Resolved

The fix is in. I even checked it out with the Baron.

I've decided on a New Year's Resolution. For the next 365 days: no romance.

Say what...?

That's right. No romance.

No coffee dates. No "So you wanna meet up sometime?" No more endless pursuit.

One day I might meet a man with whom I could have something important, but I'm tired of looking for it.

Instead, I'll be devoting myself to my job, writing, welding, saving up for a hot tub, softball come Spring, travel some... And friendships. As in, cultivating and deepening friendships. That's the balm for loneliness. Not a relationship.

I'm still gonna get laid. I hope. But not a lot. Once every couple of months should do me fine.

Last night, I headed up to NYC to get together with my softball team, the Ball Breakers. I told my buddy Ben about this deal, and Ben said, "Good move! I did that a couple of years ago, and it was the best thing I ever did."

Not like it won't be difficult. Old habits die hard. But we'll see.

And just to clarify, it's not like I won't be available if somebody out there shows interest. But they gotta do the work. I've put in enough time. I want somebody to make me dinner dammit!

And now, into the shower and off to the Bike Stop. I had a good time there last New Year's Eve. Hoping for a reprise. Especially since this will be one of the final nights at the Bike Stop when I can enjoy a cigar with my beer.

The very best to all of you in 2007!

---

Gifts

So the other night, walking Faithful Companion under a sliver of a moon, I had a revelation.

The Guy I've been hunting. All those dates. All that time on the internet. Again and again, maybe this one... Maybe this one...

And nothing quite seems to pan out. Ever.

I've written before about how slim my chances are, about relaxing my standards, about my standards.

Blah blah blah.

So my realization. If indeed it's going to happen, then it's going to be the real deal. I'm gonna think he's the greatest guy in the whole world. And he's gonna think I'm the greatest thing in the whole world. We get together, and it's just electric. Whether we're talking or watching a movie or naked in bed, we just can't get enough of each other.

And meeting him might take a long time. And, it might not happen at all.

So that was my realization.

And with it, came a feeling of peace.

Yeah. I'm worth it, somebody who thinks that I'm All That.

But that, of course, raises a question: just what am I going to do in the meantime?

I'm inclined to take the high road on this.

In the mean time, I'll do my best to have a full, rich, satisfying life as a single man. That means focusing on work, on church, traveling, setting up a welding shop in the garage, getting the porch set up, and developing friendships.

That's what I have going on with hot tub guy. I like spending time with him, he likes spending time with me. He's this great combination of strength and vulnerability. When he needs someone to talk to, sometimes he calls me. And lately, I've been calling him when I need someone to talk to. But it's sure not gonna happen with us all romantic-like.

And there's sure some other opportunities for friendship.

"The Forties is about deepening relationships."

So... uh... What about getting laid?

Yeah. I need that. Not a lot. Once every couple of months does me fine. And I can swing that.

And SM. Absolutely. I've totally lost touch with my leather self. I've got to find that again. There's Truth and Beauty there.

But not coming from a place of loneliness. That gets me into trouble. And I think that means being the Top. Looking to give, not to get.

But all the dating, all the time on the internet... Those are just Hungry Ghosts.

Perhaps there's a New Year's Resolution in here. (Last years? "Get a new job." Did that! Yessss!!!)

Perhaps a year of taking myself off the market.

Hmmm. Not looking. Not asking for dates. Just enjoying life.

Hmmm.

---

Christmas Food

Merry Christmas to all a youze! (Whatever that might mean to you.)

Church was packed like I've never seen it before. And the sermon was about brussels sprouts. (I know, but it worked!)

Leaving church, we all go a flyer with a brussels sprouts recipe, and I'm looking forward to trying it out.

Just wanted to post the food I'm making for the holiday, and then I'm gonna get back to watching the yule log crackle in the woodstove.

Christmas Eve Dinner:

French onion soup with croutons and gruyere
(Store bought) Pâté du Campagne
Shrimp cocktail

For the Christmas Eve Social at church:

Rumaki! (That would be chicken livers and water chestnuts wrapped in bacon, doused with sherry and barbeque sauce and put under the broiler)

Christmas Dinner:

Ham glazed with apricot jam and cloves
Scalloped potatoes
French green beans

Back to the yule log.

