Hit By A Truck

"The point of life," reads a profile on WorldLeathermen, "is not to arrive at your grave intact, but to slide in leaving a trail of your own sweat and blood, screaming, 'Holy Fuck! What a great ride!'"

I would be much closer to approximating that Dionysian ideal if every weekend of my life was like this weekend. And, probably, the 'sliding into the grave' would go down a lot quicker, too.

First, the context. I have to be at work at 7 am. That means, I get up around 5:30 am. After work, I hit Starbucks, hit the gym, and go grocery shopping. Sometimes picking up a video at Lackluster. I get home around 8 pm, get dinner on the table for my father, and finally get to bed around 11:30. So, monday through friday is all about Sleep Deprivation, and I do my best to make up for that on the weekends. I tend to avoid making plans for Friday night, because by the time 11 pm rolls around, I'm yawning like Carlsbad Cavern. But, I opted to make an exception to this rule of thumb.

Y'see, on Thursday, I was invited to Dine Out For Life. (The name of this apparently national fundraising event for AIDS organizations hits my ears as though it was a sentence passed down on someone who has recklessly abused the kitchen in his home... "You are hereby sentenced to Dine Out For Life!!!" Considering the lives of many New Yorkers I know, it's almost the standard.) Anyway, the deal is that you go out to a restaurant, and a portion of your tab goes to local organizations doing good work in the fight against HIV/AIDS.

The kind and wonderful men who thought of poor li'l ol' me, alone and barely stirring from my hearth in the Howling Wilderness of Bucks County, were two guys I know slightly, one from Inferno, and his boyfriend, a recent import to Philadelphia from the West Coast. They were planning on having their Dining Out For Life (...for Life!!!) experience up here in New Hope, and invited me to join them.

So, after work, I ran home, got my father all set with dinner, and headed down to meet them at the Starbucks in New Hope. The drive down the river was wonderful. Bucks County is all but unbearably gorgeous this time of year. The dogwoods and the cherry trees and apple trees and daffodils and everything are in bloom, and I was treated to breathtaking displays of bucolic beauty in the gathering dusk all the way there. We wandered the town for a while, unfortunately finding that Le Chateau Exotique (oops! gender agreement problems in that nomenclature!) shuttered for the night. Then, we repaired to the Raven.

Now, back in December, my Sir and I ate at the Raven when we made our tour of Pennsylvania. The meal we had then was absolutely extraordinary. My venison was outstanding. It was truly a meal to write home about. The Raven is now under new management, and it seems that there's been some kind of turnover in the kitchen staff. I had a corn chowder with bacon and halibut with Spring vegetables. The corn chowder was a disaster. Y'see, when soups made with cream sit too long, they "break," taking on the flavor and consistency of wallpaper paste. And this chowder had defenitely passed that point. And the halibut was nothing special. And the vegetables were undercooked. Alas.

But, the company and the conversation was wonderful. Absolutely nothing old or pastey there. And how cool to hang with other leathermen, just enjoying one another's company.

After dinner, go home, go to bed, get up at 5:30, go to work, work all day, go tearing outta there when the bell rang at 3:30... because I was driving down to Philadelphia to meet up with Icarus, a longtime internet correspondent who was in Philadelphia for the weekend to do some family stuff.

I packed a toybag, and I've been thinking all week about how I might make Icarus' trip to the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection a memorable one. I had all my chains in the back of the jeep, and threw my padlocks and boxing gloves in the bag.

Icarus and I met up at Milennium Coffee. And it worked kinda well. I got there first, ordered up my latte, and then asked for the key to the bathroom. Like the bathroom pass in high school, Milennium attaches the key to something big and bulky, to minimize the chances that you'll slip their bathroom key in your pocket and walk off into the night with it. In this case, it's a wooden stick, about 1 3/8" in diameter, and maybe eighteen inches long. When I emerged from the bathroom, there was a man I took to be Icarus standing at the counter. As he was engrossed in ordering his coffee (and probably wondering how disappointing that was going to be so far from Seattle), I walked behind him and gave his firm, luscious rump a good thwack with the bathroom key stick. And then we greeted each other warmly.

Icarus and I had met, briefly, years and years ago, when I spent a sublime night in the cage of Master Aubrey Sparks. As I remember it, while I was passing through the kitchen on my way down to the basement dungeon, Aubrey briefly introduced us. Icarus, as I recall, was bareass naked, standing there fixing himself a snack or something.

Icarus and I plunged right in to conversation. Blah blah blah blah blah. His keen intellectual acumen, spirited pessimism, omnivorous quest for Things To Know, and filthy filthy mind made him an interlocutory feast.

