Sunday, January 29, 2006

Remember... Only you...

Among my father's many obsessions is keeping our woodstove cleaned of ashes. Every few days, he'll ask me to empty the ashes. No big deal. An easy enough task. However, he includes in his request the instructions to 'dump them back in he woods.' (Note: we live on 4.5 wooded acres here in the howling wilderness.)

Now that's where I have issues. Even if we haven't had a fire for a couple of days, there are still coals buried in the ashes. And I don't like the idea of dumping hot coals out in the woods. So I try to only do this when it's raining or there's snow on the ground or whatever.

*sigh*

Is it just a coincidence that they make a sequel to Bambie and I just about burn the forest down?

You guessed it. I dumped the ashes on the compost heap in the back yard, and about twenty minutes later noticed that the back yard was ablaze. I managed to get all the fire close to the house--it sort of spread out like a big amoeba--with the garden hose. But where it was extending back into the woods, I was a bucket brigade of one. At first, I thought I'd have to call in the professionals. I don't need our neighbors who staff the local volunteer fire department flagging me as an idiot and a firebug however. I have to see these people at the post office and the supermarket after all.

So I was happy when my dousing the flames with buckets of water drawn from the pond out back managed to bring things under control, and give me a great cardio workout while I was doing it.

So, no damage done really. Although there is the big, black telltale spot out back.

However, how timely! For today is the lunar new year, and in the Chinese calendar, it's the year of the Fire Dog. So the fire part is pretty much taken care of.

And that leaves the dog part. As in, Faithful Companion. I'm putting my thinking cap on, and trying to figure out some way to make this a very special lunar year for him.

And I plan on being a total dog for the next twelve cycles of twenty-eight days, too.


Saturday, January 28, 2006

I.S.O. Transcendence

I haven't done anything remotely kinky since Inferno back in September.

I go to work, I hit Starbucks in Doylestown, I go to the gym, Wednesdays I go to church, head home, make dinner for me and my father, watch a little tv, go to bed. Weekends I stay around Bucks County, or head down to Philadelphia and put in an appearance at the Bike Stop, or head up to NYC for one reason or another. I go to museums. I see movies. I Get Things Done. I've even gotten laid a couple of times.

But what ain't we got? We ain't got transcendent erotic encounters with other men.

I've noticed that lately a lot of my masturbatory fantasies have involved snuff. In general, I'm not the one being snuffed, I'm doing the snuffing. (Ask me about my obsession with that movie Hostel, wherein collegiate potheads are abducted and subjected to all manner of unspeakable torture.) Now... duh! That's not about me wanting to off somebody. Or, heaven forfend, get offed myself. Just this morning I spared the life of a flour moth that was making its way around of my mug of tea, giving it a blessing as it flew off to lay eggs in my cake flour or something. I'm soooo not about taking life.

But clearly what I do want is to spend time in that liminal area, that border region, where unreality and reality mix and mingle. Where pain is transmuted into bliss, where blood and piss become wine and nectar, where power and powerlessness meet and kiss, and where nothing is hotter than raw vulnerability and tears.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not all mopey. Quite the reverse. I'm "chatting" and meeting all these guys from Manhunt.net. And, I've been dating fairly regularly one of them. And he's a great guy. I find him attractive, great to hang out with, sincere, kind, and sexy. But I'm pretty sure he's going to dump me first chance he gets. And I'm fairly nonplussed by this. Cause y'see, he might be able to keep me warm at night, and give me back rubs, and get all kinds o' genital action going on... but he doesn't have the kink gene.

So what's the answer here?

A few years ago, when I was considering leaving NYC and moving to Fort Lauderdale, a friend of mine warned me that I'd lose the intellectual edge that is as necessary for surviving and thriving in New York as a MetroCard. I raised this with a buddy of mine down in the Sunshine State, and he said, "Yeah, but the sun is really hot down here and it fries your brain, so after a couple of weeks, you don't miss it."

So could I do that? Could I just forget about transcendence? Drown myself in triple-shot grande lattés? Chop firewood till my hands bleed?

