Monday, November 28, 2005

Ahhhh... Art!

So today, I wound down my fabulous five day weekend with something I've long wanted to do. With Eagle, I made a trip to the DIA Foundation's amazing site in Beacon, New York. DIA:Beacon is a former industrial space taken over by the DIA Foundation, supporters of some of the greatest artists working today. For maximal fans of minimalism like myself, it's pretty much the best there is. DIA:Beacon opened a year and a half ago, and I've wanted to go ever since. But I didn't really want to go alone.

Talking to Eagle a few days ago, he mentioned that he was hoping to go to the new MoMA in NYC. I suggested DIA instead, and he was up for it. We had planned to go on yesterday, but he was in a bad headspace. So today was the day.

And it's amazing. Put it on your list. A must see. An incredible site on the Hudson, a wee fifty miles north of NYC.

My favorites included Walter DeMaria, creator of the lightning field; Michael Heizer (Wow! WOW!!!); Fred Sandback ('s just string! Brilliant!); Gerhard Richter (Ohhh. Ahhhhhh... I see); Robert Smithson (visionary man that he was, he of the spiral jetty). But of course, topping the list is the Man of Steel, Richard Serra. These incredible, monumental udulating steel forms. So sensuous. So strong. So masculine. My breathing got shallow. I'm sure my pupils dilated. It's an great experience.

And this art thing. It's all about noticing. About seeing.

I'll tell you what. Right now, I couldn't say which was more important to me, SM or minimalist art.

How about that?

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Santa Saturday Rocks!

This just in from the annual event hosted by the Bucks MC down in New Hope... me!

Okay. It was chilly. In years past, at the Cartwheel, it was pretty much contained by tents or downright indoors, so the only time the cold weather was a problem was waiting for the long, long, long line to get in to move you to the door. This year, at the Raven, it was more of an indoor/outdoor event.

My wardrobe inspiration was to wear the wetsuit singlet my Sir gave me. I had it on, and it looked great, but at the last minute I reconsidered. Instead, I opted for my neoprene uniform shirt and pants from Nasty Pig. Alas, neoprene does nothing in the way of heat retention, but I was slightly warmer than I would have been running around in a singlet. And I was cold most of the time. Even colder than I was at Dore Alley in SF. And that's cold!

But I kept a stiff upper lip, and solicited offers to 'keep me warm' from several of the hot men in attendance. Another thing to love about bears: they keep you warm!

And everybody was there. Great to see all those guys so much. At the risk of... ...whatever, I'm gonna go on record as saying that my exile here in the howling wilderness makes me realize that I love these men, my fellow travelers on this leather odyssey. Truly I do. I'm nourished and sustained by seeing them a few times a year, odd as that may be. Being greeted by a hot man decked out in leather by name, wearing a big welcoming smile on his face... it's the tonic I need to live.

But there was one tragic thing: no meatball sandwiches! Those amazing, amazing meatball sandwiches were not to be found this year. Just hotdogs and sausage sandwiches. I made do with hotdogs (of course the Bucks MC had saur kraut!), and when I asked, I was told that the meatball sandwiches were a bit too messy last year. I hearby offer to help with clean-up if it would mean their reappearance next year. But, hotdogs were only $2, so I had like five of them. With saur kraut and mustard, just the way I like'em.

All the action, though not much in the way of warmth, was in one big tent this year. By 'action,' I'm referring to the auction and drag show. I tend to tune this out. Having been reared in the midst of the East Village drag scene of the late '80s and early '90s, the whole glamorous show tunes thing doesn't move me much. Not demented and twisted enough for my tastes. And the auction items mostly seem to consist of granny afgans. There must be a crocheting fool in the ranks of the Bucks MC, who at this moment is working away at his granny afgan offerings for next year.

But at one point, I heard the MC announce that the next item up for auction was a set of irons, wrist and ankle, and the accompanying allen wrench. I think the last words I heard before I lost consciousness were, "and it looks like pretty good welding on these."

My sincere apologies to all the guys who were unfortunately In My Way as I made my way to the auction area. I hope your injuries weren't too severe, and that you received medical attention without too much of a delay.

