Thursday, June 29, 2006

Chrome Dome


I've searched and searched. I've tried baby oil, olive oil, all kinds of moisturizers. Nothing does it for me.

Nothing puts a nice shine on my bald head.

I think that's so hot! Well, let's be clear. Bald heads are hot. Always. (Especially when combined with a nice bushy stache.) But shiny bald heads are like... über hot.

But unfortunately, it seems like you're either born with one, or you do without.

A web search a few months ago turned up nothing. Nothing at all.

Which is weird.

Way back when, like... I was in college... at Zipperhead's on South Street in Philadelphia, I found this stuff called Butch Wax. When I tried to use it, it pulled out my hair. And, y'know, hurt a lot. I wasn't shaving my head then (it was the Eighties, so I had Big Hair like everybody else).

But it's not around anymore. Alas.

But today, waiting for the pharmacist to get my dad's prescription together, I found it.

It's called HeadLube. (I love that!) And it's made by the folks who made HeadBlade, the thing for shaving your head, which I've never found particularly useful.

HeadLube (that's so great!) comes in Glossy and Matte. Matte I don't get. I mean, matte is when you don't do anything, right?

I have yet to give an innaugural dab of HeadLube (HeadLube! So cool!), but I'm looking forward to it.

See that big built guy with the bush stache over there? The one with the cool chain tattoo... Ah! Yikes! He turned his head and the sun reflecting off his head just blinded me!


Here's hoping.

Fun Game!


I'm getting obsessed.

That great movie Hostel. Have you seen it yet? It's so cool.

Anyway, there I'll be, going about my business, sitting on the porch of Starbucks with my cigar, buying stuff for dinner for my dad, and I'll see some hot boy.

And I'll just think, "Perfect!"

Perfect for...?

Why, perfect for my Hostel victim, of course!

Once you get into this game, there's no stopping. Some guys definitely have It. "It" being hostelpossible. Maybe it's something about the strong jaw that would look so nice below the orb of the ball gag, or the squinty eyes that take no effort at all to imagine tear filled and begging for mercy.


Oh yeah.

So many hostelpossible men in the world.

High Water

You may have heard on the news
about day after day of rain, pouring
buckets, unrelenting, and right on
cue, all the local cricks and rivers are
swelling and rising over their banks.
Now, the thing is, I have someone to
blame besides good old Mother Nature.
You see, the borough of New Hope, and
similar townships and municipalities
in the area, have been hellbent for
development lo these many years.
There's nary a viable square inch
of land that they haven't planted a
McMansion or nine on. Did you know
that an acre of land can absorb 18,000
gallons of water? But when you put
a building on that land, and all the lanes
and ways and courts and runs covered
in asphalt to get to them. Now all that
water has to go somewhere, right and
glub glub glub glub
glub glub glub glub glub glub glub
glub glub glub glub glub glub glub
glub glub


glub glub


(Okay. That was purely for dramatic effect. The Ol' Homestead sits atop a fairly high hill--murder to ride my bike up when I was a kid--and we're a mile and a half up from the basement. And thanks to our sump pump, the basement stayed water free, too.)

Tuesday, June 27, 2006



The search for a new job continues.

Not like I haven't had moments (okay, weeks and months) of doubt. After sending out my resume to jobs that I was completely qualified for and not even getting a call for an interview, I've started to wonder if, perhaps, the world is full of thirty year olds who are more experienced, smarter, better qualified, and, of course, eleven years younger.

For just under five years, I was the Executive Director of a non-profit organization doing great work at the intersection of HIV and injection drug use. Two weeks ago, it hit craigslist: a verrrry similar organization is looking for an executive director.

Now, there are differences, to be sure, but C'mon! I did that job! And did it really well!

I'm not saying I'm a shoe-in. There could be a board member, or someone known well to them seeking to make a lateral move, or someone working at the agency who has been groomed for the job and interviewing others is just perfunctory.

