MP Uniforms and Supplies in Allentown, Pennsylvania

I finally made it, and they were open, and what a blast. When I got there, this very hunky State Trooper was in (with his three young sons) buying boots. No lie. The proprietor was an older woman who looked to be someone's mom who helped out by minding the store on Saturdays. After State Trooper and the boys left, I was pretty much on my own for a while. She asked where I was working, and I said, "I'm not in law enforcement." She smiled and said, "You just like the toys." Oh yeah.

So the place is amazing. Badges, holsters, boots, handcuffs, hats, nightsticks, and uniforms for police, fire, and EMS workers. And (this was an unexpected surprise), bags! They had bags'a'plenty. The prices are just rock bottom.

So what did I buy?

• A tactictal one-piece uniform (not by Propper, as it happens) that is now being laundered, and will soon bear my patches from GMSMA and the the Chicago Hellfire Club;
  
• A 'duty belt,' made of nylon and adjustable with velcro, big and heavy duty, and closes with a very, very satisfying 'click';
  
• A new 'attach-your-key-ring-to-your-belt' thingy;
  
• A really amazing reversible (jet black and flourescent orange) raincoat, big and lightweight, like traffic cops wear when directing traffic
  
• A 'duty bag', lightweight, voluminous, with lots of compartments (*sigh*) that will make for the best toy bag imaginable;
  
• A cellphone holster with a heavy duty belt clip;
  
• An over-the-shoulder bag that I'll be able to use for work and tooling around in the city that does not look like a purse.
  

I will absolutely be back there. The first trip, I was sort of undone by a feeling of vertigo at this storehouse of possibilities. Also, I bought things like the raincoat and the cellphone holster because I had never seen anything quite so well made at such a great price, so I felt I had to get it; treasure hunt shopping in a way. Next time, I'll be able to take my time and be more considered, thinking through the perverted possibilities. And, if I were so inclined to put together a full-scale police uniform, that would be the place to do it. Interestingly, I was just commenting to a friend of mine that if Code Orange persists much longer in NYC, I'm going to develop a major uniform fetish, what with all specimins of masculine polchritude wearing uniforms of police, state troopers, and national guardsmen that are about.

Worse things could happen.

Now, we're supposed to be very concerned about that 'Global Warming' thing, right?

Just a question.

---

It's you and me, Buddy

Happy Valentine's Day. I worked (Boss Sunshine was not in evidence). I went to therapy and talked about my crush on Sarge. Now I'm home with pot roast in the oven.

I'm thining of Exes...

J Wooten M Kinda my first love. Or the first man I slept with more than twice anyway. (There was a wonderful guy named Frankie that I washed dishes with when I was in high school, but I didn't find out that he had the hots for me the way I did for him until he had moved to San Francisco, become a dancer, and died.) Anyway, JWM was psychotic. No. Really. Delusional, obsessive compulsive. He worked as a security guard in a nuclear power plant in Delaware, but had gone to the Famous Models School of Being a Famous Model (or something). The first time we went to bed (the night we met), he told me that he had tested HIV positive, but had 'cured' himself with iodized salt because iodine kills infections. I got really dizzy in the kitchen (where I was fixing us some tea), and nearly fainted. Because I knew that he was going to fuck me raw in the very near future and I didn't have the capacity or wherewithal (I was 21) to negotiate condom useage with him. We saw each other for about three months.

How come? Simple. He was gorgeous (alabaster skin, dimpled chin, jet black hair with ringlet curls at the nape of his neck) and the sex was absolutely amazing. We would stock up on snack foods that we didn't have to cook (trail mix and the like) and spend entire weekends in bed. He had this amazing trick that he could do with his anal sphincter. If not the best lay I've ever had, definitely in the top ten. I dumped him when he embarassed me when I took him to the wedding of someone I knew in college by acting like a crazy goofball. But he was.

MMcM My mullato love. We met when I spotted him coming out of a dirty bookstore. When someone would ask us, "Where did you guys meet?" we would giggle and say a restaurant. He wanted to fuck me. A lot. He also had bunches of issues that didn't seem to be resolved. Very sweet and wonderful guy though. Right after we met, I emerged on a Monday morning to walk to work and found a trail of Post-it notes with hearts and runes and such all along my way. MMcM was an artist (he don't look back). He made several plaster casts of portions of my naked body, sort of abstractions of my torso and such. Very beautiful. Tragically and stupidly, I left them behind in Philadelphia when I moved to New York. I left him because we were sexually incompatible. He basically just wanted to fuck me all the time. I mean, all the time. And he had a large dick. I could only take so much of that.

Terry Johnson Deceased. Again, an artist. I met him at the Bike Stop (the leather bar in Philadelphia). Picture a basement crammed with men in flannel, denim, and leather, and right smack in the middle is a guy wearing canary yellow pants and an acquamarine tank top that revealed a pierced nipple, with a shock of blond hair worn in what was known then (late '80s) as a Tin-tin after the Belgian comic book character. Loved this guy. Gave me all the space I needed. Was soooo good about letting me be a boy in my mid-twenties. We got crabs. From scratching, I got these sores on my dick. It was my first venereal disease. I was pretty weirded out. I went to my doctor (picked at random from the HMO directory), who examined my penis. He asked me, "You're a homosexual, aren't you, Son?" When I confirmed this he followed with, "I think what you have is AIDS." Uh huh. Luckily, I went to the VD clinic and the hip young internist who was on duty explained to me what crabs were and gave me a prescription for Quell. Alas, there was only enough for one of us. So Terry had to go and get his own script. Terry called me from work and asked if we could meet. He had tested positive for HIV, and based on a number of factors, came away from the same hip internist with an AIDS diagnosis. Terry got money doing 'corporate Christmas decorations' (which we would refer to as Korporate Kristmas) and the occasional faux painting job. He had no health insurance. I told him I'd take care of him, doing whatever it took. Terry didn't want to do that to me, so he left in the dark of night and went to live with his brother in the Southwest. Years later, I heard that the end had come pretty quickly for him.

JSA We met at Mars, the night of ACT UP's Stop the Church action. I had come up from Philadelphia to attend with my friend Baron von Philadelphia, and that night, the Baron and I had gone to Mars. JSA was staring at me intently and I went over and introduced myself. We were necking in short order. I introduced the Baron to him, and the Baron later told me he was sure he was a serial killer. (I slept with a tried and convicted serial killer mid-career, he was sweet and tender with me, but that's for another time.) I didn't go back to Philadelphia that night with the Baron and callled in sick to work. Thus ensued months of me going up to New York, and a few times JSA came down to Philadelphia. Here's where things went awry. Once, while visiting, JSA (who had a lot of leisure time as he wasn't working) opened a letter I got. It was a response to a response to a personal add I had answered (involving S/M) months earlier, before I met him. He called me at work and said he was going back to New York. I ran all the way home crying. I pleaded for his forgiveness and begged him to stay. (Only much much much later would it occur to me that I had done nothing wrong; he had.) But I moved to NYC anyway. He was moody and petulant and insanely jealous. My attempt at monogamy (overall successful, but I paid such a price) was lamentable. It took me almost a year to leave him. (We lived together, he would do things like come and ring my doorbell--when I found a new apartment--at 3 am when I had to be at work the next morning. Finally I was able to separate.

JC Oy. I still see this guy all the time. He's aging backwards, as in lost a lot of weight and is now dying his hair. I met him at the Spike. He looked like a garage mechanic, and I was delighted to learn that in fact he had a Ph.D. in English. (We discussed James Joyce over breakfast the next morning.) Sex was odd. He once had me give him a blow job after he had sprayed himself with jock itch powder. Not recommended. Truly. I couldn't begin to count the number of my friends who said, "What in God's name do you see in him?" He was a total wacko. He had his flaws. When Ernst & Young, then my employer, sent me to live in a hotel in Newark, New Jersey while a case to which I was assigned went to trial (for six very, very, very long weeks), I took that opportunity and didn't return his phone calls.

Then ensued a passel of unsuccessful dating experience. There was Bruce, the stunning bartender from Wisconsin who revealed a propensity for pugilism that was more than a little disturbing; Robin, an architect who was drop dead gorgeous who dropped me without warning; the handsome Israeli who I met at the LURE a few weeks ago, and in a repeat of a decade ago we seem to have stopped calling each other for no reason at all that I can think of; Don, who was a drunk; and one or two others.

And then I met

The Ex My first impression was, 'he seems like a stable, not crazy, and relatively handsome man." We dated. I moved into his apartment. We moved to Brooklyn together. We bought a house in Brooklyn. We broke up. During those seven years, not a week went by that I didn't get yelled at. Sometimes for good reason, most times for things like being obstinate and refusing to change the tie I was wearing upon being ordered to do so. I tried and tried and tried and tried to become the person he wanted me to be. I tried so hard, squelching parts of myself as best I could. Imagine a man who buys a house because he likes the sun room. It's a big old rambling place. One day he's in the bedroom of the house, and notices that the layout is all wrong. So he leaves the room and locks the door. In another room, he notices that the floor is marred. He closes that room and locks the door. And so it goes, until he's in the sunroom. When the vision of spending the rest of my life like that--an empty house full of rooms sealed off, rooms that I've since found hold treasure--became clear in my mind. I left. Note-on-the-pincushion-don't-look-for-me-style. Truly one of my more cowardly acts, but it was absolutely what I had to do to get out of there.

Special Guy I miss Special Guy. I sent him email wishing him Happy Birthday. He's in Palm Springs. I wish nothing but the best of everything for him forever.

Y'know, I wish nothing but the best of everything for all my Exes. Health, happiness, prosperity, friends and lovers. For each and every one of them, there are golden moments I cherish and will cherish forever.

I wonder if they still miss my cooking?

