Joy
Another night of sitting in my car, moaning and wailing.
And then, I decided that it might be a good time to conjure my spirit guide, Wolf.
We only talked briefly, but it was a good talk. As usual, I aske the questions, and he answers them. (Novel for someone like me, who enjoys listening to myself talk so much [g].)
As usual, a lot was conveyed in that conversation. But here's the really important thing. Wolf told me that this time will determine the rest of my life. If I allow misery to set down roots into my soul, then I'll be miserable for the rest of my life. No matter what my future circumstances. But, if I can find joy, even during this hard time, then nothing will ever be able to hurt me again. Joy will be mine for all time.
Sweet.
The stakes are high, but I feel up to the challenge.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Broke
This is unbelievable. Almost to the point of getting me to revise my cosmology.
Yesterday when I got home, fumbling around with the groceries, and I dropped one of the bags. The bag contained only one item: a dozen eggs. i swore like a sailor. Amazingly, only a few of the eggs were broke. And but dang that pissed me off.
So this morning, rushing off to work, my practially new cell phone head set thingy got caught in the door. The wire snapped. So it's broke and I can't afford to buy a new one. And that practically renders my cell phone, which is soon to be cut off anyway, all but unuseable because the teeny tiny speaker in it is broke.
After work, went kayaking, hit Starbucks, then headed to the gym. Luckily, I'm paid through the end of August. I took two weeks off and lost ten pounds. So I've got six weeks to get my body back for Inferno. If I can manage to scrape together the $350 I owe by the end of August. And that's going to be tough, because I'm flat broke. And with every day that goes by, it's less and less likely that I'll get a spot. So I might not even get to Inferno this year. And by the way, unluckily, paying for the gym exhausted my bank account. I hate that.
So at the gym, I was undressing, feeling good looking forward to my workout. (Legs tonight.) While taking off my watch, the strap broke. My watch. I love that watch. Oh hell. I hate that. Maybe I can get a new strap made. But, of course, not right now, because I'm broke. Muttering under my breath, but doing my best not to get out of my workout headspace, I threw my stuff into the locker, and put the lock on. Then, I realized that I didn't have the key to the padlock I had just secured. Unbelievable. I've never done that in twenty years of gym going.
So after my workout, I had borrowing bolt cutters from the staff to look forward to. More muttering under my breath as I broke into my locker. And in doing so, broke my padlock.
So how am I? I'm broke.
I am so broke. Broke and broken.
This is all just too much. I've been plagued by insomnia lately. Even though the weather is gorgeous (96 again today!); even though I had the opportunity to whip an amazing man on Sunday courtesy of my old buddy Bus Driver; even though I loved playing softball on Saturday and played pretty well, I'm low.
What I want... what I really want... is for someone to hold me while I cry. This is all just too much.
This is unbelievable. Almost to the point of getting me to revise my cosmology.
Yesterday when I got home, fumbling around with the groceries, and I dropped one of the bags. The bag contained only one item: a dozen eggs. i swore like a sailor. Amazingly, only a few of the eggs were broke. And but dang that pissed me off.
So this morning, rushing off to work, my practially new cell phone head set thingy got caught in the door. The wire snapped. So it's broke and I can't afford to buy a new one. And that practically renders my cell phone, which is soon to be cut off anyway, all but unuseable because the teeny tiny speaker in it is broke.
After work, went kayaking, hit Starbucks, then headed to the gym. Luckily, I'm paid through the end of August. I took two weeks off and lost ten pounds. So I've got six weeks to get my body back for Inferno. If I can manage to scrape together the $350 I owe by the end of August. And that's going to be tough, because I'm flat broke. And with every day that goes by, it's less and less likely that I'll get a spot. So I might not even get to Inferno this year. And by the way, unluckily, paying for the gym exhausted my bank account. I hate that.
So at the gym, I was undressing, feeling good looking forward to my workout. (Legs tonight.) While taking off my watch, the strap broke. My watch. I love that watch. Oh hell. I hate that. Maybe I can get a new strap made. But, of course, not right now, because I'm broke. Muttering under my breath, but doing my best not to get out of my workout headspace, I threw my stuff into the locker, and put the lock on. Then, I realized that I didn't have the key to the padlock I had just secured. Unbelievable. I've never done that in twenty years of gym going.
So after my workout, I had borrowing bolt cutters from the staff to look forward to. More muttering under my breath as I broke into my locker. And in doing so, broke my padlock.
So how am I? I'm broke.
I am so broke. Broke and broken.
This is all just too much. I've been plagued by insomnia lately. Even though the weather is gorgeous (96 again today!); even though I had the opportunity to whip an amazing man on Sunday courtesy of my old buddy Bus Driver; even though I loved playing softball on Saturday and played pretty well, I'm low.
What I want... what I really want... is for someone to hold me while I cry. This is all just too much.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
HHH
Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
My all time favorite weather conditions. And we've had day after day of it this week. Walking Faithful Companion at night feels like moving through water, the air is so heavy.
And that's good. That's what's sustaining me right now.
Yep. That's right. Another Bad Period.
How'm'I doin'? Well, I'll tell ya.
Broke. Lonely. Single. Unhappy. Trapped. Not having a good week. No word at all from the folks I sent my resume to. So hard up I'll have to forego cigars and stick to iced tea or something at Starbucks for the next two weeks. Extended myself to those two guys I talked about, and neither one has shown much interest. Did meet a hot man at the Raven last Saturday night, but, alas, he has a verrry strong penchant for raunch. As in manstink. And that never works for me. Not with my extreme aversions to smells of any kind and that hair-trigger gag reflex of mine. But I'll be open. Maybe that's negotiable with him. Beggars, as they say, can't be choosers.
