Sunday, July 02, 2006

First Of July


As Henry James said, "The two most beautiful words in the English language are 'Summer Afternoon.'

Today, the weather is flawless. Upper eighties, the humid air buzzing with insect life. Green green green green. So lush from all the rain. I'll be spending the next couple or hours sitting out on the porch, smoking cigars, and reading the Times. Stuff to do this afternoon--putting my cage together, mounting the kayak on top of the jeep--but first this respite of sweet delight.

But first, wanted to report on the party last night.

First off, I am King of Tarts.

My Tarts rocked. They snapped them up like seals going after grunion. A bunch of tart hungry little perverts.

Here's what I did.

I made a 'basic tart shell' that I found on the internet, and when they were cool, I filled them with a "quick cream pie filling" that my stepmother used to make. Basically it's cream cheese and sweetened condensed milk whipped up into concupiscent curds.

And then I made lemon curd, that classic staple of English pastry making.

Lemon curd takes lots of whipping. It's basically eggs, sugar, and lemon juice, and you whip it in a bowl over a pot of simmering water on the stove. And whip it and whip it and whip it. If you stop and the termperature goes to high, you'll get sweet, lemony scrambled eggs. And that would be bad.

I assembled the tarts, licking the spoon constantly. (So it was sort of like I frenched kissed every guy at the party. Although I kind of did that anyway. But even those I missed, I hit.)

Unfortunately, tarts are quite the project. ("wrap the ball of tart dough in plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator for two hours"(!)). And after a long week of work in the woodshop, I practically fell asleep standing up Friday night, passing out cold (nice thought, right? Me out cold... helpless... at your mercy?) around 9:30 pm. Saturday morning, my father had to go to the bank, so there was that kerfuffle. So it wasn't until about noon that I started in. And 4:00 when I had creamed the last of the tart shells. And almost six pm when I got to the First Saturday In July Dungeon Soirée at the well-appointed Pottstown digs of Zapper and DogTopper. But that was fine. Just in time for dinner!

You never quite know who is going to show up for this thing. And there are always a few pleasant surprises. This year, the most pleasant surprise, was flipping meat around on the grill wearing only a jockstrap and boots when I drove up. He's a journalist from Chicago and one of the full members (oooooooh!) of the Chicago Hellfire Club who sponsored me to be an associate member. And, on the only IML weekend I've managed to spend in Chicago, I had the honor and pleasure of whipping him. And thus did he enter the grove of immortal fame, as he has been described to me ever since as 'this guy with a hide like a rhino."

When the uninitiated ask if my whipping them will leave marks, I respond by saying I have no idea. Because it depends not so much on me but on them. Different people's skin is different. I once drew blood with a fairly moderate flogging (yesssssss), and then there was The Guy With A Hide Like A Rhino whom I whipped for a good hour, giving it all I got, and there wasn't a mark on him twenty minutes later. And there he was, manning the barbeque.


And there was Diabolique, with his mister whom I hadn't met yet, and Horowitz, and the wonderful man from Philadelphia whose sleeve tattoos depict the "vast interstellar spaces" (that's a phrase from one of the eucharistic prayers in the BCP that's rarely used, and is cattily called the "Star Trek mass" because of that phrase), and a sweet pup I met up with for Starbucks and sushi when I first moved here and who will be making his first Inferno in September, and a heavenly host of Sadists, masochists, and switches whom I know and love.

And I was there, too.

It truly nourishes and sustains me just spending time with these men. Just to sit and talk as summer day turns to summer night, eating barbequed ribs with our hands (verrry Flintstoney). More than I need to live.

And great conversation to be had, too.

studpup was a big topic of conversation. An indescribably handsome young man from England who disappeared back in April after flying to Boston for a play date. His handle on worldleathermen was studpup, and for weeks his profile bore a plea for help from his family and friends back in the UK for any information about him.

When I first read this, I couldn't help wondering if it was a scene gone wrong, or a scene gone right.

Lemme explain.

'Member the guy I whipped courtesy of BusDriver last summer? This amazing man from Mexico, who craved the whip like few men I've ever met. And I've met some real whip cravers, believe you me. But more than that, he wanted to be a slave. And not the MAsT kind of slave either. The spending-the-rest-of-his-days-chained-up-in-a-basement-next-to-a-bucket kind of slave. Total property.

I am invited to a conclave of whipsmen hosted by none other than ARt in a couple of weeks. Trying to avoid going to a gathering of most of the greatest whipsmen in the world (all of whom will have lines six deep of men eagerly offering their backs, and nobody much interested in li'l ol' me), I asked ARt if I could bring a guest, thinking of el guerrero, my Aztec warrior. I sent email. It bounced back. I looked for his profile on worldleathermen, it wasn't there. I called Bus Driver, who said that el guerrero was desesperado. Gone. Vanished off the face of the earth.

See what I mean?

Scene gone wrong, or scene gone right?

Has el guerrero met an unhappy end, spending what he thought was going to be a weekend of service with an incompetent man who hurt him terribly, and perhaps mortally? Or has el guerrero met a very happy end. In the basement. Chained next to a bucket. For the rest of his days. Waking up every morning and thanking God that he has another wonderful day of abject slavery, and that he hasn't shuffled off this mortal coil before his lifelong dream was realized.

Scene gone right, or scene gone wrong?