---

Last night, I was thinking. In a way, I feel as though I've made peace with Boss Sunshine. He's a psycho, and I can't change that. But I can protect myself by not letting him get to me, and not getting roped in. Tonight, there's a town hall meeting at the LGBT Center that I've worked for weeks to plan and realize. At some point today--or possibly at several points today--he's going to yell at me. That's kind of inevitable. But, at the end of the day, I'll be headed home on the PATH train, hopefully avoiding suicide bombers and the stinky guy I sat next to this morning.

I can do anything if I set my mind to it. There is nothing that I can't tolerate.

The trick will be not allowing him to get to me. Yesterday, in the middle of a tirade, he suddenly said, "That briefing memo you wrote for me was excellent." And then continued with the tirade. I interpret that as throwing me out some bait to keep me on the line. Uh uh. I know that was an excellent memo. I wrote it. I know the issue inside and out. I don't need him to tell me that.

Here's the problem with this approach. I might get complacent. I could sit here being abused forever. Remember, I was in a relationship with a rage-a-holic dry drunk for seven and a half years, getting yelled at on the average once a week. Sometimes more, rarely less. Really early on, when we had only known each other for a few weeks, he blew up at me for something or other, and I locked myself in the bathroom. I thought about walking out the door then and there. But I thought, "No, he's a good guy. He wants to be in a relationship with me. As far as his temper goes, I'll just have to realize that that's the way he is and suck it up." Seven and a half years. Basically all of my thirties. After I split, I was shocked and surprised to learn that there were, in fact, hot men in the world who were interested in dating me and who didn't yell at me. Incredible, I know.

It's true that one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over again and expecting that 'this time' the result will be different, but another definition of insanity is deciding that situations brought about by your own choices and the vagaries of fortune are somehow "your lot in life" and it's not possible for it to ever be otherwise.

---

Roses are red
And daffodils yellow;
Be my boy
And I'll be your fellow.

Roses are red
Petunias are pink;
I'm not as heartless
As you might think.

Roses are red,
Their foliage is green;
Collaring you
Would be awfully keen.

Roses are red,
And lilies are white;
Come a bit closer,
This time I won't bite.

Roses are red,
Their scent is delightful;
I'm a'wantin' to whip you
Somethin' frightful.

Carnations are red,
But roses are redder;
I'm a dater,
But not a wedder.

---

"les primates capitulards toujours enquete de fromage'

That would be the translation into french of Groundskeeper Willie (from the Simpsons) indictment of the french, as rendereded by Le Monde. Groundskeeper Willie' basically said, "cheese eating surrender-monkies" and basically called it correct.

I'm boycotting Brie! (This is actually not a difficult thing. I never liked Brie. My sister would always say, "You have to like Brie, you're a homo!" Her rationale was that Brie tastes just like cum. Or, rather, cum tastes just like Brie. As I came of age sexually after the advent of AIDS--in fact, smack dab in the middle of the terror of the mid-Eighties, swallowing was never something I eroticized. So I can't say I really acclimated myself to that taste either. So I'm going to boycott Brie.

---

Question for you, Almost Bruiser: What's worse? Reading about yourself in my blog, or not reading about yourself in my blog?

Hmmmmm?

---

Ay. The current shape of the terrorist threat is suicide bombers with explosive briefcases in the subways. I'd better give my parents a call. I can only imagine that if word of this has reached them (and how would that not be possible?) they'd be getting more than a little freaked out by now. Or perhaps they don't see New York as being particularly targeted. I remember after September 11th, I read or saw footage of the Nebraska State Fair (I believe that was it) and how they were doing bag searches of everyone attending. Now, forgive me, Nebraskans, but I can't imagine your state being a particular obsession for Osama Bin Laden. True, Nebraska is the heartland of this great country of ours, and there's mention of 'the fruited plane' in America the Beautiful, but frankly, I think you're all pretty safe.

Anyway. Life goes on here in New York, where we're NOT THINKING ABOUT IT when we ride the subways. NOT THINK. NOT THINK. NOT THINK. NOT THINK. NOT THINK.


I used to know a guy who grew up in Belfast. His family, who were Roman Catholic, ran a bar. When he was a young'un, his 'job' was to go around the bar after it closed and look for any 'packages.' Once, when he and his mother were coming home late at night, they were waylaid by two men with guns who forced them both to their knees, told them to 'say their prayers,' and then ran off.

This guy now returns to his car after he parks it to check to make sure that all the doors are locked (by walking around and trying them all) two or three times. I've never eaten with him in a restaurant when he hasn't sent back the cup of coffee the waitress or waiter brings him and asks for another cup. Countless weird idiosyncracies like that. I wonder if that's what we'll all turn into? If being a New Yorker will come to be associated with filling up the bathtub with water and submerging the package that the Fedex guy brings you ("It was only some wedding photos from your niece.") and refusing to fly across the country without a minimum of two layovers and other odd behavior associated with post traumatic stress syndrome.

I wonder how Number Two (now Number One) at my old job is holding up. He has a daughter who will be two in April. She is something of a miracle baby. He never imagined that he would be a father, and he's devoted to her. He took his wife and fled the city during the Y2K brouhaha. He lives in Brooklyn, not more than six or seven blocks from where they uncovered a bomb making cell back in the '90s.

NOT THINK. NOT THINK. NOT THINK. NOT THINK. NOT THINK. NOT THINK.

---

One good upload deserves another. This would be my dog.

And this would be my dog

---

I made it go! I done did it!

So anyway, this is me, your humble host. What you see is my favorite whip. It was made for me by Joe Wheeler. It's a hybrid bullwhip and signal whip, meaning that it has a rigid handle, but the cracker is woven directly into the tail of the whip; there's no fall. You might say that that whip is the namesake of SingleTails. How appropriate that this is the first image I've successfully uploaded.

Okay. Maybe it'll work this time around.

---

I doubt that worked, but I thought I'd give it a try. If it did, that's me, your humble host here at SingleTails.

Anyway, I'm just now back from the GMSMA Wednesday night program at the Center. Tonight there was a panel discussion on S/M in the context of relationships. Topics covered included playing inside the relationship, playing outside the relationship, resolving crises, and the like. It was provocative, sweet, tantalizing, and always interesting. I asked a question at one point, namely, "When your partner first became the object of your desire--whether that was when you first laid eyes on him or later--what was the nature of that desire? Was it kinky, as in, 'I want to see that man chained at my feet, drenched in my piss,' or was it romantic, as in, 'I want to do the Times crossword in bed with that man on a Sunday morning'?" The consensus on the panel: both! Sweet, huh?

What images were floating through my head during the panel and afterwards as I enjoyed a quesadilla grande with black beans and extra guacamole at Bennie's Burritos? What else. Sarge. Sarge and me. Me and Sarge.

I went so far as to go shopping for a Valentine's Day card tonight before the meeting. Made me seriously reconsider this plan. They were all either those black-and-white beefcake photos on the cover (of guys better looking than I am), or else dopey and expressing sentiments not appropriate for a card sent to a man that I hardly know anonymously.

A buddy of mine in Portland has a print on his wall depicting two Tom of Finland type guys. One guy is opening the door of (what can only be described as) his cottage, and we see his visitor from the rear, wearing chaps, MC jacket, and officers cap, and with a bouquet of roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates held behind his back. That would be perfect. (There's so much romance among kinky folk.) Alas, nothing remotely similar was available.

So after Boss Sunshine left today, we all got on the internet and started looking for jobs. It was highly amusing. "Hey, Staffina! Here's one that would be perfect for you!" That kind of thing. Sort of indicative of what kind of day I had, huh?

But, today I also learned that Boss Sunshine is taking off all next week for vacation. What can contain my joy at that news? No earthly vessel, that's for sure. And it starts on Friday, so I only have one more day to deal with him, and then I won't for the next ten.

---

Some Adjectives

Stupid
Fat
Lazy
Angry
Unhappy
Self-Involved
Incompetent
Bullying
Vindictive
Narcissistic
Broken
Mean-spirited
Miserable
Cynical
Manipulative
Self-pitying
Ill-tempered
Nasty
Undisciplined
Selfish
Paranoid
Irrational
Tedious
Oafish

---

Look what I can do all by myself!

So I've been having a good time reading my html book...

Learning Web Design: A Beginner's Guide to HTML, Graphics, and Beyond by Jennifer Niederst, published by the O'Reilly Web Studio

(That, for instance was a BLOCKQUOTE.)

I now know how to make text appear on my page in italics, bold face, underlined, using strike through, _{as subtext}, ^{or as supertext}, I can make the font larger, or smaller, or even change the color.

I'm so pleased.

Oh. And here's a horizontal line. No more typing in dashes to separate entries.

---

Briefly, briefly

I'm loving my html book. Look out world. Big plans are in the works.

---------------------------

Boss Sunshine was in rare form. At one point, after he had yelled at each of us in turn, we sat around giggling about how we wished him dead. His latest evil involves my predecessor. He assured her that even though things didn't work out, he would make sure she would get a job, and then told her he had paved the way for her. It turns out that quite the reverse, he totally sabotaged her chances. She's now unemployed.

---------------------------

Ergo, I am thrilled that this is a three day weekend. I don't know what makes me happier: three days without having to be at work, or only having to be there four days next week. Staffetta was poking around on Idealist.org today and found a job she thought would be perfect for me. The salary is exactly double what I'm making now. Here's what's weird. From the description, I could totally do that job. Easily. The learning curve would be something that you could jump on a skateboard. So why the hell do I have this sense that 'no way would they consider hiring me' and 'there's so many people out there that are more talented than I am' and 'I totally wouldn't fit in there' and the like? Perhaps because never in my life did I imagine that I would or could do anything that would fetch me a six figure income. Y'know, I once got fired from a job as a bus boy.

--------------------------

This weekend I'm going out flagging white. As SingleTails readers know, that is now the hanky code for Comfort Sex. I wonder what Sarge is doing this weekend?

------------------------

That's enough for now. After I attended a forum on a rapist in Chelsea (for work), and then a GMSMA Executive Committee meeting, I stuck around and went over the books with Current President. I got home at 12:53 a.m. And I haven't had anything for dinner. And it's unlikely that I will. I'm goin' to bed, kids.