Great John Updike story called "The Country Husband." Happily married father of two (or three maybe) living in Connecticut, successful, beautiful home, etc. etc. etc. Suddenly he finds himself obsessed with the babysitter. He starts seeing a psychiatrist in the city. At the end of the story, he's sublimating all those energies into building birdhouses in the garage. Quite the ambiguous ending, huh? Problem solved, right? That happy home and perfect marriage are preserved!

So you there! Living in that metropolis you call home! You with the St. Andrew's Cross set up in the guest bedroom! Do me a favor: make a date tonight, find someone to flog. Or, find someone to flog you. Or fist you or to fist, if that's not a St. Andrew's Cross but a sling. Whatever!

Yeah yeah yeah. I know. You've had a long week. Yeah you're significant other has a bad headcold and maybe you're coming down with it, too. Yeah you've had everybody in town six times now and it's all been-there-done-that.

Just go do it.

It is your solemn duty to go have a little fun for those of us who can't. 'Kay?


Friday, January 27, 2006

You Are My Candy Girl

What's up with Archie comics? It can't be just a local phenomenon. I don't think I've ever been in a supermarket checkout line that hasn't featured Archie comics next to the latest updates on Jen, Brad, and Angelina and the like. Once you notice them, they're everywhere.

Does anybody read Archie comics? I mean, it's my understanding that the world of comics... now callled "graphic novels," is exploding. And there's a lot of really good stuff out there. Not that I'm hoping for the next installment of Demonic Sex to show up in the racks next to Allure and the Star, but if they're interested in impulse purchased literature, there must be something more worthwhile than the adventures of Archie, Jughead, Reggie, Betty, and Veronica. It's not even funny or well drawn.

Another mystery. How did Archie comics come to have such a stranglehold on our supermarkets?


Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Father

So my dad is getting anxiety attacks.

Yesterday, work took me up to Connecticut. A couple of weeks ago, I got to spend a night in a McMansion (but one I liked! quality workmanship and restraint, despite the 60,000 square feet for three people to call home), and, of course, that made my father nuts. This time, to the same house, but just to rehang some doors and drawer fronts. No big deal. When I arrived back in Doylestown, I called dad to let him know I was home, and he responded as he would to the news that rescue teams had found my plane that went down in the Andes and I seemed to be fine.

Which is problematic. He hates when I'm away from home. But I can't let that curtail the time I spend away from home. It just makes it harder on me when I go. Cuz he's my dad, yo.

At the same time, I've noticed that lately he has become talkative in a way I don't remember him ever being. Could it be that I've somehow managed to pierce the barrier of his narscisism? Is he actually aware on some level that I'm prone to being happy or sad, and that I'm easier to live with when I'm happy?

Huh.

And, I'm sorry to report, odd things going on with the dating thing. This guy whom I've enjoyed a few dates with called me yesterday, and he wanted to know "what are we doing."

*sigh*

We're dating. I call you, or you call me, and we make a plan for dinner and a movie, that kind of thing. He seemed largely dissatisfied with that.

Dang, Buddy. Like I wouldn't like rapture and violins, too. But we are both men in our forties. Best not to judge things by that yardstick.

I think he's gonna dump me. Which will make the second time in less than a month. Have I lost my edge? Am I getting boring? Is my brain rotting out here in the sticks as Diabolique predicted?

Or maybe these guys sense the wave of pain that I ride lately. And that scares them off. Or maybe they don't, but they do sense that I stuffing something, and they're worried by what that might be.

Could be, could be. Onward and upward.


Sunday, January 22, 2006

Date Monster

Yesterday, as in Saturday, was a great day. Headed up to NYC for the bike show at the Javitz Center with a man we'll call Washington Crossing. We had a really good time together. The bikes were hot, and many of the men looking at the bikes were hot. Also ran into Reddiwhip, whom I last saw at a service center on I-95 coming back from MAL. So Paris Hilton lives.

Bike-wise, I may (may!) be rethinking my position on owning a bike. I had decided that the danger element and all gave me pause. Learning how to feed myself again would suck. And the brain injured have a really hard time getting dates. So I had decided that since I had made it for 40 years without owning a motorcycle, I'd wait another 40 and revisit the issue.

But now I'm thinking that if it was a take it out on weekends kind of thing, safe gas by taking it to work, then that might be a reasonable level of risk.