What Ho! Who should wander past Milennium while we were sitting talking but my Dining Out For Life ("...for Life!!!") companions from the previous evening!

Both being hungry, Icarus and I headed to the restaurant I had in mind, El Vez. But alas, El Vez had the Philadelphia equivalent of Bright Young Things spilling out onto the sidewalk. So we headed to a really good place called Villani, on Spruce Street. The food is good, and the crowd tends to be on the Bright Young Things end of the spectrum, but I've never had to wait more than a few minutes for a table.

And the food was sooooo much better than at the Raven. I had the cuban bread salad, which I've had before, and when I finish it, I have to fight down the urge to order up a second helping right away, and the a fish dish with Pacific rim spices that I also couldn't get enough of. And we split a chocolate pôt de crème for desert.

And, of course, much more of the blah-blah-blah. I couldn't get enough of Icarus and his thoughts and ideas. Such a great guy. Such great connection. I'll offer this one wee tidbit: at one point, it occured to me that SM presents the possibility of holding the Dionysian and Appollonian aspects of the erotic in perfect balance, so that neither one can subsume the other one. Sure beats yacking about Bush's plans to gut Social Security, huh?

But, alas, when I checked my watch as we were leaving, I was dismayed to realize that the hour was late. I would not have time to chain up Icarus and beat him senseless, as much as I dearly wanted to do that. I had to get in my jeep and drive home. I made this announcement, which was received with dismay equal to mine.

But... But... Icarus will be at Infernon this year! And although I'm flying rather than driving, so I won't have my chains with me, I got a raincheck and I'll make sure to cook up something special for him there.

And a side note, how much am I totally looking forward to going to Inferno??? Alpha will be there! Edge Play Guy from LA will be there! Mountain Climbing Guy will be there! And Icarus will be there! It looks like my dance card is full, and I haven't even sent in my check yet.

Fighting sleep on the way home wasn't too much of an issue. Thank the Lord for Rosenberger's Iced Tea! And all the singalong songs on my iPod.

The next morning, Saturday, was all about softball.

Last weekend, my father convinced me that since my enemies at the Weather Channel were predicting rain, there would be no softball, so I ended up staying home. Meanwhile, my team, the Ballbreakers, were playing and winning two games. Albeit in the rain. So this weekend, I told my father that even if the Weather Channel was predicting sleet, thunderstorms, and hailstones the size of canned hams, I was going to NYC to play softball.

Luckily, the games we were scheduled to play were at noon and 1:30, so I didn't have to leave the house until 8:30 instead of the crack of dawn, as is the case when we have 10 am games. The ride up through the drizzle, under grey skies, went smoothely. I didn't make it in time to meet up with the Ballbreakers outside the Dugout at 10:30, but I got to the fields at the East River Park about the same time they did.

Ah... the first softball game of the season.

Y'know, I have to admit, that faced with the prospect of getting up at an ungodly early hour on saturdays and driving two hours up and two hours back from now through August, I am tempted to just hang up my spikes and bat and glove and pack it in. But all it takes is some time spent on the field of dreams, and I'm committted again.

We had two games yesterday against the Wings. Not only are they sponsored by that pathetic excuse for a leatherbar called the Eagle, but they're kind of our arch rivals. Y'see, they're sort of the 1980 World Series Toronto Blue Jays, and we're the 1980 World Series Phillies. They have practice during the week. They have Team Meetings. They do Drills. And we're sort of a pudgey bunch of unkempt loveable wrecks with our shirt tails hanging out. And we have this knack for beating the pants off them. So it's not so much that we hate them, it's more like, they hate us and we hate them back. And, being the Ballbreakers, we do it with panache that they can't hope to aspire to.

Okay. First game. First inning. We win the coin toss and get to be the visiting team (last at-bat). I'm playing right field. The first guy up at bat hits the ball, a beautiful line drive, right at me. And the ball sails right by me. By the time I retrieved it, he had crossed home plate.

I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself!

I have no business playing softball! I suck! Can't hit, can't throw, can't catch. I suck suck suck suck suck.

Luckily, I was taken out of the field and became EP after that debacle. So I'd just be batting. Hopefully I wouldn't be making the out that loses the game for us at the plate. The Wings scored 4 in the first inning. We were demoralized.

At one point, we were down 9 to 3. Things were looking bad.

But then, we got our heads in the game, and started playing good ball.

Okay. So my first at-bat. We had two outs and hadn't scored in the inning. Their pitcher was inconsistent. She walked a few of our guys. So everybody up at bat would take at least one strike before looking for one that looked pretty. However, she seemed to find her stuff with me. I think I got one ball on her, before she sent one right over the plate. S-s-s-strike!!! Panicky, I went for the next one. I fouled. Strike two. So she was way ahead of me in the count.

