a line, neither of us felt particularly compelled to stand in line, so we headed for home. Nap time again.
I told Big I wanted to take him out to dinner that night, to show my appreciation to my Sir. He was amenable to that.
So we headed home. We decided that a nap was in order, and headed to bed. Really great sex ensued. I mean really great. As in, that weren't no seismic activity, that were boy breeding! I drifted off to sleep in my Sir's arms.
A Man And His boy Dine Out
We awoke at 9 pm, showered and dressed hastily, and headed down to the Castro. The restaurant was ideal. Great food (Great Food!) at reasonable prices.
Big and I talked. And talked and talked and talked.
This man... his mind, his life, his manner, his ways, his predilections... This Man. What have I done that was so selfless, pure, and good to merit wearing his collar?
I'm falling hard for Big. Way hard.
Chance Meeting
After dinner, Big and I took a passegiata so I could mail postcards to my father and the Baron. I'm not a postcard kinda guy, but both of theminsisted requested, so I was happy to oblige. They're winging their way eastward courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service as I speak.
As we walked, in stride, hand in hand, to the mailbox Big knew of, who should come walking the other way but Special Guy.
I'd been keeping half an eye out for him the whole weekend. And there he was. We greeted each other warmly. He looked great. He introduced me to the guy who was with, I introduced him to Big, although, of course, they had met a few days ago outside Starbucks in the Castro.
How uncanny, that I have known the love of two wonderful men. Big and Special Guy. Special Guy and Big. The leathergods are sure looking out for me. And there they both were, in my field of vision at the same time.
This might have been an awkward situation. "Uh... Hello there, guy I used to date. This is the guy I'm dating now." But at the risk of generalizing, I think that the hearts of leathermen are bigger than that. We are men who devote our lives to love. To deep, deep love. We know that our hearts are much larger than we think they are, that our hearts can expand seemingly infinitely, to be filled with so much love. And to give so much love, and still find that we have so much more to give.
Home. Bed.
That was tough. I didn't want the weekend to end. But end it would. In a few short hours, I'd be taken to SFO, and board United Flight 70 bound for EWR.
Tough to leave Big behind. Tough to have to wait three weeks until I see him again. See him. Feel the warmth and strength of his arms around me. Smell him. Taste him. Three weeks. That's tough. Tough to live and work and play thinking all the time that you'd rather be at the other side of North America. Tough.
But I'm tough, too.
Okay. Here's the pics.
Where to begin? How to recount an entire weekend and not have a huge and daunting block of text for you, my readers? I'll do my best to operate by headlines and brief-ish blurbs.
The Voyage Out
Not a prob!
Well, not entirely true. The long term parking lot at Newark was filled, so they sent us to the short term parking lot with a green tag that would give us long term rates. But, I drove around the short term lot for forty five minutes before concluding that there were no spaces available here either, and no one coming out the door with luggage that I could track to his car and nab his spot. I had given myself a comfortable window of time, but that window was closing.
What to do?
How about, move some orange cones and park on white stripes and spend the weekend hoping my car hadn't been towed when I got back? Yuh. Okee. So I did that.
And then, I somehow got it into my head that I was flying Continental. They set me straight on that at the Continental check-in counter. In Terminal C. And United, which I was flying, was in Terminal A. So, it was another trip on the tram for me. But, I even had time to stop at Starbucks for a half-caf grande latte before boarding.
Oh. The security guy complemented me on my boots ("Damn! Those are some big beautiful boots!") and my Schott MC jacket ("Yo. Sweet.") and the young woman at Starbucks, who made my drink wrong, told me she wished every customer was as nice as me.
I eat that up like candy.
But, how unnerving was it not wearing Big's collar? Very unnerving. After the Incident of the Wallet Chain at the Detroit Airport, I decided not to chance it. Hated that.
But I got into SFO, and there was Big waiting for me by baggage claim. Looking... well... like one of the hottest men I've ever laid eyes on. We grabbed my bag, headed to the parking lot, threw my bag in his white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and rectified the collar situation.
Friday Night
Big is a very good driver. Maybe SF does that to you. Several times I felt that my skills wouldn't be a match for the not-covered-in-my-high-school-drivers-ed-class challenges presented by the streets, but very quickly I had full and complete confidence in Big. Big is a good driver.
We drove slowly through the Castro so I could get a first look, and then headed up Market Street to Chez Big in Twin Peaks. (On Twin Peaks? Is that a shiboleth?) Once there, I dropped my bags, and big had a light dinner waiting. Minestrone soup and popovers. (Popovers are a Big specialty.) How perfect was that? Perfectly perfect.
And, Big had a gift for me. A complete bootblacking kit. I'll be in touch with Cubby J. Sherwood about figuring how to use it. It's pretty wonderful. I am one grateful boy.
Good Morning, Sunshine
Y'know what rocks about traveling to the West Coast? You can be a lazy slug and stay in bed till noon, and they think you're up and at'em at 9 am. Big fixed us a quick breakfast of last night's popovers and fruit salad, and then we headed for home. 'Home,' in this case, being Starbucks. And this particular Starbucks was the Starbucks in the Castro. One venti iced latte with two pumps of cinnamon and a tall blend of the day with no room later, Big and I were sitting on a bench watching the world go by.
Welcome To The Castro!
We headed to a leather shop that sells second hand stuff, as they were having a sale. I think the idea is brilliant, what a great way to recycle gear! Alas, there was nothing in my size, so no money was spent. Then, we had brunch on the back porch of a nice little eaterie, and stopped by a plant place a few doors down. The enormous rainbow flag was flying at the Harvey Milk memorial, and Big informed me that the leather pride flag had been flying below it over the past few days, as Alan Selby, who put the 'S' in Mr. S had passed away.
Wow. So municipal government not only mounts a huge flagpole to acknowledge the contributions of it LGBT citizenry, but makes room for the kinksters in the citizenry, too? Wow.
Colorful Natives In Their Picturesque Costumes Practicing Their Charming Folkways
Time for touristry! Into the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and off to the site of the exposition, then down to Folsom Street to visit Mr. S, the store. (Nothing purchased. I think I'm pretty much set gear-wise. Imagine that!) Lots of picture taking. Another trip to Starbucks in the Castro. Then, it was time to head back to Chez Big for a nap.
San Francisco Nights
While I napped, Big got dinner dinner ready. Big does a lot more work than any man with a boy should, I think. But who am I to complain?
Dinner was great. Really superb. But if my Sir had served me toast and Kool-Aide, it still would have been a feast. 'Cause my Sir made it for me.
After dinner, I asked Big what he wanted to see his boy wearing that night. Big opted for the chaps, black tshirt, leather armbands. I got myself ready according to Sir's wishes. Sir looked pretty great himself. Natch. And so, the two of us headed out to the Loading Dock.
Big finds the Loading Dock to be all but totally devoid of sexual energy. And maybe it was just because IML was going down a couple of thousand miles away, but I had to agree. It was like those guys were waiting for a bus.
We took it in, relaxed, had beers.
Then, I was inspired. I'd show those San Francisco boys how this East Coast boy honors his Sir, and save Big the trouble of having to explain why he passed over the local options. Down I went, giving my Sir the boot service he deserves, making him proud. Oh man. When did I get such a taste for boot leather? I swear, I was rock hard the entire time. Happy as a pig in a pile of acorns. When I came up for air, Big was glowing, and a semicircle of awed leatherbar patrons had formed around us.
There. Nuff said. Made my point.
Big and I finished our beers and headed home. 'Cuz a certain boy had earned a nice, long, hard, sweaty fuck from the Sir he serves.
Before the fucking ensued, we had a little portrait sitting. Big wanted some pics of us together, and so did I. And since we were both leathered up, it seemed like a good opportunity.
Glorious Sunday
What a great day. Things started out with breakfast in the Castro with a buddy of Big's.
Interesting thing I noticed about San Francisco: you see the same guys over and over again. There at the restaurant was a boy we had just seen the night before at the Loading Dock, one of the awed faces I saw when I looked up from my boot service. And he was one of scores of repeats throughout the weekend. Sure is different from Life in the Megalopolis.
After breakfast, Big and I stocked up on sandwiches. We were going on a picnic.
We headed across the Golden Gate Bridge into the Marin headlands.
As we crossed the bridge, I asked Big if he was familiar with Armistead Maupin's riff from his Tales of the City books on Tonys and Jeannettes. Of course, he was. AM opines--through Michael, if memory serves--that there are two kinds of people who find their way to San Francisco. The first is in line with the sentiments expressed by Jeannette MacDonald in the ditty she made famous... "San Fran Cisco! Open your golden gates! Another stranger waits outside your door!" Wayfaring optimists, leaving behind their humdrum hootervilles to bask in the California Sunshine. The second variety are those who sway to Tony Bennett singing about his departure without his cardium, lyrical romantics, made melancholie by the spell of the City by the Bay. I had always thought of myself as a Jeannette, but I was beginning to think that Big was turning me into a Tony.
First stop was the Point Bonita lighthouse. Much photography ensued. I find something so magical about those golden hills of sand covered with sage and succulents. Then, back in the white Ford pickup (Ooooh.) and continuing on to Mount Tam. As in, Mount Tamalpais. (Question: 'Malpais' is a fairly common Spanish-language place name meaning 'badlands.' So where does the 'Ta' come in?) We drove and drove and drove, winding our wending way (or is it, 'wending our winding way') up and up and up. Near the top, we pulled off the road and climed the embankment opposite, and made a picnic lunch of our sandwiches. The whole of the Bay area, from Berkeley to Half Moon Bay was spread out before us. It was glorious.
Big pointed out the beach where once a month, the leather community gathers at night around a big bonfire.
*sigh*
I'm gonna say that again. The beach where once a month, the leather community gathers around a big bonfire. Men in leather, smoking cigars, their faces dancing in the firelight. Gathering to enjoy being men in leather, smoking cigars, and watching the faces of their brothers dancing in the firelight.
I guess there's a lot to like about San Francisco.
We drove the balance of the way up to the summit, then headed back across the bridge and into town. First stop was (you guessed it) Starbucks, although not the one in the Castro. Then, Sir told me to tuck my BDU pants into my Wesco's because we were headed for the Eagle.
Cool.
Well. Maybe not.
It was packed to capacity. Verrry Sunday Beerblast at the Dugout. Only, the vast majority of the crowd were neither bears nor leathermen. They were just... y'know... gay guys. Mebbe because it was IML weekend?
Interestingly enough, someone I had met a few years ago at the Harm Reduction Conference in Seattle where I delivered my presentation on barebacking was receiving an award for service from the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Small world, huh?
Big and I got beers, and took in the scene. Then, Big decided that it was time for me to spend some time on the leash I had gotten him. He clipped it onto my collar.
Schwing!
Oh. Man. Did that feel great or what? Instant hardon.
The crowd got to be a little much, so we headed first for the Lone Star. There was a line, neither of us felt particularly compelled to stand in line, so we headed for home. Nap time again.
I told Big I wanted to take him out to dinner that night, to show my appreciation to my Sir. He was amenable to that.
So we headed home. We decided that a nap was in order, and headed to bed. Really great sex ensued. I mean really great. As in, that weren't no seismic activity, that were boy breeding! I drifted off to sleep in my Sir's arms.
A Man And His boy Dine Out
We awoke at 9 pm, showered and dressed hastily, and headed down to the Castro. The restaurant was ideal. Great food (Great Food!) at reasonable prices.
Big and I talked. And talked and talked and talked.
This man... his mind, his life, his manner, his ways, his predilections... This Man. What have I done that was so selfless, pure, and good to merit wearing his collar?
I'm falling hard for Big. Way hard.
Chance Meeting
After dinner, Big and I took a passegiata so I could mail postcards to my father and the Baron. I'm not a postcard kinda guy, but both of them
As we walked, in stride, hand in hand, to the mailbox Big knew of, who should come walking the other way but Special Guy.
I'd been keeping half an eye out for him the whole weekend. And there he was. We greeted each other warmly. He looked great. He introduced me to the guy who was with, I introduced him to Big, although, of course, they had met a few days ago outside Starbucks in the Castro.
How uncanny, that I have known the love of two wonderful men. Big and Special Guy. Special Guy and Big. The leathergods are sure looking out for me. And there they both were, in my field of vision at the same time.
This might have been an awkward situation. "Uh... Hello there, guy I used to date. This is the guy I'm dating now." But at the risk of generalizing, I think that the hearts of leathermen are bigger than that. We are men who devote our lives to love. To deep, deep love. We know that our hearts are much larger than we think they are, that our hearts can expand seemingly infinitely, to be filled with so much love. And to give so much love, and still find that we have so much more to give.
Home. Bed.
That was tough. I didn't want the weekend to end. But end it would. In a few short hours, I'd be taken to SFO, and board United Flight 70 bound for EWR.
Tough to leave Big behind. Tough to have to wait three weeks until I see him again. See him. Feel the warmth and strength of his arms around me. Smell him. Taste him. Three weeks. That's tough. Tough to live and work and play thinking all the time that you'd rather be at the other side of North America. Tough.
But I'm tough, too.
Okay. Here's the pics.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
...Make Sure To Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair
Dropped of Faithful Companion after work at the kennel. As usual, they love him there, and he seems happy to spend time there.
Now, time to get packed (Sir gave me a packing list), then to bed. Tomorrow I head to work, I'm leaving work at 2:30 pm, I stop home to say goodbye to my father and pick up my luggage, then I drive to Newark International Airport, and fly to San Francisco.
Wow.
What a great thing. I get to spend another weekend with Big, and I get to see a new city.
And all of this feels so right. So good.
As I expressed it to Big in an email this morning, it's like he and I have discovered a gate to a walled garden. Although we have never been in the garden before, it seems as though it was planted just for us. All the blooms familiar to us are there. And in a way, we're not alone. Present also are so many men who have discovered this same walled garden.
Sweet. So sweet.
And, work was great today. Today was Pirate Day! Psychoboy and Calculusboy were both wearing bandanas on their heads. I took mine out of my back pocket and joined them. We looked like pirates, and plunged into exclamations of "Arrrr!", and peppered our day with sea shanties and Hollywood pirate expressions ("Avast, swabbie!" and "You'll join our pirate band or walk the plank, landlubber!").
Here's the thing... we all really did look like extras in a pirate movie. Or members of Captain Hook's crew. I don't think I've ever worked in a place where I and my co-workers all looked like swashbucklers.
Big Big Big Big.
Big and San Francisco.
Well, time to go pack.
Dropped of Faithful Companion after work at the kennel. As usual, they love him there, and he seems happy to spend time there.
Now, time to get packed (Sir gave me a packing list), then to bed. Tomorrow I head to work, I'm leaving work at 2:30 pm, I stop home to say goodbye to my father and pick up my luggage, then I drive to Newark International Airport, and fly to San Francisco.
Wow.
What a great thing. I get to spend another weekend with Big, and I get to see a new city.
And all of this feels so right. So good.
As I expressed it to Big in an email this morning, it's like he and I have discovered a gate to a walled garden. Although we have never been in the garden before, it seems as though it was planted just for us. All the blooms familiar to us are there. And in a way, we're not alone. Present also are so many men who have discovered this same walled garden.
Sweet. So sweet.