I was watching "Kept" last night, my latest television obsession. The thing on VH1 where Jerry Hall puts a bunch of doofuses through their paces, to see which one will get to spend a year as her "kept man." The dramatic interest is provided by the fact that she's looking for someone to carry her bags through Heathrow, and the guys are thinking Jerry will be the winner's girlfriend.
But anyway, it occured to me that I would sweep the field. I can talk art. I can cook. I have table manners. I'm considerate. I'm a good conversationalist. I'm adventurous. I speak french, italian, some russian, some italian, and a little german. I'm handy around the house at such diverse tasks as flower arranging and welding. I can dress well when I want to. I give one hell of a massage. I'd make a great kept man.
Or, y'know, a boyfriend.
Or, y'know, a boy.
Or, even, a Sir.
Although, the conundrum is this. Both of the Current Men Of Interest are New Yorkers. And the basic rule of romance in NYC is that there's always somebody standing behind you, with a better body, better mind, better job, better apartment, better car, better everything. And at the same time, even though--summoning all the modesty I can here--I tend to rock the Bike Stop and the Raven when I stick my head in there, finding a man who both turns my crank sexually and with whom I don't mind having a conversation is statistically so improbably as to be just about beyond the realms of possibility.
Anyway.
Thank the Lord it's sweltering hot. That makes anything endurable.
(Like it's news to you that I'm twisted? C'mon.)
Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
My all time favorite weather conditions. And we've had day after day of it this week. Walking Faithful Companion at night feels like moving through water, the air is so heavy.
And that's good. That's what's sustaining me right now.
Yep. That's right. Another Bad Period.
How'm'I doin'? Well, I'll tell ya.
Broke. Lonely. Single. Unhappy. Trapped. Not having a good week. No word at all from the folks I sent my resume to. So hard up I'll have to forego cigars and stick to iced tea or something at Starbucks for the next two weeks. Extended myself to those two guys I talked about, and neither one has shown much interest. Did meet a hot man at the Raven last Saturday night, but, alas, he has a verrry strong penchant for raunch. As in manstink. And that never works for me. Not with my extreme aversions to smells of any kind and that hair-trigger gag reflex of mine. But I'll be open. Maybe that's negotiable with him. Beggars, as they say, can't be choosers.
I was watching "Kept" last night, my latest television obsession. The thing on VH1 where Jerry Hall puts a bunch of doofuses through their paces, to see which one will get to spend a year as her "kept man." The dramatic interest is provided by the fact that she's looking for someone to carry her bags through Heathrow, and the guys are thinking Jerry will be the winner's girlfriend.
But anyway, it occured to me that I would sweep the field. I can talk art. I can cook. I have table manners. I'm considerate. I'm a good conversationalist. I'm adventurous. I speak french, italian, some russian, some italian, and a little german. I'm handy around the house at such diverse tasks as flower arranging and welding. I can dress well when I want to. I give one hell of a massage. I'd make a great kept man.
Or, y'know, a boyfriend.
Or, y'know, a boy.
Or, even, a Sir.
Although, the conundrum is this. Both of the Current Men Of Interest are New Yorkers. And the basic rule of romance in NYC is that there's always somebody standing behind you, with a better body, better mind, better job, better apartment, better car, better everything. And at the same time, even though--summoning all the modesty I can here--I tend to rock the Bike Stop and the Raven when I stick my head in there, finding a man who both turns my crank sexually and with whom I don't mind having a conversation is statistically so improbably as to be just about beyond the realms of possibility.
Anyway.
Thank the Lord it's sweltering hot. That makes anything endurable.
(Like it's news to you that I'm twisted? C'mon.)
Sunday, July 17, 2005
On Guests Uninvited
So after a great day playing softball and tooling around NYC yesterday, I get up late, have a cup of tea and a protein shake, and hop in the shower. I love unrushed Sunday ablutions. I do a body scrub, a facial scrub, hose out my hole with the Shur-Shot, nice close shave of my face and scalp, body moisturizer, face moisturizer. Went and picked out something to wear today. Settled on my cargo capri pants (ya gotta see'em to understand, bought them at I. Goldberg's, some army in the world actually sends its soldiers off to battle in cargo capri pants), tight gray shirt, and my Wesco's. The loggers, not the custom harness.
And then...
*sigh*
The Wants showed up.
I hate that.
Things were going just fine, until in the door came the Wants.
Want to be able to not have to sweat to afford Inferno. Want to get to the beach. Want a job that pays me enough money to live on (I sent in a resume to a place in community development agency in Philadelphia on Thursday, everybody keep their fingers crossed.) And then, of course, the one that takes up the most space: Want a man to share my life--or significant parts of my life anyway--with.
Yeah.
Y'see, I formulated a plan of sorts. I decided to give it a try. If that Guy From LA wasn't available for much more than a twice a year Edge play session, that didn't mean that it would be impossible to find someone who was, right?
Could I replace the Guy From LA?
And I actually didn't have to think very hard to come up with a few possibilities.
Possibility #1: I've actually known him for years. How we met might warrant a retelling. Years and years and years ago (okay, maybe not that many), newly sprung from my relationship with the Seven and A Half Year Awful Relationship, I headed to the LURE. And there he was. This big guy, full leather, smoking a cigar and drinking from a can of Bud. I mean, he hit all those archetypes dead on. I had seen him a couple of times before. And he made me weak in the knees.