The bidding started at $10. Ten dollars for a beautiful set of shackles and leg irons! I decided that my absolute limit would be $40. My bid of $45 almost held. But up it went. I walked away with them for $60. Now, that's $60 that I can't afford right now, but it seemed clear to me that A.) I was never again in my life going to have the opportunity to obtain a set of irons for $60, and B.) my father and I have plenty of leftover turkey so I won't be spending that much on groceries this week. So there!

And here's an interesting phenomenon: not sure what my horoscope read this week, but it seems to be the Time Of Men With Large Penises Taking A Strong Interest In Me. Last night, I got the jump on Santa Saturday (most out-of-towners arrive on Friday) and headed down to the Raven. And ended up having a great night in room 159 of the Best Western with a guy from Connecticutt who had one of the largest I've ever... uh... accommodated.

And then today, tit was brought to my attention (ahem) that two of the men who were "keeping me warm" at the event had just either unbelieveably substantial pieces on them, or they were doing the Spinal Tap thing with zucchini. And, one of the zucchini guys is local! So even if I don't run into him tonight during Round Two, I'll meet up with him again at some point. Hopefully.

I've never been much in the way of a size queen. All I have to offer is a standard issue six (same as John Dillinger, from what I've read). And since that hole of mine is tight as a snare drum, I've never paid much attention. To me, they're all big. But after last night's Olympic challenge, I'm sort of feeling as though I want to see just how far I can take this. Or, how deep I can take this might be a better way of putting it. No big deal. Not a convert to that particular cult. It's just a phase.

But here's the really great thing. The sex last night was just soooo pleasant. Not frought. Not anxiety producing. Just enjoyable. Just a sweet and sweaty time with another man. And it's been a really long time since I had that. Since I was able to just turn off all those clamoring voices of self-doubt and baseless fears in my head and enjoy it.

I think I probably have Horowitz to thank for some of that, after the scene he orchestrated for me at Inferno. Just let it all go and enjoy. I'll try to remember that.

And.. and... I totally fell in love with the guy. Not in a creepy Let's Be A Stalker way. Just letting my imagination envision a new future for myself. Cuz he is a great guy. In addition to being good in bed and verrrrry hot--and the zucchini situation--he was an absolute sweetheart. Lots of laughter punctuated our time together.

I decided that if I spent one more minute in those damn drafty, cold tents that it was time to go, so I headed to my jeep. I stopped on the way home at the Giant supermarket in New Hope to pick up leeks, carrots, and pot pie noodles to make turkey-leek stew for my father for dinner tonight. Only one person in the supermarket gave me a look to indicate that there was anything irregular about somebody shopping for produce dressed like a stormtrooper if stormtroopers wore neoprene.

Anyway. Gotta get that soup on. My turkey stock is absolutely sensational! Yesterday morning, the Baron and I chatted while I reduced it and clarified it with the Ol' Egg White Trick. It's so thick you could probably walk on it, and this wonderful rich brown color. Wish me luck tonight, both with dinner and with finding a hot man on a cold November night.

Thursday, November 24, 2005


Thanksgiving went well. The Baron came up from Philadelphia. I made turkey, stuffing with pecans and cranberries, baked pineapple, sweet potatoes, some of the corn I put up back over the summer, and sauteed red cabbage. Everybody liked it.

This weekend is Santa Saturday, and you bettah believe I'm looking forward to that. Things like this are a lifeline for me. I should be good for another few months after this. Enough to hold me until MAL.

Tonight, the Baron wanted to see the inside of the Raven down in New Hope. and, of course, what the Baron wants... There was nothing going on there. Not even some early Santa Saturday arrivals. It was grim. We were out of there in about twenty minutes.

But then, on the way home, I had a thought.

The Baron was reminiscing about how it was when we were young. Heading to Kurts and dancing the night away, wearing our broaches and new wave haircuts. Flirting. Dancing. Dancing and flirting.

And I had this recollection. One night, years ago, early on in my time in NYC. I was at a bar--a great bar--called the Altar. And I remember seeing these two guys. Bearish guys. I watched as they met each other, talked, their eyes started shining, they were touching, then kissing each other deeply.