But they can't not interview me.

They gotta at least interview me.

I'm getting my shirts laundered and pressed. Just in case.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Changing The Rules

When you're in the years of midlife as I am, it's important to guard against calcification of your outlook. Some rigidity is inevitable, but you don't want to become one of those Old Guard scolds, nattering on, alone, in the corner, about how if some pup had tried that back at the Gold Coast he would have been taken outside and horsewhipped.

And so, as a public service, I want to announce two Official Changes In The Rules.

Doubtless, this will be hard for many of you to take. But Buddy, you gotta change with the changing times. Of course, these rules have been approved by nobody in particular, but regardless, the Rules are officially changed, as of now.

The first one is a hard one.

Henceforth and in the future, it will now be Okay to wear cargo shorts and sandals to a leatherbar.

I know! I know I know I know!

Scandalous! Horrifying! The end of Western Civilization as we know it! Hang up your leathers and take up Soduko.

No, it's true. You see it more and more, and it doesn't look un-hot. And when you have to stop for gas on your way down to the leatherbar, you don't have people thinking that you're ten cents short of a nickle wearing your boots when it's 98° out.

Bootblacks, in particular, will take this hard. I know.

But there it is. Sandals and cargo shorts, preferrably cammo, are offically Okay.

Okay. That's one down. We got through it. The second one isn't as hard to take.

Since increasing numbers of leathermen are wearing their cellphones on their belts, this will also now officially be Okay. Even though Carson Kresley is doing his best to stop that oncoming locomotive, the battle is lost. Cellphones will be worn on belts. And that's Okay.

But, here's the thing. With this new freedom comes a new responsibility. Irrespective of your sexual role (Tops, who flag left and are sexually dominant, and bottoms, who flag right and are sexually submissive), that will not apply to cell phones. Instead, you will wear your cell phone on the appropriate side to indicate your cell phone role.

Say what?

Bear with me. If you're a cell phone Top, that means you get his number and you call him. If you're a cell phone bottom, that means you give your number when asked, and, hopefully, get called.

Two cell phone bottoms will meet the plight of any two bottoms who might be powerfully turned on to each other, but have to realize that it's not going to go anywhere. And a cell phone Top who falls down on the job will be viewed with the same jaundiced eye as a man who flags black hanky left, then begs the guy he goes home with to tie him up and beat his butt.

That's just wrong. And he should be taken out back and horsewhipped.

Okay. So those are the Rules.

Learn'em. Love'em. Live'em.


The Baron couldn't make Gay Pride in NYC today, so I decided to spend the weekend doing things closer to home. And that, of course, meant a trip down to the Bike Stop in Philadelphia. Little did I suspect that it would turn out to be the Best Night At The Bike Stop Ever.

I started off by visiting a coffee place in Burlington, NJ, recently opened by a guy I know slightly. (He acted like it was a big deal that I'd go somewhere and hang out and drink coffee [g].) Then I headed into Philadelphia. I had a late dinner at More Than Just Ice Cream on Locust, and headed to the 'Stop.

Oddly, things get going pretty late there. I say 'oddly,' because last call is 1:15 pm, as opposed to 4 am in NYC, yet people only start showing up at about the same time. And at the gitgo, it was looking like just an okay night.

Cutting to the chase--not something I do easily or often--I met this guy. And went home with him. And stayed the night.

And it was Perfect.

Why so?

Well, first off, he was totally hot. Just smokin hot. In fact, on WorldLeathermen, he's almost always among the 'Top 100 Rated Members,' and has spent time in the Number One spot. Deservedly so.

Secondly, he did nothing wrong. He wasn't a lawyer. He could hold a conversation. He had a sunny disposition. He wasn't an avid collector of Erté figurines or Barbie dolls, or hummels or things with ducks on them or some shit.