'night.

Nest of Liberals

Ever'buddy in the office is getting geared up for the anti-war demonstration on Saturday. Am I against war? Absolutely I'm against war. Am I for removing Saddam "Clear and Present Danger" Hussein from power? Yeah. I'm for that. Heard on CNN this moring: "It's recommended that you have in your home a three day supply of food and water, as well as an ample supply of Saran wrap and duct tape." I think the supply of Saran Wrap and duct tape I have on hand for mummification should be sufficient to cover my windows.

And, this morning I had to field a cranky community activist who is against against against the Bloomberg administration's plans for the redevelopment of the West Side of Manhattan and the Hudson Yards. "Yes. Absolutely. Terrible." His position, if you could call it that, was essentially, "I want my neighborhood to stay just the way it is." Uh huh. The only city that I'm aware of that has managed to hold back development and evolution is Pompeii.

Puh-leeeze let me hear one credible, informed, reasoned argument against sending in troops to take out Saddam. Actually, I can think of one. Namely, having armaments does not necessarily imply that those armaments will be used. The Cold War between the United States and the U.S.S.R. is testament to that. Only when it seems likely that the other guy is far ahead of you and so you have nothing to lose. By the same token, when it is absolutely clear that the other guy is about to attack you and will not be diissuaded from that, then what the hell, you use your weaponry. So, a pre-emptive strike against Iraq could actually prompt Saddam to use the weapons that he does have. Folks within the Bush administration have countered that thinking that way is to imply that Saddam's actions are rational. But, in fact, rationality has nothing to do with it. It's behavior that is displayed by two dogs in a fight. And, the fact that he has used weapons against his own people (who were unable to defend themselves and unlikely to spur attack by a foreign power) and Kuwait (Saddam gambled--incorrectly--that no one would care if he invaded Kuwait) does not indicate that he's delusional to the point of imagining that the U.S. or Israel or martians are going to attack him when that's not the case and so he's about to fire his missiles.

So why don't I find that argument convincing? Well, I do find it convincing. But, although Saddam may be able to retaliate, I am hopeful that technology and timing could prevent his retaliatory actions from amounting to much. (Not much comfort if you're living in Tel Aviv, granted.) Also, I think the outcome has benefits (the establishment of a democratic, free-market oriented government in the middle east would be a great thing for world peace and further disempower Al Quaeda) that outweigh these potential risks. And sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

A Hodge Podge

Past President told me: "You need a new job that pays you a decent salary." Huh, put like that, it seems so obvious. I do need a new job that pays me a decent salary. I need to start seriously directing my energies in that direction.

-------------

Way hot SF Import boy asked to take my picture at the GMSMA program committee meeting tonight, because he thought I looked goood wearing my suit that I had worn to work. I wonder if the camera picked up the fact that I was blushing...?

SF Import also invited me back to his place for a massage. Alas. I had to come home so I could update the GMSMA Treasurer's Report. The sacrifices I make for that organization...

--------------------

Today I shared with Staffina, Stafforetta, and Staffalina the recent development that I'm all crushed out on Sarge. Now, the median age of this group is 23, and the predominance is towards heterosexuality. I told them ('there's this guy...'), and I was explaining how it was as if cupid's arrow had struck me right through the heart. A real boi-oi-oi-oi-oing experience. Stafforetta asked, "Who is he? What's his name?" So I told them Sarge's name. Staffina and Stafforetta said, "Really? Him? I know him?"

No way.

Way. He's had dealings with the office.

Stafforetta said, "His number is on the database. I'll get it for him. Call him right now and ask him out." Sooooo not helpful.

-----------------------

For work, I went to a presentation by the City Planning Commission (the lovely Amanda Burden, Commissioner) on the proposals for the redevelopment of the Far West Side, including the Jacob Javitz Center and the Hudson Yards. Y'know, there were in attendance various and sundry community activists, very much opposed to this whole thing. Because it would bring more cars. Etc. And they're going to have demonstrations. And they're going to file lawsuits. And I have no doubt that my boss will be on the front lines of the struggle.

Y'know, I think the thing is brilliant and beautiful. The meeting was held in the Jacob Javitz Center. I walked over there. Through block after block of dead city. It's pure desolation. The proposal includes green space, a tree lined Eleventh Avenue, access to the river front, a ferry terminal, a transportation hub, new residential construction... a whole new neighborhood. Architectonica is the firm that will be doing most of the heavy lifting on the designs, and I like their work a lot. (They've even identified some iconic elements in the current industrial wasteland that they think are worthy of preservation and incorporation into the new design. Love that.)

------------

Huh. I just had a wild idea. What if I were to send Sarge a card for Valentine's Day, and sign it "From your secret admirer"? Would that win me points or no? If in fact we do hook up, I don't need to mention it. Maybe it would make his day. Maybe he'd conclude that whoever would do such a thing must either be an idiot or a psychopath. Maybe I'm an idiot or a psychopath.

------------

Four days to go until the weekend. Things are looking good that the forum I'm putting together for work might turn out to be something of a success. Still, there will come a point where Boss Sunshine will be screaming at me. It's pretty much inevitable.

---------------

I signed up for a bunch of GMSMA educational activities to keep me busy through the Spring.
As follows:

Heavy Duty Bondage
Saturday, March 1

Suspension
Saturday, March 15

Single Tail Whips
Saturday and Sunday, March 29 and 30

and, the Spirituality Special Interest Group
meeting on three consecutive saturdays, April 19 through May 3.

Why am I going to the Single Tail Whips workshop? Why, because there's always more to learn, and always something that ARt can teach me. And, I'm going to bring my new eight foot bullwhip and spend the weekend working with that.

-----------

One last thing, and then I've really got to turn my attention to the Treasurer's report. I've been having this sort of interesting masturbatory fantasy lately. (Fasten your seat belts...) Here's how it goes.

In the fantasy, I've got a hot guy (built, big dick, hot ass) whom I capture and seal in a cage. The cage is a sphere of steel bars. It's suspended from the ceiling, and anchored to the floor with a heavy linked chain. The man is welded into the cage. Permanently. I feed him, I give him water. I provide him with cigarets. I use a hose to sweep his shit from where it falls beneath the cage into a drain in the middle of the floor. And hose him down from time to time, too. He is never again going to feel the human touch. He will forever be eroticism potentialized, but never again to be realized.

But wait, there's more.

After he has been my prisoner, and seen and spoken only to me for a few years (although he's totally lost track of time), I present him with a young man, of perhaps nineteen or twenty years old. With his whole life ahead of him. The young man is unconscious. I have another spherical cage prepared. I tell my prisoner that the choice is his as to whether I weld this younger man into a cage that will hang beside him, just out of reach; or whether I return the young man to the place where I found him, where he will wake up in a few hours dazed and disoriented, but unharmed. My prisoner agonizes. This young man means a confederate, a friend, someone he can talk to besides me. And yet, he will gain this friend at the price of doing to this young man the terrible thing that I've done to him.

"So what's it gonna be, cageboy? I'm gonna get to work. But as soon as I hear you say, 'let hm go,' I'll go do that. I fold the young man's arms across his chest. I bring his knees up under his chin. Behind me I hear my prisoner begin to sob. I put the top of the sphere in place. I put the bolts in that connect the top to the bottom, and begin welding them in place. A winch raises the cage, I put the chains in place. Then I tell my first prisoner, "This is gonna be hard on him when he wakes up. He'll need you to explain it all, and to guide him. He's young. There's so much he hasn't done, and now he's never going to do. He'll need you to tell him and teach him."

Time passes. The two caged men fall in love with each other. They unite against me. They mock me. They give each other moral support. They tell stories. They devise ways of making the time pass. The older man shows the younger man how to keep his body in shape by calisthenics and isometric exercises.

Then, one day, I bring them in their food and water. I pass the each bowl through the opening in the cage. While they dig in, I set up a tape recorder and hit play. The room is filled with the conversation I had with the first prisoner on the day when I sealed the younger prisoner into his cage. I leave the room, turn out the lights behind me, and shut the door.

I think that's the most sadistic fantasy I've ever had. And I've had some pretty sadistic fantasies. Can't wait to share this with Helen, my therapist.

'Night. Pleasant dreams.

---------------------------------

*Deep breath*

I just sent off a resume to provide technical assistance to non-profits. Like I've said before, if it provided me with enough money to meet my rent, make my car payments, and eat, I'd pick through dung. Oh. As long as the chief dung picker wasn't a psychopath.

------------------------------------

“Frankly, we have to change our attitudes,” Senator Hillary Clinton said at Sunday’s breakfast. “We have not been a vigilant country, and now we must become one. I think we have to be alert, but not alarmed.”

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm alarmed. Sorry, Hil. As in really alarmed. Riding the subways is never a fun thing for me. Living in New York to a huge degree means devoting a lot of energy to NOT THINKING about things. Back when I was with my Ex, we would make visits to his Lesbian sister down in Washington County, Kentucky. Sister and her partner lived on a farm. Whle there, we would bottlefeed lams and kids, ride horses, milk goats and make cheese and ice cream and the like (there was a lot of milk to be consumed), and enjoy the wilds of Kentucky. Pretty idyllic, huh? Well, no. There were fleas and ticks everywhere. Pulling ticks off yourself was sort of a constant. There was never not a tick on you somewhere, and usually there was more than one. The dogs (between five and twelve depending on the visit) had the run of the house, so the bedsheets were gritty with Kentucky dirt, and everything was covered in animal hair. After spending time there, I was always worn out. And after mulling it, I realized why. If you let yourself think about the ticks and the fleas and the dirt--oh, and shitting in a bucket and not really bathing the entire time you're there because there's been drought conditions for the past decade--you would go out of your fucking mind. So you had to devote considerable psychic energy to NOT THINKING, beating down those thoughts like copperheads when they would pop up. Same with the subways. I've seen ugly confrontations, fights, robberies, and had my train delayed by fires, derailments, and power failures. But, when you descend those steps, you kind of have to force yourself to think that nothing bad is going to happen.