And, Erik Buell is a genius. He worked for Harley-Davidson, broke off to design his own bikes, and then came back to Harley. And there is, apparently, this odd shotgun marriage relationship they have. Buell motorcycles are just so beautiful. Amazing design ideas went into them. They're such... ...machines! Incredible machines. Not overthought like BMWs (Wash Cross rides a BMW. They tend to be favored by engineer types. Staffing the booth of the BMW Riders Association where Wash Cross and I stopped off were six guys, all with wire framed glasses, all with trim little mustaches, all wearing pleated pants. No lie.) A departure from traditional ideas about chrome and headlights, but a beautiful, confident, and powerful reinterpretation.

So. Who is this Wash Cross guy?

Well, I've had several dates with him. And with a few other local guys. (That's right! Local!) So far, 2006 has been all about dating. As in, we flag each other down on Manhunt.com, and pick a Starbucks convenient to both of us. And meet up. If the initial meeting goes well, then we get together for another date. Like a movie and dinner. Or, in one unique and wonderful situation, a play date for our dogs at a local bark park. And then we have sex.

I love dating! I had forgotten how much I love dating. It just works so well. The beauty of it is, it's just a date. Just getting together, talking, eating, seeing a movie, hooking up. And that's all. Complete unto itself. My brow is unfurrowed by questions of 'what would it be like to spend the rest of my life with this guy?', because that's besides the point. It's just a date.

Although, at the same time, it's akin to the reality show on MTV that the Baron is wild about but I haven't managed to catch yet called "Next." It involves one dater and five potential dates. The five potential dates wait in a van, watching the proceedings live, while the dater takes them on, one by one. And if the dater decides he's not interested, he announces 'Next!' and the datee is ushered out and the next on the roster comes in for a go. Of course, the brilliant thing is that all the datees are bonding in the van, and forming their own opinions of the dater. And of course, since it's on MTV and MTV is cool, they do queers and not just straights.

And that's also what a date is. It's putting yourself out there. And he puts himself out there. You don't know what his deal-breakers are, and you're listening for him to bring up one of yours. So there is risk involved, because at any minute, you could be fired. Or you could have cause to fire him. But, what the hell? It's just a date. And I can make conversation with anybody for a night. And do a pretty good job at it, too.

And, of course, perfect for concupiscent me, there are seven nights in a week, and therefore the potential for seven dates with seven different men.

Perfect.

Also in the news, three jobs that I'm sending in resumes for. So the hunt continues on that front, too.

Huh. Come to think of it, another form of dating.


Monday, January 16, 2006

Mid-Atlantic Leather Report: I Am Paris Hilton.

After much doubt and difficulty involving a man who is enshrined in my memory and on my cell phone as 'small minded mean spirited prick,' I managed to find a room to share with Friend and (Former) Landlord, at the Residence Inn.

Of course, work had me go out on a service call, replacing all the screws in the in all the knobs in this nice lady's kitchen. Happily, she baked me chocolate chip cookies. Truth! But, that meant that I got a late start, so I was driving mostly in darkness and thhick fog. With the Starbucks stops and one wrong turn that had me heading north instead of south on I-95, I finally got there at 9:30 pm. Friend And Former Landlord and I had a quick dinner in the Plaza dining room, and then we headed into the Lobby.

And thus the tone was set for thhe weekend.

We were making our way towards the cigar tent. And, of course, I ran into lots of people I know. We hadn't made it into the tent before Friend and Former Landlord tapped me on the shoulder and said, "This is nuts! I can't hang out with you! You go five steps through the crowd and have to stop and say hello to somebody. It's like being out with Paris Hilton."

Yes, it is. At this stage of the game, I know everybody everywhere. And I love that. And I love them.

That's what I was after at MAL. Y'know, if I want to get laid, I can get laid. And, if I do the work, if I want to find some man to whip out in the garage, I can make that happen, too. But what is damn hard to come by is sitting down and talking with another leatherman. Comparing notes. Reflecting on the life. Scenes we have known. Best Inferno. Best leatherbar. Best boy. Worst scene. Whatever.

That's what I was after, and, of course, MAL delivered. Just like it always does. That's what I love about the event, and why, next to Inferno, it's my favorite.

