Score!

Well. This weekend sure was better than last weekend. One hundred percent Norovirus free!! And... And... I remain the undisputed chicken roasting champion of... um... Plumstead Township at least.

On Saturday night, I had a sleepover date. With a man we'll call Jersey Guy. Jersey Guy is this built, inked, bushy-bearded man. He's an amazing kisser, and he throws a great f*ck. But all that I knew. What I didn't know was that he's great to talk to, and great to spend time with. And he even said the magic words: "I'm an Episcopalian."

*sigh*

And Jersey Guy says he likes my mind.

Having a sleepover party with Jersey Guy rocked. How wonderful to curl up next to another man all night long, to feel his body next to mine.

I love the bodies of men. Just the heft of them. The physical presence that they have. So solid and real. So there. And there's something so sublime about having one in bed next to you. Especially after the two of you have done your level best to spend your passionate desire for one another. That just makes it so nice.

Jersey Guy and I have the potential to go places together.

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And this week at work went gangbusters, too. I have this new job at my job. I'm coordinating the production of all of the miscellaneous stuff we make. Let's say that during installation of a kitchen, the door on one of the cabinets cracks. (Hey. It happens. It's wood. We don't grow the trees, y'know.) We've got to make a replacement door. The order comes into the shop, and it gets passed over to me. And I'm responsible for making sure that it gets made, sanded, finished, drilled for hardware, packed and shipped. Got it?

I inherited this job when the guy who had been doing it left suddenly. He worked off of this cumbersome spreadsheet. A list of all the miscellaneous jobs underway. About fifty in total.

Keeping track of these was sort of maddening. And so, I decided to make this new job a little easier. I reformatted the spreadsheet, so that now, you know what's going on and where everything is at a glance. And all the various departments know exactly what I'm hoping for out of them every day when they arrive at the shop. All I have to do is take some time at the end of the day and update everything. Which takes about a half an hour.

So in away, I got this new job, and made it not a job. I mean, anybody could do this in their spare moments.

There are other aspects of the departed guy's position that I'll be taking on. Receiving the raw materials, helping with the QC of stuff before it goes out. But all that I'll pretty much take in stride. And I get to learn how to drive a forklift.

And I'm thrilled about that. Next time I head to the Bike Stop, I want to be wearing a tshirt that says, "Hi. I'm a licensed forklift operator. And of course that means I'm great in bed." Cuz it does, right?

When the time comes for me to sit down with the powers what be and talk about a pay increase for this new job, I'm gonna be asking for an additional $2.00 an hour. Hey: I bring value to Wuperior Soodcraft! I'm great at this elegant and simple systems stuff. Piece of cake for me. I can make a whole lot of things better. But I want to get paid for doing it.

Hopefully, I won't drive the forklift into a wall before that conversation goes down.

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Even if I get the additional $2.00 an hour, I'm still gonna be looking for another job. If you think that will put me on easy street, be aware that it will bring my annual income up to about $25,000. Which is still chicken feed. And not enough to allow me to do stuff like SmokeOut in Las Vegas and CLAW at the end of April.

I heard from one of the two cool jobs that I'd be perfect for, and it wasn't good news. But, I sent email to the folks at the other cool job that I'd be perfect for, reiterating my interest in the position and stressing once again that I'd be perfect for it, and got a chipper email back saying that the process is still ongoing. So I still have a shot there.

You all do me a favor and keep your fingers crossed, 'kay?

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And, finally, this may well be the week that sees some warmer weather. As in, sitting on the porch of Starbucks enjoying a cigar with my latté. That would be most welcome. And hopefully in the not too distant future, I'll be putting my kayak in the water.

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That whipping scene I'm hoping is in my future? 'Member that?

Well, out of the blue, I got this email from this verrrrry hot musclebear in Tennessee. He explained, briefly, that he's a Top, but lately has felt a desire to be whipped. And, he was wondering if I might be the man to do it. He asked me to tell him something about myself, and to give him an idea of how I go about whipping a man.

Here's what I said in my reply email...

"Several years ago, I was mentored into the whipping scene. Until I first cracked a whip, I didn't think it was for me. Seemed so extreme, and it hurt so bad. But the man who brought me along described to me how the man you're whipping goes through an incredible experience, endorphins get pumping, and one by one, ego defenses are stripped away, and you get to the core of a man. It's the responsibility of the Top to be there, holding him, as he puts himself back together, Andrew told me.

With a lot of practice, I got good enough to use my whip on a human back (as opposed to shrubbery and such that I use for practice). And it was an incredible experience. The guy very quickly got this big happy grin on his face. He was flying, hooting and hollering with every crack. After several more great experiences, Andrew suggested to me that I ought to 'go down,' get a taste of what I dished out. So we made an appointment for him to whip me.