I heard an amazing account of the impact that the Sarin gas attacks on the Tokyo trains had on the psyche of the Japanese. For many, it was like a curtain was pulled back, revealing how incredibly vulnerable they all were. Many people, even though they hadn't been affected in the least by the attack, were too terrified in the aftermath to leave their homes.

I can't imagine much worse that spending my last minutes on an E train as some poison gas or other shuts down my central nervous system. There we'd sit, in the tunnel, while the conducter tells us to remain calm because there's congestion on the line ahead of us and we'll be moving shortly. Or something. (It really, really irks me when the MTA lies to us, saying there's congestion ahead when you've been standing on the platform for a half an hour and not a single train has gone by. There's a problem all right, but it's not congestion on the line in front of you. Lies lies lies.)

So I'm not paralyzed. If I need to take the subway, I'll take the subway. I'll be catching the PATH train home, and possibly all those people staying away will mean that I'll be able to get a seat. And, maybe the PATH won't be a target, since it's more a matter of New Jersey extending it's tentacles into New York City (like a Plantar's wart) than it is New York City. (The psychological term for that last statement is 'rationalization.')

I'll go down the stairs. I'll wait on the platform and I'll read my book. I'll sit on the train and read my book. I'll get angry at the doofus who stands right in front of the train doors so you have to push around him to get on and off, and the guy who is taking up two seats because he needs to keep his knees sixteen inches apart when he sits down, and the annoying school kids that crowd into cars, and all the rest of it. And then it will be my stop, and I'll bolt through the doors and go running up the stairs into the frigid fresh air as though I'm running for my life. Because that's what I'm thinking I'm doing. And maybe, in fact, I will be.

And on top of everything else, I have to be at work. And I just found out that Boss Sunshine has cancelled the week in Puerto Rico he was planning for this month. Hate that.

Orn'ry

That's me. For one thing, I work tomorrow. For another, this will be hell week. Monday night will be a Program Committee meeting for GMSMA, Tuesday the GMSMA Executive Committee meeting, Wednesday is the GMSMA Program night, and Thursday is this daffy forum I'm organizing for work. And then, I was looking forward to meeting up with boy wonderful tonight, but he copped out. Pipes burst, he had to fire three of his staff, that kind of thing. I was planning on having him polish and shine my boots, then give him a flogging with my doe skin flogger. Alas.

Now here's a weird thing. I keep thinking about Sarge. Or rather, I keep thinking that it would be nice to be dating someone, if that someone was someone like Sarge. Or like Special Guy. Go figure. The whys and wherefores of that elude me. Maybe it's time. For one thing, I hardly know Sarge; I don't even know for sure anyone who knows him so that I could pursue my junior high school approach. Damn I miss Special Guy. He's in Palm Springs right now, which is a very good thing. That's far enough away so as to be out of my sphere of influence. It was so nice spending time with him, hanging out with him, having sex with him, and sleeping with him. Like it's never been before with me and another man. Not to say that it couldn't be that way with somebody besides Special Guy. But he was that rare combination of body, mind, and spirit that just pushed all my buttons.

Damn I miss Special Guy. I want a Steady Eddie.

-------------------------
More reason not to be a pot smoker. A few months ago, I hooked up with a Factory Cafe regular that I'd had an eye for since we met the year before. Sex was not good. He basically just wanted to suck my dick. He had spent a lot of time as a closet case, and hadn't really moved beyond that. He wasn't looking for any connection, in fact, it seemed to be a problem for him that he knew my name. And, he swore me to secrecy. "Don't tell nobody." Anyway, during our interaction, I realized that the reason he always had this pleasant, dreamy expression on his face was because he's stoned 24/7. He doesn't work (well, he owns some rental properties). He just tokes up, goes to the Factory Cafe, and comes back to his apartment around the corner and tokes some more when he feels his buzz is lifting.

Anyway, today I was sitting next to him in Factory Cafe. In came this guy. I think they had been boyfriends. At least, I remember seeing them together pretty frequently several months ago. They had an interesting conversation.

Guy: Hey! How's it going? Good to see you.
Toker: Hi, good to see you too. Not too much.
Guy: Yeah, what'cha been doing with yourself?
Toker: Y'know. Not much.
Guy: Doing anything lately?
Toker: Not too much, no.
Guy: See any movies? Read any books? Go anyplace?
Toker: No. Not really.

The guy was sort of fishing around in oatmeal looking for something to chew on. And there wasn't anything there. He seemed pretty disgusted.

So I drove all the way out to Allentown, Pennsylvania today to go to MP Uniform and Supply. Route 78 was wide open, and I made great time. I get there at 3:30 thinking, "Great! I'll be able to take my time shopping." I found the place without much of a problem. It didn't look busy from the parking lot, and I was worried about overly attentive staff. I walked up to the door and saw a sign that said "OPEN SAT 10-2." Unbelievable. In the same complex, three doors down, MP Nursing Uniforms is OPEN SAT 10-5, but I didn't drive all this way to pick up scrubs. Damn. I had pizza and headed home.

I spent the evening with Current President, Past President, and a passel of assorted young'uns watching the Absolutely Fabulous episode that had a segment shot in the LURE. So that was fun. Then I headed up to the LURE. It was a really good crowd. Sort of the Last Days of Sodom. I heard from the manager earlier in the day that their plans for a new space fell through. So, unless they work out a deal with their landlord whereby they can go month to month, the LURE will close down in April. So it's sort of bittersweet. Truly, I will miss the place, the scene of so many good times. I am not looking forward to fighting for one of the eleven parking spots on West 28th Street to go to the Spiegel on Saturday nights, and contend with hordes of Chelsea boys wearing fucking flip flops in what purports to be a leather bar. (Oh. I heard they got raided this past week.)

Here's the kind of interesting part of the evening. Ran into lots of folks I knew there, including the batteries (Double A, A and A). And also this guy I know kind of. Well call him Sarge. Sarge is sort of a luminary in the LGBT community, and the subsegment of the S/M community is proud to claim him as one of our own. I know him slightly. He was one of those people that I knew who he was before I met him. We talked for a bit down at MAL. So we chatted for a while tonight. He bought me a beer. And while we were chatting, it sort of dawned on me: I'm totally crushed out on this guy. And I think I have been for a while. And unless I'm mistaken, that vibe is going both ways. Huh. Now, he plays as a Top. Which could be cool. I mean, I'd like date him. I don't get to feeling, "Damn, I want to whip him" while we're talking, or even, "Damn, I'd like to go down for him." But more along the lines of, "Damn, I'd like to wake up next to him, go out for breakfast together, go to movies, and have sex." He kind of mentioned that he has floor to ceiling book cases in his apartment, and once noticed a guy he brought home was sitting handcuffed on the floor reading the titles of the books in his bookcase, and made some comment like, "Pretty wide range of subjects." So Sarge blindfolded. Okay. I heard, "Pretty wide range of subjects" and got a huge hard on. He vaguely resembles Special Guy. Big butch guy with lots of hair. Maybe that's part of it.

How to proceed? He makes me sort of nervous. Not sure what that's about. My inclination is to play things Junior High School style, as in, tell somebody he knows that I 'like' him and see if he asks me out. How twisted is that, huh? Or just do nothing. Well, I'll sleep on it.

------------------------------

Showering, dressing, walking the dog, having oatmeal, wheeling about the apartment... alternately in tears of joy and pathos. Cuz I'm listening to REM's Automatic For The People. Haven't put that cassette (!) in to the box for a long long time. Perque non? It's gorgeous. Not a false note on the whole damn thing.

Anyway, gotta walk the dog before I head off to Allentown, PA to see what they have that I can't live without at MP Uniforms and Supply.

...chains... ...something with chains... ...bondage? Does he have a winch? Could I hang him upside down from the ceiling? Or maybe just hogtie him. Hmmm... See how many lengths of chains I can swing from his balls?

I'm meeting up with boy wonderful on Sunday. And I just realized that I had no good ideas for a scene. I described the fishine bondage that I want to do with him, so that probably wouldn't work. I guess. All those chains would be so much to lug over there though.

I'll think of something.


------------------------------------------------------------

Count along with the Count now: "Three! Three thousand visiters to SingleTails! (Peel of thunder) Ah ah ah ahhh...

--------------------------------

Here's what I like about my job. This morning I spoke with a naturalized Korean immigrant who for 25 years ran a grocery in Hell's Kitchen. He and his wife lived in an apartment obove the grocery. Two months after September 11th, there was a Con Ed fire under the street that spread to the bsement of the building underneath the store. The store and apartments in the building were damaged by the fire. The guy's landlord approached him and said, "Here's what we do. You terminate your lease, and I'll sue Con Ed, not only for the fire but also for the loss of the value of your lease." Mr. Grocer said that sounds complicated, and he wasn't sure he could be involved in something like that. From reading the material he sent, his landlord then decided that he wanted Mr. Grocer out of there. Landlord told him to clear out his stuff so they could make repairs. While he was doing that, the floor collapsed and he was injured in the fall, and needs back surgery. His apartment in the building was burglarized His landlord has moved to evict him five times. No repairs have ever been done. Fearing for the safety of his wife and four children, he has sent them to live with family. Because his landlord has told him several times to "Go back to Korea," he filed a complaint with the NYC Human Rights Commission. Now, he's broke, he needs back surgery, his family is dispersed to the four winds, and all he wants is to re-open his grocery and continue his pursuit of the American dream. When Mr. Grocer was explaining all this on the phone to me, he started to cry and he had to hang up.

We're going to help Mr. Grocer. There's not much we can do. And, probably, the chances are slim to none that he's ever going to be able to re-open his store in that location. But what happened to him was terrible and wrong. I want to do what I can to make it right.

Hopefully, Boss Sunshine won't get in my way.

