Infernal
Okay. Here it is. And it’s long.
So settle back, light up a nice cigar, and enjoy. Here’s the account of my time at Session A of Inferno XXXIV.
An inauspicious beginning to this journey.
If you had bet me that I could drive all the way through in one straight shot, stopping only for Starbucks on the Ohio Turnpike and a hamburger for lunch, I would have turned you down flat. But, leaving at 7 am, the ride out went incredibly smooth. Perhaps that was due, in part, to reduced traffic on the roads because of the extortionary price of gas. (I refused to stop for gas in Ohio. Screw’em. Their electoral votes secured his presidency, so it’s their fault that his oil industry cronies are reaping these windfall profits without sanction.) But, at 8 pm the same day, there I was, sitting in the parking lot of the Top Secret Location.
This presented something of a problem. I was there a day early. Set up would be going on, and I would be something of a distraction to all that hard work. After dinner at the restaurant across the street from the Top Secret Location, I steeled my nerves and entered. As expected, my welcome was not quite “Hail Fellow And Well Met,” but more along the lines of the proverbial fart in church. It was a problem. I said that I would be happy to drive to the nearest truck stop and sleep there in my car, but if I could sleep in my bed--and the guy I was sharing my bed with was already on-site--then I would gladly work like hell on set-up the next day. After endless consultation, that seemed to be okay. And I bedded down with Alpha for the night.
I found Alpha, busy in his cabin getting his former boy bobby all set with the bottle of Fantastick, as it would be bobby’s job for the duration of the run to ensure that their bathroom was always at all times Clean and Fresh. Alpha and I lost no time at all getting into our rollicking Inferno buddies mode, imagining writing a letter to the fantasy committee, charged with fulfilling the fantasies submitted to them by men attending Inferno, along the lines of, “Dear Fantasy Committee, My fantasy is to take the AIDS-y spooge from a popped zit and stick it up the butt of a really cute kitten.” Love that Alpha!
The next day, I worked like hell under the watchful eye of Diabolique, spritzing and wiping down everything that didn’t walk away from me in the Bondage Tent. Another irksome turn of events went down when, after it was decided that the Bondage Tent, and everything else involved with set-up was indeed “Done,” I tried to drive through the front gate to unload my jeep. In the time it took for me to walk to my car and drive up to the gate, all of the coordinators had assembled, as if by magic, and were blocking my path. With much tugging of the forelock, I asked if I could please just drive the thirty yards from the gate to my room, unload my jeep, and then go park in the parking lot. And received a flat out “No.”
This meant that those two hundred pounds of chain had to be lugged those ninety feet by Yours Truly. Muttering something about “brotherhood” all the while.
A dip in the pool and some sunbathing did a lot to restore my spirits. And, catching up with the guys there that I knew, and watching people arrive. Inferno was getting under way.
Oh man. It felt really really really Important that I was there.
I met my roommates, and together we learned that we were to be five, and not four. A cot had been set up in our room, and Session A was booked beyond solid. So amidst us and our gear, we’d have to make room for some... some... stranger. I hopefully offered that maybe he would be someone unlikeable so we could all have a good time playing wicked step-sisters to his Cinderella.
Dinner was filled with more verge-of-tears greetings (“I’m really here!”), and the electricity of anticipation of the run. Following dinner, we all gathered for Opening Ceremonies. Orchestrated by none other than Roman Cool, it absolutely brought the house down. (Why yes, that was me shouting “Bravi! Bravi!”. “Bravo” is what you shout to a single male performer, but the plural “Bravi” is to congratulate a group of performers. Unless the group consists entirely of women, then it’s “Brave.” Or for one woman, diva that she be, it’s “Brava!” There. Now you can be all smug next time you go to the opera.)
The dungeons were open.
I was in a good space. “No more RoboTop” made for a good mantra. It really was just enough that I was there. I strolled around, taking in the sights and sounds of the first night of serious SM. And got to bed around midnight.
The next morning, I awoke to find myself looking at our fifth roommate, whose wee little cot was planted smack up against mine. There, inches from me, was this big, beautiful heavily tattooed man, snoring loudly. For about an hour, I watched him sleep. He seemed to be having a really good dream. Periodically, he would arch his head back, practically lifting his shoulders off the mattress, get this beatific smile on his face, like St. Teresa in ecstasy, and go, “Mmmmmmuhhhh.” I debated rolling over next to him on his wee little cot, but decided not to, as we hadn’t been formally introduced. (He had come to bed after me.)
But, the next morning, emerging from the shower, I found that Beautiful Dreamer was up and about. We looked at each other, and hastily exchanged lustful Woofs. This was going to be verrrry cool.
The first full day of the run would be a busy one for me. I was doing a scene with Horowitz. Luckily, the day before, we had run into one another and talked about it. The interest I had expressed was finding pig-space. Tragically, Horowitz had mistakenly thought this involved blow jobs. I filled him in: I hate giving blowjobs. If I never give another one in my life, I won’t be upset in the least. I’ve decided that I have too limits: One) I don’t get burned. All those years of working in restaurants has left me with a horror and dislike of getting burned. Burns hurt. Two) Nothing goes in my mouth that’s not food I like. That includes penis. That does not, necessarily, include piss. With the appropriate asparagus caveats in place, I’m cool with that. Horowitz, God love’m, said this was no problem. He could rearrange things, and turn his attention to my hole. He also told me this would involve me making an announcement at lunch. One consisting only of five words, which he would give me then.