And, work was great today. Today was Pirate Day! Psychoboy and Calculusboy were both wearing bandanas on their heads. I took mine out of my back pocket and joined them. We looked like pirates, and plunged into exclamations of "Arrrr!", and peppered our day with sea shanties and Hollywood pirate expressions ("Avast, swabbie!" and "You'll join our pirate band or walk the plank, landlubber!").
Here's the thing... we all really did look like extras in a pirate movie. Or members of Captain Hook's crew. I don't think I've ever worked in a place where I and my co-workers all looked like swashbucklers.
Big Big Big Big.
Big and San Francisco.
Well, time to go pack.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Hump Day Morning
Inter'stin...
girlfag had quite the nasty a.m., too.
Here's mine.
I woke up. Faithful Companion was fussing. That means, he has to go out. Yeah, well, my alarm was set to go off at 4:15 anyway as I was due in to work at 6 a.m. So I'm getting up a little earlier. That's fine. I hit the light, stumble out of bed, and look at the clock. It's 2:32 a.m. I've only had three hours sleep. I take F.C. out, put him on a leash, send him out the back door, imagining he needs to pee, and there, a few steps from the back door, I hear the unmistakable sound of explosive diarrhea.
Oh, boy-boy! Not feeling too good? Oh my poor buddy.
We head back to bed. I just manage to drift off to sleep when what do I hear? More fussing from the Faithful One.
This time, I know better than to lay in bed drowsing. I'm up like a fireman and have my pup at the end of the driveway within less than a minute. More turmoil for my buddy.
Back to bed.
I guess the alarm went off at 4:15 as planned, but by the time I got out of bed to shut it off it was 4:58 a.m.
Yikes! This means I'm pressed for time.
While tea was brewing, I notice Faithful Companion sniffing around in front of the fireplace.
Uh oh!
This time, I wasn't fast enough on the uptake. Heck! I hadn't even had my tea!
So there I am, cleaning up dog poop--the really runny kind--at 5:15 a.m.
Good morning, Starshine!
Tea, quick shower... and someone needs another walk. There I am, leading my poor ailing pup up and down Tollgate Road wearing my bright red bathrobe and my Keens (see below). Back inside, get dressed, pack a lunch... and time for another walk, albeit an 'Insurance Walk.' At this point, I had given up on getting to work at 6 am. That opportunity had come and gone. I set my sights on the usual time, 7 am.
Success! I make it out the door! Success! I beat that damn school bus. When I get trapped behind the lumbering yellow wreck filled with snotty brats it means I'm 2 minutes late for work. And I hate that.
I shoot down Rte. 611 and swing onto the Doylestown bypass. I'm doing about 65, and the speed limit is 55.
I notice two green cones set up at either side of highway. "Huh. Wonder what they're for." As I zip between them, I find out. There's a cop car parked behind the bushes. And I come around the corner, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but four cop cars, and about six cops, two of whom appear to be waving me onto the shoulder to park.
So I do.
But wait! What's this? A black jeep, that was in the process of passing me (going really fast) when I went through the cones is right behind me. And the cops now seem to be waving people by. And none of the cops are pointing and motioning to me.
So... y'know... I took off.
No cops in pursuit. I made it to the exit and headed to work.
"Huh," I thought as I turned off the ignition, "Did I just run from the police?"
When I clocked in, it was 7:01 am. And I had cleaned up dogshit twice and evaded the police.
Other than that, it was a pretty good day.
Inter'stin...
girlfag had quite the nasty a.m., too.
Here's mine.
I woke up. Faithful Companion was fussing. That means, he has to go out. Yeah, well, my alarm was set to go off at 4:15 anyway as I was due in to work at 6 a.m. So I'm getting up a little earlier. That's fine. I hit the light, stumble out of bed, and look at the clock. It's 2:32 a.m. I've only had three hours sleep. I take F.C. out, put him on a leash, send him out the back door, imagining he needs to pee, and there, a few steps from the back door, I hear the unmistakable sound of explosive diarrhea.
Oh, boy-boy! Not feeling too good? Oh my poor buddy.
We head back to bed. I just manage to drift off to sleep when what do I hear? More fussing from the Faithful One.
This time, I know better than to lay in bed drowsing. I'm up like a fireman and have my pup at the end of the driveway within less than a minute. More turmoil for my buddy.
Back to bed.
I guess the alarm went off at 4:15 as planned, but by the time I got out of bed to shut it off it was 4:58 a.m.
Yikes! This means I'm pressed for time.
While tea was brewing, I notice Faithful Companion sniffing around in front of the fireplace.
Uh oh!
This time, I wasn't fast enough on the uptake. Heck! I hadn't even had my tea!
So there I am, cleaning up dog poop--the really runny kind--at 5:15 a.m.
Good morning, Starshine!
Tea, quick shower... and someone needs another walk. There I am, leading my poor ailing pup up and down Tollgate Road wearing my bright red bathrobe and my Keens (see below). Back inside, get dressed, pack a lunch... and time for another walk, albeit an 'Insurance Walk.' At this point, I had given up on getting to work at 6 am. That opportunity had come and gone. I set my sights on the usual time, 7 am.
Success! I make it out the door! Success! I beat that damn school bus. When I get trapped behind the lumbering yellow wreck filled with snotty brats it means I'm 2 minutes late for work. And I hate that.
I shoot down Rte. 611 and swing onto the Doylestown bypass. I'm doing about 65, and the speed limit is 55.
I notice two green cones set up at either side of highway. "Huh. Wonder what they're for." As I zip between them, I find out. There's a cop car parked behind the bushes. And I come around the corner, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but four cop cars, and about six cops, two of whom appear to be waving me onto the shoulder to park.
So I do.
But wait! What's this? A black jeep, that was in the process of passing me (going really fast) when I went through the cones is right behind me. And the cops now seem to be waving people by. And none of the cops are pointing and motioning to me.
So... y'know... I took off.
No cops in pursuit. I made it to the exit and headed to work.
"Huh," I thought as I turned off the ignition, "Did I just run from the police?"
When I clocked in, it was 7:01 am. And I had cleaned up dogshit twice and evaded the police.
Other than that, it was a pretty good day.
Watersportswear
Oh cool.
For the upcoming trip to Southern California, I decided to get some hiking shoes. Check out the latest thing in hiking shoes...
They're called 'Keens.' They were dreamed up by a river guide, who wanted something like sandals (waterproof, fast drying, give your feet air), but with a closed toe because he was tired of stubbing his on rocks while wading.
Or so they told me.
I have another idea about their origins.
Take a close look. They're done in black leather. Their trimmed in bright yellow. They're waterproof. They have a no-slip tread. I mean... c'mon! Obviously they were made for pissplay!
I debuted mine at TESFest, and wore them to work one day. They're reeeally comfortable, and offer a lot of arch support.
Watersports? That's Keen!
Oh cool.
For the upcoming trip to Southern California, I decided to get some hiking shoes. Check out the latest thing in hiking shoes...
They're called 'Keens.' They were dreamed up by a river guide, who wanted something like sandals (waterproof, fast drying, give your feet air), but with a closed toe because he was tired of stubbing his on rocks while wading.
Or so they told me.
I have another idea about their origins.
Take a close look. They're done in black leather. Their trimmed in bright yellow. They're waterproof. They have a no-slip tread. I mean... c'mon! Obviously they were made for pissplay!
I debuted mine at TESFest, and wore them to work one day. They're reeeally comfortable, and offer a lot of arch support.
Watersports? That's Keen!
Ritual
Big and I have talked about a collaring ceremony. Actually collaring ceremonies, one in SF, and one in NYC. Both of us are (whaddya know!) walking in step on that issue, too.
This afternoon, sitting on the porch of Starbucks, enjoying a latte and a cigar, I opened my journal and began to write.
Here's what I wrote. (Note that everything is to be spoken by the officiant--whomever that might be--unless otherwise indicated.)
Friends, we are gathered here today to celebrate the connections that bind us together. We are friends, we are brothers and sisters, we are a tribe, we are of a people. And ultimately, all of us are part of one human family. We are all of us alone, but none of us walk alone on the journey.
We are here to uphold one of these connections between Big and Drew. Today, before all of us, a man will claim his boy, and a boy will be bound to the man he calls 'Sir.'
Big and Drew, are you here today?
Big and Drew: We are, yes.
This is no bond to be entered into lightly. This is a sacred bond, a holy thing, of flesh and the spirit.
Now at the threshold, take time, both of you, to reflect on the pledges you will soon make to each other, and how your lives have prepared you to take this step.
Big, in your life's journey, have you sought out joy always? Have you learned the music that your heart sings? Have you known loss and grief worse than death?
Big: I have, yes.
Then life has given you the gifts of wisdom, strength, courage, and compassion. You have much to offer.
Do you believe that you have found in Drew a man who will take pleasure in your guidance?
Big: I do so believe, yes.
Drew: In your life's journey, have you sought the truth in small things? Have you walked the road with boldness, under the midday sun and darkest night, And have you cherished the burning sun and the bleak night, as well as the rain, the wind, the dawn, the dusk, the thunder, and the dew?
Drew: I have, yes.
Then you have given fear no quarter in your heart. Your way is the way of the pilgrim, and with every step you have left behind one destination and set out for another.
Do you believe that you have found in Big a man of kindness and patience, to whom you can open your secret heart and show your secret face?
Drew: I do so believe, yes.
Dear friends gathered here, down through the ages, again and again, one man has bound himself to another as these to men propose to do now. Teacher and student, general and soldier, abbot and monk, leader and disciple, captain and seaman. One lesson of this ancient legacy is that we are, all of us, fragile and weak. The words of men are written on sand. But by our presence here today, we give our solemn promise to henceforth give to Big and Drew our love and support. We will learn from their example, encourge them with our friendship, and rejoice in their company.
Do all of you so promise?
The People: We promise, yes.
Let us form a circle of loving protection now around Big and Drew, joining our hands together. There is strength in this circle of warriors, and we now lend our strength to these two men.
Big, what thing have you chosen to show the world that you hold Drew in your heart? To show that from this moment until the last star dies that you will be responsible to your God, to all of us, and to the whole human family for the care and safeguarding of this man?
Big: I have this collar, made of eternal steel, to be secured with a lock to which I will always hold the key.
Drew, will you, here today, submit yourself to this man, and allow him to bind you with this collar, vouchsafing yourself to his care, and rendering to him your devoted service as a manifestation of your gratitude?
Drew: I offer myself to be collared by this man, with all gratitude and humility.
Drew, drop to your knees. You are made today this man's boy. You incur a debt you can never fully repay, but you must try always and in every way to do so.
Big, claim your boy that the Universe has given you with your collar.
[Big collars me.]
Now he belongs to you, Big. and you will forever be measured by the steadfastness of your commitment.
Big: boy, to whom do you now belong, body and soul?
Drew: I belong to you, Sir, body and soul. I am for your joy, pleasure, and comfort, Sir.
Big: On your feet boy, and take your place by my side.
Big and Drew, today you set out on a new road together. Big, you will lead, and Drew, you will follow close behind.
We now send you on your way with music, wine, laughter, food, and our friendship.
God bless you both!
To be sure, this can only be considered a verrrry rough draft. It came right out of my head a few hours ago. I'm posting it here as a sort of elaboration on my thoughts and feelings, and to explore how these can be manifested in ritual.
If you want to see how it comes out, well... I guess you'll have to wrangle an invitation!
Big and I have talked about a collaring ceremony. Actually collaring ceremonies, one in SF, and one in NYC. Both of us are (whaddya know!) walking in step on that issue, too.
This afternoon, sitting on the porch of Starbucks, enjoying a latte and a cigar, I opened my journal and began to write.
Here's what I wrote. (Note that everything is to be spoken by the officiant--whomever that might be--unless otherwise indicated.)
Friends, we are gathered here today to celebrate the connections that bind us together. We are friends, we are brothers and sisters, we are a tribe, we are of a people. And ultimately, all of us are part of one human family. We are all of us alone, but none of us walk alone on the journey.
We are here to uphold one of these connections between Big and Drew. Today, before all of us, a man will claim his boy, and a boy will be bound to the man he calls 'Sir.'
Big and Drew, are you here today?
Big and Drew: We are, yes.
This is no bond to be entered into lightly. This is a sacred bond, a holy thing, of flesh and the spirit.
Now at the threshold, take time, both of you, to reflect on the pledges you will soon make to each other, and how your lives have prepared you to take this step.
Big, in your life's journey, have you sought out joy always? Have you learned the music that your heart sings? Have you known loss and grief worse than death?
Big: I have, yes.
Then life has given you the gifts of wisdom, strength, courage, and compassion. You have much to offer.
Do you believe that you have found in Drew a man who will take pleasure in your guidance?
Big: I do so believe, yes.
Drew: In your life's journey, have you sought the truth in small things? Have you walked the road with boldness, under the midday sun and darkest night, And have you cherished the burning sun and the bleak night, as well as the rain, the wind, the dawn, the dusk, the thunder, and the dew?
Drew: I have, yes.
Then you have given fear no quarter in your heart. Your way is the way of the pilgrim, and with every step you have left behind one destination and set out for another.
Do you believe that you have found in Big a man of kindness and patience, to whom you can open your secret heart and show your secret face?
Drew: I do so believe, yes.
Dear friends gathered here, down through the ages, again and again, one man has bound himself to another as these to men propose to do now. Teacher and student, general and soldier, abbot and monk, leader and disciple, captain and seaman. One lesson of this ancient legacy is that we are, all of us, fragile and weak. The words of men are written on sand. But by our presence here today, we give our solemn promise to henceforth give to Big and Drew our love and support. We will learn from their example, encourge them with our friendship, and rejoice in their company.
Do all of you so promise?
The People: We promise, yes.
Let us form a circle of loving protection now around Big and Drew, joining our hands together. There is strength in this circle of warriors, and we now lend our strength to these two men.
Big, what thing have you chosen to show the world that you hold Drew in your heart? To show that from this moment until the last star dies that you will be responsible to your God, to all of us, and to the whole human family for the care and safeguarding of this man?
Big: I have this collar, made of eternal steel, to be secured with a lock to which I will always hold the key.
Drew, will you, here today, submit yourself to this man, and allow him to bind you with this collar, vouchsafing yourself to his care, and rendering to him your devoted service as a manifestation of your gratitude?
Drew: I offer myself to be collared by this man, with all gratitude and humility.
Drew, drop to your knees. You are made today this man's boy. You incur a debt you can never fully repay, but you must try always and in every way to do so.
Big, claim your boy that the Universe has given you with your collar.
[Big collars me.]
Now he belongs to you, Big. and you will forever be measured by the steadfastness of your commitment.
Big: boy, to whom do you now belong, body and soul?
Drew: I belong to you, Sir, body and soul. I am for your joy, pleasure, and comfort, Sir.
Big: On your feet boy, and take your place by my side.
Big and Drew, today you set out on a new road together. Big, you will lead, and Drew, you will follow close behind.
We now send you on your way with music, wine, laughter, food, and our friendship.
God bless you both!
To be sure, this can only be considered a verrrry rough draft. It came right out of my head a few hours ago. I'm posting it here as a sort of elaboration on my thoughts and feelings, and to explore how these can be manifested in ritual.
If you want to see how it comes out, well... I guess you'll have to wrangle an invitation!
Instant Message I Didn't Send...
To a guy whose profile I perused on WorldLeathermen...