---------------------------------------

Speaking of nefarious acts (see below), last night, I was walking down the street, minding my own business, looking in store windows, when a thought popped into my head: I should start smoking pot! I swear. It was like, "I should start doing volunteer work at the hospital!" or "I should start baking my own bread." Not like I've never done it. I had a few (lamentable, very lamentable) experiences in my teens and twenties. But since then, I've always said 'no, thanks' when I'm at a party and they pass the dutchie to de left hand side. What the hell prompted that? For the most part (I'm giggling), I think it's because I want to be cool. No, I'm serious. I think it would make me cool. Stop laughing. I'm serious. I know a lot of cool people who smoke pot. I mean, it's just pot, right? What's the big deal. I guess I'd have to get a dealer, right? Have a weekly assignation with some ancient hippy in the Chelsea Hotel. Now I'm not talking about 'trying' pot. I'm thinking about being a pot smoker. I, pot smoking guy. "Why yes, I do smoke pot. In fact, I'm a pot smoker."

Nah. Here's why. First off, I can't afford it. Secondly, I know how it would go. I'd go buy pot, and make a schedule of regular assignations with the aged hippie in the Chelsea Hotel. And I'd do it once. Maybe. Or on the night when I scored my first bundle (that's how heroin is referred to; I'm not sure if that refers to any drug, or just heroin), I'd get home and I'd be really tired, and so I'd put it in the freezer (is that what you do with it?), and never get around to smoking it. I have a bottle of brandy at home, and three nice bottles of a mellow merlot. When I bought them, I thought, it might be nice to relax at home some night and have a snifter of brandy or a glass of wine. I had an image of myself, with a sort of wry, thoughtful smile on my face, sitting wearing a sweater with my dog at my feet, enjoying that nice merlot. When I bought the wine, in that moment, I think I aspired to be a person who would sit there alone with a faraway look in his eyes sipping merlot. "Be that guy!" I told myself. All those bottles remain unopened.

I get home, I put down food for the dog, I pick up messages on the answering machine, I check email, I walk the dog, I make myself something to eat, while I'm waiting for dinner to heat up, I invariably get caught up in some project like refolding all the towels or doing a quick inventory of the spice rack or reading through the alumni newsletter from my college or whatever. And I eat dinner, and of late call down the muse and write until it's time to go to bed. Prior to this project, all that would be transpiring at around midnight, so when I finished dinner (if I hadn't eaten in the city), I'd be off to bed. so, even though being Mr. Merlot Sipper or being Mr. Pot Smoker might be laudible goals, I'm not that guy.

----------------------------------------------

Maybe I could knock over a liquor store in Queens

I got a ride into work this morning from my Friend and Landlord. Last summer, he took a full share in the pines (he's a corporate lawyer and real estate mogul) and he was exceptionally gracious on letting me stay there on several weekends when work prevented him from going out there. Anyway, it seems that Crystal Meth has taken out the guy who was the house manager, and so F&L and another guy are stepping into that role. It's a great house. Most of the places I've seen in the Pines consist of a large room with a galley kitchen, and four, six, or eight bedrooms coming off that room. Not so this house. It's huge and rambling. Everyone staying there in essence has their own floor. At any rate, F&L and the other guy he's working with are hoping to make the house even more kink friendly than was previously the case. (The sling room is pretty famous.)

And so, F&L invited me to take a quarter share. I laughed. "Is there a sliding fee scale? Are scholarships available?" F&L replied that that could very well be the case. Now, let's be clear. I totally don't have the money. Beyond the fact that it's $2-3,000 for the quarter share, every weekend you're out there you have to pay your portion of the food bill. And that's a few hundred dollars. So no no no no no no NO!

But still... The roster of those left standing in the house seems to include all the people I liked. And they liked my dog. And he liked going out there. The five days I spent out there in F&L's share with Special Guy were just golden and magnificent. And I had a blast. It really is magical.

But I don't have the money. So I guess I'll just have to knock over a liquor store in Queens.

-----------------------------------

I'm a Joiner

Tonight after work, I went to a Leather Pride Night organizing committee, representing GMSMA, and then I went to a GMSMA organizing committee for Folsom Street East. Maybe it was the effects of the coffee and the chocolate covered Graham crackers I had at the outset of this round of meetings, but back to back meetings put me in such a good mood. There's something that I find so enriching about working with a diverse collection of personalities on a voluntary basis as part of a group. It's sort of irreducible. It's not just that I feel as though I'm 'on the team,' and it's not just the regard that's extended to you if you're willing to take on responsibility, and it's not just meeting new people. I just get to feeling good about the whole deal.

I once lamented the fact that that college provide a great opportunity to make friends, the likes of which I'm not likely to see again. And to some extent that's true. But, I've made some wonderful friends, both through being involved with ACT UP and the Anti-Violence Project a decade ago, and through GMSMA now.

-----------------------------

This totally rocks. "After a long week of hauling my rig up and down the East Coast, there's nothing I enjoy more than slipping into something pretty." It doesn't get a lot better than a bunch of big (some realllly big), red-blooded American men in really poufy party dresses, now does it? "Foundation garments bring me so much pleasure and happiness!" I couldn't agree more.

----------------------------------------

HOO-hah! Good writing went down last night. I formatted the pages of the manuscript so that they're the same size and with about the same margins as a paperback book. I have a 63 page manuscript. And I still have a lot to say. I'm holding off on the 'good' parts, namely those that will be easy to write. It's just stunning to me when I pause to think about it. I'm doing it. I'm writing a book. I am actually writing a book. Not only have I not had to seal myself away in a mountain retreat to do it, but it blends seamlessly into the flow of my other activities.I think it's 'good,' but of course, there's no way of knowing. After I spend all the time writing the thing, some extensive editing will need to happen, involving reading it all over, making sure that there's unity of voice, that all thoughts are followed to their logical conclusions, that unnecessary digressions are deleted, and the like. At this point, as I write, my intended audience is gay men who are involved in S/M. I may broaden that to men and women involved in S/M, although I'll only know if that's possible after I give the complete text a read through.

What will I wear on my book tour?

-----------------------------------------

Last night I dug up a copy of Joan Didion's essay 'On Self-Respect' to send to a fellow blogger. After reading it, I typed most of it into my journal. As it came up on the screen as a word document, I was aghast to see squiggly green lines in the text. Word's grammar-check function was finding errors with Joan? And it's true. And not just 'artistic license' kind of errors. It seems that Joan Didion doesn't know when to use 'that' and when to use 'which.'

I do. I'm not a stickler for grammar. Language is fluid. Rules follow useage, and not the other way around. Thus, I don't make a distinction between "No one knows better than I" as opposed to "No one knows better than me."

But I take pride in knowing the difference between 'that' and 'which.' "You use 'that' to show 'which,' and 'which' to show 'that' is the mnemonic rule. If the information is not grammatically necessary, but just additional information, you use which. If you're using it to distinguish the subject, you use that. If you can insert the phrase 'by the way' after that or which, and it makes sense, then use 'which.' For example, "The dog that is whining needs to go out." But, "The dog that is whining, which is the friendliest dog I've ever met, needs to go out.

Clear? Go, therefore, and sin no more.

-------------------------------------------------------

I went. It was Coffee Heath Bar Crunch.


Oh. My. God. Next Friday is Valentine's Day. It's not so bad when it's on a Wednesday. But I'll be going out next Friday. Not on a date. That would be way too scary to see anyone on that Special Day. So I'll be bellying up to some bar or other. Along with all the other guys who don't have dates on Valentine's Day. It will probably look like the bar scene in Star Wars, no?

Not that I want a Valentine. Because truly I don't. I guess what I don't look forward to is explaining to people that no, in fact, I don't have a date on Valentine's Day, and why. Hmmm.... Maybe I'll whip boy wonderful, and work on leaving a heart-shaped knot of welts and cuts on his back.

Huh. I'd like some ice cream. That's a craving I haven't had in ages. I tend to favor Ben & Jerry's Cherries Garcia. That or their one with peanut butter and chocolate. Or, there's always good old coffee. Faced with 39 flavors, I go for the coffee.

Hmmmm. It's 10:30. Just on the cusp of being too late to run out to the all night bodega if I'm gonna get any work done on the manuscript. See, this is why I need a boy...

--------------------

I read today on one of my favorite blogs a first person account of a terrible thing that the blogger had done. It was a beautiful entry. It called to mind the essay by Joan Didion, On Self-Respect, found in her book, "Slouching Towards Bethlehem." I'm sure I've written about it before. It pretty much changed my life. There I was, in a relationship that seriously didn't work for me, and what kept me there was the thought that if I left, it would mean I was a 'Bad Person.' I try so hard to be good, or, more accurately, to be thought of as good by others. Here's Joan on the issue: "The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others-who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O'Hara, is something people with courage can do without."

Buy that book. You can get it for $10.40 from Amazon.com. It gets my vote for one of the most brilliant things ever written in English.

----------------

Boss Sunshine sort of out-foxed me. He spent the day meeting with an interior designer, occupied his afternoon with Staffetto, then dropped by the office before making himself unavailable for the night. I've pretty much decided that there is little to lose and possibly something to gain in sitting down and having a heart-to-heart talk with him, so I'm gonna give it a whirl.

But here's what really leads me to blog. I just had such a great dinner! Like I haven't had in so long. I stopped in at a Vietnamese/Southeast Asian restaurant here in Jersey City. The fact that they have Thai and Malaysian items on the menu sort of lead me to discount the place, as sort of glorified chinese take-out. I've eaten there once before, and had Tai Gau (a big bowl of soup with chicken and rice vermicelli noodles) that wasn't as good as what I used to have almost daily for lunch at Pho Bang on Pke Street below Canal. Tonight I ordered there Tofu soup and rainbow trout served on a banana leaf. It was just stupendous. The trout was expertly fileted, very fresh, covered in an amazing ginger sauce, and served up with a salad of mangoes, cucumbers, red bell peppers, and pineapple, in a dressing of lime juice, cilantro, basil, garlic, ginger, and honey. And the soup was perfectly balanced. And then the bill came... $20.09. How's that for getting off easy on an extravagant night on the town?