So I saw so many of the men I love, the men that make my life worth living, and met several new ones, including Executive Slave, a really really sweet and wonderful man from NYC; a man who has actually read every word of SingleTails (and liked it!) and who made sure that I did not want for cranberry juice; a smokin' hot cigar smokin' cow farmer from Wisconsin; a man from Norfolk who throws a great f*ck; the one and only Jimbo, one of my favorite bloggers; a man who gets my precum dripping from the beleaguered city of New Orleans, who also turns out to be a fellow Happy Warrior in the field of harm reduction and substance use (how hot is that???); a bar manager from Provincetown who, although he stood me up for lunch, is so hot that I'm gonna see what I can do about meeting up with him again sometime; and a bar manager from... a more southerly beach community (!) who I also want to cross paths with again; and various other hot bears and leathermen who dazzled me too much to remember distinguishing details.

So what all went on?

Okay. The best of my recollection...

Despite so much else going on, I managed to get a good night's sleep on Friday. This left me fresh on Saturday morning to make the CLAW Eye Openers party. Nothing not to love about those CLAW guys! And there was Icarus his significant other, who seems to have snagged the titel of Mr. Intergalactic Leather Sir (and for him, it's well deserved). And our hosts, leathermuscleslave and his owner. I was there pretty much for the whole two hours.

At about 11:45, an odd thing happened. In came all of these title holders! Including, none other than my fellow Novices SIG participant, Keckler, the reigning Mr. Boston Leather (Go Beantown! Love those Red Sox, too!) And I'm just standing there drinking my coffee, and all these guys would come up to me verrrrry solicitously, and be all like, "Hi! Nice to meet you! Where're you here from? I'm Mr. Piscabip Leather 2005." So that was cool, right? (I for one felt kind of cheated to learn that the current Mr. International Leather is in a committed monogamous relationship. So, like, I don't have a chance with him. What's up with that? What is up with that?)

Anyway, the reason for this influx became clear when I learned that although CLAW had the room through noon, the room was then booked for what was described to me as a "press conference" to announce the judges of IML.

'Scuse me? A "press conference," huh? As in, "Yes, the gentleman from The Times has a follow-up question?" As in, "Wait! We can't start yet! CNN is still setting up their camera!" I've held press conferences, Sir, and this was... uh... an Announcement.

Whatever.

Anyway, leathermuscleslave and Mr. Intergalactic Leather Sir are judges! That's very cool!

Although the announcement meant that all the title holders in the room now knew that they didn't have to waste time talking to li'l ol' me as they had bigger fish to fry. And, of course, leathermuscleslave and Mr. Intergalactic Leather Sir won't have to worry about somebody to rotate their tires or clean up after dinner parties or separate their bulbs and such, as there's a world of title holders out there who would be only just too happy to help!

And then, I hit the vendor area, a.k.a., the MAL Mall. Sadly, nobody hd what I was looking for. I'd like a leather belt with a big chunky buckle. But not a dopey one. All the kids round my way are sporting these. My tattoo guy has one that says 'Bully' that I would love to wear. But no go. The best of the best was, of course, MP Uniform And Supplies of Allentown, Pennsylvania, providing whatever folks on the job in law enforcement, fire, and EMS in the tri-state area need. I got a great pair or tactical pants with built in knee pads, this shirt designed to accentuate your musculature (cops need this cuz why?), and a new sam brown belt. As always, they guys of MP are great to deal with. Tragically, they don't have a web presence, and they don't go to IML. So you'll just have to plan a trip to Allentown, won't you? Yeah you will.

Then I was due for some TFD (Time For Drew), so I headed to Starbucks to sit and relax far from the hoi polloi, give a call to my father, and recharge.

But don't dally too long! Cuz I was heading to the cigar party at the Green Lantern sponsored by Hot Ash DC! What a great time that was. Lots more of the Paris Hilton deal, including LeatherPapi, husbear of GIJoeSkin, with whom I bonded at Datt and Male's party over our involvement with political work on behalf of American foreign policy concerning Central America during the 1980s. And we all had the room pretty dense in a hurry. And there, through the billows, emerged this man I'd chatted with on musclebears.com. Jiminy Crickets! Outta my dreams and into the Green Lantern. And I'm damn glad he made the trip. We talked, and he's one of those sexy brainy passionate men. We kissed, and he's a great kisser.

