Richard Meier Does It Again
Oh man. Things are going great. I'm happy. "Happiness isn't getting what you want, happiness is wanting what you have." Living by that. Or doing my best to.
And then look what happens... Take a gander at this.
An amazing place I'll never live. All those undeserving people get to live there.
This Meier guy must be stopped. He's disturbing my serenity.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Go Keckler!
Oh cool! You can go to the International Mr. Leather website and see pics from the whole overwhelming mega-event. They seem to be taken by BullManX, so y'know they're gonna be good.
I, of course, am rooting feverishly for Mr. Boston Leather, and my GMSMA Novices SIG classmate, Thomas Lewis. Aka Keckler. So for me, going through the galleries was a "Where's Waldo?" affair, as I tried to spot Keckler in all the group shots. He looks great! Great great great! And, you can even go to Keckler's weblog... Uh... Excuse me, I meant "Live Journal" thingy and read about the contest from an insiders perspective. (Huh. Is that a first? Have any other contestants blogged?Aren't most of them illiterate? Well then that's another reason that Keckler deserves to win!)
How feverishly am I rooting for Keckler? Why, so much so that I'm linking to his Live Journal thingy, even though I loathe Live Journal. It's clannish. You've got to have a Live Journal to post on Live Journal and all that nonsense. We're much more democratic and openminded here at Blogger.com, of course. Anyone can post to my blog. (And whaddya know! Anyone does.)
When's the contest again? It's today, right? I hope to learn if Mr. Boston Leather prevails!
Oh cool! You can go to the International Mr. Leather website and see pics from the whole overwhelming mega-event. They seem to be taken by BullManX, so y'know they're gonna be good.
I, of course, am rooting feverishly for Mr. Boston Leather, and my GMSMA Novices SIG classmate, Thomas Lewis. Aka Keckler. So for me, going through the galleries was a "Where's Waldo?" affair, as I tried to spot Keckler in all the group shots. He looks great! Great great great! And, you can even go to Keckler's weblog... Uh... Excuse me, I meant "Live Journal" thingy and read about the contest from an insiders perspective. (Huh. Is that a first? Have any other contestants blogged?
How feverishly am I rooting for Keckler? Why, so much so that I'm linking to his Live Journal thingy, even though I loathe Live Journal. It's clannish. You've got to have a Live Journal to post on Live Journal and all that nonsense. We're much more democratic and openminded here at Blogger.com, of course. Anyone can post to my blog. (And whaddya know! Anyone does.)
When's the contest again? It's today, right? I hope to learn if Mr. Boston Leather prevails!
Yikes!
Today, after church, I was sitting--where else?--on the porch of Starbucks reading the NY Times. I was chuckling through the wedding announcements (no same sexers this week), when I stopped at the announcement of Kimberly Guilfoyle, ex wife of the current mayor of San Francisco, Gavin Newsome, and.. and... some puppy.
The picture of the former first lady of San Fran was just horrifying. Her face looked like that of a department store manequin. And those eyes... Weird and huge and not quite real looking. Could she be a fembot? Nah, fembots looked like flesh and blood women. Kimberly did not.
So she's marrying this guy who looks young and sweet and innocent. Which just sets her off all the more. He's looking directly at the camera with a vacant expression, and she's sort of got her chin on his shoulder in 3/4 profile. Unclear whether the pose is supposed to indicate cosy soon-to-be-wedded bliss, or whether she's about to drink his blood to fulfil the pact she made with Satan in her quest for Eternal Youth.
I was sharing my Times with an older guy with a fairly distinctive Upper West Side lilt to his voice. I showed him the picture, saying, "check out this happy couple."
"Why, she's going to eat him for lunch, isn't she?" he commented.
Today, after church, I was sitting--where else?--on the porch of Starbucks reading the NY Times. I was chuckling through the wedding announcements (no same sexers this week), when I stopped at the announcement of Kimberly Guilfoyle, ex wife of the current mayor of San Francisco, Gavin Newsome, and.. and... some puppy.
The picture of the former first lady of San Fran was just horrifying. Her face looked like that of a department store manequin. And those eyes... Weird and huge and not quite real looking. Could she be a fembot? Nah, fembots looked like flesh and blood women. Kimberly did not.
So she's marrying this guy who looks young and sweet and innocent. Which just sets her off all the more. He's looking directly at the camera with a vacant expression, and she's sort of got her chin on his shoulder in 3/4 profile. Unclear whether the pose is supposed to indicate cosy soon-to-be-wedded bliss, or whether she's about to drink his blood to fulfil the pact she made with Satan in her quest for Eternal Youth.
I was sharing my Times with an older guy with a fairly distinctive Upper West Side lilt to his voice. I showed him the picture, saying, "check out this happy couple."
"Why, she's going to eat him for lunch, isn't she?" he commented.
But Still A Great Name For A Band!
Awhile ago, I heard a couple of djs on a local rock station talking about great rock bands. All of them agreed that the greatest band around today--and possibly of all time (!)--was Pearl Jam.
This has sat with me ever since.
At the time, I was sort of like, "Well gosh! If these guys who are rock djs think so, then it must be true! And I've been missing out on something great." I have a few Pearl Jam songs on my iPod, and I've sampled a few others.
Y'know what? All their stuff sounds the same to me. And their new album is in rotation at Starbucks. And it just doesn't do it.
So au contraire, mes confrères,, Pearl Jam is not the greatest rock band of all time.
But, the do have the coolest name of any rock band I can think of. Pearl Jam. Think about that. What's pearly and the consistency of jam. Get it?
Love that.
Awhile ago, I heard a couple of djs on a local rock station talking about great rock bands. All of them agreed that the greatest band around today--and possibly of all time (!)--was Pearl Jam.
This has sat with me ever since.
At the time, I was sort of like, "Well gosh! If these guys who are rock djs think so, then it must be true! And I've been missing out on something great." I have a few Pearl Jam songs on my iPod, and I've sampled a few others.
Y'know what? All their stuff sounds the same to me. And their new album is in rotation at Starbucks. And it just doesn't do it.
So au contraire, mes confrères,, Pearl Jam is not the greatest rock band of all time.
But, the do have the coolest name of any rock band I can think of. Pearl Jam. Think about that. What's pearly and the consistency of jam. Get it?
Love that.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Developments. All Of Them Cool.
Breakthrough on the cage front! My buddy UnFortunate called me yesterday, saying that he had to "salvage what was left of his family history" in Storrs, Connecticut. I had told him about my trip to Providence, and UnFortunate said that he'd be happy to accommodate my cage, and his father is paying for the van. Sweeeeet!
So by the end of June--right on schedule--I could very well have the most wonderful cage ever set up out in my garage.
I'm cooling to the idea of going to work for the Internationally Renowned Woodworker. There just seem to be so many problems at that shop. And I don't doubt that when I came in, everybody there would hate me, and there would be a lot of drama. And I'm looking for a job, not a vocation. If called upon, I will serve, but I don't know that I'm going to put myself out there to get it.
Even though I'm not going to IML, it looks like it's shaping up to be a pretty good weekend. I've got a date tonight with Papihaute down in Philadelphia. Tonight I have a date with one of my Inferno invitees. A great guy, whom I invited to Inferno on the basis of our first date. He's apparently a big muckety-muck in the Philadelphia leather community, throws a great fuck, and get this... loves getting flogged. Gets a hardon from it right away. (The man was sent by God!)
Tomorrow, I have a date with... Dang. I forget his nom de blog. Which probably means I haven't come up with one that's satisfying. Let's call him cowboy for now. Since I do. And since he likes when I do. (Note to self: before your date with cowboy tomorrow, trim fingernails!) And, I'll see about getting my kayak in the water this weekend, and take Faithful Companion over to the bark park in Montgomeryville.
Oh. And the weekend got off to a good start. I was totally looking forward to going to bed on Friday night, and not setting the alarm. Just sleeping and sleeping and sleeping. So my eyes opened, I was wide awake. And, although I was coming out of a deep sleep, words were running through my head. Words for... my profile on WorldLeathermen. (Say what?) So I got out of bed to commit them to paper--or laptop, or whatever--and noticed that it was 6:18 a.m. Which is five hours and eightteen minutes after I went to bed the night before. So much for catching up on my sleep! But the Muse called.
Anyway, I'm surprised and delighted with the results. And here they are...
Leather Is Battle Gear For Warriors Of Love
Being a man is all about holding back. Keep a steady hand. Put on your game face. Suck it up. Hold it in. And that’s a recipe for a heart attack at age 38.
What we want, what we need, every once in a while, is to not hold back. To give it all we’ve got, to just let it come. For me, that’s where SM comes into the picture.
When was the last time you had a man hold you in his arms while you let loose with all your grief and pain and sorrow? Wailing and howling like a trapped and cornered animal? When was the last time you held a weeping man in your arms, mustering all the strength you have, saying softly in his ear, “Yeah Buddy, yeah. Just let it come. I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’m with you. You’re safe now.” When was the last time you allowed yourself to be helpless, naked, completely vulnerable? Trusting another man so much that you could take the risk of giving yourself up to him completely, going beyond your limits because you know that he holds your heart in his hands and you’ll emerge intact? When was the last time you contended with another man as though in battle, proving yourself, what you can do, what you’re worth, what you’re capable of, what you can dish out and what you can take, showing your Warrior Soul, in a contest to see which of you can love really Big, and both of you emerge victorious, and better men for it?