Right there, in front of me, while I watched, they fell in love. I remember at one point, they stood, arms around each other, looking out at the bar, at all of us, seemingly aware of their incredible good fortune. That they had been touched by something rare and beautiful.

So the thought that I had: young people know nothing about love. A kind of youth is wasted on the young thing. It takes a man who has road out many of life's storms, has learned how much pain can come with love, has been to hell. Only men of a certain age can really fall in love.

And I've got some years on me now.

Whaddya know about that?

Monday, November 21, 2005

Uh Oh

Morale at the woodshop where I work is really bad. And with good cause. With all of the reconstruction going on in the Gulf States (Trent Lott's house!), the price of materials has gone up. A lot. And it seems McMansion dwellers don't have the discretionary income they had previously, because orders are not coming in. And, the zany antics of the Vice President have alienated several of the dealers who are sending their orders elsewhere. So there have been layoffs. A couple of guys have quit. Many have confided in me that they're looking. Hard. A guy who has been with the shop for about ten years (who has a new part time job) today offered the opinion that dear old Wuperior Soodcraft probably won't be around by the time next Christmas rolls around.

So that's crappy.

So once again, I'm hoping for a new job. And I think I might have to seriously consider a desk to shackle myself too.

If you hear of anything, lemme know.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Thirty-Five More Shopping Days

...and a leather-look spandex body suit is exactly what I want for Christmas! Wow! How cool is this? And at $169 a pop, that's certainly reasonable. I wonder if Super Powers come with it? Oh. Wait. I got those.


So at the Bike Stop last night... Struck out? I didn't even get up to bat. There's this weird couple phenomenon that I'm up against. Every guy I make moves on proceeded to introduce me to his boyfriend. And I got that snotty 'And We're Monogamous' vibe.

But I've got my head together. I drove home without mishap, went to bed, and woke up early, feeling refreshed and happy. it didn't matter.

And another interesting thing I noticed. That flakey cigar smoking cub who stood me up yesterday? He's got me all Toppy Top. I just wanna plow some sweet faced boy right into next week. Give him stars in his eyes and make him forget his name.

So that's kind of interesting. Here's what I'm thinking...

That flakey cigar smoking cub? I got all crushed out on him. He rewired my circuits. He captured my imagination. He had me seeing new possibilities for myself. Had me thinking of new places I might go.

And that just hasn't happened for a while. I was wondering if I had worn out those faculties.


And in a way, the fact that we never... uh... consumated our internet courtship, well, that's cool. For now, that's enough. I can drink in the experience, enjoy it, and be satisfied.

An'anotherthing. Last night at the Bike Stop, I ran into the Other Gay Guy at work. Finally it happened [g]. He's a designer, he doesn't work on the shop floor. It was kinda weird. When he came up to me, my brain registered as someone I knew and knew well--I see the guy every day just about--but, because of the context, I didn't place him. After all, we were at the Bike Stop, not Wuperior Soodcraft. So I sorta went into overcompensation mode, and gave him a big fat kiss hello. It surprised both of us. And then, of course, he introduced me to his significant other.

Because everybody's got one of those.

Except me.

But like I said. It's cool.

I can still get a crush.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Y'All Are All Gettin This For Christmas!

Cool! It looks like one of my favorite things on the World Wide Internet, Obscene Interiors, in which someone critiques the design decisions made by guys who post nude pictures of themselves in their internet personal ads has been made into a book! I'll be lookin' for it!


Lucy. Charlie Brown. The football.

Here I go again! This time... this time...

So after last week's fateful visit to the Bike Stop. I was reeling.

And then, I fell into conversation with a really hot, built, cigar-smoking cub from Queens. Lots of mutual interest. I kept deferring. "Well, there's my dog..." Bring him along. "Let's meet up at Santa Saturday and see how it goes." Come spend Saturday night.

And I let myself get all excited.

I mean, in terms of men I tend to be attracted to, he's very close to 100%. And he's my age. Not a clueless young'un. Seems that leather is a big part of his life, too. Not something he tucks away at the back of a drawer (hate that!).