"Your Aunt Shirley called... and she wants her lamp back."
C'mon, guys! You wanna get laid with lighting fixtures like that?
Think again.
Yeah. I guess somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed last night. Faithful Companion woke me up at 3:21 a.m. (an hour before my alarm would have gone off) because he needed a walk. Bad. I don't know what my father is feeding him, but I wish he wouldn't.
To a guy whose profile I perused on WorldLeathermen...
"Your Aunt Shirley called... and she wants her lamp back."
C'mon, guys! You wanna get laid with lighting fixtures like that?
Think again.
Yeah. I guess somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed last night. Faithful Companion woke me up at 3:21 a.m. (an hour before my alarm would have gone off) because he needed a walk. Bad. I don't know what my father is feeding him, but I wish he wouldn't.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
DDC
Whilst Ms. Time and Motion was hovering about with her stopwatch, I had something of a flash of inspiration.
I was thinking about this cabinetry thing. In a couple of years, I should have a pretty good grasp of fine woodworking if my employer lives up to their part of the bargain. And I should be pretty adept at welding. And I have a flair for design.
Hmmm... there ought to be a good job in their somewhere, right?
How about... ...designing and building dungeons?
Nutty idea?
Maybe not.
The place I work primarily does kitchens. It's kind of kept from us how much clients pay for the kitchens we build, but it's common knowledge that we're talking tens of thousands of dollars. And many of these people have never had to pour themselves a glass of water little less make dinner seven nights a week. So given the importance of the dungeon in the lives of so many of the folks that I know...
Yeah, I know. One of the reasons people shell out so much for high end kitchens is that it significantly increases the value of their real estate. 'Chef's kitchens' are huge right now.
But still, I bet I could do a bang up job for about $5,000. Most of the materials I'd want to use--diamond plate, no-slip rubber flooring, industrial lighting fixtures, steel structures, custom storage for all the gear, cells and crosses and cages--are pretty reasonable. And, y'know, upwards from there. And possibly a little downwards.
That would be so cool! I'd get to travel, I'd get to meet some major SM players. I'd get to help people create their dream dungeons, spaces where spirit and flesh are wed, where fantasy and reality meet and kiss.
After all, the dungeon makes the man! And I'm the guy to make the dungeon that makes the man.
Whilst Ms. Time and Motion was hovering about with her stopwatch, I had something of a flash of inspiration.
I was thinking about this cabinetry thing. In a couple of years, I should have a pretty good grasp of fine woodworking if my employer lives up to their part of the bargain. And I should be pretty adept at welding. And I have a flair for design.
Hmmm... there ought to be a good job in their somewhere, right?
How about... ...designing and building dungeons?
Nutty idea?
Maybe not.
The place I work primarily does kitchens. It's kind of kept from us how much clients pay for the kitchens we build, but it's common knowledge that we're talking tens of thousands of dollars. And many of these people have never had to pour themselves a glass of water little less make dinner seven nights a week. So given the importance of the dungeon in the lives of so many of the folks that I know...
Yeah, I know. One of the reasons people shell out so much for high end kitchens is that it significantly increases the value of their real estate. 'Chef's kitchens' are huge right now.
But still, I bet I could do a bang up job for about $5,000. Most of the materials I'd want to use--diamond plate, no-slip rubber flooring, industrial lighting fixtures, steel structures, custom storage for all the gear, cells and crosses and cages--are pretty reasonable. And, y'know, upwards from there. And possibly a little downwards.
That would be so cool! I'd get to travel, I'd get to meet some major SM players. I'd get to help people create their dream dungeons, spaces where spirit and flesh are wed, where fantasy and reality meet and kiss.
After all, the dungeon makes the man! And I'm the guy to make the dungeon that makes the man.
Channeling Kate
*whew!*
What a day!
Remember 'Desk Set?' With Katherine Hepburn as a reference librarian and Spencer Tracy as an efficiency expert? Well that was my day. We have an efficiency expert with us for the summer. She's a graduate student, doing an internship, and she calls herself a 'Time and Motion Evaluator.' And I was her first victim.
Uh... Subject.
So three quarters of my day was spent with Ms. Time and Motion standing next to me with a clipboard and a stopwatch.
Nobody got the joke when I delivered the line (in a pretty fair Katherine Hepburn impersonation) "This is most irregulah Mistah Kinkaid! How do you expect me to work with you hah-vering about with that stopwatch?" Ah well.
*whew!*
What a day!
Remember 'Desk Set?' With Katherine Hepburn as a reference librarian and Spencer Tracy as an efficiency expert? Well that was my day. We have an efficiency expert with us for the summer. She's a graduate student, doing an internship, and she calls herself a 'Time and Motion Evaluator.' And I was her first victim.
Uh... Subject.
So three quarters of my day was spent with Ms. Time and Motion standing next to me with a clipboard and a stopwatch.
Nobody got the joke when I delivered the line (in a pretty fair Katherine Hepburn impersonation) "This is most irregulah Mistah Kinkaid! How do you expect me to work with you hah-vering about with that stopwatch?" Ah well.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Wow
Talked to my Sir tonight. Making plans for next weekend. Exchanging what we did today. That kind of thing.
Big was in the Castro having coffee this afternoon. He struck up a conversation with a guy who had moved to SF from NYC. He described the guy.
Big had coffee with Special Guy today.
When I put it altogether, I got a huge grin on my face. These two amazing men, sitting on a bench in the Castro, having coffee. Special Guy, who taught me how to love, to give my heart away, who showed me that I could be filled with desire for a man's body, and love his mind and spirit and heart, too.
And Big. The man who looked at me, saw me for who I am, and saw something very valuable in that. So valuable that he padlocked a collar around my neck and claimed me for his own.
Big and Special Guy. Special Guy and Big.
I can see how they would be drawn to each other. I mean, beyond the fact that they're both two of the hottest men I know. Both of them have presence. I think I could tell when either one walked into a room even if I wasn't looking in the direction of the door.
"Trust the Universe," Big told me.
And that's what I've been doing.
And if this isn't the Universe saying "See? Toldya!" then I don't know the Universe wopuld be trying to tell me.
Woof, Sir! It's great being your boy, Sir.
Talked to my Sir tonight. Making plans for next weekend. Exchanging what we did today. That kind of thing.
Big was in the Castro having coffee this afternoon. He struck up a conversation with a guy who had moved to SF from NYC. He described the guy.
Big had coffee with Special Guy today.
When I put it altogether, I got a huge grin on my face. These two amazing men, sitting on a bench in the Castro, having coffee. Special Guy, who taught me how to love, to give my heart away, who showed me that I could be filled with desire for a man's body, and love his mind and spirit and heart, too.
And Big. The man who looked at me, saw me for who I am, and saw something very valuable in that. So valuable that he padlocked a collar around my neck and claimed me for his own.
Big and Special Guy. Special Guy and Big.
I can see how they would be drawn to each other. I mean, beyond the fact that they're both two of the hottest men I know. Both of them have presence. I think I could tell when either one walked into a room even if I wasn't looking in the direction of the door.
"Trust the Universe," Big told me.
And that's what I've been doing.
And if this isn't the Universe saying "See? Toldya!" then I don't know the Universe wopuld be trying to tell me.
Woof, Sir! It's great being your boy, Sir.
Philadelphia Ten Best/Ten Worst
In my continuing efforts to cultivate a meme...
Top Ten Best Things About Philadelphia
1. The Bike Stop! The Bike Stop is a good old fashioned leatherbar, as in, a place where men in leather meet, drink beer, smoke cigars, and talk.
2. Uh... Umm... The Liberty Bell! And, y'know, history stuff.
3. Rittenhouse Square is one of the best city parks I know of. A beautiful place to smoke a cigar.
4. I. Goldbergs! They've kept me in boots since I was in high school. It's a great place. I always wished that NYC had an I. Goldbergs, but they totally don't.
5. There are so many great restaurants that a boy has no problem finding a good place to go with his Sir for dinner.
6. There are two museums of medical abnormalities in Philadelphia. Many cities get by without any at all, but Philadelphia seems to see the need for two of them. And, there's Eastern Penitentiary. And the Barnes Collection. And at the Rodin museum, you'll find the largest collection of Rodin's work outside of France.
7. You can smoke there.
8. I mentioned the Liberty Bell, right?
9. Black Cat cigars would be one! Although, I'm liking the Cigar Parlor in Doylestown a lot more.
10. Love them cheesesteaks!
Well that was like pulling teeth from chickens.
Somethin tells me that this part might be a little bit easier.
Ten Worst Things About Philadelphia
1. The City of the Sidelong Glances. There's this weird thing in Philadelphia. Maybe because most of the men hail from smaller towns in the burbs. But the rule seems to be Never Ever Let Him Know You're Into Him. The whole Woof Phenomenon? It hasn't happened in Philadelphia yet. And probably never will. It seems that there's just way too much to risk in making your desires known. Better to spend a couple of decades watching him out of the corner of your eye than to walk over and offer to buy him a beer.
2. There is nowhere to have brunch in Philadelphia. What the fuck is up with that?
3. The Noah's Arc phenomenon. There are, for example, two Bear groups in Philadelphia. There were two ACT UP chapters (before that became cool). Philadelphia gives birth astride the grave. (Great image, huh? It's Yeats.) Got a good idea? There's gonna be somebody there to decide that they're gonna set up a rival operation. Back in 1989, the Baron wondered why there was no Pride parade in Philadelphia. So he took it upon himself to start one. He got a permit, put up handmade signs all over the city, got some local bar owners to foot some of the bills, and it was a great day. The next year, he decided to make it more of a community thing. He convened a committee to help him organize the second Pride parade. At the second meeting, they threw the Baron off the committee. What's up with that?
4. The city itself is pretty much a hole. Most of the men you'd want to meet live in the farflung suburbs. So if you want to hook up, you're looking at a drive of an hour and a half.
5. Parking used to be easy. No more.
6. Philadelphia is 90 miles south of New York City. Most everybody with any aspirations or sense of self worth gets the hell out of there and heads up the Jersey Turnpike. The men left behind resent this, and so, if it happens in NYC, they don't want to see it in Philadelphia. Weird weird weird weird.
7. Most of the men have this odd rabbity look to them. Don't get that.
8. All the guys are like 24 years old. Seriously.
9. Not a lot of tourist leathermen coming through town, since there's not a lot of reason to go there. So there's not much in the way of variety.
10. There's no place to buy leather.
Oh. And Philly teams always choke.
In my continuing efforts to cultivate a meme...
Top Ten Best Things About Philadelphia
1. The Bike Stop! The Bike Stop is a good old fashioned leatherbar, as in, a place where men in leather meet, drink beer, smoke cigars, and talk.
2. Uh... Umm... The Liberty Bell! And, y'know, history stuff.
3. Rittenhouse Square is one of the best city parks I know of. A beautiful place to smoke a cigar.
4. I. Goldbergs! They've kept me in boots since I was in high school. It's a great place. I always wished that NYC had an I. Goldbergs, but they totally don't.
5. There are so many great restaurants that a boy has no problem finding a good place to go with his Sir for dinner.
6. There are two museums of medical abnormalities in Philadelphia. Many cities get by without any at all, but Philadelphia seems to see the need for two of them. And, there's Eastern Penitentiary. And the Barnes Collection. And at the Rodin museum, you'll find the largest collection of Rodin's work outside of France.
7. You can smoke there.
8. I mentioned the Liberty Bell, right?
9. Black Cat cigars would be one! Although, I'm liking the Cigar Parlor in Doylestown a lot more.
10. Love them cheesesteaks!
Well that was like pulling teeth from chickens.
Somethin tells me that this part might be a little bit easier.
Ten Worst Things About Philadelphia
1. The City of the Sidelong Glances. There's this weird thing in Philadelphia. Maybe because most of the men hail from smaller towns in the burbs. But the rule seems to be Never Ever Let Him Know You're Into Him. The whole Woof Phenomenon? It hasn't happened in Philadelphia yet. And probably never will. It seems that there's just way too much to risk in making your desires known. Better to spend a couple of decades watching him out of the corner of your eye than to walk over and offer to buy him a beer.
2. There is nowhere to have brunch in Philadelphia. What the fuck is up with that?
3. The Noah's Arc phenomenon. There are, for example, two Bear groups in Philadelphia. There were two ACT UP chapters (before that became cool). Philadelphia gives birth astride the grave. (Great image, huh? It's Yeats.) Got a good idea? There's gonna be somebody there to decide that they're gonna set up a rival operation. Back in 1989, the Baron wondered why there was no Pride parade in Philadelphia. So he took it upon himself to start one. He got a permit, put up handmade signs all over the city, got some local bar owners to foot some of the bills, and it was a great day. The next year, he decided to make it more of a community thing. He convened a committee to help him organize the second Pride parade. At the second meeting, they threw the Baron off the committee. What's up with that?
4. The city itself is pretty much a hole. Most of the men you'd want to meet live in the farflung suburbs. So if you want to hook up, you're looking at a drive of an hour and a half.
5. Parking used to be easy. No more.
6. Philadelphia is 90 miles south of New York City. Most everybody with any aspirations or sense of self worth gets the hell out of there and heads up the Jersey Turnpike. The men left behind resent this, and so, if it happens in NYC, they don't want to see it in Philadelphia. Weird weird weird weird.
7. Most of the men have this odd rabbity look to them. Don't get that.
8. All the guys are like 24 years old. Seriously.
9. Not a lot of tourist leathermen coming through town, since there's not a lot of reason to go there. So there's not much in the way of variety.
10. There's no place to buy leather.
Oh. And Philly teams always choke.
I, Bootblack...
Cubby J. Sherwood writes: "You do realize, don't you, Sir, that I'd be honored and delighted to teach you how to bootblack, right? There are MANY many different ways to do it... and I'm pretty set in my ways about how I do it but ... well... you've seen the results. :--)"
And I reply...
Yeah, I kinda knew that I had the privilege of the service of one of the best bootblacks that there is. I have to admit, my first thought--the Top in me, I guess--was to secure the services of a bootblack for Big. But then I thought that maybe I ought to be able to fulfill that myself.
I gotta admit, I'm a little daunted. Bootblacking seems way too complicated. I mean, is there really that much to know? Would it be so bad if I worked Big's boots with saddlesoap and Kiwi black and called it a day?
What I did not here at the bootblacking workshop was permission. As in, "Yeah, so get a rag and a brush and some polish and go to town! Don't worry about ruining a pair of boots, cause that's unlikely." That's pretty much how I approached chain bondage workshop I did. Go have fun, folks!
It's not like down the road I'm not gonna become an unredeemable Product Whore. (You should see the counter in the bathroom, a virtual forest of Kiehl's emoluments and astringents.) (Oops... Did I just lose Butch Points? Well, it takes a tough man to stick to a strict moisturizing protocol, Buddy!) But let that come in time.
Months ago, you mentioned to me that the 'problem solving' aspects of wood finishing that I was finding so rewarding were akin to what you liked about bootblacking. And I can see how that would be the case.
But aw heck. Right now, I don't want to spend years learning the craft. I have no aspirations of competing for a bootblack title at IML. All I want is to spend an hour sitting in front of the window of Big's place in SF, watching the fog roll in off the bay before we head out to dinner, working on Big's boots while he smokes a cigar and idly caresses the nape of my neck. And then, when we're ready to head out, Big puts on his boots, admires them, and says, "Nice work, boy." Is that unreasonable?