---

Pied à Terre

So hot tub guy was on a business trip all this week, and yesterday he left the bon ton of Terre Haute to fly down to Sunny Florida to spend the holidays with his parents and his sister. And he asked me to water his plants while he was away, and told me that I could use his apartment while he was gone. Needless to say, I was happy to help him out.

Yesterday, Friday, was a half-day at the agency where I work. So I took my dog to work (they love him!), and after work over to hot tub guy's apartment where I watered the plants, got Faithful Companion settled in, and then headed all the way the hell up to Bucks County to make dinner for my Dad. Then, it was over the river and through the woods through fog and rain to attend the holiday gathering of DogTopper and JPZapper.

'Topper and 'Zapper must have staff. I swear! They've got a house in Philadelphia and their place in Pottstown. I've never seen Philadelphia, but the place in Pottstown looks great. And, of course, it was decorated to the teeth for Christmas. Christmas stuff was everywhere. The spread was impressive, as always, and... and... and... How the hell do they do it all? I mean, I wouldn't find time to vacuum that place. (They have pets!) And they're totally the types to plant Spring bulbs and iron their napkins. And they have that amazing dungeon in the barn out back. There's no way they could make that all happen themselves. There must be a staff involved.

Anyway, the party was kickin. Of course. Great to see all those guys again, and great to meet some new ones, too. (And there were no telltale indications of staff, but I know there's staff.)

But then, then, I headed down 422 to the Schuykill Expressway (not my favorite highway, especially in the rain) and into Philadelphia, where I wound my wending way to hot tub guy's apartment. I took Faithful Companion for a walk, gave him his kibble, and spend some time hangin on the 'net, and then climbed into his warm wee bed, up there on the loft in the renovated factory building hot tub guy calls home.

I dreamt such good dreams.

Then this morning, I woke after a sound sleep, took a nice hot bath, and went to help out at our Saturday street outreach site. I had a great lunch at Morning Glory (when in Philly, be sure to stop by), then back to the hot tub guy loft.

Outside, the lights of the Ben Franklin Bridge started to glow in the gathering dusk. Faithful Companion's toenails were clicking on the floors. The evening took shape. Take another nice bath, get leathered up, find someplace to have a nice dinner, head to the Bike Stop, maybe find some smokin hot man to bring home, take him out for breakfast the next morning...

Or, y'know, pack Faithful Companion into the trusty Jeep Liberty and drive an hour and forty five minutes to make dinner for my father.

Can you say "Wistful"?

I've got Wistful by the fistfull.

My own little apartment. Me and Faithful Companion. Walks. Long showers. Making dinners. The St. Andrew's Cross waiting over in the corner. My books. Overnight guests. Trips to Home Depot and IKEA.

Oh man.

One day, one day.

---

2007: Year Of Pain?

And not in a good way.

On Saturday, my mouth was hurting. Now I've been out of sorts the whole month, since down at Black Rose. it was a weird sort of infirmity. First it was in my chest, then my head, then sore throat... I could understand why illness used to be associated with demonic possession. That's definitely the way it felt.

So I thought that the mouth thing was just an extended sore throat. But by Sunday, it was becoming clear that something new was happening here.

Closer inspection seemed to indicate something swollen on the roof of my mouth. Which was weird, right? So I was thinking salivary gland. And hit the net, where I discovered that it could very well be my mandibular salivary gland.

This made it hurt more. I hardly slept at all Sunday night. It. Hurt. So. Bad.

I would manage to drift off, then wake up forty-five minutes later just hurtin hurtin hurtin.

Good day for a sick day, right?

Well, no. For one thing, I wanted to get to my new doctor, recommended to me by JPZapper and DogTopper. And he's great. Best doctor I've ever had. And he's in Philly. And, I had a Board of Directors meeting that night. (Could the timing have been better?)