At lunch, Horowitz was passed the microphone, and introduced me, inviting anyone who wanted to help out with a scene at 3:30 in the compound. He had me turn my back to the audience to show off my voluptuous butt, and then gave me the five words. Over the PA system, I said to everyone assembled at Inferno, “Please Sirs, fuck me, Sirs.”
Immediately after lunch, I had a date with Kokoe. Fresh from Burning Man, Kokoe was up for another flogging. I like him so much! There’s so much we share in common. He gets me, and I think I get him. So much so that Kokoe told me he is intent on recruiting me for the Radical Faeries. He feels certain that there’s a place for me at the Faeries sanctuary in Tennessee that he calls home. And paying a visit is definitely on my List Of Things To Do.
The flogging was beautiful. Both of us had a blast. I was reminded of something that a man from Texas told me at a flogging workshop I attended during my first Inferno. There I was, flogging away on my workshop bottom, and he stopped me and said I wasn’t doing it hard enough. “No,” he said, “you’ve got to give it all you’ve got. That’s what he wants, and that’s what he deserves.”
Right.
Post flogging, Kokoe and I relaxed and caught up a bit. But I excused myself. I had to go clean out. Three-thirty was fast approaching. Cleaning out took a while--just couldn’t get the water to run clear--but I had given myself plenty of time, and I enjoyed doing it anyway. And apparently, since there have been no after effects, the water supply at the Top Secret Location seems to be better quality than that in Jersey City, where I gleefully dosed myself with crypto back when I bought my Sur-Shot. And I did my level best to get into the headspace for the scene, even though sex is always so frought for me, and that is the quintessential opposite of the pig-space I hoped to attain. “I’m trusting... I’m trusting...”
Horowitz, fresh from conducting a workshop on electrical play, was unable to stop in his room and get a blindfold for me. But, I did a great job of keeping my eyes closed. (I swear!) The deal was, I would be The Hole. Taking all cummers. Horowitz would create safe space for me to find pig space. That was what the scene was all about. After my booted ankles were restrained and up in the air, my hole, tight as ever, started getting worked.
“I’m trusting... I’m trusting...”
Okay. So pretty quickly, I realized that it wasn’t a penis making me squirm. It was a dildo. Now, I’m not a big fan of phalluses made of vulcanized rubber. They... hurt. But I did my level best... to imagine the men of Inferno, lining up to take their turn at me. That was what this was all about. And, it worked.
When Horowitz decided that I had enough, he slowly brought me back. To my delight, I saw he had a well-chosen accomplice: a really wonderful guy from St. Louis I had met throwing whips at my first Inferno. H. explained that as he was also an accomplished fister, he had helped to open me up.
We sat there in the post-scene glow together.
I avoided looking at the dildo. It felt huge, but I knew the deal. Whenever anyone has wanted to use toys on me, he usually starts with the medium size one. Then, after my whining and complaining, we go down a size. More whining and complaining from me. Down a size. Eventually, if it happens at all, it’s with the teeny tiny one. Like, big as your pinkie finger. But as I was dressing and H. was fetching stuff to clean up, there it was. And it was a big one! And by the... ummm... lube line, it had gone went pretty deep into me. Wow.
So I had definitely gone to a place I’ve never been before. Ahhh... that Inferno magic.
And then I cleaned toilets. You wanna go to Inferno, then you gotta work. In previous years I had done set-up, thus freeing me up for the run. But this time, I went into the labor pool, and I came up with “Facilities.” That’s the nice way of saying either taking out the trash or cleaning the bathrooms. But I’m actually fine about cleaning the johns. It was always my job growing up, and no matter what the state of my apartment, my bathrooms have always been clean. It’s just a toilet, a bowl of water. What’s the big deal? So every day at 5 pm, I would meet up with my bathroom cleaning partner to take care of business.
And, I had made a remarkable discovery. Icarus was at Inferno! Icarus and I stumbled across each other on the World Wide Internet, and immediately hit it off. On worldleathermen of all places, where what passes for communication amounts to ‘You’re hot! Let’s fuck! Oh wait, you’re really far away...,” he and I go on and on in extraordinarily lengthy messages. When he was visiting family in Philadelphia, we met up for dinner, and discovered we liked each other in person, too. When he approached me in the beverage tent, I didn’t even recognize him, secure as I was in my belief that such good things just don’t happen to me. But there he was! We set up a date for that night, and I was looking forward to beating him until there was nothing left but a greasy spot.
Alas. Some bug Icarus had picked up had him taking to his bed. So it seemed I had a night free. Wandering through the compound, I came across Beautiful Dreamer, the fifth occupant of our room. We followed up on the exchanged woofs of that morning.
Beautiful Dreamer is All That. So All That. We’re talking verrrry hot. Covered in ink. Way sweet disposition. Warm. Open. Happy. With that ‘everybody’s buddy’ quality that I love about Special Guy. And that up-for-anything-in-bed quality that always turns my crank. We talked. And I loved talking to him. “You,” I said, “are a very special boy.”
So we went back to our room. Our roommates were still out and about. And, y’know, we turned in early. Fitting very snugly together on his wee little cot.
Very sweet.
Okay. Now we’re up to the final day of Inferno. Tomorrow would be it. With the great scenes I had already had, with Kokoe, with Horowitz, and the wonderful night in the arms of Beautiful Dreamer... I was more than content.
And I had a full day planned. First off, a scene with a new guy from Arizona. That afternoon, I would be doing a scene with bobby. I had met bobby at MAL, when he was Alpha’s boy. Alpha had brought him to this, his first Inferno, and was being a good host. bobby is a hottie, so I didn’t have to be asked twice.