*sigh*
I've got a couple o' questions though.
Oil tanned and... uh... not oil tanned. How do you tell? (One is glossy--like my Harley MC riding boots) and one isn't--like my Wescos and Dehners, right?)
And, you don't put polish on oil tanned boots, correct? What exactly do you do with them? That Huberd's stuff? (FYI, the boots I've seen Big wear are a pair of jump boots, and they're definitely polished.)
And speaking of Big's jump boots, I own (courtesy of whippingboy), one can of Kiwi Parade Gloss, two containers of Kiwi Classic Instant Wax polish, one horsehair brush, one applicator rag, one cotton shining rag. Will that be enough for the hour mentioned above?
Thanks, Cubby.
Cubby J. Sherwood writes: "You do realize, don't you, Sir, that I'd be honored and delighted to teach you how to bootblack, right? There are MANY many different ways to do it... and I'm pretty set in my ways about how I do it but ... well... you've seen the results. :--)"
And I reply...
Yeah, I kinda knew that I had the privilege of the service of one of the best bootblacks that there is
I gotta admit, I'm a little daunted. Bootblacking seems way too complicated. I mean, is there really that much to know? Would it be so bad if I worked Big's boots with saddlesoap and Kiwi black and called it a day?
What I did not here at the bootblacking workshop was permission. As in, "Yeah, so get a rag and a brush and some polish and go to town! Don't worry about ruining a pair of boots, cause that's unlikely." That's pretty much how I approached chain bondage workshop I did. Go have fun, folks!
It's not like down the road I'm not gonna become an unredeemable Product Whore. (You should see the counter in the bathroom, a virtual forest of Kiehl's emoluments and astringents.) (Oops... Did I just lose Butch Points? Well, it takes a tough man to stick to a strict moisturizing protocol, Buddy!) But let that come in time.
Months ago, you mentioned to me that the 'problem solving' aspects of wood finishing that I was finding so rewarding were akin to what you liked about bootblacking. And I can see how that would be the case.
But aw heck. Right now, I don't want to spend years learning the craft. I have no aspirations of competing for a bootblack title at IML. All I want is to spend an hour sitting in front of the window of Big's place in SF, watching the fog roll in off the bay before we head out to dinner, working on Big's boots while he smokes a cigar and idly caresses the nape of my neck. And then, when we're ready to head out, Big puts on his boots, admires them, and says, "Nice work, boy." Is that unreasonable?
*sigh*
I've got a couple o' questions though.
Oil tanned and... uh... not oil tanned. How do you tell? (One is glossy--like my Harley MC riding boots) and one isn't--like my Wescos and Dehners, right?)
And, you don't put polish on oil tanned boots, correct? What exactly do you do with them? That Huberd's stuff? (FYI, the boots I've seen Big wear are a pair of jump boots, and they're definitely polished.)
And speaking of Big's jump boots, I own (courtesy of whippingboy), one can of Kiwi Parade Gloss, two containers of Kiwi Classic Instant Wax polish, one horsehair brush, one applicator rag, one cotton shining rag. Will that be enough for the hour mentioned above?
Thanks, Cubby.
It's the Metric System
Did you know that the metric system was established as the official system of measurement in the United States by a Presidential order signed by... ...Thomas Jefferson!
Yup.
So why hasn't it caught on?
I think it has a lot to do with visualization. I mean, I know what a foot looks like. I know what an inch looks like. If you tell me you're a mile down the road, I know just about where you are.
But this morning, perusing the profile of a guy from South Africa on WorldLeatherMen who had perused my profile, he describes himself as having "20cm of fleshy meat with foreskin."
I mean, what is that?
I think that a centimeter is approximately the width of a large paperclip, so the only way I can 'get there' is to picture an uncut dick with 20 paperclips lined up on top of it. And still, I'm not getting a good picture in my mind.
And do they really say that in the rest of the world? "Hey boy, I've got 24 centimeters for ya!" Or, "He had a great dick, it must have been 18 centimeters, and fat, too!"
It just doesn't compute. It's like Space Travel or something ("Got a nice 1/1023 parsecs tool for ya to ride!").
If the Powers That Be were interested in instituting the metric system, they ought to start with the porn industry. Once we all are thinking of the relevant body parts in metric, all else will follow.
Did you know that the metric system was established as the official system of measurement in the United States by a Presidential order signed by... ...Thomas Jefferson!
Yup.
So why hasn't it caught on?
I think it has a lot to do with visualization. I mean, I know what a foot looks like. I know what an inch looks like. If you tell me you're a mile down the road, I know just about where you are.
But this morning, perusing the profile of a guy from South Africa on WorldLeatherMen who had perused my profile, he describes himself as having "20cm of fleshy meat with foreskin."
I mean, what is that?
I think that a centimeter is approximately the width of a large paperclip, so the only way I can 'get there' is to picture an uncut dick with 20 paperclips lined up on top of it. And still, I'm not getting a good picture in my mind.
And do they really say that in the rest of the world? "Hey boy, I've got 24 centimeters for ya!" Or, "He had a great dick, it must have been 18 centimeters, and fat, too!"
It just doesn't compute. It's like Space Travel or something ("Got a nice 1/1023 parsecs tool for ya to ride!").
If the Powers That Be were interested in instituting the metric system, they ought to start with the porn industry. Once we all are thinking of the relevant body parts in metric, all else will follow.
Saturday, May 22, 2004
I Assess: TESFest Was The Best! No Jest!
Gangbusters!
That's how it went. Just gangbusters.
Okay, so at times I felt like I was the only homo on the planet, but it was a really great day. (I had hoped to make a weekend of it, but since I was in NYC all last weekend, and I'll be in SF all next weekend, my father is complaining of loneliness, so I couldn't negotiate for three weekends in a row.)
Due to construction--complete with a verrrrry woofy man working a jackhammer--at 9th Ave and 34th Street, I rolled up in front of the Pennsylvania Hotel twenty minutes later than I hoped. But there was my welcome wagon to greet me: a man with a bellhop's trolley. I unloaded my chain and gear bag and such, turned my car over to valet parking, and headed upstairs. I could have ducked into a workshop, but I decided that rather than jumping into my program with only fifteen minutes lead time, I'd take some time to chill, find a Starbucks, get something in my stomach, and look over my notes.
There was Lolita, there was the former Treasurer of TES, whose term coincided with mine (we bonded while comiserating). There was boymeat. There was manboy bill. There was slave david stein. There was LthrEdge. There was everybody. How cool is that? I saw to it that my gear was safely stowed away (like somebody is going to wander off with a bucket of steel...), grabbed a latte, and found Presentation Space.
A bazillion years ago, I received some invaluable advice on public speaking from an seasoned trial lawyer. He said that after you had some experience, and even though it's rough going at the outset, you find your Public Speaking Persona. It's so true! I've heard new teachers describe the experience. You don't know what you're doing up ther, and then, this Teacher Person emerges.
So I summoned my Public Speaking Persona, and he didn't let me down.
My presentation went well, I think. It was SRO. There were good responses. I kept the flow going. I distributed lengths of chain throughout the audience, and invited people to describe it. They hit all the pertinent points. "It's cold" (steel is always cold to the touch, it doesn't warm up). "It's heavy" (Oh yeah, and you feel every one of those 175 lbs). "It clanks" (How sweet is that? You can't hear rope, but chain is an auditory experience). And, I added the bit about steel being practically eternal. Everybody got a little misty eyed when I made that point.
So then, after I emptied my toybag and did a little show and tell, I told the folks to take that length of chain they were holding, come on up, and put it on the bottom. After some prodding, they got into the swing of things. The bottom--who was fabulous--was soon swathed in steel.
That's the thing about chain bondage... it requires virtually no skill at all. You can't go wrong. And yet, the payoff is tremendous. The bottom gets the ride of a lifetime, and you get to watch your bottom be as subdued and helpless as he (or she) will ever be. Totally under your power. You're the man (or woman) holding the keys to those padlocks.
I was sooooo pleased.
Pumped from that experience, I ran to the workshop in the next round, after stowing away my chain again. I went to hear slave david stein lead a discussion on the dynamics of power-imbalance relationships. Per usual, david was full of insights, just brilliant. And slavery is doing well for him; he looks great!
I threw out the gist of my recent musings, that throughout human history, power-imbalance has been the norm. It's only been over the course of the past few decades that this odd notion of egalitarian relationships has cropped up. In a way, we all know how to do a power imbalance relationship. It's the egalitarian ones that cause us problems.
Great workshop, david!
Then, I headed to a crash course in bootblacking, lead by Sirboy Cristo. Really interesting. It started off with a brief history of bootblacking, a general discussion of the rules, and then a demo. The demo was way juicy. And, Sirboy Cristo was ably assisted by this... this... guy, a fellow bootblack, who can do his stufff on my boots anytime. Woof!
My purpose in attending this particular workshop is that I'd like to give this service to Big. I know I know I know. How much time have I spent attending to my own boots over the past ten years? Does calling Cubby J. Sherwood, checking on whippingboy's work, and grabbing a tshirt out of the laundry basket to knock some of the crud off before I headed out on the town count? Then probably an hour.
But, from the descriptions offered, it sounded a lot like finishing wood. And I'm good at finishing wood. I think I'm willing to give it a go.
A coupla inter'stin' things. What other group of fetishists has formed a community the way bootblacks have? You never hear much from the brotherhood of temporary piercers, do ya? But... like... they all seem to know each other. And they all welcome newcomers, show them the ropes, and share their skills. Why... that sounds a lot like the mentorship I've received at work. That, folks, is a beautiful thing.
And, may I just say that having someone work on your boots while you're wearing them, whether it be with polish or a tongue, is absolutely sublime. Boot service rocks. And I want to give that joy to the Sir I serve.
Oh. Before I hit bootblacking, there was this really interesting convergence by the elevator banks. It was a GMSMA reunion! Manboy bill, Diabolique, slave david stein, slave neil... there we all were. We were all rushing off to workshops, so the meeting was brief, but it was wonderful.
Although I very much wanted to stick around for fisticuffs at midnight (Thanks for the invite, Pete from TES! Can I get a raincheck?), I had to get back to Bucks County. As if by magic, there was Pete the coordinator to guide me through the process of getting my chains down to my jeep.
Way to go, TES! Congratulations! Flawlessly organized (well, they ran out of red Presenter Ribbons so I didn't get one), great programs, a really good crowd. Nothing wrong there. At all.
Oh, and two more points I'll make before I wrap up this posting.
First off, about your wrist restraints... do they work? Are you sure? Y'see, I thought mine did, too. And then, one dark day, I realized that I could collapse my hand and slip right out of them. No matter how much they were tightened. Well that won't do! when I'm whipping a man, he needs the security of knowing that no matter how much he thrashes about, he's not going anywhere. Thus began a lot of a year long quest for Wrist Restraints That Work. The first recommendation I got was the restraints from Mr. S. So there I was at the Mr. S table, trying on wrist restraint after wrist restraint, and like Harry Houdini, I evaded all of them. Except the ones that sort of have straps that come up around the thumb, and under the pinkie. Alas, I bought them before I managed to get them off at home. But my quest ended. At the Leatherman in New York City. The padded, locking wrist restraints. They won't fail you. Accept no substitute.
And the other thing. I finally bought a utilikilt. I've mulled this purchase for years. They look so cool! But do I have the testicular fortitude to wear it out in public? I know I know I know. This from the man who spent Gay Pride 2003 wearing a leather vest and a sarong, including the trek down Fifth Avenue with GMSMA. But y'see, utilikilts are from Seattle. And one thing that girlfag didn't address in her Seattle Best and Worst were thighs. Have you been to Seattle? Everybody has thighs like volleyballs. All that hiking they do, I guess. I mean, everybody. And that sure looks hot hanging out of a utilikilt. Well, I don't have thighs like volleyballs. And I'm always worried that this is the yardstick by which I'll be measured. But I took the plunge. Getting a workman's utilikilt. Don't think I'll be wearing it to work anytime soon, but ya never know.
*sigh* What a good day.
Oh! Oh yeah! This is so cool! There I was, waiting for the valet to bring my jeep around, when a woman introduced herself to me and asked for contact information. She's from Black Rose, the granddaddy of pan BDSM events. And she heard great things about my chain bondage workshop. Dare I hope?
Gangbusters!
That's how it went. Just gangbusters.
Okay, so at times I felt like I was the only homo on the planet, but it was a really great day. (I had hoped to make a weekend of it, but since I was in NYC all last weekend, and I'll be in SF all next weekend, my father is complaining of loneliness, so I couldn't negotiate for three weekends in a row.)
Due to construction--complete with a verrrrry woofy man working a jackhammer--at 9th Ave and 34th Street, I rolled up in front of the Pennsylvania Hotel twenty minutes later than I hoped. But there was my welcome wagon to greet me: a man with a bellhop's trolley. I unloaded my chain and gear bag and such, turned my car over to valet parking, and headed upstairs. I could have ducked into a workshop, but I decided that rather than jumping into my program with only fifteen minutes lead time, I'd take some time to chill, find a Starbucks, get something in my stomach, and look over my notes.
There was Lolita, there was the former Treasurer of TES, whose term coincided with mine (we bonded while comiserating). There was boymeat. There was manboy bill. There was slave david stein. There was LthrEdge. There was everybody. How cool is that? I saw to it that my gear was safely stowed away (like somebody is going to wander off with a bucket of steel...), grabbed a latte, and found Presentation Space.
A bazillion years ago, I received some invaluable advice on public speaking from an seasoned trial lawyer. He said that after you had some experience, and even though it's rough going at the outset, you find your Public Speaking Persona. It's so true! I've heard new teachers describe the experience. You don't know what you're doing up ther, and then, this Teacher Person emerges.
So I summoned my Public Speaking Persona, and he didn't let me down.
My presentation went well, I think. It was SRO. There were good responses. I kept the flow going. I distributed lengths of chain throughout the audience, and invited people to describe it. They hit all the pertinent points. "It's cold" (steel is always cold to the touch, it doesn't warm up). "It's heavy" (Oh yeah, and you feel every one of those 175 lbs). "It clanks" (How sweet is that? You can't hear rope, but chain is an auditory experience). And, I added the bit about steel being practically eternal. Everybody got a little misty eyed when I made that point.
So then, after I emptied my toybag and did a little show and tell, I told the folks to take that length of chain they were holding, come on up, and put it on the bottom. After some prodding, they got into the swing of things. The bottom--who was fabulous--was soon swathed in steel.
That's the thing about chain bondage... it requires virtually no skill at all. You can't go wrong. And yet, the payoff is tremendous. The bottom gets the ride of a lifetime, and you get to watch your bottom be as subdued and helpless as he (or she) will ever be. Totally under your power. You're the man (or woman) holding the keys to those padlocks.
I was sooooo pleased.
Pumped from that experience, I ran to the workshop in the next round, after stowing away my chain again. I went to hear slave david stein lead a discussion on the dynamics of power-imbalance relationships. Per usual, david was full of insights, just brilliant. And slavery is doing well for him; he looks great!