So I'm happy. Well, as happy as I can be given the fact that I need to spend two more days at The Office. At the end of the day, before I left to present testimony at an MTA public hearing, Staffania announced that she was leaving, as she and her husband are moving to California. I suppose I'll be expected to hire for the position. How am I gonna do that? I feel like I'm luring some unsuspecting young idealist to his or her doom.

Oh. Interesting thing went down. Before he left the office, Boss Sunshine came in and said to me sotto voce, "Are you aware that Staffella is assigning people to go to meetings? That's something that I expect you to be doing as Chief-of-Staff." My blood ran cold. There it all was. I was inadequate in my job. Staffella, who is my senior in age, was challenging my authority. I didn't have control of the staff. I'm a lousy boss.

So then, Boss Sunshine headed out the door. I went out of my office and said, "So Boss Sunshine just said to me, 'Are you aware that Staffella is assigning people to go to meetings? That's something that I expect you to be doing as Chief-of-Staff.'" Everybody laughed. "Oh my God, he's so crazy." Staffella was puzzled and said, he must have been referring to when I put a notice of a transit meeting in front of him and he told me he couldn't go to that, but that somebody should. Staffetto deals with transportation issues, so she said, "Staffetto, you have Transportation, right? Here's a meeting you'll need to attend."

I assumed a mock flustered and angry voice and stance and bellowed: "Staffella! You're challenging me! Don't you ever do that again! Do I make myself clear? I'm the Chief-of-Staff around here."

Yuk yuk yuk. We all laughed. Problem solved.

And how is your work day going?

I am on the horns of a dilemma. I was out sick yesterday. Apparently, Boss Sunshine was purely psychotic, brutal to everyone on staff. B.S. requested a staff meeting, and the plan was made among staff to do something along the lines of an intervention at the staff meeting, letting him know that his behavior was unacceptable, and that everyone is prepared to walk. So, today, Boss Sunshine called from home (seven blocks away), all sweetness and light, and asked if anyone needed him for anything. He also said that he wouldn't be coming in today, so the staff meeting would be canceled.

So here's what I'm contemplating. I go over there, solo, perhaps on the pretext of bringing him some letters to sign, perhaps without a pretext. And I sit him down and tell him that his behavior is profoundly disturbing, that the staff--who are smart and dedicated and work really hard--have absolutely had it, and that I think he should seek help. B.S. is in recovery. Lots of recovery. The laundry list of programs and rooms. I was lamenting my work situation to a friend of mine from college who is a psychotherapist with a practice in alcohol and drug abuse counseling. My friend commented that Boss Sunshine's actions don't speak of recovery, they indicate a little boy who has had all of his toys taken away from him, and is now frustrated and angry that he has nowhere to go with his anxiety and fear. There are spiritual aspects to the program, and if one doesn't take advantage of these, one is basically just undergoing a miserable and dangerous exercise in self-denial through will power. I would tell Boss Sunshine that he is not the man I knew when I worked for him seven years ago, and that he has changed profoundly. He is unrecognizable in fact.

Now, it's not like I don't have the guts to go through with this, I absolutely do. Even though I have no idea what I'm talking about with the whole recovery thing. But here's the thing. I'm furious with Boss Sunshine. News of his demise would have me popping open champagne bottles. I feel betrayed by him. I want to see him hurt, and to see his career go down in flames. I would want to start off any discussion along these lines with something like, "I'm here because I care about you," but I don't know if I could say that. With a straight face anyway. And, what are the chances that it would make anything any better at all? Vanishingly small.

So that's what I'm mulling.

Say a prayer, dear Reader.

What I'm Listening To
Here's the Current Treasures Playlist on my iPod

The Painted Desert, Scorpio Rising, Everyone a Puzzle Lover, Gold Rush Brides, Stockton Gala Days, by the 10,000 Maniacs
Antonio Marcello's Oboe Concerto in D Minor
A Mir Bis Du Schoen, sung by the Andrews Sisters
Roam, by the B-52s
Walk Like an Egyptioan by the Bangles
Stayin Alive by the BeeGees
California Stars by Billy Bragg & Wilco
Eyes Without a Face by Billy Idol
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John
The Tide is High, Blondie
See A Little Light, Bob Mould
Bow Down Mister, Boy George and the Culture Club
The Promised Land, Bruce Springsteen
Morning Has Broken, Cat Stevens
I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry, the Cowboy Junkies
Didn't Leave Nobody But The Baby, Alison Krauss, Emmylou Harris, and somebody else from the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack
Sunsine Of Your Love, Cream
Time After Time, Cyndi Lauper
9 To 5, Dolly Parton
Farther Along, Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstandt, Emmylou Harris
The Windmills of Your Mind, Dusty Springfield
I Only Want To Be With You, Dusty Springfield
This Train Don't Stop There Anymore, Elton John
I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues, Elton John
Hold Me, Fleetwood Mac
Wonder, Natalie Merchant
You Make Loving Fun, Fleetwood Mac
Summer Wind, Frank Sinatra
Freedom 90, George Michael
Vacation, Go Gos
Let the Mystery Be, Infamous Angel, and After You're Gone by Iris Dement
Piece of My Heart, by Janis Joplin
The Air That I Breath and Skylark by kd lang
Justified and Ancient, by KLF and Tammy Winette
La Bamba by Los Lobos
Lake Charles, Essence, and Hot Blood by Lucinda Williams
Come To My Window by Melissa Etheridge
Bittersweet Symphony (remix) by Moby
Last of the International Playboys by Morrissey
All The Young Dudes, Mott the Hoople
Rainbow Connection, sung by Kermit the Frog
Don't Let It Bring You Down, Neil Young
I know What I Know and America by Paul Simon
Home and Dry, Go West, What Have I Done to Deserve This by the Pet Shop Boys
Rough Boys by Pete Townsend ("Tough Kid, C'mon over here, I wanna buy you leather..." Love that!)
Breaking the Girl by the Chili Peppers
Fall On Me, I Believe, What's the Frequency Kenneth, Near Wild Heaven, Texarkana, (Don't Go Back To) Rockville, I've Been High, and Imitation of Life by REM
Forever Young, Rod Stewart
Smooth, Santana
New Sunsine Morning and Disconnected by the Simple Minds
Landslide by Smashing Pumpkins
I'm a Believer and Why Can't We Be Friends by Smashmouth
When She Begins by Social Distortion
Back That Ass Up from the South Park Soundtrack
Do It Again, Steely Dan
Give A Little Bit, Super Tramp
Negra Presentuosa, Susana Baca
This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) by the Talking Heads
Dreams, Zombie, Analyse by the Cranberries
Name of the Game by the Crystal Method
The Baseball Song from the Simpsons
Handsome Devil by the Smiths ("I crack the whip, you snip, but you deserve it...")
Genius of Love by the Tom Tom Club
Prison Sex by Tool
Elevation and Discotheque by U2
Everything I Do by Whiskeytown
You Were Always On My Mind by the Pet Shop Boys
You Turn Me On I'm A Radio, Both Sides Now, A Case of You by Joni Mitchell
I Saw You First by John Cougar Mellencamp

I guess one might conclude that I'm not up for being challenged right now, auditorially anyway. Playing it safe. Given the selections available from my music library, this could almost be called Easy Listening. But so it goes.

-----------------------------

I heard a commentator on NPR last night arguing that NASA's space shuttle program should be abandoned, as two fatal crashes in 17 years was an unacceptable record on safety. I totally disagree. If it was a military program, such as a fighter jet, then absolutely that would be the case. But in the military, the men and women flying those jets are enlisted, and that is their duty assignment. They have no choice. If you're enlisted in the airforce and you're a pilot, you're going to be flying the plane that your commanding officer tells you to fly. Now granted, you have the option of not enlisting in the airforce, or not being a military test pilot, but a soldier is a soldier, and it's about following orders once you're there.

With the Space Program, we're dealing with astronaughts. Space flight is inherently risky. I heard that at the first launch, NASA wasn't quite sure if the rocket was going to blow up on the launchpad. And, once they got the manned craft to the moon, getting them back was purely theoretical. If you're an astronaught, you are aware that each and every mission could very well be your last. That's called courage. Incredible courage that not many of us are capable of. If, in the wake of the Columbia tragedy, folks dropped out of the astronaught training program in droves, then absolutely the space program would have to be abandoned. I doubt that that is the case.

America needs a frontier. It's in our character.

Also, we've had too much in the way of national tragedy so far in this century. We need a significant national accomplishment to celebrate. Something tangible, concrete, and self-evident as a major accomplishment. I think that the space program alone could provide us with that.

Hearing Tony Blair speak always makes me giggle.
He always sounds so flustered, so emphatic, so Monty Python.

Speaking of Monty Python, at work today, Stafforetta and Staffolina were teasing Staffaletta. A primary responsibility of Staffaletta is managing Boss Sunshine's schedule. Yet, she bristles when you're talking to someone on the phone and say, "Let me transfer you to Staffaletta, his scheduler."
"I do so much more than schedule," rejoins Staffaletta.
So Staforetta said, "Let me transfer you to Staffaletta, whose duties include, but are not limited to, scheduling."

I needed no further inciting.

"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!
Our chief weapon is fear.
Fear and surprise.
Our two chief weapons are fear, surprise, and a ruthless efficiency.
Our three chief weapons are fear, surprise, a ruthless efficiency, and...
Amongs our weaponry are such diverse elements as... fear, surprise, a ruthless efficiency, and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope in Rome.
Carninal Biggles! You will read the charges!"

All five of them looked at me with concern, as though I were having a petit mal seizure.
Whaddya expect. They're young. They don't even remember the Carter Administration.