He was flagging everything on the left, so I did my best (which was pretty bad) to present myself. Standing in front of him, hands behind my back, head bowed. (I know, right? I know better now.) But miraculously, he took the bait. Approached. Did this great wordless breathing down my neck thing. I was rock hard. Asked, I think, what I was up for. (A question that I've never been good at answering when posed by a Top. Still haven't figured that one out.) He said something like, okay, well maybe I'll catch up with you later.
So I went to look elsewhere, hoping that I'd end up going home with him.
And that same night, I met my buddy whom we'll call PissPiggy. This stunning looking Italian guy from Brooklyn. He was all pig, and thus so much more approachable. He and I got to know each other, and there was immediate report. He's tough not to like, sunny and open disposition, and a beautiful smile that says he's up for anything.
But, it turned out that PissPiggy wasn't quite available that night. Y'see, he had already agreed that tonight, he belonged to none other than the fantasy sadist I had talked to earlier. Huh, I said, I talked to him. Oh cool! said PissPiggy. And he had a plan. Involving the three of us.
So PissPiggy, Sadist, and li'l ol' me bundled into PissPiggy's car and headed for Sadist's place on the upper upper East Side.
Once there, Sadist began putting the two of us through our paces. That was the first night that I ever drank piss. But then, Sadist started taking out his various implements. He pretty quickly realized that PissPiggy could take it (and wanted more) and I couldn't. So, PissPiggy was chained spread eagle on the bed, and I was ordered to "stand over there."
And then, at one point, Sadist handed me his flogger. He ordered me to beat the pig on the bed.
Now, this was the very first time I had ever held a flogger in my life. Ever.
I swung it around a few times, getting a feel for it. Then I started rhythmically bringing it down on PissPiggy's thighs and chest (knowing almost instinctively to focus on the muscley parts).
And, it was like I came to life. I liked it! I really liked it!
Sadist took note. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you, pig?"
I grinned, "I could really get used to this, Sir!"
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But a few years later, whom should I meet at Inferno but Sadist. He recognized me immediately. Asked what I was up to. I explained that I had found my calling in wielding singletail whips. He laughed. "I created a monster!" he said.
Okay. So why am I thinking of him now?
Well, I was totally unprepared to give Sadist what he wanted way back then. In those novice days, I guess I just wanted to be tied up or something. I had no idea. But now, I'm... uh... seasoned. And I have developed a definite taste for the kind of Edge play that Sadist likes. And, on his worldleathermen profile, he notes that he's open to finding another "bruder Top" for "something more than a weekend." Huh.
So that bears exploration, no?
Possibility #2: He's this really hot guy from the World Wide Internet. We've talked a few times online. He's in NYC, too. More details than that, I don't know. And as Lolita once famously advised me, "The internet doesn't mean shit; you gotta smell'em."
So how's it going?
Not well. Whenever I've gone up to NYC these past few weeks, I've called both of them. Sadist has been on vacation or traveling for work. Number Two always seems to be out on Long Island attending his niece's first holy communion or something.
Just recently, I noticed that phone messages I left and email I've sent hasn't been returned. Maybe they're both real busy.
Or maybe they're unavailable.
Anyway.
Enough of the wants. The rain has let up (oh joy, another rainy summer, so good for the roses). I'm gonna head to Starbucks in Doylestown, to sit on the porch, enjoy my latte, smoke a cigar, and dig into a book.
And maybe, maybe, some local leatherman who has somehow heretofore escaped my attention will stop at Starbucks to enjoy the afternoon, and there I'll be, all decked out in my capri cargo pants, smoking my cigar, that great ink of mine, all moisturized, and with my hole squeaky clean.
Hey! It might happen!
So after a great day playing softball and tooling around NYC yesterday, I get up late, have a cup of tea and a protein shake, and hop in the shower. I love unrushed Sunday ablutions. I do a body scrub, a facial scrub, hose out my hole with the Shur-Shot, nice close shave of my face and scalp, body moisturizer, face moisturizer. Went and picked out something to wear today. Settled on my cargo capri pants (ya gotta see'em to understand, bought them at I. Goldberg's, some army in the world actually sends its soldiers off to battle in cargo capri pants), tight gray shirt, and my Wesco's. The loggers, not the custom harness.
And then...
*sigh*
The Wants showed up.
I hate that.
Things were going just fine, until in the door came the Wants.
Want to be able to not have to sweat to afford Inferno. Want to get to the beach. Want a job that pays me enough money to live on (I sent in a resume to a place in community development agency in Philadelphia on Thursday, everybody keep their fingers crossed.) And then, of course, the one that takes up the most space: Want a man to share my life--or significant parts of my life anyway--with.
Yeah.
Y'see, I formulated a plan of sorts. I decided to give it a try. If that Guy From LA wasn't available for much more than a twice a year Edge play session, that didn't mean that it would be impossible to find someone who was, right?
Could I replace the Guy From LA?
And I actually didn't have to think very hard to come up with a few possibilities.
Possibility #1: I've actually known him for years. How we met might warrant a retelling. Years and years and years ago (okay, maybe not that many), newly sprung from my relationship with the Seven and A Half Year Awful Relationship, I headed to the LURE. And there he was. This big guy, full leather, smoking a cigar and drinking from a can of Bud. I mean, he hit all those archetypes dead on. I had seen him a couple of times before. And he made me weak in the knees.
He was flagging everything on the left, so I did my best (which was pretty bad) to present myself. Standing in front of him, hands behind my back, head bowed. (I know, right? I know better now.) But miraculously, he took the bait. Approached. Did this great wordless breathing down my neck thing. I was rock hard. Asked, I think, what I was up for. (A question that I've never been good at answering when posed by a Top. Still haven't figured that one out.) He said something like, okay, well maybe I'll catch up with you later.
So I went to look elsewhere, hoping that I'd end up going home with him.