I threw out the gist of my recent musings, that throughout human history, power-imbalance has been the norm. It's only been over the course of the past few decades that this odd notion of egalitarian relationships has cropped up. In a way, we all know how to do a power imbalance relationship. It's the egalitarian ones that cause us problems.
Great workshop, david!
Then, I headed to a crash course in bootblacking, lead by Sirboy Cristo. Really interesting. It started off with a brief history of bootblacking, a general discussion of the rules, and then a demo. The demo was way juicy. And, Sirboy Cristo was ably assisted by this... this... guy, a fellow bootblack, who can do his stufff on my boots anytime. Woof!
My purpose in attending this particular workshop is that I'd like to give this service to Big. I know I know I know. How much time have I spent attending to my own boots over the past ten years? Does calling Cubby J. Sherwood, checking on whippingboy's work, and grabbing a tshirt out of the laundry basket to knock some of the crud off before I headed out on the town count? Then probably an hour.
But, from the descriptions offered, it sounded a lot like finishing wood. And I'm good at finishing wood. I think I'm willing to give it a go.
A coupla inter'stin' things. What other group of fetishists has formed a community the way bootblacks have? You never hear much from the brotherhood of temporary piercers, do ya? But... like... they all seem to know each other. And they all welcome newcomers, show them the ropes, and share their skills. Why... that sounds a lot like the mentorship I've received at work. That, folks, is a beautiful thing.
And, may I just say that having someone work on your boots while you're wearing them, whether it be with polish or a tongue, is absolutely sublime. Boot service rocks. And I want to give that joy to the Sir I serve.
Oh. Before I hit bootblacking, there was this really interesting convergence by the elevator banks. It was a GMSMA reunion! Manboy bill, Diabolique, slave david stein, slave neil... there we all were. We were all rushing off to workshops, so the meeting was brief, but it was wonderful.
Although I very much wanted to stick around for fisticuffs at midnight (Thanks for the invite, Pete from TES! Can I get a raincheck?), I had to get back to Bucks County. As if by magic, there was Pete the coordinator to guide me through the process of getting my chains down to my jeep.
Way to go, TES! Congratulations! Flawlessly organized (well, they ran out of red Presenter Ribbons so I didn't get one), great programs, a really good crowd. Nothing wrong there. At all.
Oh, and two more points I'll make before I wrap up this posting.
First off, about your wrist restraints... do they work? Are you sure? Y'see, I thought mine did, too. And then, one dark day, I realized that I could collapse my hand and slip right out of them. No matter how much they were tightened. Well that won't do! when I'm whipping a man, he needs the security of knowing that no matter how much he thrashes about, he's not going anywhere. Thus began a lot of a year long quest for Wrist Restraints That Work. The first recommendation I got was the restraints from Mr. S. So there I was at the Mr. S table, trying on wrist restraint after wrist restraint, and like Harry Houdini, I evaded all of them. Except the ones that sort of have straps that come up around the thumb, and under the pinkie. Alas, I bought them before I managed to get them off at home. But my quest ended. At the Leatherman in New York City. The padded, locking wrist restraints. They won't fail you. Accept no substitute.
And the other thing. I finally bought a utilikilt. I've mulled this purchase for years. They look so cool! But do I have the testicular fortitude to wear it out in public? I know I know I know. This from the man who spent Gay Pride 2003 wearing a leather vest and a sarong, including the trek down Fifth Avenue with GMSMA. But y'see, utilikilts are from Seattle. And one thing that girlfag didn't address in her Seattle Best and Worst were thighs. Have you been to Seattle? Everybody has thighs like volleyballs. All that hiking they do, I guess. I mean, everybody. And that sure looks hot hanging out of a utilikilt. Well, I don't have thighs like volleyballs. And I'm always worried that this is the yardstick by which I'll be measured. But I took the plunge. Getting a workman's utilikilt. Don't think I'll be wearing it to work anytime soon, but ya never know.
*sigh* What a good day.
Oh! Oh yeah! This is so cool! There I was, waiting for the valet to bring my jeep around, when a woman introduced herself to me and asked for contact information. She's from Black Rose, the granddaddy of pan BDSM events. And she heard great things about my chain bondage workshop. Dare I hope?
Thank God I'm A Country Boy!
Y'know what's great about living here in the country?
I mean besides the fact that the night air, under the crescent moon, is sweet with the smell of hay and wildflowers?
When I'm walking Faithful Companion, and he's taking a piss, and the urge hits me, I can just whip it out and piss right along with him. How cool is that?
Try that on Greenwich Avenue, O Urban Dwellers!
Y'know what's great about living here in the country?
I mean besides the fact that the night air, under the crescent moon, is sweet with the smell of hay and wildflowers?
When I'm walking Faithful Companion, and he's taking a piss, and the urge hits me, I can just whip it out and piss right along with him. How cool is that?
Try that on Greenwich Avenue, O Urban Dwellers!
Friday, May 21, 2004
Heirloom
My brother is crazy. He really is.
He and his wife are moving to Florida in November. The house they bought down there is completely furnished. Even down to dishes in the kitchen cabinets and sheets on the bed. All they'll need to bring with them is their dog.
Thus, they're selling everything they have, lock stock and barrel.
Now, my brother has been the recipient of whatchya might call 'Family Pieces.' That is to say, things that belonged to my grandparents and great aunts and uncles. Today and tomorrow, they're having a yard sale, and hoping to turn most of these pieces into cold, hard cash.
To my brother's way of thinking, this makes perfect sense. They need the money. Most of their stuff is dark wood and that wouldn't work down in Florida. And he's not a sentimental sort.
A few weeks ago, he asked me if there was anything I wanted. I asked about my grandfather's smokestand. My grandfather and I were close, born exactly sixty years apart, to the hour. His smokestand stood next to the sofa in the livingroom of their home at 192 Duncannon Avenue in the Olney section of Philadelphia. It's basically a humidor with legs.
Yeah, I wanted the smokestand. I told my brother this, and he offered it to me for twenty dollars.
Yup! That's my brother! Counting every penny.
Let me pause to explain here. Shocked? Appauled? I guess I'm used to it. I didn't bat an eye. He is who he is. He means no harm. If I protested, he would have looked at me uncomprehending, like Mr. Spock trying to respond to Nurse Chappel's protestations of love. In fact, I find it sort of endearing, it's so predictable.
So, I asked how much he wanted for it. Twenty bucks. I slipped him a twenty on the spot, knowing that if I only promised and someone at the yardsale offered more, he'd sell it without a thought.
Last night, in anticipation of the yard sale, my brother asked me to help him move furniture around. I was happy to help. We lugged stuff downstairs. All three floors. We were at it for about an hour. At the end of the evening, I told him that if he was ready to give up the smokestand, I'd take it with me. He said he was, but he realized that he had quoted me the wrong price. It was forty dollars.
Did I bat an eye?
No. No I did not bat an eye. I gave my brother another twenty.
So now, the smokestand is crammed into my room. I now have a place for all my cigars. And it's the same place that my grandfather used to store his tobacco. (Pall Malls.)
I love my brother. I love my grandfather. I love my smokestand.
My brother is crazy. He really is.
He and his wife are moving to Florida in November. The house they bought down there is completely furnished. Even down to dishes in the kitchen cabinets and sheets on the bed. All they'll need to bring with them is their dog.
Thus, they're selling everything they have, lock stock and barrel.
Now, my brother has been the recipient of whatchya might call 'Family Pieces.' That is to say, things that belonged to my grandparents and great aunts and uncles. Today and tomorrow, they're having a yard sale, and hoping to turn most of these pieces into cold, hard cash.
To my brother's way of thinking, this makes perfect sense. They need the money. Most of their stuff is dark wood and that wouldn't work down in Florida. And he's not a sentimental sort.
A few weeks ago, he asked me if there was anything I wanted. I asked about my grandfather's smokestand. My grandfather and I were close, born exactly sixty years apart, to the hour. His smokestand stood next to the sofa in the livingroom of their home at 192 Duncannon Avenue in the Olney section of Philadelphia. It's basically a humidor with legs.
Yeah, I wanted the smokestand. I told my brother this, and he offered it to me for twenty dollars.
Yup! That's my brother! Counting every penny.
Let me pause to explain here. Shocked? Appauled? I guess I'm used to it. I didn't bat an eye. He is who he is. He means no harm. If I protested, he would have looked at me uncomprehending, like Mr. Spock trying to respond to Nurse Chappel's protestations of love. In fact, I find it sort of endearing, it's so predictable.
So, I asked how much he wanted for it. Twenty bucks. I slipped him a twenty on the spot, knowing that if I only promised and someone at the yardsale offered more, he'd sell it without a thought.
Last night, in anticipation of the yard sale, my brother asked me to help him move furniture around. I was happy to help. We lugged stuff downstairs. All three floors. We were at it for about an hour. At the end of the evening, I told him that if he was ready to give up the smokestand, I'd take it with me. He said he was, but he realized that he had quoted me the wrong price. It was forty dollars.
Did I bat an eye?
No. No I did not bat an eye. I gave my brother another twenty.
So now, the smokestand is crammed into my room. I now have a place for all my cigars. And it's the same place that my grandfather used to store his tobacco. (Pall Malls.)
I love my brother. I love my grandfather. I love my smokestand.
TESFest Looms!
Tomorrow is TESFest! I'm leaving here at 8:30, and that should give me a comfortable window to be rolling up outside of the Pennsylvania Hotel at 10:30 am. Tonight, I loaded up the car with my chains. I think they must weigh as much as I do at this point. They overflow the bucket I got when I made one of my (many) chain purchases at Home Depot. Now, all I need to do is finalize what I'm gonna say, and put blurbs onto index cards so I'll be able to keep up patter for the whole time.
Essentially, what I'm going to be doing is giving folks permission to do chain bondage. That's really all it takes. As far as safety issues goes, it's actually a wee bit edgy in that the bottom is not getting out of the chains quickly, as can happen with rope. If there's a problem, he'll have to do his best to stay calm whilst the undoing goes forward. And, make sure the bottom knows that chains bite. It's not gonna be comfortable, the way a nice body harness done in feather soft hemp is gonna be comfortable. It'll hurt. And that's part of the scene.
But essentially, it's all about permission. Chains have loomed large in my personal SM iconography since... forever. But I never explored chain bondage. For one thing, I knew of exactly no one who did chain bondage. And for another, when I would attend bondage workshops and ask if this could be done with chain rather than rope, the answer I got was a resounding No. For three reasons. First, chain is difficult to work with (True). Second, there are no quick releases with chain (Sometimes true). And third, chain bites (True... but that's a bad thing cause why?).
It wasn't until I dropped this url into my browser. (Alas, you need to be signed up with ManCheck these days to verify your age--Trevor strikes again!) Hard Master, is a singletail Top in Australia. But although I went to the site in search of pics of whipped men, what I discovered were pics of men in chains.
Somebody out there was doing chain bondage!
And so, with that, I had permission to do it myself. That's really all it took. That and going to Home Depot and buying lots of chain and padlocks.
The first time I did it, with GI Joe, I was surprised at how easy it was to get great results. In no time flat, GI Joe was swathed in steel. And I couldn't help but note that his dick was rock hard the entire time. He told me afterwards that the scene had been amazing from his perspective. And I've heard that from all the men I've chained up. There's something very powerful about being wrapped up in hard, cold, eternal, inescapable steel.
Okay okay okay.
Consider that a sneak preview of tomorrow's presentation. If you want more, you'll have to wait till after it all goes down.
Wish me luck!
Tomorrow is TESFest! I'm leaving here at 8:30, and that should give me a comfortable window to be rolling up outside of the Pennsylvania Hotel at 10:30 am. Tonight, I loaded up the car with my chains. I think they must weigh as much as I do at this point. They overflow the bucket I got when I made one of my (many) chain purchases at Home Depot. Now, all I need to do is finalize what I'm gonna say, and put blurbs onto index cards so I'll be able to keep up patter for the whole time.
Essentially, what I'm going to be doing is giving folks permission to do chain bondage. That's really all it takes. As far as safety issues goes, it's actually a wee bit edgy in that the bottom is not getting out of the chains quickly, as can happen with rope. If there's a problem, he'll have to do his best to stay calm whilst the undoing goes forward. And, make sure the bottom knows that chains bite. It's not gonna be comfortable, the way a nice body harness done in feather soft hemp is gonna be comfortable. It'll hurt. And that's part of the scene.
But essentially, it's all about permission. Chains have loomed large in my personal SM iconography since... forever. But I never explored chain bondage. For one thing, I knew of exactly no one who did chain bondage. And for another, when I would attend bondage workshops and ask if this could be done with chain rather than rope, the answer I got was a resounding No. For three reasons. First, chain is difficult to work with (True). Second, there are no quick releases with chain (Sometimes true). And third, chain bites (True... but that's a bad thing cause why?).
It wasn't until I dropped this url into my browser. (Alas, you need to be signed up with ManCheck these days to verify your age--Trevor strikes again!) Hard Master, is a singletail Top in Australia. But although I went to the site in search of pics of whipped men, what I discovered were pics of men in chains.
Somebody out there was doing chain bondage!
And so, with that, I had permission to do it myself. That's really all it took. That and going to Home Depot and buying lots of chain and padlocks.
The first time I did it, with GI Joe, I was surprised at how easy it was to get great results. In no time flat, GI Joe was swathed in steel. And I couldn't help but note that his dick was rock hard the entire time. He told me afterwards that the scene had been amazing from his perspective. And I've heard that from all the men I've chained up. There's something very powerful about being wrapped up in hard, cold, eternal, inescapable steel.
Okay okay okay.
Consider that a sneak preview of tomorrow's presentation. If you want more, you'll have to wait till after it all goes down.
Wish me luck!
Thursday, May 20, 2004
How He Did It
Last night, I had an (online) conversation with another Sir. Upon learning that I was collared, he responded that if he had known I wanted to be collared, he would have collared me.
Uh huh.
Let's be clear. The AOL screen name under which I had been talking to this guy was HunterGreenRight, hanky code for 'boy seeking Sir.' So the 'had I but known' line doesn't quite hold water.
But it did get me thinking about how Big managed to pull this off. There have been a few men who have expressed an interest, but Big was pretty much the only one who stepped up to the plate. Big was clear about what he was after, confident in his capability to follow through, and was willing to commit a weekend to finding out if I fit the bill.
And that was great. Big is used to achieving his goals.
One other thing: Big found me to be desireable. That's so much. So much. "You deserve the collar." And the fact that this was coming from a man who impressed me a great deal... well, that was sure iciing on the cake.
And Big now can reap the rewards. I'm his boy. And he is the Sir I'm privileged to serve.
Last night, I had an (online) conversation with another Sir. Upon learning that I was collared, he responded that if he had known I wanted to be collared, he would have collared me.
Uh huh.
Let's be clear. The AOL screen name under which I had been talking to this guy was HunterGreenRight, hanky code for 'boy seeking Sir.' So the 'had I but known' line doesn't quite hold water.
But it did get me thinking about how Big managed to pull this off. There have been a few men who have expressed an interest, but Big was pretty much the only one who stepped up to the plate. Big was clear about what he was after, confident in his capability to follow through, and was willing to commit a weekend to finding out if I fit the bill.
And that was great. Big is used to achieving his goals.
One other thing: Big found me to be desireable. That's so much. So much. "You deserve the collar." And the fact that this was coming from a man who impressed me a great deal... well, that was sure iciing on the cake.