So maybe you’re due, Boss?
In 2003, I left behind my life in NYC to come back here to look after my father, not knowing at the time how much I was giving up, but also not knowing how much I was gaining. I find myself in a wilderness of materialistic, inebriate twinks. The opportunities are fewer and farther between, but I still get my licks in when I can. It’s a fallow period. I work hard at a woodshop. I unwind at Starbucks in Doylestown. I hit the gym. I kneel in prayer at church. I take the kayak off the roof rack of my jeep and paddle out into solitude. I hold it together. I keep my eyes open. I cherish what I have and keep the Hungry Ghosts of I want I want I want at bay. I do my best to live deeply, honestly, simply, and with grace, kindness, and compassion.
And, I hold out hope that the day will come when I’ll meet a man who will look me in the eye and see within me a rare thing of value, the pearl of great price, and I’ll find in him wisdom, courage, kindness, strength, and dignity. Together we’ll set off on a great adventure, and the road will go on forever.
I like architecture, welding, hot tubs, road trips, cooking, Compline, cigars, laughing, the desert, and feeling like I'm a part of something larger than myself. I hate mosquitos, materialism, whining, eggplant, clutter, acquisitiveness, pettiness, staying home, sedentary lifestyles, self-importance, condoms, arithmetic, commitment, being cold.
The SM list: singletail whips, chain bondage, edge play, flogging, piss, loving brutality, knives, big smoke fetish
So that's nice, right? Online profiles are interesting things. I remember Diabolique laboring for months over his before he signed up on Worldleathermen. It's an exercise in self-definition, one of those rare occasions where you actually get to choose--100%--how you want the world to see you. And if, as they say, you never get a second chance to make a first impression... I think I'm satisfied with this iteration of me. I believe it paints a fairly accurate picture. Or as accurate as these things can be when we're talking about a fleeting thing like the self.
Anyway.
Breakthrough on the cage front! My buddy UnFortunate called me yesterday, saying that he had to "salvage what was left of his family history" in Storrs, Connecticut. I had told him about my trip to Providence, and UnFortunate said that he'd be happy to accommodate my cage, and his father is paying for the van. Sweeeeet!
So by the end of June--right on schedule--I could very well have the most wonderful cage ever set up out in my garage.
I'm cooling to the idea of going to work for the Internationally Renowned Woodworker. There just seem to be so many problems at that shop. And I don't doubt that when I came in, everybody there would hate me, and there would be a lot of drama. And I'm looking for a job, not a vocation. If called upon, I will serve, but I don't know that I'm going to put myself out there to get it.
Even though I'm not going to IML, it looks like it's shaping up to be a pretty good weekend. I've got a date tonight with Papihaute down in Philadelphia. Tonight I have a date with one of my Inferno invitees. A great guy, whom I invited to Inferno on the basis of our first date. He's apparently a big muckety-muck in the Philadelphia leather community, throws a great fuck, and get this... loves getting flogged. Gets a hardon from it right away. (The man was sent by God!)
Tomorrow, I have a date with... Dang. I forget his nom de blog. Which probably means I haven't come up with one that's satisfying. Let's call him cowboy for now. Since I do. And since he likes when I do. (Note to self: before your date with cowboy tomorrow, trim fingernails!) And, I'll see about getting my kayak in the water this weekend, and take Faithful Companion over to the bark park in Montgomeryville.
Oh. And the weekend got off to a good start. I was totally looking forward to going to bed on Friday night, and not setting the alarm. Just sleeping and sleeping and sleeping. So my eyes opened, I was wide awake. And, although I was coming out of a deep sleep, words were running through my head. Words for... my profile on WorldLeathermen. (Say what?) So I got out of bed to commit them to paper--or laptop, or whatever--and noticed that it was 6:18 a.m. Which is five hours and eightteen minutes after I went to bed the night before. So much for catching up on my sleep! But the Muse called.
Anyway, I'm surprised and delighted with the results. And here they are...
Leather Is Battle Gear For Warriors Of Love
Being a man is all about holding back. Keep a steady hand. Put on your game face. Suck it up. Hold it in. And that’s a recipe for a heart attack at age 38.
What we want, what we need, every once in a while, is to not hold back. To give it all we’ve got, to just let it come. For me, that’s where SM comes into the picture.
When was the last time you had a man hold you in his arms while you let loose with all your grief and pain and sorrow? Wailing and howling like a trapped and cornered animal? When was the last time you held a weeping man in your arms, mustering all the strength you have, saying softly in his ear, “Yeah Buddy, yeah. Just let it come. I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’m with you. You’re safe now.” When was the last time you allowed yourself to be helpless, naked, completely vulnerable? Trusting another man so much that you could take the risk of giving yourself up to him completely, going beyond your limits because you know that he holds your heart in his hands and you’ll emerge intact? When was the last time you contended with another man as though in battle, proving yourself, what you can do, what you’re worth, what you’re capable of, what you can dish out and what you can take, showing your Warrior Soul, in a contest to see which of you can love really Big, and both of you emerge victorious, and better men for it?
So maybe you’re due, Boss?
In 2003, I left behind my life in NYC to come back here to look after my father, not knowing at the time how much I was giving up, but also not knowing how much I was gaining. I find myself in a wilderness of materialistic, inebriate twinks. The opportunities are fewer and farther between, but I still get my licks in when I can. It’s a fallow period. I work hard at a woodshop. I unwind at Starbucks in Doylestown. I hit the gym. I kneel in prayer at church. I take the kayak off the roof rack of my jeep and paddle out into solitude. I hold it together. I keep my eyes open. I cherish what I have and keep the Hungry Ghosts of I want I want I want at bay. I do my best to live deeply, honestly, simply, and with grace, kindness, and compassion.
And, I hold out hope that the day will come when I’ll meet a man who will look me in the eye and see within me a rare thing of value, the pearl of great price, and I’ll find in him wisdom, courage, kindness, strength, and dignity. Together we’ll set off on a great adventure, and the road will go on forever.
I like architecture, welding, hot tubs, road trips, cooking, Compline, cigars, laughing, the desert, and feeling like I'm a part of something larger than myself. I hate mosquitos, materialism, whining, eggplant, clutter, acquisitiveness, pettiness, staying home, sedentary lifestyles, self-importance, condoms, arithmetic, commitment, being cold.
The SM list: singletail whips, chain bondage, edge play, flogging, piss, loving brutality, knives, big smoke fetish
So that's nice, right? Online profiles are interesting things. I remember Diabolique laboring for months over his before he signed up on Worldleathermen. It's an exercise in self-definition, one of those rare occasions where you actually get to choose--100%--how you want the world to see you. And if, as they say, you never get a second chance to make a first impression... I think I'm satisfied with this iteration of me. I believe it paints a fairly accurate picture. Or as accurate as these things can be when we're talking about a fleeting thing like the self.
Anyway.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
"Only For The Sickest Masochists And Sadists"
Yup.
That's how Yahoo Movies describes Hostel. And I'm watching it.
It's... it's... more than I hoped for.
Okay okay okay. I am down with Safe Sane and Consensual. I don't like violence. Torture, even that sanctioned by the United States Attorney General. is wrong. I'm not just talking. For real.
But this, in fact, is a movie. Not a real thing. And it's a movie featuring a hot college boy handcuffed in a chair with a ballgag shoved in his mouth being menaced with a gun by a sadist wearing a leather apron.
Remember I asked all of you to go and see every movie Vin Diesel makes to ensure that he'll always be able to get work and be in movies? Well, damn you! Oh that he were desperate for work and would take anything and be cast in this twisted movie! That would be so keen.
Hey! Maybe they'll make Hostel II! And Vin could be in it! It could be like XXX vs. the Hostel! How cool would that be?
Yup.
That's how Yahoo Movies describes Hostel. And I'm watching it.
It's... it's... more than I hoped for.
Okay okay okay. I am down with Safe Sane and Consensual. I don't like violence. Torture, even that sanctioned by the United States Attorney General. is wrong. I'm not just talking. For real.
But this, in fact, is a movie. Not a real thing. And it's a movie featuring a hot college boy handcuffed in a chair with a ballgag shoved in his mouth being menaced with a gun by a sadist wearing a leather apron.
Remember I asked all of you to go and see every movie Vin Diesel makes to ensure that he'll always be able to get work and be in movies? Well, damn you! Oh that he were desperate for work and would take anything and be cast in this twisted movie! That would be so keen.
Hey! Maybe they'll make Hostel II! And Vin could be in it! It could be like XXX vs. the Hostel! How cool would that be?
Barnstorming!
It's a good thing I'm a gentle, easy-going, forgiving soul.
Or else there would be hell to pay.