And that same night, I met my buddy whom we'll call PissPiggy. This stunning looking Italian guy from Brooklyn. He was all pig, and thus so much more approachable. He and I got to know each other, and there was immediate report. He's tough not to like, sunny and open disposition, and a beautiful smile that says he's up for anything.
But, it turned out that PissPiggy wasn't quite available that night. Y'see, he had already agreed that tonight, he belonged to none other than the fantasy sadist I had talked to earlier. Huh, I said, I talked to him. Oh cool! said PissPiggy. And he had a plan. Involving the three of us.
So PissPiggy, Sadist, and li'l ol' me bundled into PissPiggy's car and headed for Sadist's place on the upper upper East Side.
Once there, Sadist began putting the two of us through our paces. That was the first night that I ever drank piss. But then, Sadist started taking out his various implements. He pretty quickly realized that PissPiggy could take it (and wanted more) and I couldn't. So, PissPiggy was chained spread eagle on the bed, and I was ordered to "stand over there."
And then, at one point, Sadist handed me his flogger. He ordered me to beat the pig on the bed.
Now, this was the very first time I had ever held a flogger in my life. Ever.
I swung it around a few times, getting a feel for it. Then I started rhythmically bringing it down on PissPiggy's thighs and chest (knowing almost instinctively to focus on the muscley parts).
And, it was like I came to life. I liked it! I really liked it!
Sadist took note. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you, pig?"
I grinned, "I could really get used to this, Sir!"
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But a few years later, whom should I meet at Inferno but Sadist. He recognized me immediately. Asked what I was up to. I explained that I had found my calling in wielding singletail whips. He laughed. "I created a monster!" he said.
Okay. So why am I thinking of him now?
Well, I was totally unprepared to give Sadist what he wanted way back then. In those novice days, I guess I just wanted to be tied up or something. I had no idea. But now, I'm... uh... seasoned. And I have developed a definite taste for the kind of Edge play that Sadist likes. And, on his worldleathermen profile, he notes that he's open to finding another "bruder Top" for "something more than a weekend." Huh.
So that bears exploration, no?
Possibility #2: He's this really hot guy from the World Wide Internet. We've talked a few times online. He's in NYC, too. More details than that, I don't know. And as Lolita once famously advised me, "The internet doesn't mean shit; you gotta smell'em."
So how's it going?
Not well. Whenever I've gone up to NYC these past few weeks, I've called both of them. Sadist has been on vacation or traveling for work. Number Two always seems to be out on Long Island attending his niece's first holy communion or something.
Just recently, I noticed that phone messages I left and email I've sent hasn't been returned. Maybe they're both real busy.
Or maybe they're unavailable.
Anyway.
Enough of the wants. The rain has let up (oh joy, another rainy summer, so good for the roses). I'm gonna head to Starbucks in Doylestown, to sit on the porch, enjoy my latte, smoke a cigar, and dig into a book.
And maybe, maybe, some local leatherman who has somehow heretofore escaped my attention will stop at Starbucks to enjoy the afternoon, and there I'll be, all decked out in my capri cargo pants, smoking my cigar, that great ink of mine, all moisturized, and with my hole squeaky clean.
Hey! It might happen!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Summer
No postings in a week??? What's up with that? Everything okay?
Yup. Everything is copascetic here. Doing really good.
Here are some highlights of what you've missed...
•Went to the beach. Last Tuesday. That day it was bitter freezing cold. (72 degrees.) It actually was pretty cold. And overcast. And there was a stiff wind blowing. Spraying me and UnFortunate with sand. Which hurt. "Ow. Ow. Ow! OWWW!" Eventually, I was pounding my fists in the sand saying "It's not fair!" and we headed into NYC. Good thing, too. Much longer and we would have been buried.
•In NYC, I visited the needle exchange program I used to run. That was gratifying. They're still there, and going strong. And the walls are still painted orange. And I was greeted by one of my favorite former employees, who had left about six months before I did to go to motorcycle mechanics school in Arizona. Great to see him. Love the guy. A little story by way of introduction. We were once at a conference together. All sitting around with people from other agencies in this big hotel ballroom while someone up at the podium was talking about social networks among crack injectors in New Haven or something. And we were there with folks from lots of other agencies, too. So this guy turns to a woman from another agency at our table and says, "You're a bootie freak, aren't you?" Before I could say, "You're way outta line Mister, and this means your job is on the line!" the two of them rose and headed up to her room. Wish I had one tenth of that chutzpah.
•Saturday was softball. We lost. Both games. But I haven't had so much fun playing softball in a long, long time. I did pretty well at the plate, and my base running is strong as ever, despite last year's broken ankle. And I even did my part in the field pretty well.
•Sunday was the GMSMA SM/Spirituality Special Interest Group. Two plus years in the running. And a sublime experience always.
Something I spoke to the group about...
Why did that Guy From LA get under my skin so much? Good question. I think I figured it out with the help of a child psychiatrist from Connecticut whom I fucked on Tuesday night. And a bit more. I was saying how the Guy From LA is the most withholding man I've ever met. He gives nothing away. When I went out to visit him, I was greeted at the airport, not with "Great to see you! You're looking really good!" or something along those lines, but with, "The plane was on time. I'm parked right out here."
And this propelled me to go to greater and greater lengths to get something by way of affirmation out of him. Being of basically sound mind, I didn't go so far as some of his recent exex that I know about. Nothing illegal, for instance.
So I was telling this by way of pillow talk, and child psychologist chimes in, "Like your father maybe?"
Bingo.
Wow.
And how.
So that's the deal. I couldn't get it from my dad, so it became especially important to get it from this guy.