I made an appointment with Dr. Wonderful for 2 p.m. and headed down. On the way, hot tub guy called me. He's going to be out of town and asked if I could water his plants. I can deny the man nothing of course, so I stopped by on my way to Dr. Wonderful's office so he could show me the plant watering process.

And hot tub guy was full of lovingkindness and concern. "Oh you poor guy! Show me where it hurts."

Now, I spent a lot of time in my life looking after sick people. My first stepmother who had cancer, my grandfather, whatever man I was dating when he got a cold or whatever, and of course my time here in Bucksylonian Captivity began with me changing my second stepmother's diaper... But--indicative of the fundamental injustice of the post-lapserian world--when I'm sick, I'm left to fend for myself.

So hot tub guy's giving me a hug and telling me it was all gonna be alright went a long, long way.

So Dr. Wonderful gave me the news that it wasn't a swollen mandibular salivary gland. It was an abscessed molar. And I had to see a dentist. He also gave me a script for penicillin and percaset.

The percaset has been interesting. Such. Vivid. Dreams. Beating off before I went to bed the other night... My usual masturbatory fantasies certainly had a hallucinatory quality. And then there's that warm fuzzy everything-is-right-with-the-world quality. It's also highly addictive, so when the dark day comes, I'll be a in for a rough time. But that's chemical dependency for ya!

So today was the dentist. Now, I haven't been to the dentist in three years. I had a dentist I liked a lot in NYC, but with the combination of low wages and no dental plan at Wuperior Soodcraft, that was a great excuse not to go. And I have teeth like chalk. I brush, I floss, and I've never had a check up where I didn't have a cavity.

And I've got a doozy. Three extractions and one root canal. And I'm going to be having a Deep Cleaning. Which sounds pretty sinister to me.

So for the next several months, I'm going to be heading to the dentist to spend an hour or so whimpering in pain in the chair.

But tonight, an hour into my nightly percaset journey...

Well, I'm doin' okay.

---

Fear Me

So, remember that crazy guy back in August? We had a date, and it went really well, and we both agreed that we should meet up soon in someplace other than a restaurant... ...someplace where we could get naked and get it on, like in a bed. And so we decided to meet up on Thursday, and an hour before we're supposed to meet up, he calls, leaves a message, and then he's like, "Uh... something came up at work... uhhhh... have to reschedule... uh.... I'll give you a call."

And I called back and said, "Cool, let me know when! Looking forward to it!" And I don't hear. And I call again. And I don't hear. And when I see him online he totally ignores me.

And the plot thickens. It turns out he knew hot tub guy, and hot tub guy had a baaaaad experience with him. And hot tub guy told me that this whacko worked for the FBI. Not in a law enforcement capacity, which would be hot, but as a code jockey. And that he probably did a background check on me and found out something he didn't like.

'Member all this?

Now, I'm not the granite solid rock of self esteem you might think, and this prompted several days of wondering what the heck had prompted this? What did an FBI background check reveal? Or was it something I did? Or didn't say?

Well anyway.

Today, I had a business lunch in Center City Philadelphia. As we were leaving the restaurant, weaving our way through the tables, in the front door comes whacko guy. As he's coming towards me, he gets that dawning-recognition look on his face.

And he turns around and heads back out the door.

And I and my party emerge from the restaurant just in time to see him running at top speed down Locust Street, and rounding the corner onto Twelfth Street the way Daffy Duck did Loony Toons. Y'know, that doink-doink-doink thing on one foot as he makes the 90 degree turn?

I swear.

Luckily, no one in my party noticed this guy, or thought that I prompted that. (Maybe they thought he remembered he left the milk out when he left the house.)

So if I had any doubts, they are dissipated. Clearly, this has nothing whatsoever to do with me. The guy is nuts.

And, he apparently has sufficient security clearance so he can get at FBI databases.

Dig.

Who says dating is a tedious undertaking?

---

The Southland

They are so not like us. Want proof? Go here.

---

Mid-Atlantic Leather Ho!

Ahem.

So to speak.