I had quite the weekend! For starters, I got up way early on Saturday morning, and drove up to NYC to have breakfast with a bunch of guys in town for the Tattoo Convention, organized by Whip Cracker from Atlanta GA. So I get into town, find parking, and head to French Roast at 6th Ave and 11th Street (thanks for the recommendation, Diabolique!). I walk in the door, and there's WC, a couple of tattoo boys, and none other than That Provincetown Guy I met at MAL.
That Provincetown Guy. 'Member him? He's amazing. A beautiful man. And he's got stuff in that handsome head of his. During MAL back in January, there I was at the Hot Ash social, and in he comes, introduces himself, and we proceed to make out like crazy. And it was wonderful. Sublime. We made plans to have lunch together the next day.
So I'm getting ready to leave to meet him for lunch, and the phone rings. And it's That Provincetown Guy. Calling from the road. He told me that he had had enough, and was heading home to Massachusetts.
Say what?
Since then, I've sent a couple messages his way, emailed him a couple of times. No reply.
And now here he is sitting next to Whip Cracker. And get this! He's giving me all these smoldering looks!
Looks like Schlitz has a contender for wearing the crown of Master Of Mixed Messages.
What up wid dat?
Overall, breakfast was fun. Afterwards, I thought these out-of-towners would appreciate a look at the grass pier. Unfortunately, while we were eating, the temperature dropped about fifteen degrees, so when we got there, icy winds were whipping off the Hudson. I was thoughtfully wearing my saved-my-sorry-butt orange hoodie, but the out-of-towners were underdressed. Although they showed a lot of pluck! Kudos there.
Then it was off to play softball. In Bloomfield, NJ.
I was one of only three of the original Ball Breakers there (I'm warming to the new guys, and I even know many of their names!). My teammate Ben and I took an immediate dislike to the other team. They were all so young and scrubbed and fun! And roughly evenly divided between men and women. And they had racial and ethnic diversity on their team. I swear, it was like they were sent by the Logo channel.
And they handed us our asses. (The Ball Breakers are not having a great season, win wise.)
I had two at bats. First time, I struck out. Second time, I hit a passable ground ball, and once again, flew like the wind down the baseline, beating the ball to first. There was a verrrrry bad call by the umpire--in my favor!--at second base. And eventually I ended up crossing home plate for a run scored.
But, I could ony stay for the first game, because Jersey Guy was whisking me away to shower and change at his nearby apartment so we could go to the NYC Tattoo Convention together.
Jersey Guy looked great as ever. Great to see him again after so many weeks.
We managed to get back into the city without too much of a hassle, and soon found outselves at the Tattoo Convention.
Okay. I've been wanting to make this for years, but haven't managed to. And at the softball game, I found out why. It's the same weekend as the NYC Erotic Art Fair, a benefit for the Tom of Finland Foundation. Of which I'm a member.
So how come I didn't get a "Hey You! Sign Up To Volunteer For The Erotic Art Fair!" email this year? Dang! Because the Erotic Art Fair means the very evil (in a good way!) Dirk guy is in town. And I've wanted him for as long as I can remember.
So the Tattoo Convention.
I have to say it was pretty ho hum. Not half as much eye candy as was to be beheld at the Bike Show. And I noticed that something about being heavily tattooed and lack of social skills go together in many cases. There you are, walking though this dense crowd, and nobody is meeting your eyes. A couple of times I said "Wow! Great ink!" to a couple of people as openers, but got blank stares or they mumbled something at me while looking at their feet, the way an 8th grader would respond. I did get woofed, thankfully, from a verrrry hot man with a dense pelt of fur on him, all but obscuring his many tattoos. I sure hope our paths cross again sometime.
Although it won't be at the NYC Tattoo Convention. Been there. Done that. Buncha ink nerds is what they are.
Jersey Guy was fun to hang out with though.
When we were watching the contest, one of the contestants explained that on his back he had tattooed portraits (I hate tattoo portraits) of everybody in his family who had died. I observed to Jersey Guy, "That would sort of be a downer when you were fucking him up the butt, huh?" To which Jersey Guy responded, "Oh my God! Uncle Sherman died! I didn't hear! When?" while pantomining giving it to the boy.
I decided to try and see if I could catch the tail end of the erotic art fair, so I left the Tattoo Convention at 6 pm, and didn't have too much trouble getting downtown or finding parking. I arrived at the Center about 6:45 and learned, to my horror, that the Erotic Art Fair and Evil Dirk had closed up shop at 6 pm.
As Stewie would say, "Blast!"
So I consoled myself with a few good hours of NYC Time.
I headed to Gray's Papaya at 6th Avenue and 11th Street, because I suddenly had an all but overwheling craving for hot dogs. I love Gray's Papaya. Although I always forget that their papaya juice has a faint aftertaste reminscent of the aroma of a three day old roadkill in midsummer. (I swear!) It's not too strong, but it's enough to notice. But the hot dogs--I like mine with mustard and saurkraut--were amazing. As always. And for $2.75, what's not to love?
Still a little bit hungry, I headed over to Gourmet Garage on Seventh Avenue and picked up some take out sushi. I found a nice stoop on a quiet block of West 10th Street and had myself a little picnic. Then, I walked up West 4th Street (I love West 4th Street! If you get from Christopher Street to West 13th Street by walking up Hudson, it takes forever, but West 4th Street is like some kind of wormhole. I've never been able to figure that out.) I stopped and got the Sunday New York Times (a day early, and including the City Section; when I buy it out here in the Howling Wilderness, I get some weird New Jersey section I couldn't give a rat's ass about). I went to Starbucks on Greenwich Avenue, got myself a latte and a chocolate cupcake, and took in a couple of sections of the Times. (Have you noticed that with the Same Sex Nuptuals listings, they always get a picture? Always! Even if it's bad and grainy and unflattering, like it was for two dykes who tied the knot recently.)
That was sweet.
Then, it was a long, long drive down the Jersey Turnpike to Philadelphia. I had a date with a worldleatherman guy from Fort Lauderdale.
Hmmm. Just a random thought. Y'know how they say that homosex is better than heterosex, because one man knows better than a woman what a man likes because he's a man, too? Well let's just say I have clear and convincing evidence that this is not always the case. Very clear evidence that's not always the case. Like, unimpeachable evidence. We're talkin' Iron Clad.
Get me?
'Kay.
Nuff said.
I did get a good night's sleep though, and woke up looking forward to having brunch with Young Doctor Cub. On whom I'm very sweet, and with whom I had a smokin hot date last weekend. (Missed softball! Worth it!)
I was driving up South Broad Street, got out my cell phone, and before I dialed I though, "He's not gonna pick up. He's 28 years old and it's 10 am on a Sunday morning. He's sound asleep.
And sure enough.
("Blast!")
So guess what I did! No, c'mon! Take a guess! Take a wild guess! C'mon! Just guess!
Did you guess, "Go to Starbucks"? Then you'd be right.
There's a new Starbucks (new to me anyhow) at 9th and South Street. Best Starbucks in Philadelphia that I've found. Some hot queer men passing by, doing their shopping at Whole Foods, tables out side, delightful.
The Baron's phone isn't working, it tends to go out whenever there's a storm, and we've had several. So I walked over to his place and rang the bell. No answer. So either the Baron was visiting his mom in Delaware or he was fast asleep and not answering the phone. And it had better have been the former.
But reading the rest of the Times was nice. And it was a good drive back.
About 2 pm, Young Doctor Cub called me. He had just woken up.
*sigh*
It's a good thing I'm a gentle, easy-going, forgiving soul.
Or else there would be hell to pay.
I had quite the weekend! For starters, I got up way early on Saturday morning, and drove up to NYC to have breakfast with a bunch of guys in town for the Tattoo Convention, organized by Whip Cracker from Atlanta GA. So I get into town, find parking, and head to French Roast at 6th Ave and 11th Street (thanks for the recommendation, Diabolique!). I walk in the door, and there's WC, a couple of tattoo boys, and none other than That Provincetown Guy I met at MAL.
That Provincetown Guy. 'Member him? He's amazing. A beautiful man. And he's got stuff in that handsome head of his. During MAL back in January, there I was at the Hot Ash social, and in he comes, introduces himself, and we proceed to make out like crazy. And it was wonderful. Sublime. We made plans to have lunch together the next day.
So I'm getting ready to leave to meet him for lunch, and the phone rings. And it's That Provincetown Guy. Calling from the road. He told me that he had had enough, and was heading home to Massachusetts.
Say what?
Since then, I've sent a couple messages his way, emailed him a couple of times. No reply.
And now here he is sitting next to Whip Cracker. And get this! He's giving me all these smoldering looks!
Looks like Schlitz has a contender for wearing the crown of Master Of Mixed Messages.
What up wid dat?
Overall, breakfast was fun. Afterwards, I thought these out-of-towners would appreciate a look at the grass pier. Unfortunately, while we were eating, the temperature dropped about fifteen degrees, so when we got there, icy winds were whipping off the Hudson. I was thoughtfully wearing my saved-my-sorry-butt orange hoodie, but the out-of-towners were underdressed. Although they showed a lot of pluck! Kudos there.