Despite the fact that I was weak in the knees, I managed to find my way back to the Residence Inn so I could meet up for dinner again with Friend And Former Landlord. We went to Afterwards Café at KramerBooks (no relation) along with one of FAFL's many many many boys. (FAFL sees way more action than anyone else on the planet. Must be all that clean living! And being a vicious sadist.)

After dinner, we had to rush back, because I was going to my second Hot Ash DC event of the weekend, a play party.

Cool!

My strategy was to go and check it out. If it looked like a dud, I'd head for the door.

So it started out with all of us standing around in a hotel room smoking cigars. And it was like, "Not him... not him... no, not him either... no, no, no, no, no... Yeah, probably... Oh yeah! Definitely him! No, No..." that kind of thing. Then, we moved into the dark room, still smoking our cigars. And initially, it was like, "No! Not you! I want that other guy! You're a 'No,' and he's a 'Yes!'" But then the magic happened. And it was everybody on everybody else, and it was great.

I finished (that's a cigar afficionado term, y'know) with this guy from Charlotte. He was f*cking me in the bathroom. I was bracing myself against the vanity, in front of a big mirror. So looking in the mirror, we could do the eye-to-eye thing, even though he was doing a rear entry. And... And... All of both of us were smoking cigars.

Sweeeet.

I hit the lobby of the Plaza afterwards, just to put in an appearance, but I was pretty much sated for the night.

Next morning. Sunday. More TFD, but this time at Caribou Coffee, where I went through the New York Times and enjoyed one of their lattes. Back at the hotel, who should I run into but Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer, who rocked my world on the Sunday night of MAL last year. And in the subsequent months. We greeted each other warmly, and agreed to meet up for dinner later that night. I wandered. I mixed and mingled. I hung with my peeps.

Oh. Here's a great moment.

There I was, talking to these three hot musclebears. I mean, incredibly hot. The stuff of fantasies. All combined, these guys probably lift the equivalent of an 18 wheeler semi in their weekly workouts.

So, what were we talking about? Was it our sexual exploits? Was it comparing our favorite beers? Was it swapping tales of hot cubs we've ploughed into next week?

Nope.

It was all about gay cruises. Specifically, Princess Cruises.

It was excruciating.

I tried to pass the time by imagining them all naked, and me doing my best to service their bullet nipples, or who could stand up to the most severe whipping. But it didn't help. Gay cruises kept intruding. I couldn't focus.

Finally, the time came for me to head to dinner with Mr. big Shot Hollywood Producer. We went to Thai Tanic (No! Really!) where the food was good, and at the table next to us was none other than Porn Sensation Duke Rivers! Duke and I once did next door scenes at a GMSMA dungeon demo, me getting all pugilistic on a hot boy, and Duke tying his down to the pool table and making with the hot wax. And, he's a very sweet man. A genuine and gentle soul.

The dinner went well. I exorcised some ghosts and gained some perspective. And that was good.

Mr. BSHP and I repaired to the cigar tent, and there we met a Tom of Finland sketch come to life. Who was into fisting.

Now, for Mr. BSHP, fisting is It. Absolutely the be all and end all. The ultimate. And the same was true for Sketch Guy. I first fisted a man when I was seventeen years old. (Prior to doing it, I never knew that it was possible, little less desirable.) I've been told on a few occasions that I have quite a talent for it. However, with that tight hole of mine, I've tried a few times but with no success to take a fist. So I've sort of feel myself to be on the outside looking in. But y'know, hearing BSHP and Sketch talk about it, and reflecting on the good experiences I've had... (there was that boy in NYC, Does Windows, who took me almost to my elbow, and it was only his third or fourth time taking a fist) ...and I think I'm gonna explore that some more in 2006.

And there was so much more. But I've gotta get to bed. Back to work tomorrow, and that means I get up at 5:45 a.m.

'Night.


Sunday, January 01, 2006

Saturday, June 21st

Too rainy to play softball today. Although as it turns out, we probably could have got in our first game or two.

When we got the news, the Ballbreakers headed to Manatus to have breakfast. Nice spending time with those guys. Then, Doe-nee and I decided to see a movie together. First, we went up to Bed Bath & Beyond. I’m on a quest for a new screen for my Braun 5620 electric razor. There’s a hole in the current one, which leaves me with fine cuts on my scalp. An interesting look, but not something I like first thing in the morning.