Thirdly, he did everything right. He asked me whether I was Top or bottom, and I replied that although I'm pretty much a Top, I'm flexible. And what I really go for is intensity. And I like it best when the connection is there, and two men can go just about anywhere together.

And he said, "Yeah, me, too."

And he meant it.

And we did.

And it was so great. And it was totally wild.

I mean, there were points when he would sort of send up a trial balloon, and I'd be like, "No way! That's one of my Big Fantasies! He can't be going there, but I'd return that volley (Oops! Mixed metaphor alert!), and he'd take the ball and run with it (Yikes! Triple Mixed Metaphor Alert!), and we'd be off to the races (Oh man! A Rare Grand Slam Mixed Metaphor Alert!).

And then he asked me to spend the night, and periodically, once both of us were wrapped around each other under the covers, we'd get busy again.

So yeah. It all came together. A hot man. A good guy. A serious player.

An all to rare thing.

But here's the best part.

Today, driving home, stopping off at the SuperFresh StoopidFresh to get the NY Times and treat myself to some breakfast cereal (a true splurge, I don't allow myself to have that ridiculously overpriced nutritionally jejeune stuff, but here I am with a box of Golden Grahams), and giving Faithful Companion his long overdue walk, my head was filled with romantic possibilities.

I've written before here about how the thing I miss the most about NYC is the constant cloud of romantic possibilities that surrounded me. Maybe him... maybe him... maybe him...

Who knows if it will go anwhere at all, but that doesn't matter. I have what I have: a great night under my belt, and a head full of dreams.


Thursday, June 22, 2006

Folsom Street East Fun!

Went to Folsom Street East this past Sunday, and had a blast. Hung with my buddy UnFortunate, and saw all my peeps.

Which was great. Totally recharged my batteries.

And you know what the best part was?


I swear, y'know what I love? Y'know what makes me feel great?

Lolita is so happy to see you. Always. Every time.

The exuberance! The way her face lights up.

It made me feel great. And I still feel great from it.

Thanks, Lolita!

Inferno Wishes

As you may or may not know, one of the features of Inferno is the Fantasy Committee. One has the opportunity to give a fantasy to this august body, and they'll see what they can do about making it real. Many many many fantasies seem to involve getting abducted after dinner.

Anyway, I have a fantasy. Even though I'm not going to be writing it down and sending it in.

It's a Hostel fantasy!

Some hot young man--or some hot seasoned man--wakes up, groggy from the effects of his rufie cocktail, and finds himself handcuffed and shackled to a chair, a cloth hood over his head. While he's sightlessly exploring his surroundings, the hood is swiped off, and there I am!

Alarmed, confused, perhaps slightly reassured by my pleasant demeanor, but I'll sure enjoy watching his eyes bug out and his breathing get labored when he sees the array of implements on the worktable behind me.

"Are you ready to hurt for me, Buddy?" I ask.

Maybe he'll whimper. Or beg.


"Tell me about yourself, boy. If I like you, maybe I'll have a heart and go easy on you."

(I won't.)

And then I start in.

I loved the part in Hostel when the guy vomits behind his ball gag from terror!

And nothing would be off limits.

When would it be over, when his pain and fear disolve into godforsaken despair, and then complete abandonment. In other words, total submission to me.

There's that "bait and switch" aspect to SM. Nobody beats off when they're seventeen years old thinking about clothespin scenes, but we find them deeply satisfying and rewarding, provided they're done right.

But Hostel--that amazing, amazing movie--has kind of brought me back to my roots.

Yeah. I'm a Sadist. A vicious, relentless Sadist.

Okay! Okay! So I get teary-eyed when the local tv news shows puppies that the local SPCA has for adoption. So what?

You get up against that cross and show me your back, why doncha?


Lately, I've been spending a lot of time thinking and daydreaming about after.

After work, or school, where I'm doing or learning to do something entirely new, I drive home. Along some lonely desert road. Or maybe through the swamps of Southeast Florida.