So at work this week, I was whistling and humming and singing to myself. More and more looking forward to Saturday, when, as planned, i would drive up to NYC, head to his house, chain him up, and torture him for a bit.

Maybe... maybe... maybe this could be more than a very satisfying scene...

On Friday, I realized I didn't have his address. (Duh!) I sent him a message to get it. Told him I was really looking forward to tomorrow night. No response.

Uh oh.

But still...

Then, this morning, the axe fell. I got a brief message from him: "I'm pretty tired today."

I messaged back: "Gotcha. Guess that means we're off for tonight. Lemme know when would be good."

What the hell?

Let's review. First off, that's just rude. When you commit yourself to something, unless you're hospitalized or, as Miss Manners points out, compelled to attend a State Dinner at the White House (it's considered to be both a social engagement, and service to your country, so it's okay to bow out of an previous engagment), you've gotta go through with it. So he's an asshole. A total unreliable flakey spacey worthless piece of shit. Shades of basanos... I never got over that fiasco. And, apparently, haven't learned much from it either. boys lie. It's what they do. It's characterological.

But what happened? I mean, was it enough for him to get from me some of my ideas of what I had planned for him so he could beat off? (And the fact that we agreed on a time and place to carry those out was a detail that sailed right by him.) Or did I do something or say something...? Not that there's anything I could do or say that would warrant that treatment, but still...

But still. I can't help feeling that I'm doing something wrong. And I can't fuckin figure out what.

It would be so nice if I could look forward to meeting up with a guy on the weekends, a guy to go have adventures with, smoke cigars with, cuddle up in bed with at night, cook great dinners for.

And okay, I admit I'm picky. But get this: I invite men who would date me to be picky, too. Get it? I work really hard to keep myself together, to stand out, to excel, to be desireable. So it's not asking to much for someone else to pay attention to those things, too. If'n he wants to date me.

Okay okay okay. Lawyers don't get dates ever. And that's maybe a little unfair. But they're just so insufferable. Incapable of having a conversation. Someday, it will be revealed that in the basement of every law school in the country, there's a special brain surgery room, where certain key parts of the cerebral cortex are removed from every second year law student.

So I cleaned up my room this morning. Spent the afternoon chopping firewood. And tonight I'm heading down to the Bike Stop.

Headspace. It's all about headspace, right?

That big, bearded guy in the big, black Mazda pickup got me all bent out of shape last week. There are no signs! The Universe does not, in fact, care whether or not I get laid, and does not broadcast the news by putting big, bearded, cigar smoking men in big, black Mazda pickup trucks in my path to alert me to upcoming events.

It's just a night at the Bike Stop. I'll put on my leather, drive down there, stop at Starbucks, maybe grab something to eat before I head over, maybe stop at Borders Books and Music. Maybe there will be some of the guys that I know there. Maybe not. Maybe I'll meet some new man to talk to, maybe not. Maybe I'll give a lecture on Harm Reduction to those guys from the Crystal Meth Task Force who pass out condoms (can you say, "Beside The Point"?), maybe not.

Maybe I'll meet a really great guy. A big hairy cigar smoking guy. We'll talk. We'll hit it off. As he talks, I just get more and more turned on. So does he. Turns out he's a great kisser. Pretty soon, we're pushing the limits of what's okay behavior in a public place in Philadelphia. We'll go to his place. It'll be great. Tomorrow morning, I'll get up, call my dad, and before I rush home to walk my dog, he'll say, "Wait, when can we see each other again? Can we do something like have dinner together? Get to know each other some? I really like you, Drew. You're a great guy."

And maybe not.

You promise this time, right, Lucy?

Look Charlie Brown, here's a signed statement that clearly says I will not pull the football away.


This time... this time....

Here I go!

Sunday, November 13, 2005

Curses! My Nefarious Plans Are Foiled!

The Bike Stop. I decided to go to the Bike Stop last night. My father's parting words to me were, "Do you have to?"

On the way down, I stopped at a 7-11 to pick up some Rosie's. (For the uninitiated, "Rosie's" refers to iced tea made by Rosenberger's Dairies, a local operation. Not too sweet, but with a nice bite, blue collar work in these parts is fueled by Rosie's.) I got two half gallons, got back in my jeep, and then noticed that the vehicle next to me was parked awfully close. The driver was going to have a hard time getting out. And then I saw who was driving.