Uh huh.
And later, I was thinking... Now, as a rule, I do not try to self-psychoanalyze my SM. Not a good thing to do. It's a black box. And best left that way.
But maybe, just maybe... Having grown up with the love of The World's Least Demonstrative Man, perhaps what turns my crank is erotic encounters with men that are very, very demonstrative.
And I can live with that. If that's one of my demons, then I'll gladly invite that one out to dance.
And now, it's back to work. Which feels good. My mantra lately is "if you're not sweating, it's not work." And since it's five to ten degrees hotter in the shop than it is outside, I'm working a lot.
And for the past two days, the weather has been beautiful. So after work, I head to Lake Galena and spend an hour or three paddling around in my kayak. I'm getting familiar with a pair of hawks. A certain heron allows me to get real close. I saw a snapping turtle today of jurassic proportions. (Seriously!)
And then, I head to Starbucks, where I smoke cigars on the porch and enjoy a latte.
I love summer. I'm broke. I ain't got nobody. But damn, am I happy.
No postings in a week??? What's up with that? Everything okay?
Yup. Everything is copascetic here. Doing really good.
Here are some highlights of what you've missed...
•Went to the beach. Last Tuesday. That day it was bitter freezing cold. (72 degrees.) It actually was pretty cold. And overcast. And there was a stiff wind blowing. Spraying me and UnFortunate with sand. Which hurt. "Ow. Ow. Ow! OWWW!" Eventually, I was pounding my fists in the sand saying "It's not fair!" and we headed into NYC. Good thing, too. Much longer and we would have been buried.
•In NYC, I visited the needle exchange program I used to run. That was gratifying. They're still there, and going strong. And the walls are still painted orange. And I was greeted by one of my favorite former employees, who had left about six months before I did to go to motorcycle mechanics school in Arizona. Great to see him. Love the guy. A little story by way of introduction. We were once at a conference together. All sitting around with people from other agencies in this big hotel ballroom while someone up at the podium was talking about social networks among crack injectors in New Haven or something. And we were there with folks from lots of other agencies, too. So this guy turns to a woman from another agency at our table and says, "You're a bootie freak, aren't you?" Before I could say, "You're way outta line Mister, and this means your job is on the line!" the two of them rose and headed up to her room. Wish I had one tenth of that chutzpah.
•Saturday was softball. We lost. Both games. But I haven't had so much fun playing softball in a long, long time. I did pretty well at the plate, and my base running is strong as ever, despite last year's broken ankle. And I even did my part in the field pretty well.
•Sunday was the GMSMA SM/Spirituality Special Interest Group. Two plus years in the running. And a sublime experience always.
Something I spoke to the group about...
Why did that Guy From LA get under my skin so much? Good question. I think I figured it out with the help of a child psychiatrist from Connecticut whom I fucked on Tuesday night. And a bit more. I was saying how the Guy From LA is the most withholding man I've ever met. He gives nothing away. When I went out to visit him, I was greeted at the airport, not with "Great to see you! You're looking really good!" or something along those lines, but with, "The plane was on time. I'm parked right out here."
And this propelled me to go to greater and greater lengths to get something by way of affirmation out of him. Being of basically sound mind, I didn't go so far as some of his recent exex that I know about. Nothing illegal, for instance.
So I was telling this by way of pillow talk, and child psychologist chimes in, "Like your father maybe?"
Bingo.
Wow.
And how.
So that's the deal. I couldn't get it from my dad, so it became especially important to get it from this guy.
Uh huh.
And later, I was thinking... Now, as a rule, I do not try to self-psychoanalyze my SM. Not a good thing to do. It's a black box. And best left that way.
But maybe, just maybe... Having grown up with the love of The World's Least Demonstrative Man, perhaps what turns my crank is erotic encounters with men that are very, very demonstrative.
And I can live with that. If that's one of my demons, then I'll gladly invite that one out to dance.
And now, it's back to work. Which feels good. My mantra lately is "if you're not sweating, it's not work." And since it's five to ten degrees hotter in the shop than it is outside, I'm working a lot.
And for the past two days, the weather has been beautiful. So after work, I head to Lake Galena and spend an hour or three paddling around in my kayak. I'm getting familiar with a pair of hawks. A certain heron allows me to get real close. I saw a snapping turtle today of jurassic proportions. (Seriously!)
And then, I head to Starbucks, where I smoke cigars on the porch and enjoy a latte.
I love summer. I'm broke. I ain't got nobody. But damn, am I happy.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Allons Les Enfants De La Patrié...
Oh. Wait. No. That's The Other One.
Happy 239th Birthday America! I'm feeling sooooo Toby Keith today!
Anyway, great weekend so far! I'm hardly regretting at all that I'm not in Florida right now.
Not being able to take a vacation this year meant that I could go to the annual July 4th Weekend dungeon party hosted by a couple of Inferno buddies of mine, who have made it their mission to insure that sexual deviancy thrives in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. My first trip from NYC to this party lead to much anxiety on my part, worried that I would be outclassed. This time, I just felt myself to be entirely among friends. And, because it was a quick hop, skip, and jump to get there, I brought my chains and whips and such, but if'n I didn't end up playing, that was cool, too.
Barbeque was good, and I enjoyed the company. Two of the very pillars of GMSMA were there. I have made a date to bottom to... Horowitz (no nom de plume necessary here, I don't think) at Inferno this year. He has a plan. A diabolical plan, by the sound of it. Involving an "announcement made at breakfast." So I'm pretty enthralled.
After dinner, the guys that were just there for dinner drifted homewards, and the rest of us got busy in the well-appointed dungeon.