I pull in the driveway--from the road it looks almost as though no one lives there--of my modest, sparely furnished house. Maybe it's a place I built myself, from one of my many designs. Maybe it's an open plan ranch.

And in the door, here comes Faithful Companion, lumbering in from the deck where he warms his old bones in the sun. I head to my study, emptying my pockets, putting my cell phone in the charger, hooking up my iPod to the speaker system.

A nice feature of my study--a smallish room with bookshelves and a desk--is a low platform, about five by seven feet, upholstered in some comfy manmade material that doghair doesn't stick to. It's smack up against a floor-to-ceiling window. The perfect place to read the paper, check email on my laptop, relax with a good book and drift in and out of sleep on a Sunday night.

Then I head to the bedroom. I get the hot tub going. Take off the clothes.

I head to the kitchen. The kitchen takes up a lot of real estate. In the middle is a big island, covered in butcher block, a nice, wide open work space. There's a big dining room table off the kitchen, because I love to feed people. I get some tea started and get dinner for Faithful Companion.

Then back to the bedroom. I jump in the shower. The shower has a wall of glass, to bring the outside in. When I shower in the morning, I see the rising sun lighting up the sky.

Tea's ready!

I pour myself a mug, grab a cigar, and head out to the hot tub.

For the next forty-five minutes or so, I have a big smile and a vacant expression on my face.

After the hot tub?

An intense little workout, then dinner.

Spend the night reading, surfing the 'Net, watching telebishin. Head out to my welding workshop and do some work. Spend some time in the dungeon, making everything perfect.

Before bedtime, I head to my little Pustina. A little corner of the house set up as a chapel. Something discrete. Minimal. (Everything in there is minimal. Duh!) I light a candle, get quiet, and say Compline.

So all this alone?

Yeah. Maybe.

Maybe there's the Love Of My Life in the picture. But we're not co-habitating. I need to live alone for a while. Man I miss living alone. "She resolved never more to live her life to the rhythms of others" wrote Tillie Olsen in Ironing. That's the ticket.

But he can come over for dinner. Sit in the hot tub with me, both of us smoking cigars. And, of course, he can spend the night.

Or maybe there's a slave around. Or a boy. Or some duly submissive man. Making sure my boots always look great. Having that tea ready for me when I get home. Always ready with a backrub.

And there's a guest room. Guests are good. Come and stay for eight months if you want.

Or not.

Either way, I'm good.


It's taken me a long time for this vision to be so robust, tracing so many different intimations to the source. It's a great gift to know what you want.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

He's A Tramp, But They Love Him


Lady And The Tramp is on tonight!

Tramp was my first crush. Even though he's a dog and all. That independence, that edginess, the raw masculinity, the make-your-own-rules ethos. I had it bad for Tramp. And I've been looking for his human equivalent ever since.

And, there's so much more to love about the Lady and the Tramp. There's the gay couple next door: Jock the Scots Terrier and Trusty the Bloodhound. And then there's the musical numbers by none other than Miss Peggy Lee.

I, Pleatherman

So today, I was spending some time putting wash away, and figuring out something to wear to Folsom Street East tomorrow. (Yeah I'll be there.) It looks to be the return of my favorite kind of weather: H-cubed. As in, Hazy, Hot, and Humid.

So I'm thinking shorts. I have a bunch of REI shorts I like (lots of pockets), a couple of pair of Carhartt shorts, and two pair of leather shorts. One pair are really tight on me, so they usually end up getting worn under my chaps. The other pair are leather cargo shorts.


Why do I not wear these more often?

I tried them on, and I remembered why. I mean, they're great. They're Mephisto leather, from Australia, so the leather is just silky smooth and soft. Great stuff.

But they're just cut so damn bad. Sort of square and shapeless. They hang a little bit longer than they should, and are sort of drapey in the leg. They just don't quite work.

But, they're shorts, they're leather, they have pockets, so the leather cargo shorts it'll be.