This... this... man. Big man. Bush beard. Like, reeeally bushy. And big, beautiful brown eyes. And then I realized he wasn't getting out. He had pulled off the road and into the 7-11 parking lot so he could light a big cigar.

I mean, Wow! Thanks God!

I sat there, transfixed, for as long as I could before it got awkward. But I was so rattled by the experience that I drove a good mile and a half with my lights off.

Surely, I thought, this is a Sign. Surely it's going to be a good night for me at the Bike Stop.

I got into Phila. without too much trouble. Parked in my regular lot on Walnut Street. At this point I was starving, so I headed to More Than Just Ice Cream for a chicken quesadilla. Over dinner, I thought some about the big man in the big Mazda with the big cigar. Now, obviously he was straight. But I mean, he's the total embodiment of the archetype that I and so many gay men I know seek and seek to emulate. Is he aware of that? Could he have any inkling that there are legions of men out there who would pay a lot of money to watch him sit naked except for his boots and smoke a cigar. If he ever decided to sell his underwear on eBay, he could retire early.

Further, how did he come to look that way? I mean, it didn't just happen. He's homo sapiens. Res cogitans. He has self-consciousness like the rest of us. Who was he modeling? Does he see himself as a biker guy, and so that's what a biker guy looks like? I mean, gay men do it because they're following the principle of Look Like Whom Thou Wouldst Fuck. But what's his motivation? Is he doing it to get laid, too?

So then I headed to the Bike Stop. And whaddya know, there were lots and lots of very hot men there. Perhaps Mazda Guy was a good omen.

Ran into several guys I know, including a Los Angelino who works in Phila. from time to time. There were so many hot men there last night, I had a hard time figuring out which ones to go for. But not too hard a time.

And I struck out five times.


In most cases, the men I was after all seemed to be there with their boyfriends or husbands. (There ought to be a law against that. Or if you're off the market, you should have to wear a purdah when you go into a leatherbar.) But in some cases it was just, "Great meeting you. See you again sometime. 'Bye." And this one guy gave me a great bear hug, lifiting me up off the ground.

Okay. Desparation was setting in. I wanted a connection dammit! Not going home together (chances are that would be way unworkable). But just swapping phone numbers. Or even spit. Something!

Nothing. Nothing at all.

I headed to my car. At this point, I was boiling. I decided to indulge myself, and as I drove up North Broad Street, I was screaming "Fuck you guy wearing the leather harness! Fuck you red headed bear in the baseball cap! Fuck you skinhead boy! Fuck you Philadelphia!"

With all that adrenaline pumping, I was wide awake for the ride home.

And then, I saw flashing reds and blues in my rear view. I got a ticket for running a redlight. It was yellow when I went into the intersection, I swear! The cop--who wasn't hot, dammit--was nice enough about it. And told me that if I went to a hearing (another hearing), then we could work something out so I wouldn't get points on my license. (It was yellow!)

Dammit dammit dammit.

And then, within ten miles of home, I started hearing this noise coming from the engine.

Unbelievable! Car trouble? I just got new fluids belts and filters three months ago!

Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Except when I accelerated. Then it was KerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNK.

I took it slow and managed to get home. I discovered that my engine belt had partially worn away. There was still about 3/8th of an inch of it left. But apparently the part that had split off had been whipping around under the hood. And had severed an air hose going to my carburator.

Why, that would be more money I don't have!

Oh man.

Not to mention, I'll be driving the White Ford Taurus till it gets repaired. (I swear, if I have to drive a white Ford Taurus to Santa Saturday, I'll kill myself. I just will. I'm serious. I'm making a plan and all! It'll be dramatic. Caffeine overdose, right in the middle of Starbucks.)

So what's up with that?

They say "bad luck comes in threes," but usually those situations involve a chain of events. This trio... there was no relationship. They were all completely independent of each other.

I've been getting on so good with the Universe lately. Why now do get kicked when I'm down?