But there was a problem. bobby was looking to take the plunge into Mondo Singletails. Like... Yum! When we talked scheduling, it turned out that 3:30 was the time that worked best for both of us. Later, bobby had a date with none other than Roman Cool.
Uh huh.
Lest I need to remind you, Roman Cool is pretty much an international whipsman extraordinaire. He and bobby hadn’t specifically discussed just what they would be doing, but bobby had told R.C. that he was interested in getting whipped. And I was extended that same opportunity.
Now let me spell this out. There was the distinct possibility that bobby would arrive at his scene with Roman Cool all bubbly from getting whipped by little ol’ me.
Should I cock block Roman Cool?
(Let’s turn to the SingleTails Dictionary (Abridged Version) for that one. The STD(AV) defines “Cockblock” as follows: (verb, gerund), Success at sexual conquest at the expense of a rival who arrived on the scene first and therefore had a much better chance, in part by taking advantage of the heightened arousal of the conquest that has been elevated by the flirtations of the rival.)
So cockblocking Roman Cool would definitely not be cool. For example, I would never ever be able to bottom to him again, right?
So what to do with bobby?
I mulled this all over, but wrapped my head around a milestone: I would be doing my first whipping scene at Inferno! The honor has thus far eluded me. No surprise there. Roman Cool, Albert von Munich, Roadkill, Noted Author, Peter from SF, ARt... the list goes on and on. All of these world-class whipping Tops. They’ve got lines six deep. Who would want to be whipped by li’l ol’ me? It’s like I get to sit in on batting practice with the Yankees.
But very early on the first night of the weekend, I met dungeonbait. He approached. We chatted. I asked him what he was up for. And, he gave a thorough list, in order of interest, citing his experience level in each area.
Wow! Props there! bottoms like that make it so easy to be a Top. He liked flogging, and had had the merest taste of getting whipped, and wanted to really do a whipping scene.
So immediately, he and I had a connection. If the connection isn’t there, you might as well play Yahtzee. If it is there, and it’s strong, than there’s nowhere you can’t go.
We met up, and headed down to the whipping tent. Dang I love the whipping tent. Large and spacious, erected over a lawn so it smells faintly of grass, the various frames and crosses, like a sculpture garden. Despite the cracks of whips and the slap of floggers--and the lamentations and exultations--there’s a certain siilence to the place. Like a temple.
I laid out my floggers, and the special whip. The only one I use in a scene anymore. It feels as though they’ve been a part of my life forever. I know their personalities so well. Closing my eyes, I can see how each arcs, almost feel the weight of each, hear the sound they make.
The scene went so well. Just wonderful when you feel so on top of your game. Feeling that energy, not flowing from you, but flowing through you.
And dungeonbait was exquisite. A strong, powerful man, so responsive, and just giving himself over to me, with what seemed to be perfect trust. Just so beautiful. Sublime.
*sigh*
Nothing beats whipping. The most intimate experience two men can share, bar none.
So what to do with bobby? Thinking that through, I came across the motorcycle. Someone at some point had donated a bike to Hellfire. Every run, it sits there, secured with cables so it won’t tip over, with a sign propped up against the back wheel reading, “Okay To Play On. Really!”
And an idea took shape. I asked bobby if he’d be up for some chain bondage. After all, I had lugged them seven hundred and fifty miles. All two hundred pounds of them. bobby was concerned. He had been playing pretty rough. I told him that all that would be involved would be a nice gentle ride. Nothing to do but lie back and enjoy.
He sat on the motorcycle, and I set to work. Chains and padlocks. Nice guy that I am, I set them in the sun to warm them up before I put them on him. As is always (Always!) the case with chain bondage, bobby looked magnificent. There on the bike, his ankles over the handlebars, his hands above his head on the rack over the back wheel. And he was loving it.
It was a fun scene. Light-hearted. I made with the witty repartee.
Then came my favorite part. I removed all the padlocks and then told bobby, “Okie doke. Be on your way.”
bobby struggled. And struggled. And struggled.
“Oh sure. Fine. No, really. You just sit there. I’ll do all the work. No really. It’s fine.”
bobby struggled and struggled.
He managed to sit upright in the seat, and grabbed the handlebars.
“Vrrrrrooom! Vrrrrooooom!!” I offered encouragingly.
Finally free (bobby definitely didn’t set any records), we hugged. And giggled. bobby said that it was the highlight of his Inferno. (Awww... but he probably tells that to all his Tops.)
So there was this guy watching the scene. There were several who had stopped by, but he was sort of down for the whole thing.
As I was putting the chains away, he approached. He was with the fantasy committee. Y’see, an Inferno attendee has the opportunity to submit (!) a fantasy in writing, and the fantasy committee is charged with realizing that fantasy. (Wait. Did I cover that with the kitten and the zit spooge thing above? Sorry if so.)
He said he had this fantasy that had him stumped. A guy wanted to be chained up in a chair. The were planning on abducting him at dinner, but weren’t sure how to go about the chaining.
Tonight. Gosh. I had a big scene planned for that night. I wasn’t sure I could help out...
But then I read the guy’s letter to the fantasy committee. And... and... he... he gets it. He gets chain bondage. It was all there. He even specified that the restraints used be the kind that were secured with padlocks. (Of course I have restraints that are secured with padlocks!) Also enclosed was his picture. I had noticed the guy. He seemed shy and quiet. But intelligent. And kind. His fantasy description was so painstaking. This was really important to him.
And I am the only man at Inferno who can make it happen. Actually, as far as I know, I’m the only person in North America. There’s one other chain bondage Top that I know of, but he’s in Australia. And I’ve heard he’s an asshole.