In attendance was this... this... this man. I've seen him and his Sir for years. And they always make me drip cum. He, in particular, is just so incredibly hot. True to form, whenever he's around, I just stare at the ground sixteen inches in front of my boots, unable to make eye contact, little less engage in conversation, little less actually ask if he'd be up for a scene. (I hate that!)
But as dinner was breaking up, he approached me, greeted me, and shook my hand. Later, in the dungeon, I watched as he put a succession of subs into his vac rack. Sticking my courage to the sticking place, I complemented him on the scenes he did, and helped him clean up afterwards. And then, I did it. I asked if he wanted to play. And he said, "Sure."
He went to check in with his Sir, and I set about thinking what I might like to do. I decided on face-to-face, with boxing gloves (had mine!), maybe chained to a post (alas, no sides of any post were free of eye-bolts). I just had this image of this big, beautiful man, all chained up, and me wearing the boxing gloves, working him over. The physicality of it, getting to throw some good punches at him. And then, bringing the glove up to his face and saying, "yeaaaaah, kiss it boy. kiss it." Followed by a measured jab right in the kisser.
The Man returned, asked what I had in mind, and I told him I wanted to beat him. He declined that, but said he would sure be up for a flogging.
Okay. Not a problem. Switch gears.
Flogging... I'm good at that!
So that's what we did. At his request, he was unrestrained. Just standing there, bearing his beautiful back to me. It just reddened up beautifully. So wonderful. I was turned on the entire time. It was a sweet and pure distillation of SM. So simple. So elegant. So good for the soul.
Afterwards, he was glowing. And flying. And grateful. We talked some more. And, as it happens, he's a really great guy. Very likeable. Very upfront. Self aware. And maybe I'll have a second bite at the apple at Inferno. Hope so ("kiss it, boy. yeah. kiss it.").
Yesterday, Sunday, it was off to the beach. Namely, Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook. Aka, the Nude Beach.
Word had reached me that there was this big Bear thing going on there. Metrobears NYC, Garden State Bears, and the Liberty Bears of Philadelphia were all converging at Gunnison. And, to be sure, that was all the inclination I needed.
And... and... one of the great things about living here is I-195. If you look at a map of NJ, all the roads basically run north-south. Except for 195. Which cuts due east from Trenton and takes you to the beach, 35 miles away. It's a great road, and it's like a worm hole: you enter at one end, and in no time at all, it spits you out at the other end.
Traffic was dicey once I got off the Parkway at the opposite end of 195, but that's more a function of the fact that Sandy Hook is sort of off there on it's own on the northernmost tip of the New Jersey shoreline.
I messed up on the parking, and had to slog through the non-nude beach to get to the nude beach (I always do this), but finally, there it was: nudidity! But it was all kinds of heterosexual nudidity. I watched some hot naked straight men cavorting with their naked girlfriends/wives for a while. And then I remembered: the queers tend to congregate on the southern part of the nude beach.
Right.
So I rolled up my blanket and slogged down the beach some more. (Some nude heterosexuals complemented me on my ink work along the way. See? I make friends wherever I go!)
And there were the naked bears! A beach full of them! Yippee!
Tragically, by this point, it was four o'clock. So I had just time enough to scope out the bears, enjoy a cigar (which you can't really do with a stiff ocean breeze blowing, and get 20 pages into my collection of Nero Wolfe short stories before the bears were packing up to go.
But it's all good. I enjoyed the expanding empty beach left behind by the departing bears for a bit, then packed up my stuff and headed for home. I stopped at the New Jersey Diner With Incredibly Slow Service But Great Food (I think it's a chain... I've eaten there countless times before), and made another stop in New Hope to grab a latte at Starbucks. (I had hoped to stop and grab an iced quad venti one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte on my way in, but whaddya know, there were no parking spaces at all in the entire town. When I worked there as a pup, I had a t-shirt printed up that read, "Pave The River!" It was an inside joke, but I was the only one on the inside.) (Yes, even I, though I know better, used to wear legible t-shirts.)
But that's not all! Later that night, I headed back down to New Hope to stop into the Raven. The crowd was pretty dreary, but I did meet one hot Worldleathermen interlocutor, whom I've really gotta tie up and torture some time. He's got one of those north jersey accents that just make me melt.
So now, here I am, on July 4th, sitting on the porch, typing this account of myself.
It's a gorgeous day. ("The two most beautiful words in the English language...") My astilbe, day lilies, and lupine are just exploding. After a shopping trip, I'm heading down to Philadelphia for a party and to watch the fireworks with some local leathermen.
Nice.
Nice nice nice nice Nice.
Enjoy your weekend!
Oh. Wait. No. That's The Other One.
Happy 239th Birthday America! I'm feeling sooooo Toby Keith today!
Anyway, great weekend so far! I'm hardly regretting at all that I'm not in Florida right now.
Not being able to take a vacation this year meant that I could go to the annual July 4th Weekend dungeon party hosted by a couple of Inferno buddies of mine, who have made it their mission to insure that sexual deviancy thrives in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. My first trip from NYC to this party lead to much anxiety on my part, worried that I would be outclassed. This time, I just felt myself to be entirely among friends. And, because it was a quick hop, skip, and jump to get there, I brought my chains and whips and such, but if'n I didn't end up playing, that was cool, too.
Barbeque was good, and I enjoyed the company. Two of the very pillars of GMSMA were there. I have made a date to bottom to... Horowitz (no nom de plume necessary here, I don't think) at Inferno this year. He has a plan. A diabolical plan, by the sound of it. Involving an "announcement made at breakfast." So I'm pretty enthralled.
After dinner, the guys that were just there for dinner drifted homewards, and the rest of us got busy in the well-appointed dungeon.