When I woke up that morning, my first conscious thought was: "Call it off. Just call Andrew, tell him you can't go through with it." But I talked myself in off the ledge. If I only stand up for a couple of hits, at least I can say I did it. And I've had oral surgery, so it's not like I won't survive it. That night, we met up. Andrew secured my hands and wrists to a St. Andrew's Cross, and started in on me. Going very light and easy at first, so I could get my blood up. And these feelings just started welling up in me. I was laughing, I was crying, I was making a noise that was both and neither. Afterwards--for weeks afterwards--I felt like a dam had broken somewhere within me. I was living a new life, feeling things more deeply, letting myself be moved by friends, by food, by movies, by music... Just getting carried away. I had this feeling I had never had before, like nothing could hurt me now, like I knew that I had strength deep down inside I could draw on that could get me through it all.

Almost three years ago now, my stepmother died, and I left my life in New York City and moved back here to Pennsylvania to look after my father. It was a rough transition. I have a job I like a lot, a great relationship with my dad, and a lot of good going on, but it gets really lonely.

Every September, I head to southeast Michigan for a BDSM event called Inferno. In advance this past year, I decided that it was time, once again, for me to go down. I proposed to a buddy of mine from San Diego who goes by 'Roadkill' that he have the honors, and he was happy to oblige.

This time, it was different. Almost from the first, I was crying, weeping, sobbing, screaming. Roadkill kept at it. My friend John, who is Roadkill's ex, came and stood at the other side of the cross I was lashed to, whispering to me, offering me words of encouragement. But it didn't do a lot of good. I was howling from the pain. Roadkill let me know that he wanted three more out of me, and we counted them down, three, two, one. After the last one, it was like I broke. John told me, "It's okay, it's over, you made it." "Oh John," I answered, "Now it's worse. I'm still afraid, but now I don't know what I'm afraid of." And the bottom dropped out of my world. I just went right to hell. All the pain, all the grief, all the loneliness I'd been stuffing away so I could deal with everything I had to deal with just came pouring out of me. It was a dam break alright. A fuckin deluge.

But after that, I have a clarity I didn't have before. I know I'm hurting, I know I'm in pain, I know I'm lonely. But it's alright. Because my eyes are open to everything I do have. And it's all good.

So that's a little bit about the role that whipping has had in my life .

As to how I'd handle you, we'd meet, we'd talk, have a meal together, spend some time. Make sure that you're comfortable with me, and that I'm comfortable with you. That there's a connection there. Back at my place, you'd meet my dad (sorry, ya gotta, but he's a good guy; he'll want to tell you all about what he did in World War II, that kind of thing). Relax some. Both of us unwind, then we'd go out to the garage. I'd light some candles, put on some music, get limbered up, you'd take off your shirt, let me take a look at your back, then I'd put you up against the cross. And then we'd start in.

At that point, I don't know what to tell you. Because I don't know--and maybe you don't know--what's in your heart. So where the journey takes us from there is up to the gods. But ultimately, it'll be a good place."

He wrote back to say... basically, that he's in. That he doesn't think he could do better.

Even though I haven't met him, and even though I'm only whipping very special men these days, men I fall in love with, men I can hold in my heart before, during, and after without reservation, I think I'm in, too. If he makes the trip up here from Tennessee. Ya never know about these things.

But gosh, I feel so competent in that department lately. The 'holding in my heart' department. I feel... very... --how to express this?-- very compassionate. That's the great Buddhist virtue, isn't it? Compassion.

This beating heart of mine just seems to be beating in sync with some deeper rhythm.

Maybe because it's Lent.

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Howard's got a girlfriend! Howard's got a girlfriend!

Well, not really.

Howard, of course, would be my dad.

Every Wednesday night at church they're having these programs during Lent. We start off with Evening prayer (which I miss, I'm not wild about that service), then Mass, then we all head to the Parish Hall for a light supper (and they've been excellent), and then there's a program. (In the programs, we're talking about Death. We discussed spiritual aspects of death, had a presentation from a woman who works for a hospice program, and last week, a lawyer came and talked to us about living wills and directives and medical power of attorney and stuff. And then we go back to church and say the Stations of the Cross (my favorite is the 'scourging at the pillar, of course), and then we say Compline.

Compline totally rocks. Compline, a.k.a. "Night Prayer" is the best. It's pure poetry. "Let we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life find rest in Thy eternal changelessness." Isn't that great?

Anyway, attendance at these wednesday evenings... ...it's pretty much me and a bunch of old people. And one of the old people is this really great woman. Her mother was my Sunday School teacher, who first taught me "I will sing a song of the saints of God." Among other things, she does volunteer work at the local prison. Anyway, for Lent, she's decided to visit all the shut-ins in the parish. And that meant my dad. And it went down on Friday night.

When I asked my father how the visit went when I got home, he was all kinds of bubbly! Bubbly, that is, for my dad. He worried that he had talked her ear off ("No! You? I can't believe that!") and peppered me with questions about her. Although I don't know much.

Self-consciousness? Curiousity?

Now what's that stand like>

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Anyway, that's it for tonight. I'm tired. Another week awaits.