Just booked my hotel reservations for MAL. Alas, the good old Marriott Residence Inn (aka "the Residue Den") was $129-a-night for Friday and Saturday, but to stay over Sunday night it went from weekend rate to standard rate of $429. And that's just ridiculous, right?

So this year I'll be staying at the Wyndam Hotel, also just across the way from the Washington Plaza. The rate I got was $149-a-night. I hate Wyndam Hotels, although I've never stayed in this one. They're just awful. Bourgeoise fantasies of opulence: four poster beds, chocolates on the pillow, gilt everything in the lobby. But I will have a nice big king sized bed to come back to every night.

So I should be able to swing that. I was planning on sharing with my Friend and Former Landlord, just like last year, but he has this thing going with a guy from SF, and he's planning on hosting a "pup party" in his room on Saturday night for folks from www.pupzone.com guys. And that seems like a little much to deal with.

So the fix is in. I'll be in DC for MAL.

---

Space

This past monday, I helped a friend of mine move. The friend in question was T-Om, a local real estate mogul, with whom I've passed many an enjoyable afternoons at Starbucks in Doylestown. The move was from one building in Doylestown to the building next door. And all the heavy lifting had been done the previous weekend. Not sure what precipitated the move, but I was happy to help. I don't get to see much of T-Om these days, or Starbucks in Doylestown for that matter.

T-Om was not on the scene, but his partner in his real estate business was. She was loading up boxes in the old space. T-Om, apparently, felt no need to let moving get in the way of his usual monday night trip to the movies. "Helping out" meant I would climb the stairs two flights, grab a box, go down the stairs, out the front door, head up the street to the next building, in the front door, and up three flights to the new digs. And repeat. Countless times. For a half an hour anyway.

The new digs. A nice four-square. Big rooms. Facing the street. In one front room was T-Om's desk, and in the other front room was his partner's desk. One room rear room was a large, bright kitchen, and the other was currently a sort of store room. (That's where most of the boxes went.)

The whole time I was thinking, thinking...

"Nice bedroom. Big and square. With just a bed. And that room, facing the courthouse across the street: the dungeon. Perfect. So nice and big. Sparely furnished, the cage, the cross. That room, my desk, a couple of chairs, television. And such a great kitchen that would be. So much storage! Be great with a big island covered in butcherblock. For the dungeon, a dark, rich ochre. The bedroom that great green-brown color I've used at some point. The kitchen studio white. The study a nice orange. Wonder what the neighbor situation is? Does anyone live in this building or is it all commercial? Walking down to the train to Philly in the morning, stopping in at Starbucks, deciding 'make something here or eat out tonight?'. Taking Faithful Companion for walks, hearing him clatter up down the stairs."

Y'know what I really lust after? An apartment. An apartment to call my own. A nice apartment. A serious case of aparment envy.

Up until now, my life was a series of apartments. My dorm room; the Silk Mill, a factory rehab where I lived with two friends my senior year of college; my little two room at 237 North Sixth Street in Reading: the studio with the great little kitchen on 22nd Street in Philadelphia; the loft with the crumbling redwood deck on the back on South Street; the weird place that was all kitchen at 7th Street and Avenue B, my first apartment in New York; the place on First Avenue with three Indian restaurants crammed in on the ground floor beneath me and the cockroaches to go with it and the yard out back crammed with acanthus trees; the amazing little tower with windows facing all four directions on the Hell's Angels block; the tony digs on West Eleventh Street; the lower two floors of a corner brownstone in Boerum Hill, my first residence in Brooklyn; the brownstone I owned with the Awful Ex in Lefferts Manor; the place in Jersey City by Hamilton Park.

All of the addresses are preserved in my parents' phone book. I take up both of the "K" pages, one after another crossed off, sometimes with an arrow pointing to the one below. My sisters various apartments over the years--New Hope, Lambertville, Washington's Crossing, Gardenville, Upper Black Eddy--take up the rest.

Move in. Paint. Trips to Home Depot. Trips to IKEA. Settle in. Knowing that it was only a matter of time.