------------------------------

An interesting observation about me. A virtue and a deficit, I think. I'm a good reader. I readily get into the head of whoever I'm reading. Thus, I get many insights beyond what the author has put on the page. I recently read on another blog where the blogger commented that a friend had sent him an essay by Guy Baldwin and he disagreed with it totally. That never happens with me. Where I read something and all the time I'm shaking my head and muttering, "No no no. Wrong. No." Not that I accept unquestionably everything I read, but after I adopt it and live it for a while, the internal inconsistencies become clear. Thus, I think that my critical faculties might be a little more exhaustive, although slower to work. Usually they kick in when I hear myself parroting something I read and I'll think, "What am I saying? I don't believe that? What a bunch of horse hockey."

-----------------------------

Oh. Oh oh oh.

Last night, I had another visitation. I woke from troubled sleep, my mind racing. It was 4:30 a.m. The Hour of the Serpents.
What is it with 4:30 a.m.? No matter what time I go to bed, on nights when I have insomnia and anxiety attacks, they hit at 4:30 a.m.

The content? It went like this... What if I go run out of money? What if I don't get my Home Equity Line of Credit on my condo? Why am I such a fuck up? What if I get fired? I have (or I'm imagining I have) lumps on my testes, I have had (no imagining here) diarrhea since Saturday afternoon (hence my abandoned trip to JM Supplies to buy Propper one pieces), and I currently have no health insurance. I want to move to Florida. I'm so tired of being cold. I can't cut it here in New York. I just can't make this work.

I could not get back to sleep. Until 7:30 a.m. that is. Which was a half hour before I had to get up to go to work. When I woke up, I thought about calling in sick (three hours sleep and a gastro-intestinal disorder sounds worthy to me). Alas, I had to go to my bank, so I had to go into the city anyway, and I really had to get that mailing out the door about the community forum we're having or Boss Sunshine will yell at me again. Not that he won't yell at me if I do get the mailing out.

So I'm dosing myself with Immodium A-D (pleasant, chalky, minty taste, but an unpleasant bitter aftertaste). No effect so far. I looked up 'Irritable Bowel Syndrome' on the internet. (I don't think I have an infection... no nausea, no fever.) The cause of IBS is undetermined, and it sounds pretty fishy and malingery to me. Although it's thought to be associated with stress. If I have IBS, I'm going to name it after Boss Sunshine. A friend of mine once named an ulcer for her drug-addled boyfriend who had caused it. ("I love fried eggplant, but I can't have any because of Sandy.")

With respect to these sundry health issues, I'm trying an interesting tact, and amalgam of two books. Bear with me. This sounds new age-y, and maybe it is, but I swear I'm not. I'm a total materialist. But the effects of what might be called 'Creative Visualization' are established by cognitive science. Anyway, in my Shaman book, I've been reading discussion of 'Power Animals,' your animal guide that you meet in a Shamanic journey. Likewise, in 'slavecraft,' the author discusses a meditation technique that he uses whereby he imagines himself walking, and meeting a slave, who is both archetypal and endowed with a personality. The author questions the slave, and listens to what he has to say, telling the slave that he is seeking a mentor and a guide in slave craft.

So what have I been cooking up? Well... Because of a lifelong affinity I've had with wolves (I have one tattooed on my right deltoid, fr'instance, and I had a hallucinagenic experience when I was eleven running around in the fallow fields behind my parents house, shimmering with frost underneath a full moon, wherein I 'became' a wolf, and I could go on), so my Power Animal is a wolf. Shaman book says that on the shamanic journey, you often meet your Power Animal in human form, but get an indication of what animal he or she is.

So lately I've been imagining Master Wolf. Master Wolf is a wolf (so am I, he reminds me, but I'm just starting to get in touch with that) who takes on human form. He vaguely resembles Charles Bronson, although there's more gray in his hair, and he has a vaguely Sioux aspect to him. Execept for the mustache (Native American men don't have much in the way of facial hair). He is a skilled Master. He has brought many men to new heights of ecstasy and awareness by bringing them to their knees. He has just about no sense of humor, and he never gets my jokes. (A minor liability in our interactions, but a liability nonetheless.) I come to him with my concerns and my lack of self-confidence and my buried shame, inadequacy, and fear. With a stern look, he tells me to take up my whip and throw. ("Lift up your skirt and fly!" I offer, which gets me more stern looks.) I do, and doubts and fear are banished. I am a wolf. I tap into a primal power. My whip strikes like a viper, hitting perfectly the mark I want.

As I headed out the door, down the stairs, and off to the PATH train this morning, I felt my wolf self. These problems are of the body. They will pass. I am more than my bowels. I am strong. I am a wolf. I feast on the entrails and drink the blood of men. (Which has got to bring some intestinal discomfort, right? I mean, it's probably okay with Dr. Atkins, but few nutritionists would recommend that diet... I'm getting the stern look again.)

I did fine today. I whined only slightly to co-workers. I got stuff done.

-----------------------------

School of Continuing Education Courses I'd Love to Take

20th Century Architecture
Introductory Russian
Introductory Vietnamese
Southeast Asian Cooking
Introduction to Baking
HTML and Web Design
Psychopharmacology
Cognitive Science: The Limbic System
Erasmus and 16th Century Europe
Anglican Mystics: Auden, Eliot, Milton and Donne
Art History: Explorations of Minimalism
Calculus I

-----------------------------------

I shall blog but briefly. After too long away, I decided to head to the Dugout tonight for Beer Blast. Why have I stayed away? Great energy, great men, and was it my imagination, or was the beer somewhat colder than usual? Ran into Ecosse, my favorite up-for-anything cub. And tonight what he was up for was a bladder full of my piss. "Give me a couple of minutes," I said. I had just had a nice big latte at the Factory Cafe, and I was working my way through a beer. I had sort of vague stirrings in the abdominals, but nothing to get Ecosse down on his knees. So instead of a second beer, I ordered a coke and a bottle of water. I returned, and an overly anxious Ecosse was underneath the table, waiting on me. He got in position, and I proceeded to chug-a-lug the coke and the bottle of water. Nada. Dry well. I thought of waterfalls. I thought of those annoying fountain punch bowls you see at weddings. I thought of a garden hose. I thought of the gurgle of a urinal. No dice. He surfaced. He and Yet Another Jersey City Sadist headed out into the night. At this point, my bladder was distended to the point that I had to loosen my belt. I went to the bathroom, and even then, it didn't come easily. And when it did, it would have hardly been more than a mouthful for Ecosse.

That's the problem with watersports... it's dependent on bodily functions over which you have no control. Usually, this problem is readily surmountable: downing a gallon of spring water usually does the trick. But when water is $3 for sixteen ounces, it's a problem.

Later I had dinner at Manatus. I wasted two good hot steam loads of piss, thinking of Ecosse all the while. I know how my mind works. I'm not gonna rest until I do a nice piss scene with some lucky pig.

Ugh. Work tomorrow. (I wish I knew the html code to have 'work tomorrow' appear in dripping, creepy Addams' Family lettering. Five whole days of it. Luckily, Boss Sunshine will only be in NYC for the final two, but he can be even worse on the cell phone. And I'm busy on Tuesday and Thursday night this week, Tuesday being therapy and Thrusday being the Leather Pride Night organizing meeting.

Anyway, time to walk the dog and get to bed. Sleep is good. Sleep is very good.

boy wonderful is indeed a wonderful boy. He came through for me with flying colors. He called me back as I was in the Holland Tunnel, reporting that he was feeling good and ready to go. Once at chez b.w., I made chit chat with friends and staff and had some lasagna whilst he showered, ate, and prepared himself. No car service for friends and staff was available, so I said I'd be happy to drive everybody over, as they were coming to see the GMSMA dungeon demo. b.w. wanted us to go over alone though. Which was fine. Late, but not too late, I was informed by staff that b.w. was ready to go. There he was in front of the elevator, on his knees, face to the ground. I was deeply moved. I collared him for the night, we toook the elevator down, and drove over to the LURE. As we were late, the prime play space had been given away. I picked out a pillar that I thought would work well. After he checked our coats, I chained him to the pillar and we got busy.

Regular readers of SingleTails must get awfully bored of me waxing poetic on the joys of whipping. But I can't restrain myself. I made him fly. I opened up his back and his wings unfurled, and he was flying. I started with a flogging to get him warmed up. His back responds so beautifully, reddening deeply. I started with the mid-weight cow skin flogger, and then moved on to the stingier but perfect flogger with the thin, kangaroo tails. And then we started in with the whip. There was a slight problem we encountered in that the floor of the LURE is very uneven, and it through him off. He kept rotating around the pillar, trying to find some spot that wasn't so uneven, but there really wasn't one. He responded beautifully, yelping and grinning and just having a blast. At times I would approach him, and he would just back up and collapse into me. Just sublime. No wraps, no hits too high or too low.

It was all over too, too soon. I spritzed him down, dried him off, enfolded the two of us in the blue flannel flat sheet, and down we both went. He sobbed and shuddered and whispered 'Thank you, Sir, thank you, Sir, thank you' over and over. I left him in the privacy of the blue flannel flat sheet for a while while I packed up, and then lead him over to the bar where we had beers and perused the other demos going on. We received some high praise, both for the quality of my work, and for the passion and energy we displayed. "You guys looked like you were having a great time," said one observer. Truer words were never spoken. We were absolutely having a good time.

Then, we were both feeling a little exhausted, and it was time for... Top Aftercare! That meant back to chez b.w., where I had some more lasagna, some champagne, and sat in a comfy leather armchair while he curled on my feet in front of a fire. He talked, and I listened. He talked and talked and talked. And I listened.

Then, I placed my hand on the nape of his neck, partially covering the collar. I concentrated my energy on where I was touching him. He started to moan and writhe. His dick got rock hard. I recalled how a lesbian I used to know told me she had read in something Leslie B. Feinberg had written how a Stone Butch can make a woman cum just by her presence. I was cheating, since I was touching him, but I wanted to make him cum by the force of my will alone. And I did.