Then it was off to play softball. In Bloomfield, NJ.
I was one of only three of the original Ball Breakers there (I'm warming to the new guys, and I even know many of their names!). My teammate Ben and I took an immediate dislike to the other team. They were all so young and scrubbed and fun! And roughly evenly divided between men and women. And they had racial and ethnic diversity on their team. I swear, it was like they were sent by the Logo channel.
And they handed us our asses. (The Ball Breakers are not having a great season, win wise.)
I had two at bats. First time, I struck out. Second time, I hit a passable ground ball, and once again, flew like the wind down the baseline, beating the ball to first. There was a verrrrry bad call by the umpire--in my favor!--at second base. And eventually I ended up crossing home plate for a run scored.
But, I could ony stay for the first game, because Jersey Guy was whisking me away to shower and change at his nearby apartment so we could go to the NYC Tattoo Convention together.
Jersey Guy looked great as ever. Great to see him again after so many weeks.
We managed to get back into the city without too much of a hassle, and soon found outselves at the Tattoo Convention.
Okay. I've been wanting to make this for years, but haven't managed to. And at the softball game, I found out why. It's the same weekend as the NYC Erotic Art Fair, a benefit for the Tom of Finland Foundation. Of which I'm a member.
So how come I didn't get a "Hey You! Sign Up To Volunteer For The Erotic Art Fair!" email this year? Dang! Because the Erotic Art Fair means the very evil (in a good way!) Dirk guy is in town. And I've wanted him for as long as I can remember.
So the Tattoo Convention.
I have to say it was pretty ho hum. Not half as much eye candy as was to be beheld at the Bike Show. And I noticed that something about being heavily tattooed and lack of social skills go together in many cases. There you are, walking though this dense crowd, and nobody is meeting your eyes. A couple of times I said "Wow! Great ink!" to a couple of people as openers, but got blank stares or they mumbled something at me while looking at their feet, the way an 8th grader would respond. I did get woofed, thankfully, from a verrrry hot man with a dense pelt of fur on him, all but obscuring his many tattoos. I sure hope our paths cross again sometime.
Although it won't be at the NYC Tattoo Convention. Been there. Done that. Buncha ink nerds is what they are.
Jersey Guy was fun to hang out with though.
When we were watching the contest, one of the contestants explained that on his back he had tattooed portraits (I hate tattoo portraits) of everybody in his family who had died. I observed to Jersey Guy, "That would sort of be a downer when you were fucking him up the butt, huh?" To which Jersey Guy responded, "Oh my God! Uncle Sherman died! I didn't hear! When?" while pantomining giving it to the boy.
I decided to try and see if I could catch the tail end of the erotic art fair, so I left the Tattoo Convention at 6 pm, and didn't have too much trouble getting downtown or finding parking. I arrived at the Center about 6:45 and learned, to my horror, that the Erotic Art Fair and Evil Dirk had closed up shop at 6 pm.
As Stewie would say, "Blast!"
So I consoled myself with a few good hours of NYC Time.
I headed to Gray's Papaya at 6th Avenue and 11th Street, because I suddenly had an all but overwheling craving for hot dogs. I love Gray's Papaya. Although I always forget that their papaya juice has a faint aftertaste reminscent of the aroma of a three day old roadkill in midsummer. (I swear!) It's not too strong, but it's enough to notice. But the hot dogs--I like mine with mustard and saurkraut--were amazing. As always. And for $2.75, what's not to love?
Still a little bit hungry, I headed over to Gourmet Garage on Seventh Avenue and picked up some take out sushi. I found a nice stoop on a quiet block of West 10th Street and had myself a little picnic. Then, I walked up West 4th Street (I love West 4th Street! If you get from Christopher Street to West 13th Street by walking up Hudson, it takes forever, but West 4th Street is like some kind of wormhole. I've never been able to figure that out.) I stopped and got the Sunday New York Times (a day early, and including the City Section; when I buy it out here in the Howling Wilderness, I get some weird New Jersey section I couldn't give a rat's ass about). I went to Starbucks on Greenwich Avenue, got myself a latte and a chocolate cupcake, and took in a couple of sections of the Times. (Have you noticed that with the Same Sex Nuptuals listings, they always get a picture? Always! Even if it's bad and grainy and unflattering, like it was for two dykes who tied the knot recently.)
That was sweet.
Then, it was a long, long drive down the Jersey Turnpike to Philadelphia. I had a date with a worldleatherman guy from Fort Lauderdale.
Hmmm. Just a random thought. Y'know how they say that homosex is better than heterosex, because one man knows better than a woman what a man likes because he's a man, too? Well let's just say I have clear and convincing evidence that this is not always the case. Very clear evidence that's not always the case. Like, unimpeachable evidence. We're talkin' Iron Clad.
Get me?
'Kay.
Nuff said.
I did get a good night's sleep though, and woke up looking forward to having brunch with Young Doctor Cub. On whom I'm very sweet, and with whom I had a smokin hot date last weekend. (Missed softball! Worth it!)
I was driving up South Broad Street, got out my cell phone, and before I dialed I though, "He's not gonna pick up. He's 28 years old and it's 10 am on a Sunday morning. He's sound asleep.
And sure enough.
("Blast!")
So guess what I did! No, c'mon! Take a guess! Take a wild guess! C'mon! Just guess!
Did you guess, "Go to Starbucks"? Then you'd be right.
There's a new Starbucks (new to me anyhow) at 9th and South Street. Best Starbucks in Philadelphia that I've found. Some hot queer men passing by, doing their shopping at Whole Foods, tables out side, delightful.
The Baron's phone isn't working, it tends to go out whenever there's a storm, and we've had several. So I walked over to his place and rang the bell. No answer. So either the Baron was visiting his mom in Delaware or he was fast asleep and not answering the phone. And it had better have been the former.
But reading the rest of the Times was nice. And it was a good drive back.
About 2 pm, Young Doctor Cub called me. He had just woken up.
*sigh*
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
If You Only Knew
It's a Meme! From Lolita's blog. The idea is you present what you'd really like to tell ten people. But you don't list the names of whom you're addressing. Got it? Lolita explains it better.
So here we go.
1. Don't you feel that I'm due? Like you can maybe give for once instead of taking?
2. You better pull this one off.
3. It's never going to happen with us. And spending time with you would be a lot less awkward for me if you figured that out.
4. We would make such a good team. I would buddy up with you without any hesitation.
5. Do you ever think about me? Ever wonder what's going on with me? If I knew you were just going through the motions, that would wreck me.
6. I'm liking everything so far. A lot. What do you think the future might hold?
7. Yeah, but you just live too far away.
8. Gosh! You have no inner life at all, do you? What could that be like? I guess that's what makes it easy to be so casual with other men's hearts.
9. You know what I want. I know you know what I want. You know I know you know what I want. So... uh... wanna see about making it happen? You want to be the man to do it for me, right?
10. We could have been so great together. So how are things going with that vapid chucklehead you ended up with?
So there ya go.
Reading over these, it almost seems like it doesn't matter who they're addressed to, huh?
It's a Meme! From Lolita's blog. The idea is you present what you'd really like to tell ten people. But you don't list the names of whom you're addressing. Got it? Lolita explains it better.
So here we go.
1. Don't you feel that I'm due? Like you can maybe give for once instead of taking?
2. You better pull this one off.
3. It's never going to happen with us. And spending time with you would be a lot less awkward for me if you figured that out.
4. We would make such a good team. I would buddy up with you without any hesitation.
5. Do you ever think about me? Ever wonder what's going on with me? If I knew you were just going through the motions, that would wreck me.
6. I'm liking everything so far. A lot. What do you think the future might hold?
7. Yeah, but you just live too far away.
8. Gosh! You have no inner life at all, do you? What could that be like? I guess that's what makes it easy to be so casual with other men's hearts.
9. You know what I want. I know you know what I want. You know I know you know what I want. So... uh... wanna see about making it happen? You want to be the man to do it for me, right?
10. We could have been so great together. So how are things going with that vapid chucklehead you ended up with?
So there ya go.
Reading over these, it almost seems like it doesn't matter who they're addressed to, huh?
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
No Way! Way!!! Like, Times Three
First off, my biscuits.
Grocery shopping yesterday, I found ten drumsticks for $3.08. Very cool. So what to do with them? I decided to coat them in flour and crushed red pepper, start off by frying them, and then roasting them at 450°. With the chicken, I made summer squash sauteed in butter, and biscuits.
Biscuits.
True story. I lived in a neighborhood called Lefferts Manor in Brooklyn. It holds the distinction of being the most integrated neighborhood in NYC. Once, for a block party, I made my biscuits. The ones with fresh rosemary and bacon. All the black women on my block were like, "Who made these biscuits? These are wonderful biscuits!"
True!
And weren't they surprised when it turned out that the white gay guy made the biscuits. And that nobody taught me, I taught myself.