Here comes the ball. Looks good. No-it-doesn't-yes-it-does. I swing. Crack. Solid connection. I hit easily get to first base. And after that, our bats come alive. I round the bases and cross home plate, and so do two more Ballbreakers. It's a two-out rally.

Cool.

And I did pretty well in my subsequent at-bats, too.

So in the first game, we managed to claw our way back from a 9-3 deficit. We're only one down. Final inning of the game. They're up by two. Winning the game. I come up at bat. Again, I get down in the count. Two strikes on me.

I could lose the game for the Ballbreakers.

Here comes the ball. I swing. Crack! I fly down the line to first base. Broken ankle and all. I'm on base, and I'm the tying run. The guy after me gets a hit. I advance to second. He's on first. So the tying run and the get-ahead run are now on base. Next batter gets an out. It's make or break. Our next guy hits a beauty. Finds the hole. I head for home. The runner behind me follows me around the bases.

We've won the game.

But wait! What's this? It seems that our third base coach, who totally knows better, touched the runner, the guy behind me, when he was crossing third. That means the runner doesn't score. That means it's a tie game.

Oh hell.

So, we won, but we didn't win. I know I know I know. Almost only counts in horseshoes. But still. What a great goddamn game it was!

Second game, once again, we had to fight back from losing in the early innings, but we ended up solidly beating the Wings by 13-7. And making some amazing plays along the way.

Oh. And you gotta hear this.

Our coach pulled a muscle in his calf. He needed a courtesy runner. This was in the first game. So at one point, while everybody else is on the field, I offered to massage his calf for him. He gratefully accepted. So my magic fingers are going to work on his calf.

"No, a little to the right. No, wait, back to the left! Agh! Yeah! Right there! Oh man yeah! Right there! Oh that really hurts!"

"Yeah?" I said, with an evil glint in my eye, "I'm making you hurt? Tell me about how I'm making you hurt?"

Although in agony, he laughed, and got right into it. And so did I. "Yeah... You wanna hurt for me, buddy? You wanna take some hurtin' from me, huh? Yeah, tell me how you want to hurt for me."

So after that, whenever I was up at bat, to cheer me on, my coach would be yelling out, "It hurts! It hurts! Oh you're hurting me!"

And considering my performance at bat, it seemed to do the trick.

And another great thing happened yesterday. Y'see, we're big on nicknames. One of our guys, very early on the first season we played, somehow got the incongruous appelation of "Filthy Whore." Whenever he's up at bat, we start in with his personal cheer: "Fill Thee Whore! Fill Thee Whore!" This always serves to totally psyche out the other team. Gosh, if that's how they treat their own guys, what are we in for? And there's Oompah (from the Oompah Loompahs), and one of our number who had a drug problem was Dana Plato for awhile, after the star of Diff'rent Strokes who was arrested robbing a liquor store so she could get money for crack, and Eve for a newcomer who aspired to strip a player from the original Ballbreakers of his position of catcher, and Gilligan and Skipper for a couple who... uh... bear an eerie resemblance.

Now I've been called FistFest, which is the name my team has given to Inferno, although as I've explained, fisting is not a big thing for me there. And they called me Jeffrey Dahmer when we played in the tournement in Milwaukee, but quit it when they feared it would upset the locals.

So a few weeks ago, when it was announced that the Nickname Committee had come up with a Good One for one of our members who has put on some pounds in the off season (He's now Fat Actress), I opined that I feel I've been slighted by the efforts of the Nickname Committee. They've never quite come up with a nickname that suits me.

So yesterday, broken ankle and all, I hit the ball and fly down the baseline to first. I'm arguably the best base runner on our team. I can move. Fly! Fly like the wind! On many occasions, I have literally beaten the ball to first base. Watching me run from the dugout, one of my teammates said something like, 'Look at him run! Damn! He's like a gazelle! Like a deer!'

And thus was I christened Bambi.

And I love that!

Besides the innocent young fawn with the huge eyes of Disney fame, there's all of those Sex Kitten associations.

So Bambi it is.

Okay. So after winning the second game, we retired to Ty's on Christopher Street to celebrate.

And as I was walking from my jeep to the bar, my hurting set in. Oh man. All my parts hurt. My moustache hurt. But especially, my lower back, my ankle, and muscles I pulled in my thighs. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch. And sitting in the bar, I just started to stiffen up. So that when it was time to shift position or go and refill my plate with complementary hotwings, I would just about cry. Ouch ouch ouch ouch.

Uh oh.

Y'see, last night GMSMA held a dungeon demo. And I had a longstanding date to flog one of the founding members of that august organization, a man who is a member of my SM and Spirituality Discussion Group. And no matter how good you are, you just can't flog someone from a supine position. And I absolutely positively would not back out.