Finally, I told him that I was tired, and ordered him to build a fire in the fireplace in the bedroom. I told him I wanted him to massage my back until I fell asleep, and then said that he had earned a place in the bed, rather than sleeping outside the room on the floor. He worried that the energy he felt from me might be too intense and he wouldn't be able to get to sleep, but I said that I suspected that when exhaustion set in after the endorphins subsided, he would be out like a light. And he was. b.w. snores. Loudly. Lucky for him, this is not a problem with me, as I can sleep through anything.

This morning, I got up, worked my way up to the kitchen, and found some tea and a croissant in the freezer. I showered, dressed, and went down and roused my sleeping boy. He was all dewey and drowsy. I made him show me his back before I left. It looked great: a row of vertical cuts, about four or five inches in length, going form shoulderblade to shoulderblade. His back was still warm. I told him I would see him again next Sunday night, and we would talk before that, and I left.

I feel good today.

Dang. Double Dang.

I got email from my boy this morning. Last weekend, a pipe broke in the PH. Part of one of the playrooms was destroyed. In the midst of tearing up a floor and a wall to repair the pipe and undo some of the damage, b.w. came in contact with some black mold, and also some toxic substance in the floor. He's been feeling poorly ever since. (This was the reason for our aborted scene last Sunday night.) He's been resting all week in hopes of getting himself in good shape for getting whipped tonight. I decided to hope for the best.

In his email this morning, he said that he had broken out in hives, but that he thought that he would be up for playing tonight. And, he asked me to call. I called twice, and there was no answer. So, here's what I'm going to do. I'll pack up my toy bag for a whipping scene as we planned, but also bring along enough vet wrap to do a mummmification, in the event that he's not up for getting whipped.

I have a sneaking suspicion that when I get over there, I'm going to find him with a 103 degree fever and that nothin ain't gonna be happenin t'night.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. And angry. Unjustifiably so. I mean, if someone is sick, then they can't very well be asked to do something that could make things worse. According to the rules of etiquette, social commitments are iron clad. If you agree to be the best man at the wedding or attend the dinnner party, then unless you're hospitalized, you show up. Professional athletes have taken the field in states of being really bad off as well. But in many ways, this is diffferent. I wouldn't want to do a scene if my partner isn't going to enjoy it. Still, I'm disappointed and angry. I'm stuffing self-doubting thoughts along the lines of, "If he really wanted to make this happen, he could have pulled himself together for it." It meant a lot for me to be a part of the dungeon demo that GMSMA is putting on, and playing in front of men I respect, admire, and like.

Oh well. Perhaps I'll get over to the PH, and there he'll be, rested, feeling fresh, showered and eager to go, and everything will be great. But that seems unlikely. Damn damn damn. Well, life goes on. Sorry for being sophomorish, but admitting to myself how I'm thinking and feeling about this is the first step towards changing the way I'm thinking and feeling about this.

Anyway.

------------------------

Huh. I don't know how I come down on this critical issue: http://www.magicwand4katie.com/

----------------------------

Further on the Space Shuttle

I thought that the President's remarks were wonderful. Say what you want about him, he is a decent man.

When I was listening to an NPR interview with a guy who was, I believe, sitting in a diner in Naccadoches, Texas when debris came down, I was reminded of a song by Lucinda Williams called 'Lake Charles.' A snatch of the song goes, "He was born in Naccadoches. That's in East Texas, not far from the border. He would tell everybody, that he was from Lake Charles."

And then I remember the refrain of the song, which remembers the man from Naccadoches who told everyone he was from Lake Charles, and who apparently died in a car crash...

"Did an angel whisper in your ear?
And hold you close, and take away your fear?
In those long last moments."

I think that's fitting.

-------------------------

Bug Chasers

I was perusing the blogosphere seeing how others are reacting to the shuttle disaster. Not yet (the West Coasters I follow are probably sound asleep). But stuff about the Drudge Report and Rolling Stone mis-reportage on bug chasing has taken me off on a tangent.

One of the interesting things about the internet is that I get to communicate with men into extreme kink. I've chatted with cannibals ("So, are you thinking a big kettle over a fire, or roasted on a spit?"), snuff ("So if you could do a bow hunt with any celebrity as prey, who would top your list?"), mutilation ("But after you've removed his arms and legs, there's not going to be a lot of ways for him to keep up his muscle tone that made him desireable as prey in the first place, right?"), nullo-slavery ("Are the hormones to prevent feminization easily obtained?"), and gift givers and bug chasers.

Gift Givers are gay men who are infected with HIV. They have sexualized the idea of infecting their partners. Their counterparts, bug chasers, sexualize becoming infected with HIV.

I'm going to go out on a limb here. I think that many, many HIV-positive men have at one time or another, to some extent, fantasized about purposefully infecting someone. And, I think that I'm probably not alone among HIV-negative men--who have a submissive streak, anyway--in that I've had fantasies of being forcibly raped and infected.

*****Note: Refrain from the cautionary emails to me. I have never, and I would never, act out these fantasies in any way that put me at risk of sero-conversion. Read on.*****

But I see chasing and giving as part and parcel of this larger family of extreme kink. The difference is that as far as HIV is concerned within the gay community, there is a depth of experience and horror. When I've raised the issue of giving and chasing while talking, for example, with someone who fantasizes about subjecting a hot body builder to a guillotine, the response has been, "Yo, that's sick. I'm not into that."

Long story short: although there's lots of this going on at the level of fantasy, there is virtually none of it going on at the level of reality. Not to say it never happens. There was a recent news item about a man in Berlin who consensually killed and ate another man, and is now being prosecuted for murder.

As fantasy, it's not difficult to understand where these urges are coming from. Let's begin with something benign and relatively vanila. Let's say you fantasize about shooting your load all over the face of the guy that's sucking your dick. Nothing wrong with that, right? As long as he keeps his eyes closed, ain't nuthin bad gonna happen there. But what's that about? What's running through your head as you're spewing the pearl jam? At some level, it's about dominance. It's hot because you're making him take it, and especially hot because he wants to take it. And perhaps even hotter if he doesn't want to take it, but wouldn't dare refuse you. Or can't refuse you because his hands are cuffed behind his back. He's your whore boy. Your boy toy. You own his sweet ass. He's yours, now wearing your mark. And he craves that submission. Whatever it takes, it's all about your pleasure. He's a thing. He's a hole. He's nothing to you. To do with as you please. To use and throw away.

That's ultimately what snuff can be about. The Top is looking for an extreme of control and domination. The bottom is looking for an extreme of submission, to the point of anihilation.

For men who fear these fantasies, who are tormented by them as by demons, there is danger. Repressed desires have a way of expressing themselves in strange ways. In the aftermath, someone is going to be pounding his head against the floor and asking himself, "What was I thinking?" But of course, it wasn't thinking that was going on.

The best way to avoid this is, of course, to invite your demons out to dance. Cavort with them. Get to know them. Then, they're marching to your commands.

Some of the best sex I've ever had in my life was with Special Guy. So hot. I hated the fact that we were two, I wanted us to be one flesh, to merge completely, to disolve into one another. I couldn't be close enough to him. I wanted to be inside him, as close as I could to him. And, I believe, he felt the same way. One day, when we were on Fire Island, sitting on a deck over-looking the harbor, getting drunk and watching the sunset, we started to talk, tentatively at first, and then with growing confidence, about our Deep Dark fantasies. One of us would describe a scenario, and the other one would respond, "Damn, that's so hot. Listen to this one."

It was intimate, hot, and incredibly healing.

Sex for us was a minefield, as we sero-discordant. We talked about the fact that it would be so hot if we were both 'on the same page.' And talking about it made it okay not to go there.

Dan Savage (http://www.theonionavclub.com/avclub3903/savage3903.html) is chiding HIV prevention educators who don't take a firm stand against this sort of thing. I guess I'd have to respond with Bill O'Reilly, "I want to go to a gay bathhouse!" The blogger at www.leatheradventures.com agrees. But here's the thing. Do you really think that the guy who is admitting to the HIV prevention educator that he's having fantasies about bug chasing is going to say, "Oh, right! I forgot about that. Thanks, Buddy!" when he's told that HIV is a really bad thing and that those fantasies are bad and wrong? That he's gonna walk out of the little room with two chairs and the condom-pushing posters on the wall never to be troubled by those fantasies again?

I'd say that it's a lot more complicated than that. And, summing it up with, "He must have a death wish" isn't particularly helpful either. Suicidal people want it over relatively quickly. Here's an interesting fact that got stuck in my flypaper mind at some point: before jumping out of a window or off a bridge, a myopic suicide will typically remove his or her glasses.

Here, I guess, is the 'take home message'... It's never ever a good thing to try and bury your fantasies. Or to encourage someone else to do so, under whatever guise. A repressed desire is your worst enemy.




Anyway. The President is getting set to address the nation on the shuttle disaster.

---------------------------

This morning, my clock radio sounded with NPR. Half sleeping/half waking, I heard of Paul Fussell discussing his new book on uniforms, which I want to read. I like his writing a lot. Then came the first report that NASA had lost communication with the space shuttle Columbia over Central Texas. Losing communication is apparently not extraordinary. But they didn't regain contact. Then came the reports that there was video footage of multiple vapor trails above Texas. It looks as though they're lost. May they rest in peace.

I am remembering the loss of Columbia in 1986. I was in college then, and I was able to cushion the impact with cynicism: "The only reason that we have manned space flights is because NASA feels that it's necessary for public relations. The Europeans do all the things that we're able to do without putting lives at risk with their Ariadne rockets. They're martyrs to the short-sitedness and ignorance of science of the American public." Or something. Then biographies of the members of the challenger crew were followed by analysis of what lead to the disaster, and soon there was Richard Feynman droppiing O-rings into ice water at the Congressional hearings and wrapping it all up for us.

In the wake of September 11th, I'm just calmly and quietly letting the tragedy sink in. No analysis necessary or wanted. Space missions are hazardous, and the astronauts understand this. And proceeding with full knowledge of the significant risks involved is called bravery.