Anyway, I'm keeping at bay abject self-pity and self-criticism the likes of which hasn't been seen since Mao's Cultural Revolution. But it ain't easy.

Anyway, time to head to Starbucks. Starbucks never lets me down.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

You Go Back, Jack, Do It Again

Yesterday, I thought, was GMSMA's Leatherfest, featuring the erotic art show at the Center in NYC.

Uh... No. It's next weekend.

But that's just as well, because I didn't manage to get my act together to head up to NYC to take part in the Leatherfestivities until 3:00 pm yesterday, getting me into the city at quarter of five. The hour that, one week later, will bring Leatherfest to a close.

So why did I bother?

Because I get to NYC often enough, especially during softball. But I'm always heading up for something. So I'm in a hurry, and all stressed out because I'm inevitably delayed by traffic at the Holland Tunnel, and then I go and do whatever, and afterwards, I've got just enough time to grab a latte before it's time to head home.

But what I don't get is unencumbered time. Just time to wander around without a thought in my head. Sit in some coffee place somewhere, reading, writing in my journal.

Having posted recently about the "numinous cloud of romantic possibility" that I've come to miss about NYC, I decided I need some of that. So that's what I did.

I found parking on Hudson Street, and headed for the Factory Cafe. I got a latte, found a seat in the window, and read my Buddhism book, watching the parade of men and (increasingly since I left) straight couples with baby carriages or yung'uns in tow. Sweet.

My softball coach spotted me and stopped in to chat on his way to work at Ty's. Great catching up with him. Big changes are in the offing apparently. One of our number, has been proposed to. His partner had hip replacement surgery. And he and his partner were interviewed for a segment on In The Life on same sex couples who have been together like forever. (Or as he put it, "far far far far too long." With a smile, he said that.)

Afterwards, I stopped in to visit him at Ty's, and found the early evening crowd to be enticingly toothsome. I started to feel hungry, so I headed to Go Sushi on Village Square (that's 6th Ave and Chrisopher for you outtatowners), and then decided to head to the Spiegel.

In part, I wanted to confirm a theory that the Baron and I cooked up last weekend.

Okay. Here's my theory. Those Chelsea guys! They have all these fabulous gay bars in Chelsea with amazing interiors and great drinks, and they wear their hottest clothes and head there and meet up with their friends, and talk all kinds of smack, and catch up on the latest, and laugh and comiserate, and such. But here's what they can't do at G and XL or wherever: they can't make a play for that hottie across the room. Because when you swim in the creme de la creme of NYC gay life, you never know who he might be, and you don't want to do something like make a pass and get shot down by someone who might be the client who walks into your ad agency on monday morning. So what these guys can't do is get laid. But lo and behold, this bar with all these dark corners opened up, and it's not the kind of place that Chelsea guys would go to, so of course, they all flock there. Because that's where the rules are lifted, and they might just be able to get laid.

And indeed, the Spiegel was mobbed with Chelsea guys, wearing Hollister instead of Abercrombie & Fitch right now.

But there was some leather in the place. More, in fact, than I'm used to seeing there. And, it was an unseasonably balmy night. So I headed to the roofdeck to have a cigar. I met a few guys, including one who works for none other than Roman Cool. I shared with him my nickname for his boss, and it's origins, and he concurred that it was apt.

And I ran into the delicious Booie! With whom I did the scene that almost got shut down last year at Delta. He was resplendent in rubber.

Okay. Then I noticed that on the second floor, around the pool table, it was incredibly dimly lit. I mean, if someone standing a yard away from you did the "how many fingers am I holding up" thing, you'd have a hard time with that.

Uh huh.

But, oddly, no one seemed to be taking advantage of that.

I worked my way through the crowd. The crowd of guys just standing there in the darkness. And saw this totally hot muscle guy. Inexplicably, he was wearing a wifebeater over a harness. No idea what he was thinking there, but he was so hot that he could have been wearing a Hello Kitty! tshirt and pulled it off. I positioned myself directly across from him, and for a good ten minutes, we just stood there, looking at each other.

SooOOooOOOOoooo hot.