I said I’d try to move my evening scene to a later date.
Time for cocktails! Leather cocktails by the pool. Traditionally, cocktails on the last night are when you Dress To Impress. And I had an idea. I left my Menkes at home. (Sorry, David.) I wanted to show off my ink. So, my chain tattoo goes from my right ankle to my left wrist. I wore my Wesco boots and jockstrap, and I wrapped a length of chain from my left ankle to my right wrist. It was a total hit. However, every time I moved, it yanked more of the hairs out of my asscrack. How do those men I chain up deal with that??? When folks started lining up for dinner, I quick ran back to my room to switch off the chain for a leather vest.
Inferno Tip: Smother your prime rib that you get at the banquet in the horseradish sauce.
After the banquet, during announcements, I got the word. The abduction was soon to transpire. I scampered off to the Bondage Tent to get ready for the abductee. They brought him in, pillow case over his head, and plopped him down in a barber chair.
I put on the wrist restraints. And secured them with padlocks.
*sigh*
Then the chain started going on. I rapped to him while I worked. Telling him how much I liked the all-but-eternal quality of steel, that he was in there until I decided otherwise, and that ultimately, he’d turn to dust before the chains would. I managed to get one of the lengths of chain, secured with a padlock, around his beautiful dick and balls. And he was just beautiful. So gorgeous. All wrapped up like that. I removed the pillowcase so he could enjoy the spectacle, too. And enjoy it he did. He sat there stunned and awed, looking down at his immobilzed body.
“Look at this, boy,” I said, “I’ve even got your dick chained up.” I reached down and grabbed it, stroking it.
And damned if he didn’t shoot a huge, huge load. It was like popping a baloon.
All good things must come to an end. And the chains had to come off. I did the take-off-the-padlocks thing. He was astonished at how heavy the chains were. I asked him if he’d be down with wearing one of the chains, the first one I ever bought actually, padlocked around his neck overnight. He consented, beaming. Cool.
Okay. Time to switch gears. One more scene to make my Inferno complete. I was getting whipped. By the man they call Roadkill.
Roadkill is the kind of guy you’d want to be caught up in a Central American revolution with. Note the phrasing there. I didn’t say, “If you had to be caught up in a Central American revolution. Nope. More than that. Even if it meant that the two of you would be ultimately shot as enemies of the people, when you were sitting in your hotel room and heard gunfire and turned on the television to see that the airport had been taken over by the rebels and there was no way for you to leave, you would find yourself thinking “Great!”.
Roadkill and I had talked. Very casual. Like we were talking about a dinner party. I like my wrists down, not up above my shoulders.
I had nothing to prove to anyone, least of all myself. I just felt that I was due. I’ve whipped a lot of men (and whippingboy!) since I took it from ARt. Yeah. I was due.
And I swear, that was it! That’s what it was all about for me.
I decided that it would be worth my while to spend some of my dwindling resources on a run tshirt. They’re really cool this year, art by Axel of Seattle. And they’re white. And as I explained to Roadkill, if... I... uh... bled, then it would be cool to... uh... put the tshirt on, and... uh... kind of have a... uh... memento. “Not,” I made clear, “that blood was a goal.”
Roadkill reserved space for me on the cross in the noisy dungeon. Even though I would prefer the whipping tent, the sweet smell of the grass and cool september night and all, but I am not good in the whipping tent. I am a verrrry noisy bottom.
Y’see, I love to sing. But I apparently have a not so great singing voice. But when I’m up there on the cross, you better believe I’m gonna sing out. So, much better I rattle the rafters of the noisy dungeon than wake up everyone within a fifty mile radius of the Top Secret Location.
I had told Roadkill that I hated to be flogged, and so he decided that he’d warm up with the whip.
Okay.
Okay.
Ready?
Yeah.
Okay.
Okay.
We started with tying me down. My ankles. Around my waist. I was wearing those wrapping wrist restraints from Mr. S. But Roadkill opted not to attach them to anything.
Okay.
Here we go.
First came those little kisses. No cracks. Just the touch of the whip.
Okay.
Something was... ...different.
When I was whipped before, I remember it as being sort of fun. I don’t remember it being painful really. And I don’t know that ARt went easy on me.
But this hurt.
During the tattoo journey, there were some nights where even though the ink was going right on my shin or ribcage or something, it was no problem. I would just be yucking it up with Joe. But on a few nights, I was just not processing the pain. It hurt. A lot. And I wanted it to be over.
And tonight, I just didn’t seem to processing the pain.
Last time, i was laughing at times. Crying, laughing, it was all the same.
I had to work at it. Deep breaths. Working up the adrenaline. The restraints on my unrestrained hands cushioned my hands like boxing gloves. And I guess that was the association. When one of Roadkill’s throws hit home (damn that boney back of mine!) I would pound my fists against the cross. Like a prizefighter getting his blood up.
We built and built.
Oh man.
I was mostly incoherent. But a few times, I remember saying, “I am really scared.”
Scared.
Boy, was I ever scared.
There was the usual fear-of-disappointing-the-Top fear. Being way too much of a lightweight. That fear. But there was something else there I was afraid of. Something deeper.
Heavier and heavier.
Cracking now. Cracking and connecting.
I was howling. Explosions of pain on my back as Roadkill’s whip rained down on me.
Howling. I was howling. Pounding my fists against the cross. Howling.
(My sincere apologies to anyone else who was trying to do a scene in the noisy dungeon that night. I mean really. What a pain in the ass that would have been.
Howling.
Howling!