In attendance was this... this... this man. I've seen him and his Sir for years. And they always make me drip cum. He, in particular, is just so incredibly hot. True to form, whenever he's around, I just stare at the ground sixteen inches in front of my boots, unable to make eye contact, little less engage in conversation, little less actually ask if he'd be up for a scene. (I hate that!)
But as dinner was breaking up, he approached me, greeted me, and shook my hand. Later, in the dungeon, I watched as he put a succession of subs into his vac rack. Sticking my courage to the sticking place, I complemented him on the scenes he did, and helped him clean up afterwards. And then, I did it. I asked if he wanted to play. And he said, "Sure."
He went to check in with his Sir, and I set about thinking what I might like to do. I decided on face-to-face, with boxing gloves (had mine!), maybe chained to a post (alas, no sides of any post were free of eye-bolts). I just had this image of this big, beautiful man, all chained up, and me wearing the boxing gloves, working him over. The physicality of it, getting to throw some good punches at him. And then, bringing the glove up to his face and saying, "yeaaaaah, kiss it boy. kiss it." Followed by a measured jab right in the kisser.
The Man returned, asked what I had in mind, and I told him I wanted to beat him. He declined that, but said he would sure be up for a flogging.
Okay. Not a problem. Switch gears.
Flogging... I'm good at that!
So that's what we did. At his request, he was unrestrained. Just standing there, bearing his beautiful back to me. It just reddened up beautifully. So wonderful. I was turned on the entire time. It was a sweet and pure distillation of SM. So simple. So elegant. So good for the soul.
Afterwards, he was glowing. And flying. And grateful. We talked some more. And, as it happens, he's a really great guy. Very likeable. Very upfront. Self aware. And maybe I'll have a second bite at the apple at Inferno. Hope so ("kiss it, boy. yeah. kiss it.").
Yesterday, Sunday, it was off to the beach. Namely, Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook. Aka, the Nude Beach.
Word had reached me that there was this big Bear thing going on there. Metrobears NYC, Garden State Bears, and the Liberty Bears of Philadelphia were all converging at Gunnison. And, to be sure, that was all the inclination I needed.
And... and... one of the great things about living here is I-195. If you look at a map of NJ, all the roads basically run north-south. Except for 195. Which cuts due east from Trenton and takes you to the beach, 35 miles away. It's a great road, and it's like a worm hole: you enter at one end, and in no time at all, it spits you out at the other end.
Traffic was dicey once I got off the Parkway at the opposite end of 195, but that's more a function of the fact that Sandy Hook is sort of off there on it's own on the northernmost tip of the New Jersey shoreline.
I messed up on the parking, and had to slog through the non-nude beach to get to the nude beach (I always do this), but finally, there it was: nudidity! But it was all kinds of heterosexual nudidity. I watched some hot naked straight men cavorting with their naked girlfriends/wives for a while. And then I remembered: the queers tend to congregate on the southern part of the nude beach.
Right.
So I rolled up my blanket and slogged down the beach some more. (Some nude heterosexuals complemented me on my ink work along the way. See? I make friends wherever I go!)
And there were the naked bears! A beach full of them! Yippee!
Tragically, by this point, it was four o'clock. So I had just time enough to scope out the bears, enjoy a cigar (which you can't really do with a stiff ocean breeze blowing, and get 20 pages into my collection of Nero Wolfe short stories before the bears were packing up to go.
But it's all good. I enjoyed the expanding empty beach left behind by the departing bears for a bit, then packed up my stuff and headed for home. I stopped at the New Jersey Diner With Incredibly Slow Service But Great Food (I think it's a chain... I've eaten there countless times before), and made another stop in New Hope to grab a latte at Starbucks. (I had hoped to stop and grab an iced quad venti one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte on my way in, but whaddya know, there were no parking spaces at all in the entire town. When I worked there as a pup, I had a t-shirt printed up that read, "Pave The River!" It was an inside joke, but I was the only one on the inside.) (Yes, even I, though I know better, used to wear legible t-shirts.)
But that's not all! Later that night, I headed back down to New Hope to stop into the Raven. The crowd was pretty dreary, but I did meet one hot Worldleathermen interlocutor, whom I've really gotta tie up and torture some time. He's got one of those north jersey accents that just make me melt.
So now, here I am, on July 4th, sitting on the porch, typing this account of myself.
It's a gorgeous day. ("The two most beautiful words in the English language...") My astilbe, day lilies, and lupine are just exploding. After a shopping trip, I'm heading down to Philadelphia for a party and to watch the fireworks with some local leathermen.
Nice.
Nice nice nice nice Nice.
Enjoy your weekend!
Saturday, July 02, 2005
More Cold-Blooded Messengers!
So this morning--or, y'know, what passes for "morning" on a Saturday here at the Humble Abode--my father called out to me from the kitchen. As I made my way there, the words "What did you say? I thought you said, 'there's a toad in the kitchen,'" were coming out of my mouth.
But as I rounded the corner, there was my father, bracing himself against a chair, and there, in the middle of the kitchen floor was a toad.
My dad was going on about 'how did that get in here? it's because you leave the door open...' or something. I scooped up the toad (he was beautiful, this pale greenish-brown, like ancient, weathered bone). I took him out on the porch, and let him go in the garden.
A toad... I used to spend my summer days in childhood catching toads and frogs.
This guy didn't even piss in my hand. (It's their defense mechanism. If Faithful Companion got a hold of him in his mouth, it would have made him sick.) And when I let him go, he just sat there.
Beautiful.