As I was rooting around, I ran across The Pants I've Worn Exactly Once.

Longtime readers of Singletails will remember these. I bought them years ago. I was looking through the sale racks of one of the Gay Gay Gay! clothing stores on 8th Avenue in Chelsea. And there they were. Leather jeans, lacing over the crotch, this great sort of dark dark brown color. And then I tried them on.


They rode really low on my hips, but flared at the ankles, so I could wear boots with them and they'd still be flapping. And that great laced crotch!

And the price tag? Like $50.


This was mere days before I was whipped by the first time. By ARt. At Elmer Odge in NYC.

Which I was terrifically anxious about. I wasn't sure if I could take it, since as we know, when it comes to pain, I draw the line at inconvenience. In the cab on the way over to Elmer Odge, I was digging out change in the pockets, and I ran across a little slip of paper. It read, "Made of 100% Man Made Materials."


These weren't leather jeans!

They're pleather jeans!

I'm a Pleatherman!

I'm ersatz!

This was not good for my state of mind, but I managed to talk myself down off that particular ceiling.

Anyway, that was the only time I've worn the pleathers. I've kept them around almost as a momento of the occasion. That night, up on the cross, singing my birthday song.

Taking them out again, on this beautiful hot July day, I was struck anew by them. They really do look a lot like leather.

I thought of a guy I know from Inferno, who is a vegan. And extends his veganism to not wearing anything derived from animals. And looks so fucking hot in rubber you wouldn't believe.

I tried on the pleathers.


They ride really low on my hips, elongating my torso, and making my ass look great. I can't quite see the view from the back, but I'm pretty sure that if I saw me wearing these, without a shirt, I'd want to whip me.


So I think sometime, not tomorrow, but sometime, I'm gonna wear'em out.

I'll be a pleatherman. Yes I will. And maybe, nobody will know.

Except, of course, you.

So if I run into you, that means I'll have to kill you.

But not to worry, I'll make the experience one of the best scenes you've ever had. Promise! And among your final thoughts before your cerebral cortex ceases operations will be, "Gosh his ass looks so great in those pants!"

Sunday, June 11, 2006


Yes, my cage is now in my garage. Unassembled, that's the next challenge I face, but nothing that can't be met with some muscle and a trip to the hardware store. And hopefully I'll be sticking men in it in the very near future.

And I finally met Phillip the Cage Guy in Providence. And what a great guy he is. Quite the evil genius. He does such amazing work. Soon, he'll be working on a sphere shaped cage that opens and closes like a clam shell, and can be suspended from the ceiling. (Schwing!) And... and... he's got these amazing doors from an actual cell that are just amazing. Unfortunately, they're made to be set into concrete walls. But God bless the man who is able to put it to use.

But anyway, this roadtrip was truly a journey.

The cargo van we rented was courtesy of UnFortunate's father. UnFortunate's mother passed away about the same time as my stepmother. UnFortunate's father has had a woman come into his life, and they've decided to get married. And here, as they say, UnFortunate's troubles begin. The Stepmother-to-be is cut from different cloth than Mother. Mother was an amazing cook. Stepmother-to-be is challenged by frozen dinners. Mother kept kosher, and found in her faith a source of vitality and love of life. Stepmother-to-be doesn't see the point. And on and on. And UnFortunate's growing up recollections include several trips the whole family took cross country in a camper, driving down to Mexico City, across Canada, and wherever else they could.

Not that Stepmother-to-be is a slouch. She's an accomplished academic who flies all over the world giving seminars for the World Bank. But she definitely has Issues.

So what's up with Dad?

He tells UnFortunate that he wants to marry Stepmother-to-be, but always with the coda, "although she'll never take the place of your mother."

UnFortunate needed to make this trip because Stepmother-to-be decided she'd be moving in to the UnFortunate family home, and to make room for her stuff, everything had to go. So UnFortunate wanted to salvage what he could of his personal history as embodied in in furniture and bric-a-brac before it ended up in the town dump.