And scared.
Roadkill moved in for the kill.
And there was Alpha. Standing behind the cross, his sweet, beautiful face. His eyes looking into mine.
Okay. So at this point, I was in a place behind howling. i was screaming. Screaming and crying. And really really scared.
“Just two more,” said Alpha.
“Oh god John, I’m scared, I’m so scared.”
Crack. I screamed.
Crack. That was it.
“It’s okay now. It’s okay,” said Alpha, “It’s over.
John, I said, it’s worse. I’m still afraid, but now I don’t know what I’m afraid of.
And with that, the bottom dropped out. And down I went. Down down down. Just weeping and wailing.
I wondered, would this stop? Would this be it from now on? Had I lost it?
This was despair.
This was hell.
Alpha and Roadkill held me. Held me tight. While I went right to hell. I spent what felt like a long time there. Thus giving me grave concerns. What was the way out?
But then it happened.
I remembered the scene earlier in the evening after dinner. That sweet man. His fantasy. The chains. The expression on his face.
I always try to do my best. And sometimes, I end up doing something good.
That was it. The thing to hold onto. The way back. The road out of hell.
I was breathing again. Roadkill and Alpha were there. These two amazing men.
I was okay.
My head swimming, I leaned against the cross as Roadkill cleared away his gear. Time for us to vacate the cross.
Alpha smiled at me, sang, “Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes...”
He didn’t know the words. (Who does?) He hummed the tune.
Roadkill took me in his arms, and we danced. There in front of the cross. He lead. I followed.
Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes.
I asked, no one in particular, “Was that still SM?”
And was it? I mean, is that what this was all about? If so, what is this SM stuff all about? Damned if I know.
We lay down, the three of us, on the mattress underneath the bondage frame in the noisy dungeon. Other folks took over the cross. Other scenes went down. We listened to the noises.
bobby showed up. Joined us. Alpha headed off into the night. Roadkill, bobby and I made our way back to the compound.
I was all kinds of wired. My back felt amazing. So warm.
I put my shirt on. Not because I felt it was anything like bloody. Tonight, I was a wuss. But as usual, I was cold.
We three stood together, arm in arm in arm. Watching all that SM. Or whatever it was.
“I wish,” I said, “that I could take my dog for a walk. On a summer night like this, under the stars, it’s such a perfect way to end the day.”
Roadkill was inspired. He took his whip, and looped it around bobby’s neck. “He’s not your dog, but he needs a walk. Just bring him back to me. I’ll be down there.
So pup bobby and I took a walk.
My last night at Inferno. That night felt like the most important night of my life.
And I sure didn’t see it coming.
I delivered pup bobby to Roadkill, who smiled at me and said, “He thinks I’m going to go easy on him.” As I headed back to my room, I heard Roadkill’s belt working bobby’s butt.
*sigh*
I joined Beautiful Dreamer on his wee little cot. Tonight, I really needed a man to hold on to. All the better a hot man like Beautiful Dreamer.
The next morning. Time to pack and leave. But first a shower. When the bathroom was roommate free, I headed in. Peeling off my shirt, I wondered how my back was looking. Wondering if there would be anything to bear witness to the amaziing night I had had.
And whaddyaknow. There were marks on my back. I asked a roommate if I could borrow a mirror. And tthere it was, in all it’s gory glory. A whole archipelago of cuts from Roadkill’s whip. I had bled. I wasn’t perhaps the wuss I thought I was. Roadkill, perhaps, hadn’t held back. He had let me have it.
Damn.
I loaded up the car. I went to brunch. I retrieved my chain that had spent the night around Fantasy Man. I bid fond farewells. I got in my Jeep Liberty, and headed out the driveway. And there was Roadkill, walking with his slave, pluG. I slowed, I stopped, I opened the door. Confirmed that I was leaving. I told Roadkill that I tried to do journaling, but it seemed that language was distancing, and I didn’t want that distance. I didn’t want to leave the experience behind. “Words are coins with the faces worn off,” agreed Roadkill, quoting Nietzsche.
And so I left him with these: It was wonderful. Thank you.
The long drive home. Not starting out first thing in the morning, I lost my light about two thirds of the way. That made for slower going. And fatigue. I stopped at a rest stop off Route 80 in the wilds of Western Pennsylvania. Yeah. I was kind of hoping for some friendly trucker to invite me to spend the night in his comfy cab. Okay. So I periodically flashed my headlights and spent time leaning on the hood of my jeep smoking and rubbing my crotch.
And got a few hours of uncomfortable sleep.
And now I’m home. At work, my partner, the Bush-votin’, Bible-thumpin’ one, is full of questions. What did you do? Did you play games? What did you do? How many guys were there? What did you do? And by the way, what did you do?
“First rule of fight club: Nobody talks about Fight Club.”
But I have been somewhat more open at my gym. Just flaunting my back. For all the dads and high school football players that populate the place.
And I’m still pretty much in awe.
Of those amazing men. Many of whom I love. Some of whom have held my heart. Some of whom have entrusted me with theirs. And just the fact that Inferno exists at all.
And that I was there.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Monday, September 05, 2005
Locked, Loaded, Etc.
I'm packed!
Just about. Still have to deal with clothes to wear and such, but the whips, floggers, 200 pounds of chain, steel dowels, boxing gloves, restraints, and such are loaded into the Jeep Liberty.
Ready to go to Inferno.