So what to do.

I hobbled down the street to the Factory Cafe and had a latte to think it over.

Walk it off. That'll help. Walk it off.

So I did. I walked up to Dave's Army Navy at 6th Ave and 16th Street. As I went, it got easier and easier to move. But it still hurt a lot. And at Dave's, which fortuitously was having a sale, when I would drop a shirt I was looking at on the floor, it would take some planning to negotiate how I was going to pick it up. But, I found three pairs of shorts at good prices. Then I walked back to my jeep.

I was still not sure if I would be able to pull this off. Ankle, thighs, and back were all giving me a lot of trouble. But I decided to persevere.

The GMSMA dungeon demo was being held at Paddles. After the LURE closed, GMSMA would hold them at the Eagle. This just didn't work. The space just didn't lend it'self to it. And the crowd of chelsea boys in flip-flops were much more interested in tossing back appletinis than they were in SM.

The big question about Paddles is that it's largely a het club. Would gay men turn out for it?

Well, lemme tell ya, if they don't they're fools. Paddles totally rocks. It's an amazing space. Great feel, great equipement, and you can get banana splits at their ice cream bar.

I greeted the men of GMSMA whom I knew, staked out a piece of equipment for the scene I was going to do, and then--with excrutiating pain--changed from my softball uniform into my leathers.

Well, when the doors opened, the place really started to fill up. Attendance was really good. There was a nice whipping scene, Diabolique did a great scene with a verrrry hot boy up in the loft, lots of good bondage, a really beautiful sculputre made with clothespins, candlewax, and a guy, and the like.

My partner for the evening, founder, arrived in due time. We had to wait for a bondage scene to conclude before we could start in, so we sat and talked. He is such a wonderful, wonderful man. When he asked me if I would flog him at the dungeon demo, I said yes without hesitation. When I first met him, I was pretty awed by him. Founder of GMSMA, founder of MAsT, author of an amazing book (I still haven't read the final chapter because I don't want it to end, to have to say goodbye to the characters) keynote speaker at the recent Leather Leadership Conference in Phoenix, he is one of the great minds of mondo BDSM.

Then, we started in on our journey together. founder has bad knees, so standing for that length of time wouldn't be an option. So, I found a nice piece of dungeon furniture that would allow him to sit, braced with some borrowed sofa pillows (I playfully batted him with the sofa pillows at the git go, suggesting that we do a scene that would confirm the suspicious of the critics of the ethos of Safe Sane and Consensual, which he had a hand in authoring), and restrained his wrists.

Okay. First off.

founder is not quite the regular gym goer.

But man oh man! The back on that man! This wonderful canvas for me! Brutish proportions! I was slavering! At the starting point of pure physical, animal flesh, this was definitely going to work.

My biorhythms must be peaking or something.

I had played some great softball that afternoon, and speaking as objectively and as humbly as I can, I gave a great flogging that evening. I just felt so on top of my game. Every stroke I laid was just where I wanted it, and with exactly the intensity that I was after. Because the light was dim, I asked founder to be vocal. And he was. All manner of moans and grunts and growls were coming out of him. Such wonderful poetry.

And we just went to this amazing place together. It was beautiful. I didn't want it to end. He just gave me so much. It was positively one of the best flogging experiences I have known.

When it was over, I caressed him, thanked him, and reluctantly removed my restraints from his wrists. And we returned the sofa pillows. He got to his knees, and thanked me properly, by kissing my boots.

And it was over. We had gone to that amazing place. Visited SM land, and jarringly came back to planet earth. At this point, the place was packed. Other scenes were wrapping up. The Paddles regulars were starting to come in.

Time to grab a quad venti latte before the Starbucks at 16th and 8th closed, and drive home.

My back was bothering me some on the drive home. When I got into the driveway, I could barely get out of the car.

"Bed!" I thought. "Bed."

Slowly shuffling, I managed to take Faithful Companion for his final walk of the night. "Please don't pull, buddy... okay? Daddy's hurting really bad when you do that..." I brushed my teeth, stiffled my groans and ows as I stripped, climbed into bed, and I was out like a light.

And so this morning.

I feel like I've been hit by a truck. Everything hurts. Ow ow ow ow ow!

But my head is filled with joyous images. The flowers of early Spring in Bucks County; big built Icarus smiling at me as we kissed goodbye in Philadelphia; the ball I hit sailing over the heads of the opposing players; my foot slapping home plate as I score; founder's wonderful back reddening under the ministrations of my floggers; the warm smiles of welcome from my fellow leathermen...

I'll welcome that truck turning down my street anytime.

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