We talked all about biscuits. I learned the importance of biscuits among African-Americans in the South. My neighbor Aline told me about how learning to make biscuits was the most traumatic event of her childhood. Her grandmother had her make biscuits. After they came out of the oven, her grandmother tasted one, and whalloped Aline hard. Then took Aline's biscuits and through them out in the yard with the chickens. And called Aline over to the window to show her how her biscuits were so bad that not even the chickens were eating them. And made Aline bake biscuits over and over and over again, whalloping Aline each time, each time tossing them out into the backyard, until Aline was able to make a passable batch of biscuits.
Right there on the spot, I invited everybody to my house for a biscuit feast. Everybody made their best biscuits, I served roast pork, coleslaw, and other stuff that goes well with biscuits.
It was amazing. The best biscuit you ever had in your life was the one in your mouth.
And everyone agreed, my biscuits rated.
So it's been years since I made biscuits. But my biscuits still rock.
That's number one.
Number two: Almost but not quite out of the blue, I got a call from the daughter of one of the foremost furniture designers of the 20th Century. Tomorrow I have an interview with her. She's looking for someone to help her manage her woodshop. I talked to her on the phone for about 45 minutes. She sounds wonderful. And the job sounds wonderful. And like something 2where I'd have a lot of opportunity to shine.
I'm a little bit unnerved at the idea of leaving Wuperior Soodcraft behind. At this point, if I left, I'd leave a big hole, y'know? They've all come to depend on me. And I make it a better place to work by being there.
But still.
It's a pretty amazing opportunity.
Just about right out of the blue.
And third?
On Saturday night, I had a date. With this smokin hot boy. Sling sex.
He's not Cigar Boy. He's about ten years older than cigar boy.
But I'm awfully sweet on him. And I think he's awfully sweet on me, too.
So that's three.
Oh. And three and a half. I just sent in the $300 that I've carefully saved to the tune of $20 per paycheck to secure myself space at Inferno in September.
I swear, I'm not used to all this good stuff.
I'll keep you posted.
First off, my biscuits.
Grocery shopping yesterday, I found ten drumsticks for $3.08. Very cool. So what to do with them? I decided to coat them in flour and crushed red pepper, start off by frying them, and then roasting them at 450°. With the chicken, I made summer squash sauteed in butter, and biscuits.
Biscuits.
True story. I lived in a neighborhood called Lefferts Manor in Brooklyn. It holds the distinction of being the most integrated neighborhood in NYC. Once, for a block party, I made my biscuits. The ones with fresh rosemary and bacon. All the black women on my block were like, "Who made these biscuits? These are wonderful biscuits!"
True!
And weren't they surprised when it turned out that the white gay guy made the biscuits. And that nobody taught me, I taught myself.
We talked all about biscuits. I learned the importance of biscuits among African-Americans in the South. My neighbor Aline told me about how learning to make biscuits was the most traumatic event of her childhood. Her grandmother had her make biscuits. After they came out of the oven, her grandmother tasted one, and whalloped Aline hard. Then took Aline's biscuits and through them out in the yard with the chickens. And called Aline over to the window to show her how her biscuits were so bad that not even the chickens were eating them. And made Aline bake biscuits over and over and over again, whalloping Aline each time, each time tossing them out into the backyard, until Aline was able to make a passable batch of biscuits.
Right there on the spot, I invited everybody to my house for a biscuit feast. Everybody made their best biscuits, I served roast pork, coleslaw, and other stuff that goes well with biscuits.
It was amazing. The best biscuit you ever had in your life was the one in your mouth.
And everyone agreed, my biscuits rated.
So it's been years since I made biscuits. But my biscuits still rock.
That's number one.
Number two: Almost but not quite out of the blue, I got a call from the daughter of one of the foremost furniture designers of the 20th Century. Tomorrow I have an interview with her. She's looking for someone to help her manage her woodshop. I talked to her on the phone for about 45 minutes. She sounds wonderful. And the job sounds wonderful. And like something 2where I'd have a lot of opportunity to shine.
I'm a little bit unnerved at the idea of leaving Wuperior Soodcraft behind. At this point, if I left, I'd leave a big hole, y'know? They've all come to depend on me. And I make it a better place to work by being there.
But still.
It's a pretty amazing opportunity.
Just about right out of the blue.
And third?
On Saturday night, I had a date. With this smokin hot boy. Sling sex.
He's not Cigar Boy. He's about ten years older than cigar boy.
But I'm awfully sweet on him. And I think he's awfully sweet on me, too.
So that's three.
Oh. And three and a half. I just sent in the $300 that I've carefully saved to the tune of $20 per paycheck to secure myself space at Inferno in September.
I swear, I'm not used to all this good stuff.
I'll keep you posted.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Saturday, May 13, 2006
I Was Cigar Boy! Maybe.
Something occurred to me while I was walking Faithful Companion this morning.
One of the coolest summer jobs I had back in my dewy youth was working at a local county park as a Deputy Park Ranger. I would literally get paid for walking around in the woods all day. Okay, so it wasn't a perfect situation. Deep Woods Off was my best friend.
Part of the job involved dealing with people staying at the various campsites in the park. They were a colorful bunch. A handful of hippies. Some people who were essentially living in the park. Retirees in their RVs. A particularly awful family called the McGettigan's who had a brood of monster children, the kind who took delight in torturing the wild creatures they were able to catch in their fat little hands, vandalism, and breaking tree branches.
And then there were the two guys in the tent.
They were from New York City. At that point in my life, this was a far off mystical place I had only visited a few times, and each time was like a Canto from Danté's Inferno. They were probably fiftyish. Total Marlboro men. Who at that time were probably best described as "clones."
And every three or four weeks or so, while making my rounds, I would find their sad, sagging little pup tent pitched in one of the campsites. While checking over their paperwork, making small talk with them, telling them about what I was planning for the Saturday evening Nature Program I was responsible for (and did a really really bad job with), I would have a raging hard on. The kind that made me feel light-headed because all the blood was going there instead of to my brain.
Once--okay, maybe more than once, maybe a half dozen times--I would stand off in the woods, looking at their little pup tent, and jerk off, shooting a gusher of jizz onto the ferns and mayapples.
It's a fond memory. And just that. I was never invited to spend any time in their little pup tent.
So anyway, this morning, walking my dog, I got to thinking about the pup tent guys. And for the first time ever, I wondered what they thought of me...
Blond Clone: Obviously, he's gay, right?
Black Haired Clone: Oh obviously.
Blond Clone: Did you see how he was tenting out the pants of his park ranger uniform? Oh honey!
Black Haired Clone: I saw. But puh-leeeeze, we do not want to go there.
Blond Clone: Why not? He's kind of humpy.
Black Haired Clone: He's a youngster! He might not even be legal! Trust me: we can look but we can't touch.
Blond Clone: But I started young...
Black Haired Clone: He lives with his parents! What if he freaks out? What if when his mother asks him why he's late he blurts out that he's been hiding the sausage with two queens from New York City who are staying at the local park? I can see the villagers lighting their torches and coming through the woods now. Trust me, we don't need that stress.
Blond Clone: But all that hot, repressed school boy longing... I bet he gives a great blow job! (Wrong! -ed.) All that enthusiasm.
Black Haired Clone: No. I think he'd probably be so scared he'd hardly let you touch him. (Wrong. -ed.)
Blond Clone: I guess you're right. Better to leave well enough alone. He's fun to talk to anyway.
Black Haired Clone: I'll tell you what, when I'm rimming you tonight, getting my tongue in you real deep like I know you love, I'll wear a khaki shirt and you can call me 'Park Ranger Boy,' okay?
Blond Clone: You're the best!
So see? I was Cigar Boy!
Something occurred to me while I was walking Faithful Companion this morning.
One of the coolest summer jobs I had back in my dewy youth was working at a local county park as a Deputy Park Ranger. I would literally get paid for walking around in the woods all day. Okay, so it wasn't a perfect situation. Deep Woods Off was my best friend.
Part of the job involved dealing with people staying at the various campsites in the park. They were a colorful bunch. A handful of hippies. Some people who were essentially living in the park. Retirees in their RVs. A particularly awful family called the McGettigan's who had a brood of monster children, the kind who took delight in torturing the wild creatures they were able to catch in their fat little hands, vandalism, and breaking tree branches.
And then there were the two guys in the tent.
They were from New York City. At that point in my life, this was a far off mystical place I had only visited a few times, and each time was like a Canto from Danté's Inferno. They were probably fiftyish. Total Marlboro men. Who at that time were probably best described as "clones."
And every three or four weeks or so, while making my rounds, I would find their sad, sagging little pup tent pitched in one of the campsites. While checking over their paperwork, making small talk with them, telling them about what I was planning for the Saturday evening Nature Program I was responsible for (and did a really really bad job with), I would have a raging hard on. The kind that made me feel light-headed because all the blood was going there instead of to my brain.
Once--okay, maybe more than once, maybe a half dozen times--I would stand off in the woods, looking at their little pup tent, and jerk off, shooting a gusher of jizz onto the ferns and mayapples.
It's a fond memory. And just that. I was never invited to spend any time in their little pup tent.
So anyway, this morning, walking my dog, I got to thinking about the pup tent guys. And for the first time ever, I wondered what they thought of me...