It all takes up surprisingly little space. For a Top, I travel light. My first time at Inferno, I brought everything but the kitchen sink. I had enough vet wrap and duct tape to encircle the entire encampment. Perhaps I've mellowed with age, but at this point, I'm playing to my strong points. Whips and chains. I could probably improvise for something off that menu. But I don't know that I'm so inclined. No more RoboTop! If there is commonality of interests and animal attraction, then I'll do a scene. If not, than not.
I've got a couple of scenes lined up in advance. All of which will feature me in bottom mode. Pretty much. Horowitz is engineering some sort of sex pig extravaganza for me. (Reeeeally nervous about that one. Truly. What have I signed up for? I sent off email to roadkill asking if he'd whip me. Of all the whipping Tops at Inferno, he's the one to whom I feel the strongest connection. I had asked Alpha months ago to do the honors, but Alpha, alas, doesn't feel his singletail skills are quite there. And yeah, I want to be whipped. Nothing to prove. Not harsh and severe. I just sort of feel like I'm due. I can't count the number of men I've whipped since I last took my place on the cross.
And then there's that other scene. With Alpha. Every year, he and I struggle to devise a way so that we two Tops can do a scene together. He's usually up for a flogging. And I'm cool with that. Absolutely. Such gusto there! My first year at Inferno, Alpha flogged me, and I learned that I don't like getting flogged much. The last time I went, there was the tickling scene. Which I envisioned would be all about us snorting and giggling and having a gay old time. I guess I sure didn't understand what tickling was all about. As soon as he offered me the opportunity to give up the safe word, I sang it out. Laughing till it enduces panic is a surprisingly heavy scene. Take it from me.
So this year. I proposed, and he accepted. Alpha is going to hold me while I cry.
Aren't my bottoming skills coming along nicely? Look at me, asking for exactly what I want! Go figure!
Ah Inferno. I can't believe I'm actually going to get there. Surely I'll find that gas at $9.59 a gallon will force me to turn around and head for home before I even get west of the Allegheny Mountains. Or something. Or my father will call me from the road with some crisis or other. Or something. Or I'll arrive and they'll give me the news that there's been some terrible error with my registration. Or something.
Will it actually come to pass? Will I actually manage to make it all the way there?
Laundry. Packing clothes. Making food to sustain my father for a week while I'm gone. Work tomorrow. Dropping off Faithful Companion at Doggie Lock-Up. Buying some cigars for the trip. Picking up pizza. Getting to bed early. Waking up at 3 am. Hitting the road.
And then I'll be there.
I'm packed!
Just about. Still have to deal with clothes to wear and such, but the whips, floggers, 200 pounds of chain, steel dowels, boxing gloves, restraints, and such are loaded into the Jeep Liberty.
Ready to go to Inferno.
It all takes up surprisingly little space. For a Top, I travel light. My first time at Inferno, I brought everything but the kitchen sink. I had enough vet wrap and duct tape to encircle the entire encampment. Perhaps I've mellowed with age, but at this point, I'm playing to my strong points. Whips and chains. I could probably improvise for something off that menu. But I don't know that I'm so inclined. No more RoboTop! If there is commonality of interests and animal attraction, then I'll do a scene. If not, than not.
I've got a couple of scenes lined up in advance. All of which will feature me in bottom mode. Pretty much. Horowitz is engineering some sort of sex pig extravaganza for me. (Reeeeally nervous about that one. Truly. What have I signed up for? I sent off email to roadkill asking if he'd whip me. Of all the whipping Tops at Inferno, he's the one to whom I feel the strongest connection. I had asked Alpha months ago to do the honors, but Alpha, alas, doesn't feel his singletail skills are quite there. And yeah, I want to be whipped. Nothing to prove. Not harsh and severe. I just sort of feel like I'm due. I can't count the number of men I've whipped since I last took my place on the cross.
And then there's that other scene. With Alpha. Every year, he and I struggle to devise a way so that we two Tops can do a scene together. He's usually up for a flogging. And I'm cool with that. Absolutely. Such gusto there! My first year at Inferno, Alpha flogged me, and I learned that I don't like getting flogged much. The last time I went, there was the tickling scene. Which I envisioned would be all about us snorting and giggling and having a gay old time. I guess I sure didn't understand what tickling was all about. As soon as he offered me the opportunity to give up the safe word, I sang it out. Laughing till it enduces panic is a surprisingly heavy scene. Take it from me.
So this year. I proposed, and he accepted. Alpha is going to hold me while I cry.
Aren't my bottoming skills coming along nicely? Look at me, asking for exactly what I want! Go figure!
Ah Inferno. I can't believe I'm actually going to get there. Surely I'll find that gas at $9.59 a gallon will force me to turn around and head for home before I even get west of the Allegheny Mountains. Or something. Or my father will call me from the road with some crisis or other. Or something. Or I'll arrive and they'll give me the news that there's been some terrible error with my registration. Or something.
Will it actually come to pass? Will I actually manage to make it all the way there?
Laundry. Packing clothes. Making food to sustain my father for a week while I'm gone. Work tomorrow. Dropping off Faithful Companion at Doggie Lock-Up. Buying some cigars for the trip. Picking up pizza. Getting to bed early. Waking up at 3 am. Hitting the road.
And then I'll be there.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Porch Picnic
Here's the menu for tomorrow. Once again, I am challenged with preparing epicurean delights for my vegan sister-in-law. I used to resent that mightily, intolerant as I am of people's "food issues." But I've come to love it. So, instead of when I would open up a can of baked beans for her while we all enjoyed my pot roast, these days I'm orienting the entire menu to exclude meat, fish, dairy, eggs, butter, and whatever else doesn't come up out of the ground.