But now, I'm back where I started. Without an address. In the phone book, you'll find my father's name, but not mine. I don't even get my mail here since it goes to the local post office (quaintly staffed by a woman who introduces herself as the "Post Mistress."). This house that my father built, filled with clutter. Ceramic chichens, cracked ginger jars, where unwanted tchotchka goes to die.

Since I don't have an apartment, I live nowhere. Rootless. Dreaming of the day when I'll sign the lease, get the keys, run up the stairs, and walk through the empty rooms, dreaming of the possibilities.

---

Rock Rose Black Black Rock Rose Black Rose Rocks!


After work on Thursday, I got in the jeep and headed south on one of the three highways called "I-95" in my area (does that phenomenon occur elsewhere or just here?) towards Washington, DC. I was going to Black Rose, one of the foremost pansexual BDSM events in the world. I was there as Bear Man's boy, helping him out selling his wares in the vendor area. It was also my opportunity to realize a lifelong dream of being a rentboy.

The trip down to DC went really well, with both weather and traffic in my favor. I made it to the hotel in just under three hours, and Bear Man was unloading his truck and I jumped right in. Once we got the truck unloaded, we headed to dinner to a seafood place nearby. And then, back at the hotel, I got a nice body shave. For me, this was a huge (HUGE!) exercise in submission. My crotch and asscrack... well, that's just a matter of severe discomfort as it grows back in. But my chest, that's another story. People will think I'm from LA or something! But I just closed my eyes and focused my attention on the sensation.

The next morning, we were all about setting up our area in the vendor market. Bear Man has it down to a science. I wish I could say the same about me and the cash register and credit card machine. It took a while to get a handle on that. But the day went well, although I was glad to be able to get off my feet when the day was done. And it was way cool running into Lolita and Boymeat and the current President of GMSMA and tons of other folks.

That night, after dinner, the dungeons were open. And Bear Man, my owner for the weekend, had some instructions for me. I had his permission to top in a scene, but not bottom, and when I did the scene, I had to be naked except for my ball stretcher, boots, and collar.

Okay. So first of all, this is a pansexual event, so gay men are few and far between. And second, in the event that there were some available men there, "naked with ballstretcher and collar" does not exactly speak of Big Bad Whipping Top. So the chances were slim that would work out, right?

The dungeons were in a ballroom of the hotel, and what an experience it was. First off, the space was huge. Second, the place was packed, and so much play was going on. Everywhere things were cooking. But here's the thing that really struck me: in the all male dungeons I've been in it's all soooo... Serious. But the Black Rose dungeon was all about Exuberance. So. Much. Joy. It was really cool. And all kinds of amazing play. Imagine a pretty petite blond woman menaced by a clown, flogged with baloons and such... I mean, Dungeon Master! Shut down this scene! It's way too twisted!

There were separate men-only and women-only play spaces, so Bear Man and I wandered over to the men-only space. Things were... quiet. But what was there was pretty great. I watched this hot bearded Top turn a sweet boy into a dog, a bootblacking scene conclude with the Happy Ending every bootblack must dream about, and a spirited scene conducted by two members of the DC Men of Discipline. (A wee bit o' history. Back in the '90s, there was an NYC chapter of the Men of Discipline. In fact, it might have been the founding chapter. The charism of the group was all about younger BDSM-inclined men finding brotherhood, support, and exploration with each other. They had a uniform they were all wore, which was purposefully inexpensive, to lower the bar. And they looked so smokin' hot marching in step at Pride I was totally fascinated. But I was in a grusome vanila relationship.) I kind of watched. When the Men of Discipline finished up their scene--which at one point involved everyone in the room doubled up with laughter (Exuberance!), one of them who I had met earlier in the day came over and we started chatting. He mentioned that his club brother, though shy, would probably be interested in getting together with me. And he loved getting flogged. And he was interested in getting singletailed.

!

Okay, so Man of Discipline was gorgeous. Handsome face, reddish blond hair, beautiful eyes, wonderful body. It was with extreme exercise of self-control that I managed to keep my head together and do the pre-scene negotiations and not just throw him up against the cross and get busy. But after what seemed an eternity, we got there.