And Big now can reap the rewards. I'm his boy. And he is the Sir I'm privileged to serve.
Schwing!
I am all hot and bothered lately. In an interesting way. On the one hand, I'm looking forward to submitting to Big. In a Big way. On the other hand, I am feeling verrrry much the Sadist lately. I see a hot boy, and I'm imagining whipping him until he's screaming and bloody.
Further contradiction?
I think I see a common thread here.
Y'see, wearing Big's collar has brought it all back to me. Who I am. What I'm about. What I desire. Wearing Big's collar, I know who I am. My Sir has given me the gift of myself. And all the multiplicity that implies.
Sweet.
I am all hot and bothered lately. In an interesting way. On the one hand, I'm looking forward to submitting to Big. In a Big way. On the other hand, I am feeling verrrry much the Sadist lately. I see a hot boy, and I'm imagining whipping him until he's screaming and bloody.
Further contradiction?
I think I see a common thread here.
Y'see, wearing Big's collar has brought it all back to me. Who I am. What I'm about. What I desire. Wearing Big's collar, I know who I am. My Sir has given me the gift of myself. And all the multiplicity that implies.
Sweet.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Oh Woof!
How'd I miss that?
Gary Papa, the local ABC sportscaster, has started to shave his head. Gary loomed way large in my teenage jerkoff fantasies. And he might just be making a comeback. Although lately, it's been all about Big.
Click here to see a picture of Gary pre-blade. Now if he'd only compensate and get some hair on his face.
How'd I miss that?
Gary Papa, the local ABC sportscaster, has started to shave his head. Gary loomed way large in my teenage jerkoff fantasies. And he might just be making a comeback. Although lately, it's been all about Big.
Click here to see a picture of Gary pre-blade. Now if he'd only compensate and get some hair on his face.
Marked!
On the way home, I made my weekly visit to the tanning place for my eight minutes of high intensity. When Big padlocked the collar around my neck, he also gave me the key. I flashed on under what circumstances I'd have to remove it. Softball was one (there's a 'no jewelry' rule in the league; when a hapless umpire calls out, "No jewelry, gentlemen!" we all reach down our pants and pretend to remove PAs). The other would be the tanning salon.
So I'm heading up the walk outside of Doylestown's own Hollywood Tans, and I got a grin on my face. No. No, I wouldn't take the collar off. Rather, I would make sure in subsequent tanning sessions that it's in the same position as today. That way, in just a few short weeks, I'll have the imprint of Big's collar around me. So, even when I remove my collar to play softball, I won't be removing it entirely. It's in my skin. A part of me.
Such ingenuity the boy has, no?
On the way home, I made my weekly visit to the tanning place for my eight minutes of high intensity. When Big padlocked the collar around my neck, he also gave me the key. I flashed on under what circumstances I'd have to remove it. Softball was one (there's a 'no jewelry' rule in the league; when a hapless umpire calls out, "No jewelry, gentlemen!" we all reach down our pants and pretend to remove PAs). The other would be the tanning salon.
So I'm heading up the walk outside of Doylestown's own Hollywood Tans, and I got a grin on my face. No. No, I wouldn't take the collar off. Rather, I would make sure in subsequent tanning sessions that it's in the same position as today. That way, in just a few short weeks, I'll have the imprint of Big's collar around me. So, even when I remove my collar to play softball, I won't be removing it entirely. It's in my skin. A part of me.
Such ingenuity the boy has, no?
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Hot Porn
I've mentioned before here that porn doesn't do a lot for me. [In Stride Alert: Porn doesn't do a lot for Big either.] But that's not entirely true. Here's the hottest porn sight on the internet, just click right here.
Porn is all about desire and fantasy. And this sight has me drooling with desire, and my fantasies coming hard and fast. Look at those builds! Check out that action! How hot is that?
Oh yeah.
Come to daddy.
I've mentioned before here that porn doesn't do a lot for me. [In Stride Alert: Porn doesn't do a lot for Big either.] But that's not entirely true. Here's the hottest porn sight on the internet, just click right here.
Porn is all about desire and fantasy. And this sight has me drooling with desire, and my fantasies coming hard and fast. Look at those builds! Check out that action! How hot is that?
Oh yeah.
Come to daddy.
Mental Health Day Ethics
"Hey! You're a pretty ethical guy! Isn't calling in sick to work when you're not sick kind of... unethical?"
Uh...
Ummm....
Okay. Let me take a stab at that one.
By ethical absolutes, yes. Absolutely. I lied.
But, there are mitigating factors.
First off, I am lying in a situation where I don't have a bounden duty not to lie. The relationship I have with my employer is an explicit contract: I work, and they pay me to do that work. If I don't work, they don't pay me. If they don't pay me, I won't work. And in the work I'm doing, I'm not entrusted with anything that requires scrupulous adherence to the truth. If I was a financial manager and lied to my employer about making a deposit to their bank account (say, making a deposit instead to my own bank account), that would be bad, as I am lying about something in an area where my employer has put his (her, actually) trust in me.
Second, negligible harm is incurred by everyone involved, except me. And I derive benefit from it. And that's not bad. We're not particularly busy right now, so it's not like any huge deadlines will be missed, or the guys I work with will have to sweat to make up for my absence.
Third, the only damage, if any, is to me. If I made a habit of it, my employer would start to think of me as 'the guy who's always calling out sick.' And that would be bad. I wouldn't get a raise. But, nobody where I work seems to get raises ever. (Yeah, that's a definite flaw.) So there's a disincentive there. But regardless, I don't make a habit of this. I can think of only one other time since I've been there that I did this. And I woke up with a splitting headache that morning.
But what about the rule breaking aspects of this?
Rules, as they say, were made to be broken. Seriously. You wouldn't need a rule if there wasn't good reason for behaving otherwise. For example, it's not a rule that while you're shopping at the mall that you must continue to breathe at all times. Not many people opt to asphyxiate themselves at the mall, hence there's no need for a rule. Rules that uphold the general welfare are laudable, and we should do our best to follow those rules. However, some rules serve only the interests of the rule maker. These rules apply only when it's convenient. Or when you can get away with it without too much fallout. Often, you can't quite tell which rules are which. For example, some laws that would seem to be in the interests of the general welfare actually were lobbied for and passed to appease the interests of the insurance industry. You are not beholden in any particular way to the insurance industry. The rules in question are put in place to make the life of my employer easier. And that's, y'know, tough. She makes a lot more money than I do (and has a lot more responsibility to go with it), so into every life a little rain, inconvenience and uncertainty must fall.
And I think that about covers it.
"Hey! You're a pretty ethical guy! Isn't calling in sick to work when you're not sick kind of... unethical?"
Uh...
Ummm....
Okay. Let me take a stab at that one.
By ethical absolutes, yes. Absolutely. I lied.
But, there are mitigating factors.
First off, I am lying in a situation where I don't have a bounden duty not to lie. The relationship I have with my employer is an explicit contract: I work, and they pay me to do that work. If I don't work, they don't pay me. If they don't pay me, I won't work. And in the work I'm doing, I'm not entrusted with anything that requires scrupulous adherence to the truth. If I was a financial manager and lied to my employer about making a deposit to their bank account (say, making a deposit instead to my own bank account), that would be bad, as I am lying about something in an area where my employer has put his (her, actually) trust in me.
Second, negligible harm is incurred by everyone involved, except me. And I derive benefit from it. And that's not bad. We're not particularly busy right now, so it's not like any huge deadlines will be missed, or the guys I work with will have to sweat to make up for my absence.
Third, the only damage, if any, is to me. If I made a habit of it, my employer would start to think of me as 'the guy who's always calling out sick.' And that would be bad. I wouldn't get a raise. But, nobody where I work seems to get raises ever. (Yeah, that's a definite flaw.) So there's a disincentive there. But regardless, I don't make a habit of this. I can think of only one other time since I've been there that I did this. And I woke up with a splitting headache that morning.
But what about the rule breaking aspects of this?
Rules, as they say, were made to be broken. Seriously. You wouldn't need a rule if there wasn't good reason for behaving otherwise. For example, it's not a rule that while you're shopping at the mall that you must continue to breathe at all times. Not many people opt to asphyxiate themselves at the mall, hence there's no need for a rule. Rules that uphold the general welfare are laudable, and we should do our best to follow those rules. However, some rules serve only the interests of the rule maker. These rules apply only when it's convenient. Or when you can get away with it without too much fallout. Often, you can't quite tell which rules are which. For example, some laws that would seem to be in the interests of the general welfare actually were lobbied for and passed to appease the interests of the insurance industry. You are not beholden in any particular way to the insurance industry. The rules in question are put in place to make the life of my employer easier. And that's, y'know, tough. She makes a lot more money than I do (and has a lot more responsibility to go with it), so into every life a little rain, inconvenience and uncertainty must fall.
And I think that about covers it.
Sir
Man, he's a great guy. Such a great guy.
Here's something that just now occurs to me. There's something of Mr. Benson in Big. Yes. There sure is. Okay, so I've never actually read John Preston's series. But in a way, you don't have to. In the circles I've traveled in, you get it by osmosis.
But there definitely is a Mr. Benson thing going on there. He's successful, exacting, certain of who he is, and what he wants. He makes his own way in the world. And I get the sense that if there was something he wanted very much, he would find a way to make it his. Deciding on a goal and accomplishing that goal seems to be something that Big is verrry good at. As was Mr. Benson.
We're getting into some treacherous terrain here perhaps. Perhaps my fantasies are getting the better of me. As far as I know, Big is not plugged into an international syndicate of slave traders and Masters with tentacles everywhere. (Even if there were such a thing, Big strikes me as far too much of an independent operator.)
But there is a certainty, a sureness. With the collar padlocked around my neck, I am unquestionably and completely his. And I have faith in his clarity, foresight, and firm footing in reality.
And I am his boy, and not his slave. There is a give and take in our relationship that Mr. Benson wouldn't compass. My desires and wants are taken into consideration.
And yet... I believe that if Big decided that he wanted a slave rather than a boy, a slave kept naked and chained, a slave who had been broken to his will, then he is a man who would be capable of achieving that. Regardless. Just like Mr. Benson.
Big and I have yet to do a scene together. It was pretty staggering for me to read his thoughts on how he conducts himself in the dungeon. He seeks out within the man submitting to him that place--that frightening place. Big determines the outlines, and where it lies, and together, he and the man go to that place. It's not about getting his rocks off by re-enacting some mass-produced porn, or doing what needs to be done to put another notch in his handcuffs, or even sportsex (Hardcore!). No. Not that. Rather, it's touching on something Shamanistic. Transformative.
I look forward to submitting to Big in that way. My love for him and my fear of him will be combined, like two pigments, swirled and mixed to form some new color. Red and blue make purple. Blue and yellow make green. Yellow and red make orange. Some amazing alchemy will take place.
"No, Sir... please...
"Sir... I can't, Sir...
"Sir, please... no..."
"Yes."
"Yes, Sir."
Man, he's a great guy. Such a great guy.
Here's something that just now occurs to me. There's something of Mr. Benson in Big. Yes. There sure is. Okay, so I've never actually read John Preston's series. But in a way, you don't have to. In the circles I've traveled in, you get it by osmosis.
But there definitely is a Mr. Benson thing going on there. He's successful, exacting, certain of who he is, and what he wants. He makes his own way in the world. And I get the sense that if there was something he wanted very much, he would find a way to make it his. Deciding on a goal and accomplishing that goal seems to be something that Big is verrry good at. As was Mr. Benson.
We're getting into some treacherous terrain here perhaps. Perhaps my fantasies are getting the better of me. As far as I know, Big is not plugged into an international syndicate of slave traders and Masters with tentacles everywhere. (Even if there were such a thing, Big strikes me as far too much of an independent operator.)
But there is a certainty, a sureness. With the collar padlocked around my neck, I am unquestionably and completely his. And I have faith in his clarity, foresight, and firm footing in reality.
And I am his boy, and not his slave. There is a give and take in our relationship that Mr. Benson wouldn't compass. My desires and wants are taken into consideration.
And yet... I believe that if Big decided that he wanted a slave rather than a boy, a slave kept naked and chained, a slave who had been broken to his will, then he is a man who would be capable of achieving that. Regardless. Just like Mr. Benson.
Big and I have yet to do a scene together. It was pretty staggering for me to read his thoughts on how he conducts himself in the dungeon. He seeks out within the man submitting to him that place--that frightening place. Big determines the outlines, and where it lies, and together, he and the man go to that place. It's not about getting his rocks off by re-enacting some mass-produced porn, or doing what needs to be done to put another notch in his handcuffs, or even sportsex (Hardcore!). No. Not that. Rather, it's touching on something Shamanistic. Transformative.
I look forward to submitting to Big in that way. My love for him and my fear of him will be combined, like two pigments, swirled and mixed to form some new color. Red and blue make purple. Blue and yellow make green. Yellow and red make orange. Some amazing alchemy will take place.
"No, Sir... please...
"Sir... I can't, Sir...
"Sir, please... no..."
"Yes."
"Yes, Sir."
Home
Today, I decided, is a mental health day. Y'see, I've been racking up the overtime lately. When I got out of the shower this morning and saw that way too much time had gone by underneath the steamy rivulets and I was running really late, I realized that if I didn't work today, I had enough accrued overtime to still have a more than healthy paycheck.
So.
This house is a mess. There's not room enough to set down a plate on the kitchen counters, Faithful Companion is shedding and the floors are covered, my bedroom is a disaster. I'm taking a nap for an hour or so and then jumping in and getting to work. I'd hate to miss school tonight, so I'll probably run into work to catch the last hour or so and then go to class.
It's a mental health day. Because dusting and vacuuming are good for your mental health always.
And, when I called in, I said I wouldn't be in because I had to 'attend to an urgent situation with my father,' and that's true. He lives here, too, y'know.
Today, I decided, is a mental health day. Y'see, I've been racking up the overtime lately. When I got out of the shower this morning and saw that way too much time had gone by underneath the steamy rivulets and I was running really late, I realized that if I didn't work today, I had enough accrued overtime to still have a more than healthy paycheck.
So.
This house is a mess. There's not room enough to set down a plate on the kitchen counters, Faithful Companion is shedding and the floors are covered, my bedroom is a disaster. I'm taking a nap for an hour or so and then jumping in and getting to work. I'd hate to miss school tonight, so I'll probably run into work to catch the last hour or so and then go to class.
It's a mental health day. Because dusting and vacuuming are good for your mental health always.
And, when I called in, I said I wouldn't be in because I had to 'attend to an urgent situation with my father,' and that's true. He lives here, too, y'know.
If I Can Make It There
Hoss wants to move to NYC. Here's my thoughts on that subject, which I offered as a comment to his blog...
Some true but harsh facts about NYC.
1. There's no leatherbar in NYC. Therefore, there's no real sense of community among leathermen there. You'll be surfing the net trying to find play partners in your neighborhood.
2. The pace of life is pretty daunting. You will work and work and work. It's the norm. After work, there's the gym, and then there's dinner to worry about, and then the nine things you're doing this weekend. It doesn't leave a lot of time for aimlessly wandering. This is why there are a raft of publications devoted to spending time (what bars, clubs, galleries, restaurants to go to), because there's not a lot of room for serendipity and exploration when your schedule is broken down in 15 minute increments.