Couldn't quite hold myself back on the shrimp salad, although she can have it without the shrimp. And I decided to go ahead and make my barbequed chicken. But pretty much, everything is fair game for her.
•Mexican Corn Salad with Sweet Corn, Black Beans, and Tomatoes (Easiest thing in the world. I'm roasting the corn and the tomatoes today.)
•Vietnames Shrimp Salad (Make the salad out of seeded and skinned cucumbers, sesame oil, lime juice, honey, a wee little bit of rice wine vinegar, red onions, mint, basil, and cilantro. Then over a high heat in a cast iron skillet, cook off the shrimp with sesame oil and lots and lots and lots of Tabasco sauce. The end result is that you've got this cool, sweet cucumber salad paired with little balls of shrimpy fire.)
•Barbequed Chicken (Best made over a smokey Weber grill--not the gas grills, a waste of money if there ever was one--where you soak hickory chips in water and put them over the coals. I'm making it in the oven. At a verrrrry low heat. I slice up peaches and sweet onions, and douse it all in Balsamic vinegar. Then put it in the oven for eleven days and just forget about it. Amazing.)
•Roasted Yukon Gold Potatoes Paired with Roasted Green Beans. (Tossed with walnut oil, black pepper, and kosher salt, in the oven at 500°, first the potatoes, then add the greenbeans. I think I'll have some chilled chevre standing by to finish it, if the non-vegans around the table are so inclined.)
•Sautéed Zucchini (Oh yeah. Dust with flour, salt and pepper, and sauté. In walnut oil instead of butter. I'll have some shaved parmesan at hand, again for the non vegans. When I was a little kid, my family used to make an entire meal out of just sautéed zucchini.)
•Cantalope Salad (So simple. Balled cantelope. Mint. Basil. Lime juice. Honey.)
So, there'll be some good eatin' at the Kramer's tomorrow.
Hope all of you enjoy the weekend, too.
Here's the menu for tomorrow. Once again, I am challenged with preparing epicurean delights for my vegan sister-in-law. I used to resent that mightily, intolerant as I am of people's "food issues." But I've come to love it. So, instead of when I would open up a can of baked beans for her while we all enjoyed my pot roast, these days I'm orienting the entire menu to exclude meat, fish, dairy, eggs, butter, and whatever else doesn't come up out of the ground.
Couldn't quite hold myself back on the shrimp salad, although she can have it without the shrimp. And I decided to go ahead and make my barbequed chicken. But pretty much, everything is fair game for her.
•Mexican Corn Salad with Sweet Corn, Black Beans, and Tomatoes (Easiest thing in the world. I'm roasting the corn and the tomatoes today.)
•Vietnames Shrimp Salad (Make the salad out of seeded and skinned cucumbers, sesame oil, lime juice, honey, a wee little bit of rice wine vinegar, red onions, mint, basil, and cilantro. Then over a high heat in a cast iron skillet, cook off the shrimp with sesame oil and lots and lots and lots of Tabasco sauce. The end result is that you've got this cool, sweet cucumber salad paired with little balls of shrimpy fire.)
•Barbequed Chicken (Best made over a smokey Weber grill--not the gas grills, a waste of money if there ever was one--where you soak hickory chips in water and put them over the coals. I'm making it in the oven. At a verrrrry low heat. I slice up peaches and sweet onions, and douse it all in Balsamic vinegar. Then put it in the oven for eleven days and just forget about it. Amazing.)
•Roasted Yukon Gold Potatoes Paired with Roasted Green Beans. (Tossed with walnut oil, black pepper, and kosher salt, in the oven at 500°, first the potatoes, then add the greenbeans. I think I'll have some chilled chevre standing by to finish it, if the non-vegans around the table are so inclined.)
•Sautéed Zucchini (Oh yeah. Dust with flour, salt and pepper, and sauté. In walnut oil instead of butter. I'll have some shaved parmesan at hand, again for the non vegans. When I was a little kid, my family used to make an entire meal out of just sautéed zucchini.)
•Cantalope Salad (So simple. Balled cantelope. Mint. Basil. Lime juice. Honey.)
So, there'll be some good eatin' at the Kramer's tomorrow.
Hope all of you enjoy the weekend, too.
Ephemera
More thoughts on New Orleans.
I'm really sorry that I missed New Orleans. It's long been on my list of places to "get to," and now it looks as though I missed it. My sister had a friend in the Big Easy. He lived on the ground floor of the oldest apartment building in the French Quarter, and therefore, I think, North America. He had this enormous bathtub behind a wall of windows looking out onto Bourbon Street. You could see out, but no one could see in. So my sister enjoyed lighting candles, taking a bath, and watching the streetlife outside. Wow. How sublime is that?
And of course, New Orleans, and Labor Day Weekend, was the site of Southern Decadence. I've heard the stories, and it sounded pretty wonderful. Joyful erotic abandon.
And now, unless the Powers That Be get off their butts and decide that not just the buildings and the infrastructure, but the very spirit of the place is something that we can't let Katrina wash away, then it's all gone. Washed into the toxid brew that the Gulf has become.
Which makes me think of the Fire Island Pines. That magical and transcendant and beautiful place. It's pretty much a given that one day, within my lifetime, a well placed hurricane is going to make it all go away. It's only a sandbar, afterall. The wise man built his house upon the rock, and the foolish men (and women) built their houses on the sand. Wonderful houses that they are. And one day it will be no more.
I guess there's a "Don't Postpone Joy" message in there. Treasure what the Lord has given us today. Because tomorrow, it might be a dimming memory.
More thoughts on New Orleans.