Blond Clone: Obviously, he's gay, right?
Black Haired Clone: Oh obviously.
Blond Clone: Did you see how he was tenting out the pants of his park ranger uniform? Oh honey!
Black Haired Clone: I saw. But puh-leeeeze, we do not want to go there.
Blond Clone: Why not? He's kind of humpy.
Black Haired Clone: He's a youngster! He might not even be legal! Trust me: we can look but we can't touch.
Blond Clone: But I started young...
Black Haired Clone: He lives with his parents! What if he freaks out? What if when his mother asks him why he's late he blurts out that he's been hiding the sausage with two queens from New York City who are staying at the local park? I can see the villagers lighting their torches and coming through the woods now. Trust me, we don't need that stress.
Blond Clone: But all that hot, repressed school boy longing... I bet he gives a great blow job! (Wrong! -ed.) All that enthusiasm.
Black Haired Clone: No. I think he'd probably be so scared he'd hardly let you touch him. (Wrong. -ed.)
Blond Clone: I guess you're right. Better to leave well enough alone. He's fun to talk to anyway.
Black Haired Clone: I'll tell you what, when I'm rimming you tonight, getting my tongue in you real deep like I know you love, I'll wear a khaki shirt and you can call me 'Park Ranger Boy,' okay?
Blond Clone: You're the best!
So see? I was Cigar Boy!
But Maybe The Stable Boy's Smokin' Hot?
So what all do you think about this?
Jean Genet--who has a special place in my heart dating from when, as a teenager, I fell asleep in a bathtub reading 'Our Lady Of The Flowers' and woke up having a wet dream about a merman servicing me--wrote at some point about Domination. He felt it only worked when the Dominant was of a rank lower than the Submissive. And that provided the erotic charge.
That, Genet believed, was why homosexuals hold sailors, tradesmen, criminals, and the like in such high regard. And why there really is no male equivalent of the term 'Dominatrix,' because she was a woman, and for most of human history in the West, women have been socially subordinate, so a "Dominant Male" would be redundant. And, these themes play into Maurice and Lady Chatterly's Lover and any number of other literary works that the intellectual classes of Europe have turned to for wanking.
With all due respect, I think M. Genet is off the mark.
I think what's really going on here is objectification.
Early on in my erotic career, my masturbatory fantasies far surpassed my actual experiences. And what I was looking for was the fulfilment--not the realization--of my JO dreams. (Parenthetically, I used to be stumped when I'd read about the 'DreamWorld' in discussions of the Shaman. I usually don't remember my dreams. But then I hit upon the idea that those images running through my head when I beat off are a kind of dreaming, and I was off to thhe races. Think about that. Neat, huh?) And so I wanted the men I was having sex and doing scenes with to be like the men I was beating off thinking about. To the extent that I paid attention to the "man behind the curtain," I wanted no part of it. I didn't want to know their names even.
But as my actual experiences caught up to and, I would say, came to surpass my jerk off fantasies... it became a whole new ballgame. I wanted to know all about those men I was having sex with and doing scenes with. Those foibles and contradictions--that "human, all too human" quality made it all the hotter. A guy once told me about how a second grade bully broke his glasses, and it was all I could do to stop myself from taking him in my arms, holding him tight, and telling him that I was never going to let that happen to him again.
So getting back to M. Genet--and did you know the David Bowie song, 'Jean Jeanie,' was written about the frenchman?--I think that's why all those titled Englishmen were hankering after their stable boys. Because they didn't know anything about them. They could only imagine what their lives were like. The stable boy was a blank white screen upon which M'Lord could project all his fantasies. It just so happened that the great chasm that separated the two was one of class.
Here in the New World, I think we see the equivalent of this in men who eroticize across the great racial divide. (I don't agree with my friend the Baron who thinks that the big political issue in the U.S. is class, I think it's race. Deep, deep racist animosities are at the root of all that ails our great nation.) It's not just the dark skin, it's the mystery. The exotic quality.
"Only connect," said E.M. Forrester, who authored Maurice, the Ur hot stable boy text. Only connect.
If your fantasies prevent you from connecting, then I would suggest you've got some work to do.
So what all do you think about this?
Jean Genet--who has a special place in my heart dating from when, as a teenager, I fell asleep in a bathtub reading 'Our Lady Of The Flowers' and woke up having a wet dream about a merman servicing me--wrote at some point about Domination. He felt it only worked when the Dominant was of a rank lower than the Submissive. And that provided the erotic charge.
That, Genet believed, was why homosexuals hold sailors, tradesmen, criminals, and the like in such high regard. And why there really is no male equivalent of the term 'Dominatrix,' because she was a woman, and for most of human history in the West, women have been socially subordinate, so a "Dominant Male" would be redundant. And, these themes play into Maurice and Lady Chatterly's Lover and any number of other literary works that the intellectual classes of Europe have turned to for wanking.
With all due respect, I think M. Genet is off the mark.
I think what's really going on here is objectification.
Early on in my erotic career, my masturbatory fantasies far surpassed my actual experiences. And what I was looking for was the fulfilment--not the realization--of my JO dreams. (Parenthetically, I used to be stumped when I'd read about the 'DreamWorld' in discussions of the Shaman. I usually don't remember my dreams. But then I hit upon the idea that those images running through my head when I beat off are a kind of dreaming, and I was off to thhe races. Think about that. Neat, huh?) And so I wanted the men I was having sex and doing scenes with to be like the men I was beating off thinking about. To the extent that I paid attention to the "man behind the curtain," I wanted no part of it. I didn't want to know their names even.
But as my actual experiences caught up to and, I would say, came to surpass my jerk off fantasies... it became a whole new ballgame. I wanted to know all about those men I was having sex with and doing scenes with. Those foibles and contradictions--that "human, all too human" quality made it all the hotter. A guy once told me about how a second grade bully broke his glasses, and it was all I could do to stop myself from taking him in my arms, holding him tight, and telling him that I was never going to let that happen to him again.
So getting back to M. Genet--and did you know the David Bowie song, 'Jean Jeanie,' was written about the frenchman?--I think that's why all those titled Englishmen were hankering after their stable boys. Because they didn't know anything about them. They could only imagine what their lives were like. The stable boy was a blank white screen upon which M'Lord could project all his fantasies. It just so happened that the great chasm that separated the two was one of class.
Here in the New World, I think we see the equivalent of this in men who eroticize across the great racial divide. (I don't agree with my friend the Baron who thinks that the big political issue in the U.S. is class, I think it's race. Deep, deep racist animosities are at the root of all that ails our great nation.) It's not just the dark skin, it's the mystery. The exotic quality.
"Only connect," said E.M. Forrester, who authored Maurice, the Ur hot stable boy text. Only connect.
If your fantasies prevent you from connecting, then I would suggest you've got some work to do.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Condolences, Guys
This must be a dark season for piss pigs. They must dread this time of year. They must greet the Spring flowers and nature coming back to life with dread.
Of course, I'm talking about Asparagus Season. Which is just superb this year. The stores are full of local stuff. A great crop. And every time I'm in the supermarket and I see it, I just gotta bring it home, steam it up, and serve it with a nice lump of butter on top.
But of course, I wouldn't inflict the foul smelling brew I'm serving from the tap on anybody.
This must be a dark season for piss pigs. They must dread this time of year. They must greet the Spring flowers and nature coming back to life with dread.
Of course, I'm talking about Asparagus Season. Which is just superb this year. The stores are full of local stuff. A great crop. And every time I'm in the supermarket and I see it, I just gotta bring it home, steam it up, and serve it with a nice lump of butter on top.
But of course, I wouldn't inflict the foul smelling brew I'm serving from the tap on anybody.
Eeeeewww!
Okay. This is why I don't flag Orange Left. Orange being my favorite color.
I don't like ManStank. As in, ripe pits and crotch situations.
I just... ...no.
Truth be told, I don't like any smells. Okay, maybe lemon, verbena, baking bread, fresh mint, garlic. But that's it. No perfume. No cologne. I've been holding my breath in elevators for my entire life. Since forever.
Now, I don't mind that just-got-out-of-the-gym bouquet. That sure works for me. But when it gets sour, I have to take a pass.
A few weeks ago I made a trip down to the Bike Stop in Philadelphia. It wasn't a great night. But there was this one verrrry hot man there. He had that look I can't resist: like he was up for anything. Total lowlife dirtbag cumdump. The kind of guy you couldn't take to your office picnic or introduce to your parents or you'd be written out of the will. We spotted each other, and made an immediate beeline for each other. He was visiting from SF, although he grew up in Philadelphia. Things were going great. I was all ready to head wherever and put it to this man with everything I got.
And then, I caught a whiff.
He hadn't showered for days.
Special Guy told me that a long time ago, when he worked at Daddies in the Castro, the guy who ran the bar never ever showered. Ever. He would get in the shower and wash his hair, but that was it. You could walk in the door and know whether or not he was in da house.
Hot, but not for me.