3. Getting a great place to live in NYC is like winning the lottery. You hear about people who do it, but the chances that it will happen to you are one in ten million. You'll probably end up in a 12x20 studio in Inwood, with a subway ride between you and a decent restaurant.
4. It's damn near impossible to keep a car in the city. Which is fine, as public transportation works well. But this makes it pretty difficult to get out of the city.
5. As far as the visual art scene goes, it's pretty much impossible at this point for a young artist to move to NYC, set up a studio, and devote a significant amount of time to his or her art, as opposed to waiting tables or whatever to pay the rent on his or her 12 x 20 studio in Inwood. Thus, most of the art is formulaic, not too challenging, and all about ego. It's what sells. (LA, on the other hand...)
6. As you point out, it's really expensive. The price of tomatoes (or whatever) is probably what you're used to paying, but here's the thing: money flows through your hands like water, just because there's so much to buy. There's always something you gotta have.
7. As it seems you've recently quit smoking, you will, however, be pleased to learn that smoking in NYC is about as difficult as shooting heroin. Pretty much the only place you'll find smoking is in someone's 12x20 studio in Inwood.
8. Crystal meth is everywhere. Just about all the hot boys you're likely to encounter will be tweaked to the gills. And then, there's the sad experience of watching those you love and care about go swirling down the toilet when they get caught up with that scene.
10. Terrorism. NYC has been and continues to be at Code Orange since September 11, 2001. When the President decides to divert attention from his administration's mismanagement of the economy or whatever and decides that the rest of the country should be on Code Orange, NYC sort of goes on Code Orange Plus. This means that there are teenagers in National Guard uniforms toting submachine guns at the major subway stations. This can be sort of troubling to your peace of mind, no matter how legitimate you think the threat really is.
On the other hand...
1. There you'll be, hobnobbing with people you read about in People. Everybody comes to NYC, and you get to meet them when they're there.
2. NYC really is the center of the known universe. It all happens there. And you get to be a part of it.
3. The Fire Island Pines is one of the most wonderful experiences this life offers.
4. Everybody in NYC is really really smart. You get to have great conversations on a daily basis.
5. Living in NYC means never saying, "Gosh! Look at that! That's something you don't see everyday!" West 11th Street in August covered in snow and filled with horsedrawn carriages for a movie shoot, 20 NYU frat boys in tutus and tennis shoes jogging up Avenue A, a mom and a dad and their little kids in emerald green body paint. And so much more did I see in my almost a decade-and-a-half there.
6. New Yorkers are really friendly. Conversations are struck waiting in line to use the ATM. You'll get to know the folks at your corner bodega. (Tourists are excluded from this always.)
7. The men are unbelievably hot, and love to have sex, so some of them are actually available.
8. It's the safest large city in the US. I feel wary and vulnerable walking in Philadelphia late at night like I haven't in NYC in years.
9. For the rest of your life, you'll get to drop 'when I was living in New York' in conversation, and immediately have standing and prestige with whomever you're talking to.
10. You get to become an anthropologist! Whenever you leave New York, whether it's while stopping for gas on Long Island or a business trip to Chicago, you get to be amused by the quaint and backward ways of the colorful natives.
Huh.
Could there be a meme in the works? Anybody out there care to offer the ten best and ten worst of their own cities of origin? I'd be keen to hear about Seattle, LA, and SF.
Hoss wants to move to NYC. Here's my thoughts on that subject, which I offered as a comment to his blog...
Some true but harsh facts about NYC.
1. There's no leatherbar in NYC. Therefore, there's no real sense of community among leathermen there. You'll be surfing the net trying to find play partners in your neighborhood.
2. The pace of life is pretty daunting. You will work and work and work. It's the norm. After work, there's the gym, and then there's dinner to worry about, and then the nine things you're doing this weekend. It doesn't leave a lot of time for aimlessly wandering. This is why there are a raft of publications devoted to spending time (what bars, clubs, galleries, restaurants to go to), because there's not a lot of room for serendipity and exploration when your schedule is broken down in 15 minute increments.
3. Getting a great place to live in NYC is like winning the lottery. You hear about people who do it, but the chances that it will happen to you are one in ten million. You'll probably end up in a 12x20 studio in Inwood, with a subway ride between you and a decent restaurant.
4. It's damn near impossible to keep a car in the city. Which is fine, as public transportation works well. But this makes it pretty difficult to get out of the city.
5. As far as the visual art scene goes, it's pretty much impossible at this point for a young artist to move to NYC, set up a studio, and devote a significant amount of time to his or her art, as opposed to waiting tables or whatever to pay the rent on his or her 12 x 20 studio in Inwood. Thus, most of the art is formulaic, not too challenging, and all about ego. It's what sells. (LA, on the other hand...)
6. As you point out, it's really expensive. The price of tomatoes (or whatever) is probably what you're used to paying, but here's the thing: money flows through your hands like water, just because there's so much to buy. There's always something you gotta have.
7. As it seems you've recently quit smoking, you will, however, be pleased to learn that smoking in NYC is about as difficult as shooting heroin. Pretty much the only place you'll find smoking is in someone's 12x20 studio in Inwood.
8. Crystal meth is everywhere. Just about all the hot boys you're likely to encounter will be tweaked to the gills. And then, there's the sad experience of watching those you love and care about go swirling down the toilet when they get caught up with that scene.
10. Terrorism. NYC has been and continues to be at Code Orange since September 11, 2001. When the President decides to divert attention from his administration's mismanagement of the economy or whatever and decides that the rest of the country should be on Code Orange, NYC sort of goes on Code Orange Plus. This means that there are teenagers in National Guard uniforms toting submachine guns at the major subway stations. This can be sort of troubling to your peace of mind, no matter how legitimate you think the threat really is.
On the other hand...
1. There you'll be, hobnobbing with people you read about in People. Everybody comes to NYC, and you get to meet them when they're there.
2. NYC really is the center of the known universe. It all happens there. And you get to be a part of it.
3. The Fire Island Pines is one of the most wonderful experiences this life offers.
4. Everybody in NYC is really really smart. You get to have great conversations on a daily basis.
5. Living in NYC means never saying, "Gosh! Look at that! That's something you don't see everyday!" West 11th Street in August covered in snow and filled with horsedrawn carriages for a movie shoot, 20 NYU frat boys in tutus and tennis shoes jogging up Avenue A, a mom and a dad and their little kids in emerald green body paint. And so much more did I see in my almost a decade-and-a-half there.
6. New Yorkers are really friendly. Conversations are struck waiting in line to use the ATM. You'll get to know the folks at your corner bodega. (Tourists are excluded from this always.)
7. The men are unbelievably hot, and love to have sex, so some of them are actually available.
8. It's the safest large city in the US. I feel wary and vulnerable walking in Philadelphia late at night like I haven't in NYC in years.
9. For the rest of your life, you'll get to drop 'when I was living in New York' in conversation, and immediately have standing and prestige with whomever you're talking to.
10. You get to become an anthropologist! Whenever you leave New York, whether it's while stopping for gas on Long Island or a business trip to Chicago, you get to be amused by the quaint and backward ways of the colorful natives.
Huh.
Could there be a meme in the works? Anybody out there care to offer the ten best and ten worst of their own cities of origin? I'd be keen to hear about Seattle, LA, and SF.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Picture This
I think I got the camera working and the photos edited for the web. Let's see how well I did.
Here, as promised, is one of Faithful Companion. Why, it's Little FC in a Prospect of Flowers!
Here are a few of the perennial bed that I worked like a trojan to put in. A few short weeks ago, it was bare dirt, and now it's resplendent with day lilies, bleeding heart, spider wort, digitalis, ajuga, phlox, and a few other shade tolerant, deer-resistant plantings.
Here's one of the despicable McMansions that have cropped up here in Bucks County like mushrooms in the dark. Notice the enormous window over the door. Makes quite a statement, huh? Specifically, the statement it's making is, "Guess how much I paid for that chandalier? Nope! More than that!"
And today, I got to be Delivery Guy, making a run up to Greenwich CT. Here's a pic of Delivery Guy in the cab of the truck.
Enjoy!
I think I got the camera working and the photos edited for the web. Let's see how well I did.
Here, as promised, is one of Faithful Companion. Why, it's Little FC in a Prospect of Flowers!
Here are a few of the perennial bed that I worked like a trojan to put in. A few short weeks ago, it was bare dirt, and now it's resplendent with day lilies, bleeding heart, spider wort, digitalis, ajuga, phlox, and a few other shade tolerant, deer-resistant plantings.
Here's one of the despicable McMansions that have cropped up here in Bucks County like mushrooms in the dark. Notice the enormous window over the door. Makes quite a statement, huh? Specifically, the statement it's making is, "Guess how much I paid for that chandalier? Nope! More than that!"
And today, I got to be Delivery Guy, making a run up to Greenwich CT. Here's a pic of Delivery Guy in the cab of the truck.
Enjoy!
Picture This
I think I got the camera working and the photos edited for the web. Let's see how well I did.
Here, as promised, is one of Faithful Companion. Why, it's Little FC in a Prospect of Flowers!
Here are a few of the perennial bed that I worked like a trojan to put in. A few short weeks ago, it was bare dirt, and now it's resplendent with day lilies, bleeding heart, spider wort, digitalis, ajuga, phlox, and a few other shade tolerant, deer-resistant plantings.
Here's one of the despicable McMansions that have cropped up here in Bucks County like mushrooms in the dark. Notice the enormous window over the door. Makes quite a statement, huh? Specifically, the statement it's making is, "Guess how much I paid for that chandalier? Nope! More than that!"
And today, I got to be Delivery Guy, making a run up to Greenwich CT. Here's a pic of Delivery Guy in the cab of the truck.
Enjoy!
I think I got the camera working and the photos edited for the web. Let's see how well I did.
Here, as promised, is one of Faithful Companion. Why, it's Little FC in a Prospect of Flowers!
Here are a few of the perennial bed that I worked like a trojan to put in. A few short weeks ago, it was bare dirt, and now it's resplendent with day lilies, bleeding heart, spider wort, digitalis, ajuga, phlox, and a few other shade tolerant, deer-resistant plantings.
Here's one of the despicable McMansions that have cropped up here in Bucks County like mushrooms in the dark. Notice the enormous window over the door. Makes quite a statement, huh? Specifically, the statement it's making is, "Guess how much I paid for that chandalier? Nope! More than that!"
And today, I got to be Delivery Guy, making a run up to Greenwich CT. Here's a pic of Delivery Guy in the cab of the truck.
Enjoy!
Sunday, May 16, 2004
Dang
I just saw Big a mere eight-and-a-half hours ago, and already I'm missing him. He pointed out in parting that I'll be seeing him in just twelve days (!) when I'm getting off a plane at SFO (!!!).
But heck.
And, as he's in NYC, presumably without internet access, until Wednesday, it's not looking like I'll be finding any email from him in my Inbox as I've grown accustomed to.
Big is great. Great to talk with, great to sleep with, great to wake up with.
My father knows something's up. Was asking me questions about Big. I guess it's pretty obvious. If only from the dreamy quality I have recently.
Your boy is missing you, Sir. Missing you big time tonight. Hope you're well. Hope NYC is treating you well.
'Night, Sir.
I just saw Big a mere eight-and-a-half hours ago, and already I'm missing him. He pointed out in parting that I'll be seeing him in just twelve days (!) when I'm getting off a plane at SFO (!!!).
But heck.
And, as he's in NYC, presumably without internet access, until Wednesday, it's not looking like I'll be finding any email from him in my Inbox as I've grown accustomed to.
Big is great. Great to talk with, great to sleep with, great to wake up with.
My father knows something's up. Was asking me questions about Big. I guess it's pretty obvious. If only from the dreamy quality I have recently.
Your boy is missing you, Sir. Missing you big time tonight. Hope you're well. Hope NYC is treating you well.
'Night, Sir.
About a Boy
The book that Big gave me was an exceptional piece of work. How might I respond in kind? What information might it be helpful for a Sir to have concerning his boy? And I guess it wouldn’t be the incidental stuff, that he wouldn’t be likely to pick up from reading the nearly two years of soul-bearing his boy has done in his weblog.
Huh.
During the course of a therapy session, with Michael, my therapist when I first moved to NYC, something I said elicited the observation, “You contradict yourself…”
“Do I contradict myself? Very well. I contradict myself,” I responded, without missing a beat, quoting Walt Whitman, “I am vast. I contain multitudes.”
Paradox heaped on paradox. That’s me.
Check it out.
A motherless son, who has had five mothers.
My father’s father.
A Christian with no faith.
Cosmopolitan country boy.
A minimalist with a cluttered desk.
An ever-credulous cynic.
A spirited pessimist.
A latte-swilling tea drinker.
A shy extrovert.
A passionate neutral observer.
A connoisseur of fine meatloaf and scalloped potatoes experiences.
A man of conviction who sees all sides of any question.
And yet, and yet… all of these contradictions and so many more are resolved again and again in the crack of a whip, the click of a padlock, immersion in water, a highway stretching out endlessly in front of me, any piece of music—from Bruce Springsteen to the Chorale Symphony—presented with passion and inviting me to sing a long.
And now, this new contradiction: a Top with a Sir, whose collar he serves.
The book that Big gave me was an exceptional piece of work. How might I respond in kind? What information might it be helpful for a Sir to have concerning his boy? And I guess it wouldn’t be the incidental stuff, that he wouldn’t be likely to pick up from reading the nearly two years of soul-bearing his boy has done in his weblog.
Huh.
During the course of a therapy session, with Michael, my therapist when I first moved to NYC, something I said elicited the observation, “You contradict yourself…”
“Do I contradict myself? Very well. I contradict myself,” I responded, without missing a beat, quoting Walt Whitman, “I am vast. I contain multitudes.”
Paradox heaped on paradox. That’s me.
Check it out.
A motherless son, who has had five mothers.
My father’s father.
A Christian with no faith.
Cosmopolitan country boy.
A minimalist with a cluttered desk.
An ever-credulous cynic.
A spirited pessimist.
A latte-swilling tea drinker.
A shy extrovert.
A passionate neutral observer.
A connoisseur of fine meatloaf and scalloped potatoes experiences.
A man of conviction who sees all sides of any question.
And yet, and yet… all of these contradictions and so many more are resolved again and again in the crack of a whip, the click of a padlock, immersion in water, a highway stretching out endlessly in front of me, any piece of music—from Bruce Springsteen to the Chorale Symphony—presented with passion and inviting me to sing a long.
And now, this new contradiction: a Top with a Sir, whose collar he serves.
My Active Fantasy Life
After the supermarket (see below), I stopped in at Capri Pizza to pick up a medium pepperoni pie for me and my father. The place is like Hot Boy Central. So much eye candy in the place. There I am, taking it all in, and in walks this unbelievably hot man.
Major Woof.
He stood about 5'7". He was rock solid. His hands and forearms were huge. Not from the gym, but from hard labor. He was sunburned. His head and his face were clean shaven. He had intense blue eyes. He was wearing a white tshirt, grey gym shorts, and tan work boots.
My pizza was done just as he finished putting in his order, so as I approached the counter, he was walking away. I locked eyes with him for a split second and then gave him a 'Woof!' just loud enough to hear.
I paid for my pizza and headed out to the car.