And then, just now, I was out on the porch having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I heard this sort of metallic clunking sound. I thought it was Faithful Companion's tail knocking something. But when I heard it again, I got a better sense of where it was coming from. I stepped off the porch and examined the downspout of the rain gutter.
And sure enough, there was a box turtle, knocking up against it with his hard shell.
This was a different box turtle from the one the other day. He was older, with a more mature design on his shell. I went out, plucked him up, and carried him back to themosquito breeding bog pond in the back yard and let him go. Far from the road. With fresh water. And lots of nice green vegetation for him to eat.
Turtle, toad, turtle.
Could this be something like an angelic Morse code? What's going on here?
I choose to believe it's some good portent. Something good is coming my way. Or maybe someone good.
And that's good. I need that.
That Guy From LA is on Fire Island this week. I told him how I had off all this week. How I couldn't afford to go down to Florida. How much I loved Fire Island. If it crossed his mind to invite me out for a day, he sure didn't give that away by anything he said.
Ah well. I abide.
I've been sort of hard-hearted concerning menfolk of late. I've met exactly two-and-a-half men in my life who I found... compelling. That's the word. Men who sort of had it all. They were so hot I couldn't think clearly when I looked at them. And I could just talk to them forever and ever, never exhausting things to think about. They were men who loved life, and who lived people. And what a great team we'd make. Like the Hardy Boys (only, y'know, not related; and we'd fuck), just chafing at the bit to get out there and have some new adventure.
Body, mind, spirit. Everything I love about all the men in my life, although ample quantities of each in the form of one guy. Two and a half times!
And at this point in my life, I'm less and less willing to settle for anything less than the complete package. Settling just gets me into trouble. Sure, he has an amazing body with that beer gut and those sixteen inch guns on him and all that hair, but if I have to hear about how this is like a Will & Grace episode one more time... Or, gosh, it's amazing that this guy can reel off these amazing poems from memory, but what is up with those toenails of his?
Oh. And he has to be accessible, too. Someone I can call up and make plans for Friday night with on a wednesday afternoon at Starbucks.
And, it goes without saying, he has to be absolutely twisted. And omnivorously so.
Anyway. I'm off to the annual July Fourth Weekend Dungeon Party hosted by friends of mine who live in Pottstown. Longtime readers may remember the Yellow Dress dilemma when I went there two years ago. No such anxieties this time around. I'm just going for the burgers and hot dogs. Although maybe I'll meet some special guy...
Or maybe those were just a couple of turtles and a toad that happenstance placed in my path.
So this morning--or, y'know, what passes for "morning" on a Saturday here at the Humble Abode--my father called out to me from the kitchen. As I made my way there, the words "What did you say? I thought you said, 'there's a toad in the kitchen,'" were coming out of my mouth.
But as I rounded the corner, there was my father, bracing himself against a chair, and there, in the middle of the kitchen floor was a toad.
My dad was going on about 'how did that get in here? it's because you leave the door open...' or something. I scooped up the toad (he was beautiful, this pale greenish-brown, like ancient, weathered bone). I took him out on the porch, and let him go in the garden.
A toad... I used to spend my summer days in childhood catching toads and frogs.
This guy didn't even piss in my hand. (It's their defense mechanism. If Faithful Companion got a hold of him in his mouth, it would have made him sick.) And when I let him go, he just sat there.
Beautiful.
And then, just now, I was out on the porch having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I heard this sort of metallic clunking sound. I thought it was Faithful Companion's tail knocking something. But when I heard it again, I got a better sense of where it was coming from. I stepped off the porch and examined the downspout of the rain gutter.
And sure enough, there was a box turtle, knocking up against it with his hard shell.
This was a different box turtle from the one the other day. He was older, with a more mature design on his shell. I went out, plucked him up, and carried him back to the
Turtle, toad, turtle.
Could this be something like an angelic Morse code? What's going on here?
I choose to believe it's some good portent. Something good is coming my way. Or maybe someone good.
And that's good. I need that.
That Guy From LA is on Fire Island this week. I told him how I had off all this week. How I couldn't afford to go down to Florida. How much I loved Fire Island. If it crossed his mind to invite me out for a day, he sure didn't give that away by anything he said.
Ah well. I abide.
I've been sort of hard-hearted concerning menfolk of late. I've met exactly two-and-a-half men in my life who I found... compelling. That's the word. Men who sort of had it all. They were so hot I couldn't think clearly when I looked at them. And I could just talk to them forever and ever, never exhausting things to think about. They were men who loved life, and who lived people. And what a great team we'd make. Like the Hardy Boys (only, y'know, not related; and we'd fuck), just chafing at the bit to get out there and have some new adventure.
Body, mind, spirit. Everything I love about all the men in my life, although ample quantities of each in the form of one guy. Two and a half times!
And at this point in my life, I'm less and less willing to settle for anything less than the complete package. Settling just gets me into trouble. Sure, he has an amazing body with that beer gut and those sixteen inch guns on him and all that hair, but if I have to hear about how this is like a Will & Grace episode one more time... Or, gosh, it's amazing that this guy can reel off these amazing poems from memory, but what is up with those toenails of his?
Oh. And he has to be accessible, too. Someone I can call up and make plans for Friday night with on a wednesday afternoon at Starbucks.
And, it goes without saying, he has to be absolutely twisted. And omnivorously so.
Anyway. I'm off to the annual July Fourth Weekend Dungeon Party hosted by friends of mine who live in Pottstown. Longtime readers may remember the Yellow Dress dilemma when I went there two years ago. No such anxieties this time around. I'm just going for the burgers and hot dogs. Although maybe I'll meet some special guy...
Or maybe those were just a couple of turtles and a toad that happenstance placed in my path.
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