I think it's just a function of the fact that my mouth is my second favorite organ. After my brain. Whether it be Pho, tea, chevre, cigars, porkloin, latté, or whatever. Putting something in my mouth is the expressway to pleasure. And so I'm not big on getting anything in there that doesn't mean bliss. If we hook up, and I give you a blow job, that means I'm reeeeeally reeeeeeally into you. Most of the time, if I can get through the night without having to go down, I'm a happy man.
And I wish it could be otherwise, but I just don't eroticize smells. And when it comes to a really strong smell, like the ManStank thing, I have to pass.
So I had to tell that very hot man from SF that I had to get home.
It probably would have put a damper on things if I asked him to take a shower, right?
Okay. This is why I don't flag Orange Left. Orange being my favorite color.
I don't like ManStank. As in, ripe pits and crotch situations.
I just... ...no.
Truth be told, I don't like any smells. Okay, maybe lemon, verbena, baking bread, fresh mint, garlic. But that's it. No perfume. No cologne. I've been holding my breath in elevators for my entire life. Since forever.
Now, I don't mind that just-got-out-of-the-gym bouquet. That sure works for me. But when it gets sour, I have to take a pass.
A few weeks ago I made a trip down to the Bike Stop in Philadelphia. It wasn't a great night. But there was this one verrrry hot man there. He had that look I can't resist: like he was up for anything. Total lowlife dirtbag cumdump. The kind of guy you couldn't take to your office picnic or introduce to your parents or you'd be written out of the will. We spotted each other, and made an immediate beeline for each other. He was visiting from SF, although he grew up in Philadelphia. Things were going great. I was all ready to head wherever and put it to this man with everything I got.
And then, I caught a whiff.
He hadn't showered for days.
Special Guy told me that a long time ago, when he worked at Daddies in the Castro, the guy who ran the bar never ever showered. Ever. He would get in the shower and wash his hair, but that was it. You could walk in the door and know whether or not he was in da house.
Hot, but not for me.
I think it's just a function of the fact that my mouth is my second favorite organ. After my brain. Whether it be Pho, tea, chevre, cigars, porkloin, latté, or whatever. Putting something in my mouth is the expressway to pleasure. And so I'm not big on getting anything in there that doesn't mean bliss. If we hook up, and I give you a blow job, that means I'm reeeeeally reeeeeeally into you. Most of the time, if I can get through the night without having to go down, I'm a happy man.
And I wish it could be otherwise, but I just don't eroticize smells. And when it comes to a really strong smell, like the ManStank thing, I have to pass.
So I had to tell that very hot man from SF that I had to get home.
It probably would have put a damper on things if I asked him to take a shower, right?
Friday, May 05, 2006
Ink-A-Rama!
Not this weekend, but next weekend, is the NYC Tattoo Convention at the Roseland Ballroom.
And I'll be there!
That day, my softball team will be playing in Bloomfield, New Jersey, right down the street (literally) from Jersey Guy. Who is quite the illustrated man himself. (Over his dick, he has a tattoo that says "Daddy." Love that.) And, a verrrrrry heavily tattooed man from Atlanta I've been talking to for years will be in town, so I'm looking forward to meeting up with him, too.
Dig: I got a great nom de blogue for him: Whip Cracker.
Get it? He's a whipsman, and he's way into being a Rebel. As in, a southerner. As in, Cracker.
I'm meeting up with Whip Cracker for breakfast, then heading out to NJ to play softball, and Jersey Guy is going to come see the game, then Jersey Guy and I will head into the city to take in the tattoo convention and spend some time with Whip Cracker.
Totally looking forward to that.
This weekend, for those of you with keen memories, is the weekend of my father's birthday. (Lilacs, buttercups, dogwoods... Everything is in bloom here. My dad sure picked a great time of year to be born.) So not much of anything going on this weekend. I've got two softball games tomorrow, and afterwards I'm meeting up with UnFortunate for coffee, but then heading home. I've got to bake my father a birthday cake. Devils Food with buttercream frosting.
Tonight I'm heading into Doylestown. It's First Friday there, and I'm hoping that Cigar Boy will be out and about. And that he and I will get to talk some more.
*sigh*
And Sunday, I hope to steal away to take Faithful Companion to the dog run.
Oh. This is weird. My father reports that before he gets up in the morning, after I leave for work, Faithful Companion is ransacking the place. He knocks stuff off tables in my father's den. Like, clearing them off. Everything onto the floor.
I can't believe this. It's like nothing he's ever done before. I'm trying to come up with some alternate explanation. Remorseful burglars with second thoughts? Tremors? A poltergeist?
Hope you guys all have a good weekend, too.
Oh. And a note for any bootblacks who might be reading. My Wesco loggers have developed a squeak. Both of them. Really loud. You can probably hear it across the street. Anything I can do about that? Lemme know. Thanks!
Not this weekend, but next weekend, is the NYC Tattoo Convention at the Roseland Ballroom.
And I'll be there!
That day, my softball team will be playing in Bloomfield, New Jersey, right down the street (literally) from Jersey Guy. Who is quite the illustrated man himself. (Over his dick, he has a tattoo that says "Daddy." Love that.) And, a verrrrrry heavily tattooed man from Atlanta I've been talking to for years will be in town, so I'm looking forward to meeting up with him, too.
Dig: I got a great nom de blogue for him: Whip Cracker.
Get it? He's a whipsman, and he's way into being a Rebel. As in, a southerner. As in, Cracker.
I'm meeting up with Whip Cracker for breakfast, then heading out to NJ to play softball, and Jersey Guy is going to come see the game, then Jersey Guy and I will head into the city to take in the tattoo convention and spend some time with Whip Cracker.
Totally looking forward to that.
This weekend, for those of you with keen memories, is the weekend of my father's birthday. (Lilacs, buttercups, dogwoods... Everything is in bloom here. My dad sure picked a great time of year to be born.) So not much of anything going on this weekend. I've got two softball games tomorrow, and afterwards I'm meeting up with UnFortunate for coffee, but then heading home. I've got to bake my father a birthday cake. Devils Food with buttercream frosting.
Tonight I'm heading into Doylestown. It's First Friday there, and I'm hoping that Cigar Boy will be out and about. And that he and I will get to talk some more.
*sigh*
And Sunday, I hope to steal away to take Faithful Companion to the dog run.
Oh. This is weird. My father reports that before he gets up in the morning, after I leave for work, Faithful Companion is ransacking the place. He knocks stuff off tables in my father's den. Like, clearing them off. Everything onto the floor.
I can't believe this. It's like nothing he's ever done before. I'm trying to come up with some alternate explanation. Remorseful burglars with second thoughts? Tremors? A poltergeist?
Hope you guys all have a good weekend, too.
Oh. And a note for any bootblacks who might be reading. My Wesco loggers have developed a squeak. Both of them. Really loud. You can probably hear it across the street. Anything I can do about that? Lemme know. Thanks!
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Meet Cigar Boy
Okay.
Dig.
It's Wednesday, so that means that church. So after my latte and the Times at Starbucks, I head over. Nice little service. Always gets my head together.
During the mass, right after communion, I put my head in my hands, quiet my mind, and just spend some time with God.
Now, I rarely make requests, but tonight, in a weak moment perhaps, I made a request: "Just let me meet him. Just let me meet him."
I felt sort of sheepish about it.
Church was over. I chatted with the priest, and headed out. The evening sun was streaming through the clouds. I took the long way back to my car. I came around the corner, through the parking lot behind the bookstore, and there he was. Cigar Boy.
He was with a small group of other kids. One of whom, luckily, I knew. Our local punk rocker. After punk rock boy and I hailed each other, I sidled over to hang and chat. Keeping my eyes on Cigar Boy.
Not too far into the blah-blah-blah, Cigar Boy made it clear that he was queer. And I just couldn't help but notice how totally adorable he is.
But how to procede? It was a little awkward. A bunch of teenagers standing around talking, and up strolls this old guy. (Although one of the girls admired my tattoo. Cool.) And then, I ended up talking to Cigar Boy. We chatted.
He was telling me that--now get this--how sometimes he just wanted to break away. As in, from the human race. Because he thought that if he could just strip all of it away, he'd be left with something pure and true.
Okay, I knew exactly what he was talking aobut. I totally did. I used to have thoughts like that. I filled up journals mulling things like that.
I told him a story from one of the books I read on Shamanism. About a young man who was spending some time with shaman at a retreat center in the mountains. Every night, the man had a dream. He dreamt that he was running uphill at top speed on a hiking trail near where they were all staying. As he got higher and higher, he started to panic, because he knew that at the top of the trail was a cliff. And he knew that when he reached the top, he'd run right off the cliff. His panick would grow greater and greater, and just before he reached the top, he'd wake up, sweating and afraid. He told the shaman about the dream.
"The next time you have this dream," the shaman replied, keep running. Go off the cliff."
The young man did, right out into space, flying.
When he woke up, he realized something. He was in medical school, but he didn't want to be a doctor. His father wanted him to be a doctor. And that's why he was in med school. He decided right then and there that he had to quit med school.
He told the shaman about his decision. The shaman explained What It All Meant. "At least once in your life, you've got to kill yourself. The person you are when you're starting out in your life is your attempt to live up to the expectations of others. But it's not you. And the only way out is to kill that person."