Now keep in mind, that there are many of our fellow human beings, and even many kinksters, who would point out that not only is slavery illegal, but highly objectionable and morally wrong. And even though it might have begun with consent (or 'fiat,' might be a better term... yeah... I like fiat), after that initial 'Yes, Sir,' there was no way out.

What about that?

Alas, we failed to arrive at The Truth before some of the party had to bundle into cars and head home, but that wasn't the point. Such sweet delight, talking about these issues I've been mulling with men who understand.

And then it was night, and things got busy in the dungeon.

And that meant, surely, that a certain journalist from Chicago was going to get whipped.

But no! Just as I entered the dungeon, ReddyWhip put my sushi date boy up on the cross and was wailing the hell out of the boy.



And then I noticed a t-bar at the end of a heavy gauge length of chain hanging from the ceiling.

And whaddyaknow? I just happened to have my proverbial two hundred pounds of chain with me, and this--standing, cocooned in chain--would be a new position.

So I went to town chaining up the Guy With A Hide Like A Rhino.

And he looked beautiful! Spectacular!

And after he was 'in,' I did my best to work the few exposed parts of him available with my floggers. I used the stingy thin-stranded kangaroo skin flogger, and then switched to the really heavy, really thuddy elk skin flogger. That was pretty cool, really knocked him good.

After a while, Guy With Hide Like A Rhino reported that his hands were getting numb ("And you'll need those for typing for your job so you can't afford to lose them, right?" I responded), so he had to come down.

Post scene, I observed the goings on for a while, and Spotted A Trend.

Trend Alert! Trend Alert! Trend Alert!

Zapper and DogTopper have this scene that they do. It's not for everybody. They restrain their bottom, and then force feed him. All manner of edibles. Jello. Spaghetti-Os. Baked beans. And when the bottom reports that he can't swallow another bite, then they put a finger down his throat, and bring it all up.

I know, right?

Like, eeeeeeeeewww!

Okay, be verrrrry relieved. That's not the trend. But here's the trend.

As sort of a variation on that them--in the neighborhood, but a different street address--DogTopper and Zapper seem to be having a lot of fun subjecting hot men to what you might call "Power Blow Jobs." Not just your garden variety blow job, but a lip bruising, "all the way down, boy!" kind of blow job. And of course, with all that tonsil punishment, it's only a matter of time before the blow job donor yukes (as we used to say in college). And at that point, report DogTopper and Zapper, with all that slickness from the stomach contents, the blowjob gets really really really good.

At least, the very hot guy in the latex catsuit who was receiving a power blow job from a boy being egged on by DogTopper would probably report that. His string of "omigods..." and "holy shits..." and that beatific look he had on his face, expressing disbelief at his good fortune to experience the rapturous joys of paradise here on earth would certainly signal that.

So. Power Blow Jobs. Look for them to come to a dungeon near you! Not a new thing, but safe to say that the Summer of 2006 will fondly be remembered in years to come as the Era Of The Power Blow Job.

So there was this guy I had my eye on. Lean and taught muscles, and a beard like a billy goat. I looked for him, but found him not.

And I decided it was time to take advantage of Zapper and DogTopper's hot tub.

As you know, there are few things I love more than a soak in a hot tub.

So off I headed, stripped, and eased in to the hot water, watching the stars overhead.

And shortly, I was joined by Zapper and this unbelievably handsome man. Strong, chiseled face, military bearing, beautiful hairy body... They had just come from doing--can you guess? A Power Blow Job scene!--and eased in to join me.

Nice. Three men in a tub.

We talked quietly. We watched the stars.

Presently, Zapper decided it was time to nurse his broken arm (for which he had fashioned a pretty fetching sling from a sam brown belt, an o-ring, and a leather chin strap thing-y), and left me and hottub guy to talk together and watch the stars alone.

What a sweet man. What a good guy.

Alas, Hot Tub Guy was pretty worn out from the night's escapades, and was heading home to Philadelphia. So I headed in search of Billy Goat Boy.

Who wasn't hard to find.

There he was, in a little circle around DogTopper. I be lookin at him, and he be lookin at me, and just when I thought he was going to bust a move and leave the circle so the two of us could get busy, DogTopper grabs him, backs him up against the wall, and proceeds to get a PBJ from him.

Cockblocked! By DogTopper!


As I looked on in stunned disbelief, things progressed with them, and they climbed the ladder--with Billy Goat Boy still shooting me Looks--up into the loft and proceeded to fuck.

Welll... Harrumph, right?

I decided I was way too tired to drive home, so I found my way up into the attic of DogTopper and Zapper's house, which they have laid out with mattresses on the floor for guests (how clever is that?), and drifted off into fitful sleep, hoping that up the attic stairs would come Billy Goat Boy, so that at the very least I could sleep that night enfolding him in my arms.

Uh... That didn't happen.

But I did get a good night's sleep.

This morning, we sat around and talked for a bit, the faithful remnant. There was coffee, and Zapper made us some sugary baked goods for breakfast. The time came, so I bid everyone farewell (and "See you in September!")--this all took about forty five minutes, of course--loaded the 200 pounds of chain into my Trusty Jeep Liberty, and hit the road.

Oh. While we were saying our goodbyes, and when I was playfully chiding DogTopper about cockblocking me the night before, he informed me that Hot Tub Guy had asked for my contact information.

After my heart skipped a beat--okay, more like fourteen beats--I said that I would welcome the prospect of Hot Tub Guy getting my contact information.

Y'know, Hot Tub Guy bears more than a passing resemblance to Special Guy.

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

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