UnFortunate, needless to say, is taking all this pretty hard. He took the bus out to Doylestown, we rented the cargo van, and headed north.

UnFortunate's father was waiting for us when we got in, with dinner.

UnFortunate's father had thoughtfully made us dinner.


He's roughly my dad's age. He's vital, engaged, and active. When he retired, he decided that he would learn one new thing every year. This has included bicycling, kayaking, rock climbing, and a language or two. He has back problems, spinal stenosis, like my father, but has worked hard at physical therapy and is still able to do so much. (This year's "Thing To Learn" was pilates.)


So I couldn't help indulging myself in comparison. My Dad up against UnFortunate's dad. And that quickly devolved into some 'if only's.' In the Great Dad Lottery, UnFortunate lucked out. Going through the family memorabilia, we came across a black and white picture of UnFortunate's dad. He had been a labor organizer in his youth. The shot was amazing. It was taken from above, like from a balcony. UnFortunate's dad, nattily dressed in a trim late '40s suit, is pointing accusingly upwards, like at someone next to the photographer. His face a picture of righteous indignation. It was beautiful.

While UnFortunate rummaged, I talked to dad. And enjoyed it. And got a little more steamed at my own father with every passing minute.

But I was missing it. It was going right by me.

Dad would say some little thing, and UnFortunate would just crumble... "But Dad! How can you say that?" Just like that, he was back to being twelve years old, and why can't he ride his bike over to Glen's house?

Dads are from Plato's realm of Ideal Forms, huh? They might have various attributes. Some Dads are remote. Some Dads are engaged. Some Dads are boneheads. Some Dads are thoughtful. Some Dads are playful. Some Dads are serious.

But Dads are Dads. No matter who's your Daddy, he has his shortcomings. Because he's just a guy. Just a guy. And those shortcomings--the obstinancy, the rigidity, the wishy-washiness, whatever--just make you nuts, blinding you to everything he has to offer.

But so it goes. The riddle none of us can solve. Dad is Dad.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Supermarket Shenanigans

So there I am at the checkout line of the SuperFresh (what I call 'StoopidFresh') in Doylestown, bagging my groceries.

Behind me I hear this voice... this pure Arthur Avenue in the Bronx voice, the kind of voice that pronounces "Nature' as 'NAY-chuh.' And she was saying, "Yeah, up there, that's Amelia Bedelia, and there's Curious George the monkey..." I looked up, and they had these huge baloons of characters from children's books. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw a woman holding this absolutely adorable bright eyed baby.

Then she said it. "And there's Clifford! Do you know Clifford?"

Clifford... Clifford the Big Red Puppy... I loved Clifford! Totally my favorite!

I have no idea what came over me.

I turned around and exclaimed--loudly--maybe a little louder than I intended--"We love Clifford! Don't we love Clifford?"

The adorable baby looked at me like, "Uh... What up, Yo?"

Mom clutched her child closer to me, and gave me that look that a mother bear must give when somebody gets between her and her cub. Total "Back off, Buddy."

Suddenly, all was silent at StoopidFresh. My checkout girl was looking at me totally slack-jawed. If she had a way of calling security, she would have been calling security.

Me: "Heh heh. I loved Clifford The Big Red Puppy."

Everybody in StoopidFresh: Wordless immobility.

Me: "It was one of my favorite books when I was a little boy."

Everybody in StoopidFresh: Wordless immobility.

Me: "Okie doke. Time to get home and get dinner on the table."

Then, to the baby, and probably not making things better...

Me: "Bye bye! Clifford rules, right?"

I have to go back there. It's the only place in town where I can buy the Odwalla Pure Protein drinks I have for breakfast every morning.

Maybe I can wear a disguise.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

"Omigod... Look At That _____!"

Okay. Here's the deal.