Cigar Boy was impressed. And obviously nervous. Fidgety. I made sure there was lots of eye contact coming from me. And a warm, admiring smile.
So. We're off to the races, huh?
Well, not quite. I've been hunting him for three weeks, so no telling when he'll next show up. And then there's the hard cold fact that I'm an old guy. Eeeeeewwww!
And there's one other thing. He dropped a total bomb: "The other day, in homeroom..."
Homeroom!
Aaaaaaaaaaagghhhh!!!
Either he's repeated several grades, or he hasn't graduated from high school.
Now when I was graduated from high school in 1983 (at least five years before Cigar Boy was born), I had been eighteen for eight months. And, the age of consent in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is sixteen.
But c'mon. I can only imagine that his parents would be something less than thrilled. I mean, they're probably my age.
But still.
Cigar boy was so sweet when we were talking. Looking up at me. This great half smile he has. And cigar boy has these beautiful gray eyes. I would sure like to be the guy that makes Cigar Boy feel good. Feel good about himself. About his life. His future. Himself.
*gasp* But what if he wants to take me to the prom? That would make the local papers for sure.
Okay.
Dig.
It's Wednesday, so that means that church. So after my latte and the Times at Starbucks, I head over. Nice little service. Always gets my head together.
During the mass, right after communion, I put my head in my hands, quiet my mind, and just spend some time with God.
Now, I rarely make requests, but tonight, in a weak moment perhaps, I made a request: "Just let me meet him. Just let me meet him."
I felt sort of sheepish about it.
Church was over. I chatted with the priest, and headed out. The evening sun was streaming through the clouds. I took the long way back to my car. I came around the corner, through the parking lot behind the bookstore, and there he was. Cigar Boy.
He was with a small group of other kids. One of whom, luckily, I knew. Our local punk rocker. After punk rock boy and I hailed each other, I sidled over to hang and chat. Keeping my eyes on Cigar Boy.
Not too far into the blah-blah-blah, Cigar Boy made it clear that he was queer. And I just couldn't help but notice how totally adorable he is.
But how to procede? It was a little awkward. A bunch of teenagers standing around talking, and up strolls this old guy. (Although one of the girls admired my tattoo. Cool.) And then, I ended up talking to Cigar Boy. We chatted.
He was telling me that--now get this--how sometimes he just wanted to break away. As in, from the human race. Because he thought that if he could just strip all of it away, he'd be left with something pure and true.
Okay, I knew exactly what he was talking aobut. I totally did. I used to have thoughts like that. I filled up journals mulling things like that.
I told him a story from one of the books I read on Shamanism. About a young man who was spending some time with shaman at a retreat center in the mountains. Every night, the man had a dream. He dreamt that he was running uphill at top speed on a hiking trail near where they were all staying. As he got higher and higher, he started to panic, because he knew that at the top of the trail was a cliff. And he knew that when he reached the top, he'd run right off the cliff. His panick would grow greater and greater, and just before he reached the top, he'd wake up, sweating and afraid. He told the shaman about the dream.
"The next time you have this dream," the shaman replied, keep running. Go off the cliff."
The young man did, right out into space, flying.
When he woke up, he realized something. He was in medical school, but he didn't want to be a doctor. His father wanted him to be a doctor. And that's why he was in med school. He decided right then and there that he had to quit med school.
He told the shaman about his decision. The shaman explained What It All Meant. "At least once in your life, you've got to kill yourself. The person you are when you're starting out in your life is your attempt to live up to the expectations of others. But it's not you. And the only way out is to kill that person."
Cigar Boy was impressed. And obviously nervous. Fidgety. I made sure there was lots of eye contact coming from me. And a warm, admiring smile.
So. We're off to the races, huh?
Well, not quite. I've been hunting him for three weeks, so no telling when he'll next show up. And then there's the hard cold fact that I'm an old guy. Eeeeeewwww!
And there's one other thing. He dropped a total bomb: "The other day, in homeroom..."
Homeroom!
Aaaaaaaaaaagghhhh!!!
Either he's repeated several grades, or he hasn't graduated from high school.
Now when I was graduated from high school in 1983 (at least five years before Cigar Boy was born), I had been eighteen for eight months. And, the age of consent in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is sixteen.
But c'mon. I can only imagine that his parents would be something less than thrilled. I mean, they're probably my age.
But still.
Cigar boy was so sweet when we were talking. Looking up at me. This great half smile he has. And cigar boy has these beautiful gray eyes. I would sure like to be the guy that makes Cigar Boy feel good. Feel good about himself. About his life. His future. Himself.
*gasp* But what if he wants to take me to the prom? That would make the local papers for sure.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Bliss
Once again, the Starbucks in Doylestown put the cafe tables and chairs out on their porch. So I no longer have to sit on the cold concrete while I enjoy my latte and cigar. And, the old gang is starting to drift back and take up their positions. Nice.
Alas, Cigar Boy still has not surfaced.
I'm still enjoying this ride. The cool Zen feeling of being both the actor in the melodrama unfolding on stage and somewhat disinterested observer in the audience endures.
But I've been thinking. If, in fact, things don't pan out with Cigar Boy (it could happen!), maybe... maybe... this is the leathergods way of communicating to me that I should be thinking about collaring a boy. All the things that Cigar Boy has me thinking about would be transferable. To some special boy.
First and foremost, giving him the assurance of my abiding devotion. "I'll always be there for you, boy. I'll always be in your corner. I've always got your back. No matter where your journey takes you in life, you can always be sure of that."
What boy wouldn't love to hear that?
Once again, the Starbucks in Doylestown put the cafe tables and chairs out on their porch. So I no longer have to sit on the cold concrete while I enjoy my latte and cigar. And, the old gang is starting to drift back and take up their positions. Nice.
Alas, Cigar Boy still has not surfaced.
I'm still enjoying this ride. The cool Zen feeling of being both the actor in the melodrama unfolding on stage and somewhat disinterested observer in the audience endures.
But I've been thinking. If, in fact, things don't pan out with Cigar Boy (it could happen!), maybe... maybe... this is the leathergods way of communicating to me that I should be thinking about collaring a boy. All the things that Cigar Boy has me thinking about would be transferable. To some special boy.
First and foremost, giving him the assurance of my abiding devotion. "I'll always be there for you, boy. I'll always be in your corner. I've always got your back. No matter where your journey takes you in life, you can always be sure of that."
What boy wouldn't love to hear that?
Baseball My Life
Sooooo good to have baseball back in season. Lately, it seems that the Philadelphia Phillies are exclusively playing the Florida Marlins.
Much to my father's chagrin, I'm rooting for the Marlins.
Why?
Because of their new manager. Joe Girardi.
Way back when I was loving the Yankees (Yes! It's true!) I was pretty smitten with their catcher, Joe Girardi. You could stand four beer mugs on that man's ass. I can still see, in my mind's eye, the outline of his voluptouos butt and meaty thighs when he was squatting down behind home plate.
A buddy of mine once reported that he had seen Joe Girardi at a cigar bar in lower Manhattan.
I'm glad I didn't. I would have gone to prison.
It was indeed a dark day when Girardi went to the White Sox. But now, there he is, right there on my television screen.
Unfortunately, as a manager, we don't get to see Joe squatting any more. Or standing up much for that matter. Mostly he's brooding on the bench in the dugout, Joe Torre style.
But even brooding... He gets this great look on his face: intense concentratin mingled with incomprehension. I've always found that winning. Sort of the look I'd hope he'd get when I explain to him that the crate is so I can ship him down to the slave training facility in Central America because I decided that he looked so good naked and in chains that I thought it only right that he spend the rest of his life that way.
*sigh*
Welcome back to my masturbatory fantasies, Joe!
Sooooo good to have baseball back in season. Lately, it seems that the Philadelphia Phillies are exclusively playing the Florida Marlins.
Much to my father's chagrin, I'm rooting for the Marlins.
Why?
Because of their new manager. Joe Girardi.
Way back when I was loving the Yankees (Yes! It's true!) I was pretty smitten with their catcher, Joe Girardi. You could stand four beer mugs on that man's ass. I can still see, in my mind's eye, the outline of his voluptouos butt and meaty thighs when he was squatting down behind home plate.
A buddy of mine once reported that he had seen Joe Girardi at a cigar bar in lower Manhattan.
I'm glad I didn't. I would have gone to prison.
It was indeed a dark day when Girardi went to the White Sox. But now, there he is, right there on my television screen.
Unfortunately, as a manager, we don't get to see Joe squatting any more. Or standing up much for that matter. Mostly he's brooding on the bench in the dugout, Joe Torre style.
But even brooding... He gets this great look on his face: intense concentratin mingled with incomprehension. I've always found that winning. Sort of the look I'd hope he'd get when I explain to him that the crate is so I can ship him down to the slave training facility in Central America because I decided that he looked so good naked and in chains that I thought it only right that he spend the rest of his life that way.
*sigh*
Welcome back to my masturbatory fantasies, Joe!
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