I thought about him all the way home. So deep in thought that I missed the turnoff for Wismer Road and had to turn around and backtrack.
And what did I think about him?
I thought that I would love to put him in chains. To lock him away somewhere, wrists shackled to the wall, next to a bucket for him to shit in. How long would it be before his rage turned to resignation? Would tattooing SLAVE across his chest and back hasten that process? How long before resignation turned to compliance, and then to submission? When he learns to pleasure his Master's dick with his mouth. When he learns to not just take his Master's piss, but to crave it. When he comes to see his asshole as there for men's pleasure. Toward that end, it might help to relieve him of his cock and balls. Leave it good and smooth down there. Turn him into a couple of holes.
Home now. Groceries put away. I'm eating that pizza. Gotta unpack my bags from the weekend. Get to bed early since I'm due in to work at 6 am tomorrow. It's kinda nice when raw, fiery lust just happens along and hits you upside the head, y'know?
After the supermarket (see below), I stopped in at Capri Pizza to pick up a medium pepperoni pie for me and my father. The place is like Hot Boy Central. So much eye candy in the place. There I am, taking it all in, and in walks this unbelievably hot man.
Major Woof.
He stood about 5'7". He was rock solid. His hands and forearms were huge. Not from the gym, but from hard labor. He was sunburned. His head and his face were clean shaven. He had intense blue eyes. He was wearing a white tshirt, grey gym shorts, and tan work boots.
My pizza was done just as he finished putting in his order, so as I approached the counter, he was walking away. I locked eyes with him for a split second and then gave him a 'Woof!' just loud enough to hear.
I paid for my pizza and headed out to the car.
I thought about him all the way home. So deep in thought that I missed the turnoff for Wismer Road and had to turn around and backtrack.
And what did I think about him?
I thought that I would love to put him in chains. To lock him away somewhere, wrists shackled to the wall, next to a bucket for him to shit in. How long would it be before his rage turned to resignation? Would tattooing SLAVE across his chest and back hasten that process? How long before resignation turned to compliance, and then to submission? When he learns to pleasure his Master's dick with his mouth. When he learns to not just take his Master's piss, but to crave it. When he comes to see his asshole as there for men's pleasure. Toward that end, it might help to relieve him of his cock and balls. Leave it good and smooth down there. Turn him into a couple of holes.
Home now. Groceries put away. I'm eating that pizza. Gotta unpack my bags from the weekend. Get to bed early since I'm due in to work at 6 am tomorrow. It's kinda nice when raw, fiery lust just happens along and hits you upside the head, y'know?
In Step
Rush rush rush.
Get my paycheck to the bank, rush home, get Faithful Companion to the kennel, rush back home, throw clothes in a bag, check the list of things that Sir wanted me to bring for the weekend, make dinner for my father, hit the road, fight traffic so I could pick up Big when he arrives at Newark airport.
Made it!
Big's flight got in at 8:09 p.m., when I got out of my car in the parking lot, it was 8:05 p.m.
Alas, I had parked at Terminal B when I wanted to park at Terminal A. But a quick ride on the light rail brought me to where I wanted to be. I positioned myself at the gate, and who should I see but... Cubby J. Sherwood! Cubby was also meeting someone at the airport. An amazing coinky-dink, no? And pretty soon, here came Big up the corridor, looking none to worse for the wear for air travel as we know it these days.
So Big met Cubby, and Cubby met Big. Very cool.
Big and I took the light rail back to terminal B, found my car without too much trouble, and headed towards NYC. Perhaps because of the chance meeting with Cubby, I had an idea for dinner. Not the culinary offerings of Gotham, but those of humble Jersey City would be our fare. I took Big to a vietnamese restaurant that Cubby had introduced me to. I had Pho, Big had shrimp, and we split spring rolls.
Then, it was across the river, and off to the Upper West Side. Once settled, Big presented his boy with not only the most beautiful collar the boy has ever seen, but the most beautiful he can imagine ever seeing: a length of chrome plated chain secured with a silver Master lock. Wow.
Wow.
When I dropped off Faithful Companion at the kennel, my eye was caught by a selection of leashes they had for sale. Really nice leashes. I found one made of a length of black leather, six feet long. It was made by a local saddlery. I guess you would want a longer leash for leading a horse. Or a boy. Big gave me a collar, and I gave him a leash. It was like the Gift of the Magi, only... y'know... it was All Good.
Big was full of gifts. He presented me with a (black) leather bound book. A sort of Book of Big. Laying out information about him, the protocols he is looking for his boy to adhere to (nothing to strenuous, my slave policy and procedures is a monastic rule in comparison), and his ideas about the boy/Sir relationship.
I mean, it's beautiful. Really beautiful. And must have been so much work. No one has ever put so much effort into a gift for me. Ever.
This boy is deeply moved.
And then, there we hit the hay, both being exhausted. Another night spent in Big's arms. That is paradise.
The next morning, it was Time for Softball! Big and I showered, had coffee, dressed, and headed to Randall's Island to meet up with the Ball Breakers.
It was a great day for softball. We were playing the Renegades. You might remember the Rookies, the team that slaughtered us two weeks ago? Well, last week, the Renegades slaughtered the Rookies.
Welcome to C Division!
And we went down in flames the first game. They made hits, and we made errors. You'll have to find your way to the BASL website to get the score. I'm not about to report it here.
But, we had a fifteen minute break in between games, and then got ready to be trounced again.
But it didn't happen that way. The Ball Breakers beat the Renegades by a score of something like 22-4. By my lights, three things happened. First, they had a different pitcher. Second, the heat got to them, but not to us. And third, we got smarter. Our fielding errors reduced significantly. And, we kind of noticed that our right fielders were getting no action whatsoever. Every ball they hit was going to the left field. So we were prepared, all the time, getting the balls back in, and making things much much more difficult for them.
And oh yeah. We won.
After the game, Big and I stopped in at Ty's for a celebratory beer, and then got some coffee and headed to the grass pier to relax.
It was glorious. The warm sun. The water. Coffee. Big. And both of us talking. Talking and talking and talking. From the first moment, there has been a rapport that we have. If I believed in reincarnation, I would say that we're picking up where we left off, although we've only just met. Amazing and wonderful.
Then back to the Upper West Side for a nap. And before we fell into the Arms of Morpheus, Big gave his boy another gift: Sir bred his boy. And that, too, was pretty wonderful. Really wonderful. It's never been with me like it is with Big. I am desired and possessed at the same time. Diving into a deep pool, and going down down down. Truly sublime.
We woke up late, and as we were preparing to head out, there was a flash of lightning and a peel of thunder. A storm had come rolling down (or up) the Hudson.
New York City is a fascinating place during a storm. I couldn't help thinking of that date I had with Special Guy, when then, too, a storm blew up, stranding us under the awning of the flower seller at Christopher and Bleecker. And while I advised a woman on how to get to a subway without getting drenched (like that was gonna happen), Special Guy bought a single red rose, presented it to me, kissed me deeply, and asked if he and I could be boyfriends.
Truly, there is magic in the air when there's a storm blowing in New York City.
Despite the rain, which would pour down and then abate for a time, before pouring down again, Big and I managed to get down to the Moonstruck Diner, have a dinner that was frankly weird (clearly, the person who made my roast pork loin had never eaten pork in his life, and as he was probably a muslim, go figure, huh?). And then, we headed to the Eagle.
The Eagle. Sic transit gloria NYC.
There were, besides Big and I, perhaps half a dozen men in leather there. And by the confused looks on their faces, they were all tourists who had read in HX that this was supposed to be a leather bar. The Eagle is so totally not a leather bar. It's just a gay bar. And a particularly noisy and poorly lit one at that. And because of the weather, smoking cigars on the roof was not an option.
Big and I ran into blackbird, who introduced us to a friend of his, who is apparently quite the admiring reader. (Hi, David!) And we hit the road.
Another night in Big's arms.
Are things going well?
Oh yeah. Things are going really well.
Something I noticed. Two weeks ago, our first meeting, when Big and I walked, holding hands, smoking cigars, I had to concentrate to keep in step with him. I'm a fast walker. I pass joggers. And my stride is longer than Big's. At some point this weekend, maybe as we walked to the pier, or heading to Moonstruck in the rain, or somewhere, that Big and I walked in stride, and there was nothing to think about. Just naturally in stride. Me to Big's right, the boy position.
Walking in stride. Thunderstorms of Gotterdammerung proportions. Fortuitious meetings. The most beautiful collar in the world. A miraculous comeback on the softball diamond.
What is going on here?
I used to feel in the dreaded seven year relationship that I was an actor, cast in a role, unable to read the script, but time after time thrown onto stage, and forced to make up the lines as I went along on a part I didn't understand and for which I was ill-suited.
And now... and now... This is the role I've always wanted. I know this part. This is me playing me. I am the hero of my own life. And kudos to the stage manager and the scriptwriter for all those great touches.
Life, as I told my Sir before I drifted off to sleep last night, is sweet indeed.
Rush rush rush.
Get my paycheck to the bank, rush home, get Faithful Companion to the kennel, rush back home, throw clothes in a bag, check the list of things that Sir wanted me to bring for the weekend, make dinner for my father, hit the road, fight traffic so I could pick up Big when he arrives at Newark airport.
Made it!
Big's flight got in at 8:09 p.m., when I got out of my car in the parking lot, it was 8:05 p.m.
Alas, I had parked at Terminal B when I wanted to park at Terminal A. But a quick ride on the light rail brought me to where I wanted to be. I positioned myself at the gate, and who should I see but... Cubby J. Sherwood! Cubby was also meeting someone at the airport. An amazing coinky-dink, no? And pretty soon, here came Big up the corridor, looking none to worse for the wear for air travel as we know it these days.
So Big met Cubby, and Cubby met Big. Very cool.
Big and I took the light rail back to terminal B, found my car without too much trouble, and headed towards NYC. Perhaps because of the chance meeting with Cubby, I had an idea for dinner. Not the culinary offerings of Gotham, but those of humble Jersey City would be our fare. I took Big to a vietnamese restaurant that Cubby had introduced me to. I had Pho, Big had shrimp, and we split spring rolls.
Then, it was across the river, and off to the Upper West Side. Once settled, Big presented his boy with not only the most beautiful collar the boy has ever seen, but the most beautiful he can imagine ever seeing: a length of chrome plated chain secured with a silver Master lock. Wow.
Wow.
When I dropped off Faithful Companion at the kennel, my eye was caught by a selection of leashes they had for sale. Really nice leashes. I found one made of a length of black leather, six feet long. It was made by a local saddlery. I guess you would want a longer leash for leading a horse. Or a boy. Big gave me a collar, and I gave him a leash. It was like the Gift of the Magi, only... y'know... it was All Good.
Big was full of gifts. He presented me with a (black) leather bound book. A sort of Book of Big. Laying out information about him, the protocols he is looking for his boy to adhere to (nothing to strenuous, my slave policy and procedures is a monastic rule in comparison), and his ideas about the boy/Sir relationship.
I mean, it's beautiful. Really beautiful. And must have been so much work. No one has ever put so much effort into a gift for me. Ever.
This boy is deeply moved.
And then, there we hit the hay, both being exhausted. Another night spent in Big's arms. That is paradise.
The next morning, it was Time for Softball! Big and I showered, had coffee, dressed, and headed to Randall's Island to meet up with the Ball Breakers.
It was a great day for softball. We were playing the Renegades. You might remember the Rookies, the team that slaughtered us two weeks ago? Well, last week, the Renegades slaughtered the Rookies.
Welcome to C Division!
And we went down in flames the first game. They made hits, and we made errors. You'll have to find your way to the BASL website to get the score. I'm not about to report it here.
But, we had a fifteen minute break in between games, and then got ready to be trounced again.
But it didn't happen that way. The Ball Breakers beat the Renegades by a score of something like 22-4. By my lights, three things happened. First, they had a different pitcher. Second, the heat got to them, but not to us. And third, we got smarter. Our fielding errors reduced significantly. And, we kind of noticed that our right fielders were getting no action whatsoever. Every ball they hit was going to the left field. So we were prepared, all the time, getting the balls back in, and making things much much more difficult for them.
And oh yeah. We won.
After the game, Big and I stopped in at Ty's for a celebratory beer, and then got some coffee and headed to the grass pier to relax.
It was glorious. The warm sun. The water. Coffee. Big. And both of us talking. Talking and talking and talking. From the first moment, there has been a rapport that we have. If I believed in reincarnation, I would say that we're picking up where we left off, although we've only just met. Amazing and wonderful.
Then back to the Upper West Side for a nap. And before we fell into the Arms of Morpheus, Big gave his boy another gift: Sir bred his boy. And that, too, was pretty wonderful. Really wonderful. It's never been with me like it is with Big. I am desired and possessed at the same time. Diving into a deep pool, and going down down down. Truly sublime.
We woke up late, and as we were preparing to head out, there was a flash of lightning and a peel of thunder. A storm had come rolling down (or up) the Hudson.
New York City is a fascinating place during a storm. I couldn't help thinking of that date I had with Special Guy, when then, too, a storm blew up, stranding us under the awning of the flower seller at Christopher and Bleecker. And while I advised a woman on how to get to a subway without getting drenched (like that was gonna happen), Special Guy bought a single red rose, presented it to me, kissed me deeply, and asked if he and I could be boyfriends.
Truly, there is magic in the air when there's a storm blowing in New York City.
Despite the rain, which would pour down and then abate for a time, before pouring down again, Big and I managed to get down to the Moonstruck Diner, have a dinner that was frankly weird (clearly, the person who made my roast pork loin had never eaten pork in his life, and as he was probably a muslim, go figure, huh?). And then, we headed to the Eagle.
The Eagle. Sic transit gloria NYC.
There were, besides Big and I, perhaps half a dozen men in leather there. And by the confused looks on their faces, they were all tourists who had read in HX that this was supposed to be a leather bar. The Eagle is so totally not a leather bar. It's just a gay bar. And a particularly noisy and poorly lit one at that. And because of the weather, smoking cigars on the roof was not an option.
Big and I ran into blackbird, who introduced us to a friend of his, who is apparently quite the admiring reader. (Hi, David!) And we hit the road.
Another night in Big's arms.
Are things going well?
Oh yeah. Things are going really well.
Something I noticed. Two weeks ago, our first meeting, when Big and I walked, holding hands, smoking cigars, I had to concentrate to keep in step with him. I'm a fast walker. I pass joggers. And my stride is longer than Big's. At some point this weekend, maybe as we walked to the pier, or heading to Moonstruck in the rain, or somewhere, that Big and I walked in stride, and there was nothing to think about. Just naturally in stride. Me to Big's right, the boy position.
Walking in stride. Thunderstorms of Gotterdammerung proportions. Fortuitious meetings. The most beautiful collar in the world. A miraculous comeback on the softball diamond.
What is going on here?
I used to feel in the dreaded seven year relationship that I was an actor, cast in a role, unable to read the script, but time after time thrown onto stage, and forced to make up the lines as I went along on a part I didn't understand and for which I was ill-suited.
And now... and now... This is the role I've always wanted. I know this part. This is me playing me. I am the hero of my own life. And kudos to the stage manager and the scriptwriter for all those great touches.
Life, as I told my Sir before I drifted off to sleep last night, is sweet indeed.
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