Again this year, I am invited to the First Saturday In July Dungeon Party at the Pottstown aerie of JPZapper and DogTopper. Longtime readers of SingleTails may remember the first time I was invited to this event a few years ago, prompting all kinds of proxysms (sp?) of anxiety, causing me to remember the short story by Virginia Wolf titled, "The Yelllow Dress."

'Zapper and DogTopper provide excellent barbeque fare, and guests are invited to bring a dessert.

And I'm kinda thinking that this year, I want to bring a really really really impressive dessert. A total confectionary showstopper. As in, my plate is totally empty but all the other plates are filled. So that in years to come, my invite--if I so merit--will be accompanied by a request to bring that amazing dessert again.

Now, desserts have never been my forté. Back in the days of domesticity, dinner guests were lucky if I remembered to pick up some ice cream and Pepperidge Farm cookies. (But of course they were usually so totally blown away by the dinner that they didn't notice. Or so I like to think.)

Since I've been living here in Bucks County, I've started in on this birthday cake thing, taking delight in baking and iciing birthday cakes. I think my magnum opus birthday cake had to be the one I baked for That Guy From LA: the cake was moist and luscious and chocolatey Devils Food, and I made a butter cream iciing flavored with a blood orange syrup that I concocted myself.


Does that make you heave a sigh of desire and longing? Well it should!

Tragically, like most aspects of my fling with That Guy From LA, this effort went totally unappreciated.


I have less than a month to figure something out.

Maybe cupcakes with blood orange butter cream iciing? Chocolate fudge? Cream cheese brownies?

My step mother used to make this pie of sorts with graham cracker crust and a filling of condensed milk and cream cheese. Maybe something like that... only I could divide it in half and cool it till it starts to set, and flavor one half with chocolate and one half with coffee... Hmmmm...

Anyway, I'm open to suggestions for an impressive and astonishing dessert I could make. What's the most amazing sweet thing you've ever put in your mouth?

I'd ask that you not suggest anything that would be really expensive to make, having me run out and buy a bottle of Gran Marnier so I could use a tablespoon of it and then be left with a bottle of Gran Marnier for the rest of my life.

Post your suggestion as a comment below, if you please.

And thanks.

Friday, June 02, 2006


It's looking like it's gonna happen. Three years in the making. Next Friday, UnFortunate is going to take the bus up hear from Bucks County. I'll pick him up after work. Then, we go pick up the cargo van. I'll head home, get my father dinner, walk my dog, and then we'll head out on the highway to Storrs, CT, where UnFortunate's father lives. We spend the night in Storrs, and the next morning, load up the cargo van with some of UnFortunate's family furniture (his father is getting remarried, and the new wife, who is apparently awful, wants all the old shit gone). Then, we drive east to Providence, Rhode Island. We'll load up my cage--my amazing cage--spend some time with the Cage Maker, who has offered to help, maybe meet this hot Boston guy, another big fan of cold eternal steel, who I've been talking to forever, and for whom Cage Maker is welding a cage now if he can make the drive down.

We'll get back on the highway, heading south, back to NYC, to drop off the furniture at UnFortunate's apartment. Then I'll drive through the Holland Tunnel, south on I-78, get off at exit 15 and take CR-513 to Frenchtown, cross the river, go down river road, and soon end up back at the Ol' Homestead.

And then I'll have my cage.

Who knows how much opportunity I'll get to use it. Lately for me, it's all about quality over quantity, y'know?

But I fell in love with caging years and years ago, when I spent a night in the cage of Aubrey Sparks of Seattle. It'll be wonderful to have a strong, powerful man, under lock and key. For as long as I decide to keep him there. Feeding him out of a dog bowl.

I think that smoking cigars will be a prerequisite for spending time in my cage. The image of a man in a cage smoking a cigar is sooooo hot. I associate cigars with power. Powerful men smoke cigars. And the idea of that power submitting to me... That's just beautiful.