Finally, when I crossed the four feet of space that separated us, it was instant lip lock. And touching and holding and pinching nipples and exploring down the seats of pants. He was a great kisser. He had a great touch. And his body just felt so good. So good.

I love that. In fact, just kissing and touching and holding some stranger in a dark bar is one of my favorite things about being gay.

Eventually, he called it quits. Not sure if I was being fired or whether he was just moving on or whatever, but it was cool. He said something about having to take a piss and recharge. Cool.

But, we apparently were the catalyst for all kinds of gettin' busy. Instead of standing there in the darkness, there was now this writhing, sucking, kissing throng around me. I really got off on the hot muscle daddy to my right, who was working the balls of a hot Dominican boy. The boy would say, "No, that's too much!" and the daddy would ease up some, talk him through it, and continue putting him through his paces. Great interaction! At one point, the boy was going down on him, sucking cock like a pro, and I caught the daddy's eye. He smile, and I gave him a hammy, exagerated thumbs up.

And, eventually, someone in the employ of the Spiegel figured out what was going on, and pushed his way through the throng, shining his flashlight into the darkest corners. Alas. We all kind of hung out after that, but the action never really got going again.

I definitley didn't intend to, but I ended up closing the place down, leaving at 4 am. This meant that I got home at 5:30. This meant that I was going to bed at the time when I would have to get up for work in 24 hours. And I am not a young and vigourous pup anymore!

So, as you can well imagine, today was a slow day.

Frolic of Leathermen

Y’know that Collective Noun thing? All those nutty names for groups of animals? A husk of jackrabbits, a kindle of kittens, a gaze of racoons, a leap of leopards, a fling of sandpipers, a parliament of owls?

Now, perusing websites like this one leads me to believe that someone, or some group of someones, sat down one sunday morning and drank way too much tea and pissed their pants giggling coming up with them.

But we love Collective Nouns, right?

And so, we here at SingleTails are proposing the following serve as Collective Nouns for certain segments of the BDSM world... Lemme know what you think, and feel free to add your own.

A brace of skinheads
A quelling of dungeon masters
A honey of cubs
A bristle of bootblacks
A cracking of whipsmen
A penetration of fisters
A service of boys
A shackling of slaves
A dominion of Masters
An endurance of masochists
An infliction of sadists
A transgression of barebackers
A patrol of uniform fetishists
A pitch of rubbermen
A hank of bondage Tops
A glug of pisspigs
... or maybe a quench of pisspigs?
A cantanker of Old Guard Leathermen
A fulmination of New Jack Leathermen
A welter of painpigs
... or maybe a blister of painpigs?
A coddle of infantilists
A darkling of Edge players
A grope of bears
A taut of bondage bottoms
A lapping of leatherpups

Madonna Rules Everything Around Me

Last night, after First Friday in Doylestown, I headed to the Raven down in New Hope. Pretty typical night at the Raven, as in, blisteringly disappointing. So I watched television. There was a reasonably hot boy standing next to me. At one point, Madonna’s new video, Hung Up came on.

I am, of course, perfectly placed in the demographic to be a slavish admirer of her. Gay, spent my dancing days in the Eighties and early Nineties.

And I am.

But I’ve gotta tell you, this video...

Lemme put it this way. I remember years ago watching a Marilyn Monroe movie. Forget what the title was, but they were on a boat. I’ve also seen Seven Year Itch, Some Like It Hot, and, of course, The Misfits, which also has the added bonus of Monty Cliff.

But anyway, watching a Marilyn movie with a buddy of mine, we both simultaneously had the same realization: we would totally go straight for Marilyn Monroe. I mean, she is just so sexy! I pant after her.

Well, as with Marilyn, so with Madonna.

I swear! She looks amazing in that video. And she’s a mother of two!

So hot boy and I just went off on this Madonna-focused love fest. “It’s cause she does yoga and pilades!” “Look at her move! So hot!” “And she has this mixed message thing going on, unapproachable but she wants you.” “Look at her legs!” “She just takes sex and turns it into art!”

And then, I bid hot boy goodnight, and headed home to listen to thhe song I’d just seen the video for. And it’s really good.

Thank You, God!

The Almighty did it again!