We went to see The Hulk. I loved it. Trust Ang Lee. In the same way that he used the traditions of Hong Kong martial arts movies to tell a simple love story, he used a comic book hero to tell a story about a father and son. Beautiful. It’s also about not being in touch with your feelings, and feeling that you’re not who you think you are, that there’s something you’re called to be that you haven’t yet realized. And after Dr. Bruce Banner makes that realization (and become the Hulk), his comment to his girlfriend? “When I lose control like that, when he takes over, I really like it.”

I know what that’s about.

So tonight was FSE Fever at the Eagle. I did a demo, beating my fellow board member. It went really really well. The Eagle guys were so accommodating. They planted a couple of eyebolts in the ceiling just for me. I chained up fellow board member, so that he couldn’t go anywhere, but he was still somewhat mobile. This allowed him to recoil and take the blows that I dished out. I started out working him with the nightstick, then moved to the SAP gloves (illegal in New York State!). I switched from punching to slapping with the gloves, which made a nice transition for when I started in with my Really Heavy Flogger. It was great for both of us. And I think the audience was appreciative: no matter how crowded it got afterwards, I had no trouble moving through the mob—they parted before me like the Red Sea for Moses. Don’t be fuckin with that guy.

The door was slow at first. Basically, no one came to our party. The folks who did show up were there to go to the Eagle as on any Saturday night.

It sort of dawned on me that there’s a whole crew of people that I’d see at the LURE that I may never see again.

And tomorrow is basanos day. I’m nervous. I’m looking forward to it. I’m glad that I’ll be busy as hell between now and then and won’t have a lot of time to dwell.

I’ll let you know how it goes.


Sunday, June 22nd

Boys Lie

I saw a guy wearing a tshirt emblazoned with this today at Folsom Street East.

Basanos didn’t show. I came home tonight and found no email, and no instant messages from him.

I’m doing my best to believe in him. Perhaps there’s some plausible explanation. His truck broke down on the Thruway. Family emergency. Something.

At this point I’d be willing to believe anything. Even if he were to contact me and say that he chickened out or didn’t think it would work, that would be fine.

As it is, I’m at a loss to understand, and my faith is deeply shaken. Perhaps it’s just not feasible to expect that there are men out there that really are looking for slavery. Human beings are so frail, so faithless. And committing yourself to slavery is a big deal. Perhaps it’s more of a commitment than anyone is capable of making with their eyes open.

My new friend and possible business partner, whom we’ll call the Rebbe, said that it was his loss. I think that if indeed basanos has flaked out on me, then that is the case. I would be a good owner for basannos. To be sure, I’d be the best owner I am capable of being.

But it’s my loss, too. Loss of trust, loss of hope. My loss, too.


Overall the day was well. I was very busy. Doing the flags, both putting them up and taking them down, was a great job for me. I enjoyed it. I was good at it. I could lose myself in it. The results were immediately tangible as three blocks of the Meatpacking District were transformed into something festive and fun, do in large measure to the gas station flags I strung zigzagging across the street. It rained and when it wasn’t raining was cold, cloudy, and overcast. However, there were an estimated 3,000 people there (based on door proceeds), and even though when it was really coming down people took shelter underneath awnings and the tents we erected, I was surprised that a lot of men stuck it out.

Lots of hot men there too. And I knew bunches of people. All day long it was saying hello and catching up. And it was an exhausting day. I’m bone tired. On my feet all day long. Time to walk the dog, turn off the alarm, and go to bed.




Leaving, for the moment, my feelings about the basanos incident, when I was walking around on Saturday with Doe-nee, we stopped into a store on 8th Avenue that sells candles, windchimes, greeting cards, and similar stuff I’m not interested it. They also sell books. Whilst Doe-nee browsed, I took a look at their books.

There I found Geoff Mains’ Urban Aboriginals. I’ve abandoned the nine other books I’m reading and I’ve been going through it ever since.

Wow.

Even though I’m only on page 30, it’s incredible. It truly is the Ur text of leather sexuality. Geoff Mains said it first and better. I’d quote from what I consider to be ‘the Good Parts,’ but I think I’d end up typing in the entire book.