And did we ever go places. I took my time, it was Man of Discipline's first time getting whipped. I wanted to do absolutely everything I could to make sure the experience was memorable and wonderful. (Popping singletail cherries is a massive turn-on for me. But you knew that, right?)

Oh. And after I got him restrained up on the cross and hooded, I doffed my clothes, so I was wearing only a ball stretcher, collar, and boots.

I've described many many whipping scenes here on Singletails. And waxed rhapsodic about most of them. But this was just over the top. It was incredible. Y'know how with an introductory whipping, you're holding back, holding back... Well Man of Disciplien responded so beautifully. When I would touch him, approach him, he would just melt into me. The energy between us was just blazing, enough to power a small city. Like Wheeling, West Virginia, say. After was all about "More! More! More!" for both of us. (Man of Discipline lives in DC! And MAL is in DC! And I'll be at MAL! And in the summer, he has a place at that gay campground in Pennsylvania--not that gay campground, the other one--where Hot Tub Guy has a cabin where I enjoyed a few weekends!)

And Bear Man was verrrrry pleased. Watching a man wearing his collar whipping a guy as hot as Man of Discipline did him well.

The next day, Saturday, I felt like hell. Feverish and achey, and my lymph nodes were swollen hurtin' bad. Working for Bear Man was quite the challenge, but as I explained to him, I come from generations of coal miners, and taking hardship in stride is a family tradition. Which sounded good, but when things were finished, I was all about a hot bath and a nap. And Bear Man, who you'll remember owned my ass totally, was kind enough to indulge me in that. And, he wanted us to have dinner at Ebbit's Grill, and we couldn't get reservations until 10 p.m.

Ahhhhhh... Bath.

Ahhhhhh... Bed.

According to Bear Man, while we took our blissful nap, I was Six Feet One Hundred Ninety Five Pounds Of Smooth Shaved Man Furnace. Just burning up the bed. But afterwards, I was feeling a lot better. And dinner was great. And afterward, there was more sleep involved!

But first, a tour of the dungeons. I wasn't quite up for more play, and I suspected that it couldn't get much better than Man of Discipline. Bear Man had a scene in mind for us. It turns out he has this amazing santa suit, and he planned this sort of Bad Santa scene.

For example:

"So, do you believe in Santa?"

"Uhhh... Yes?"

[Thwack!]

"I mean... Yes! Yes, I believe in Santa!"

[Thwack!]

"You're lying, aren't you? You didn't leave any cookies for Santa."

"I'm sorry, Santa! This year I'll leave cookies!"

"Well what kind of cookies will you leave?"

"Uhhh... Chocolate chip!"

[Thwack!]

"Santa hates chocolate chip!"

Once again, the dungeons of Black Rose were cookin'. Santa was a huge hit, and I helped out by smiling innocently and asking folks, "So Santa has some questions he'd like to ask you, m'kay?" Lolita and Boymeat got several wrong answers. But it seemed that it was the woman they were caning who really regretted those wrong answers.

We retired early, and I have to admit I was happy for that. Another good night's sleep.

This morning, I was back in good shape again. I managed the transfer of all of our luggage out of the room. No mean feat, as everybody in the place was also clearing their luggage out of the room at about the same time using the same four elevators. Then I got us lunch, helped Bear Man sell some corsets and truncheons and such, and had several folks come up to me and offer complements on my whipping scene the other night. (Eeeeeee!!! Love that!) Bear Man managed to secure a loaner boy to help him load up the truck, so I was released from my duties.

But first, there was one more act of service Bear Man wanted from me. He selected a paddle from the collection, I dropped my leather pants, bent over, and braced myself against a chair, and waited.

Yowza!

Bear Man pretended not to notice when I made a loud and improbable assertion regarding his parentage.

But really quickly, it was all about hugs, gratitude for a great weekend, and admiration of the wide cherry-red stripe on my firm but voluptuous butt.

So Black Rose totally rocked. Just a phenomenal event.

So now, I'm back home, safe and sound. Work tomorrow, and I gotta get to bed.

'Night.

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