Right there in Doylestown. At Starbucks. (Of course.)

Yesterday after work, I’m tooling over there, and standing out front was this... this... this boy. Unbelievable.

I swear, he was an unbelievablly close approximation of Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. So close, I debated with myself if in fact it was Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. But quickly realized that Doylestown, Pennsylvania, is just not on Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel’s map.

But there he was, in all his august glory, smoking a Marlboro, talking on a cell phone, while this posse of girls, their eyes shining, sat literally at his feet, just so totally smitten.

(I, on the other hand, leaned up against the railing watching him, my eyes shining, totally smitten.)

I decided to run inside, grab a latte, and that it wasn’t, in fact, too cold to enjoy a cigar out there on the porch. I imagined the boy--you should have seen the guns on him!--asking me about cigars, and me turning him on to them, taking him around the corner and buying him his first one, and then sitting there enjoying my cigar while he gave a try to his first cigar, and of course he’d like it, and we’d sit for hours on the porch of Starbucks, talking, smoking cigars, and it gets dark early this time of year, and when I decide it’s dark enough and nobody’s around, I’d handcuff him, throw him in my jeep, take him home, lead him into the garage, chain him up, plow him till his eyes cross, chain him up out there, and keep him as my personal cigar boy cumdump.

But when I emerged from Starbucks with my triple shot latte and my cigar in hand, he was gone.

Which is probably just as well, right?

Thursday, November 03, 2005

At The Gym

Change, huh? I wanted change.

So I went to the gym tonight. First time in a week. Didn't get an opportunity with the Baron visiting, and I ushered in my 42nd year on earth with spasms in my lower back. But I seem to be on this great trend. I'm finally gaining weight again, and I'm lifting more weight than I ever have in my life. And feeling good!

So anyway, I was heading into the locker room and this guy I see there all the time was heading out. I heard him mention TIG. ("TIG" refers to "Tungstun Inert Gas welding.") I know. I learned how to do it two years ago.

"Are you a welder?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm an iron worker. Been an iron worker my whole life."

And he said that with that note of pride in his voice. Distinction. I am an iron worker. That's my place in the world. That's the way I stand up and take my place in the world.

And then, for once in my life, I said something resembling the right thing at the right time. Instead of thinking of it the next morning in the shower.

"Wow! That's my dream job."

And so we talked. Yeah, he is hiring, well... always looking for good people.

I think that if I want this, I could get it.

Dang. I could be a welder. An iron worker.

But here's the downside. it would mean saying goodbye to Wuperior Soodcraft. A place that's become so much more than a job to me over the past two years. And, I was told not so long ago that I've sort of transformed the entire place.

Like... Gosh! Right?

So who is this ironworker guy? Well, he's probably in his fifties. Always ready with a hello and a smile. Got lots of ink. More along the lines of waking up after a drunken binge and finding out why you have that burning sensation on your arm. (He's in recovery. He mentioned it, asking if he knew me from a meeting.) And he has a bumper sticker on his truck that says, "Nobody ever drowned in sweat," and wears a tshirt that says "Pain is weakness leaving the body."

So, y'know... I like him.

Decisions decisions decisions.

I'm gonna drop a sample of my stick welding skills into my gym bag.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005


No trick-or-treaters on Hallowe'en! Not a one! So luckily my father gets all of it.

Tonight, at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown, it was the Feast of All Souls. A requiem mass was said. I'd never heard one before. Usually, a resurrection mass, celebratory rather than solemn, is said at funerals in my church. It was beautiful. The music was sublime.

After church, I was approached by a parishioner who invited me to join up.

I didn't launch into it with him, but of course, St. Paul's has to "come out" as a Welcoming church (as in, 'welcoming of gay men and lesbians') before I'd have my letter transferred from St. Luke's in NYC.

Work goes well. Of course. And I'm looking forward to GMSMA's leatherfest and the erotic art fair up in NYC this Saturday.

And, finally my chain saw is back from getting repairs. So I'll be able to plunge into chopping firewood in earnest on Sunday.


Only this. The thought that keeps passing through my head: I want a change.

I want a change.

I'm ready for something new.

Something transformative.