My favorite for today is the idea that although there is a wide diversity of political opinion in the Tribe, people tend toward political ideas that can be described as Libertarian. In other words, “Leave me alone.”

That, essentially, is me. Get the government off our backs. And out of our dungeons. To me, this includes a disdain for activist government, and also for people seeking support and assistance from the government. If you want the government to be your mom, you can’t quibble when mom lays down the rules. If I were more idealistic, I’d probably tend towards anarchism, but anarchy seems incompatible with globalization to me.

So I’m against Sodomy laws (and apparently the Supreme Court has failed to hand down an opinion on the Texas sodomy case), and I’m also very dubious of civil rights legislation, which mandates how people should feel about other people. Once the government gets involved with telling us who we can hire, it’s a short trip to telling us who we can sleep with.

Anyway, you can expect Singletails to be peppered with “Like Geoff Mains said” from here on in.

And now, I’m gonna get on the phone with Earthlink and see if I can’t get an internet connection. I can dial in, but Explorer and Entourage (my email management program) can’t find the web. So, I’ve been relying on the dreadful and terrible AOL. AOL’s browser allows me to check email (ponderously), but blogging is not possible.

Sorry to keep you all on tenterhooks whilst I contend with this. DSL is on the way.




I am going to continue to wear around my neck the silver chain with the small brass key. The key is to a padlock that closes eighteen inches of chain. Currently, no one wears that chain around his neck. That doesn’t mean that no one ever will.



Monday, June 23rd

Went to the Center Garden Party this evening. I had thought it started at 7pm, but on looking at my ticket on my way out the door I realized it had started at 6pm. Soooo, when I arrived at about quarter after seven, all the food was gone. I was starving. I managed to grab some curried chicken wraps from Housing Works’ catering operation’s table, and in desperation stole a brownie from the kids’ table. They’d only take a bite and put it back anyway, right?

A good thing happened when I got home just now. I received my email confirmation for Inferno. So I’m already there. Truly. Dang I’m looking forward to that.

GMSMA’s punching program for this Wednesday fell apart. The two original presenters, Punchpig and Brawler cancelled. We found a fallback in the current GMSMA President (let’s call him Mr. President), but he threw his back out. Called upon the men behind All-American Kink. No go. Remember the movie “Who is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe”? This is like, Who is disabling the great punchpigs of New York City.

So I’m stressing about this after the Garden Party, walking up Hudson Street, and I run into a guy I know. We’ve been looking forward to getting together for about a year now. I told him what was going on and he said, “That’s totally my scene.”

I asked if he would be willing to let me punch him in front of about fifty guys at GMSMA and he said, “Sure.” He’s articulate and really really really into it. This could save the program. Although this means that I’ll be presenting with all of 48 hours lead time. But worse things could happen.

Along those lines, I’m trying to track down a quote by Jack London I read years ago. Something to the effect that ‘In the loins of the boxer dwells the soul of primitive man.”

And here’s another interesting thing I thought of. At Folsom Street East, in the flurry of “Hi howaya’s,” I ran into this boy. I know him slightly. His name is… well, forget about his name. He’s russo-polish extraction. We’ll call him Tovarish. He’s got a tan complexion, but being a slav, has light eyes and light hair. And he’s got this sort of dreamy piggy quality. I like him a lot. So at one point today, apropos of nothing in particular, the thought popped into my head, “Tovarish would make a good slave.”

Huh. Maybe, maybe not. He could be in the throes of crystal meth addiction for all I know. Who knows if that’s what he feels he’s called to be. But if the answer to the first question were no and the answer to the second question were yes, then I, for one, would jump at the chance to own him.

No more internet originated slave candidates ever.

What is it about the internet? In a way it’s not real. At all. On the internet, it’s too easy to slip into a persona. It’s not real. There’s no connection there.

Reading Geoff Mains’ book has me longing for the Good Old Days that I never knew. I think that in light of the recent basanos episode, I’m siding with Guy Baldwin (the internet is the worst thing that’s ever happened to the leather community) as opposed to the LthrEdge point of view (the internet is the best thing that’s ever happened to the leather community). I’m oversimplifying both men’s arguments, but that’s the gist of each, taken to their logical extremes.