I'm really sorry that I missed New Orleans. It's long been on my list of places to "get to," and now it looks as though I missed it. My sister had a friend in the Big Easy. He lived on the ground floor of the oldest apartment building in the French Quarter, and therefore, I think, North America. He had this enormous bathtub behind a wall of windows looking out onto Bourbon Street. You could see out, but no one could see in. So my sister enjoyed lighting candles, taking a bath, and watching the streetlife outside. Wow. How sublime is that?
And of course, New Orleans, and Labor Day Weekend, was the site of Southern Decadence. I've heard the stories, and it sounded pretty wonderful. Joyful erotic abandon.
And now, unless the Powers That Be get off their butts and decide that not just the buildings and the infrastructure, but the very spirit of the place is something that we can't let Katrina wash away, then it's all gone. Washed into the toxid brew that the Gulf has become.
Which makes me think of the Fire Island Pines. That magical and transcendant and beautiful place. It's pretty much a given that one day, within my lifetime, a well placed hurricane is going to make it all go away. It's only a sandbar, afterall. The wise man built his house upon the rock, and the foolish men (and women) built their houses on the sand. Wonderful houses that they are. And one day it will be no more.
I guess there's a "Don't Postpone Joy" message in there. Treasure what the Lord has given us today. Because tomorrow, it might be a dimming memory.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
At Work The Other Day
Things were going gangbusters getting the job I was working on hardwared up. But none of the natural parts that I needed--cuttlery dividers, lazy susan shelves, spice racks and such--were ready. They hadn't been sent to the finishing room with the rest of the cabinetry. All they needed was sealing and top-coating. I alerted the foreman, Mark, to this snafu, and he said he'd see what he could do about expediting them for me.
I really like Mark. He's this big no-bullshit-ever kind of guy. Very earnest. Stingy with words of praise, but when they do come directed at you, you know you've done something great.
So a little later, I'm bent over at the waist installing a stainless steel soap tray in a sink base cabinet. Mark comes up behind me. "Dutch," he says, "all your parts are looking great!"
I stand up, turn around, smile, and reply, "Thanks Mark! Pretty good for forty, huh?"
He stands there, his mouth open, blinking at me, for a full five beats. Then he just turned and walked away. Probably unsure of what just went down.
Things were going gangbusters getting the job I was working on hardwared up. But none of the natural parts that I needed--cuttlery dividers, lazy susan shelves, spice racks and such--were ready. They hadn't been sent to the finishing room with the rest of the cabinetry. All they needed was sealing and top-coating. I alerted the foreman, Mark, to this snafu, and he said he'd see what he could do about expediting them for me.
I really like Mark. He's this big no-bullshit-ever kind of guy. Very earnest. Stingy with words of praise, but when they do come directed at you, you know you've done something great.
So a little later, I'm bent over at the waist installing a stainless steel soap tray in a sink base cabinet. Mark comes up behind me. "Dutch," he says, "all your parts are looking great!"
I stand up, turn around, smile, and reply, "Thanks Mark! Pretty good for forty, huh?"
He stands there, his mouth open, blinking at me, for a full five beats. Then he just turned and walked away. Probably unsure of what just went down.
So Much Time, So Little To Do. Wait. Stop. Reverse That
Gotta clean out the car. Gotta get something together for a porch picnic on Monday for my father and my visiting-from-Florida brother and sister-in-law. Gotta make sure that my father has something to eat while I'm away. Gotta pack. Gotta drop off Faithful Companion at the shelter.
Because Tuesday night, I want to go to bed around 9 pm and set my alarm for 3 am, so I can get up and get on the road.
Because I'm going to Inferno.
I'm driving there. Pretty sure that the price of gas on the way out will put me right in the poor house. I can't afford a motel this time, so I'll be catnapping at rest stops along the way. I think I'll be downright weepy a lot of the time on the trip. If I end up doing any scenes, that's just gravy. All I really want is just to be there. To have that dust work its way into the seams of my boots. To talk and laugh and play eye-hockey with those men. To remind myself maybe who I am. And what I'm about. And why I want to go on living.
Gotta clean out the car. Gotta get something together for a porch picnic on Monday for my father and my visiting-from-Florida brother and sister-in-law. Gotta make sure that my father has something to eat while I'm away. Gotta pack. Gotta drop off Faithful Companion at the shelter.
Because Tuesday night, I want to go to bed around 9 pm and set my alarm for 3 am, so I can get up and get on the road.
Because I'm going to Inferno.
I'm driving there. Pretty sure that the price of gas on the way out will put me right in the poor house. I can't afford a motel this time, so I'll be catnapping at rest stops along the way. I think I'll be downright weepy a lot of the time on the trip. If I end up doing any scenes, that's just gravy. All I really want is just to be there. To have that dust work its way into the seams of my boots. To talk and laugh and play eye-hockey with those men. To remind myself maybe who I am. And what I'm about. And why I want to go on living.
Can't Help But Think
Horrible watching New Orleans descend into madness and mayhem. So much seems to be coming home to roost there. I mean, sure, go ahead and structure a society so that you have a predominantly African-American underclass trapped in perpetual poverty, shut out of education and healthcare and services, but don't be surprised when decades of neglect erupt into fury and pandemonium.
And it leads me to recall New York City, when we had a blackout for sixteen hours in the largest city in North America, and it resulted in a great big party, with stores giving away free ice cream before it melted, folks checking on elderly neighbors, and the Fire Department making sure no one was trapped in any elevators in the entire city, and folks stepping up to the plate to direct traffic, and an entire town sitting out on their candlelit stoops with their neighbors. No looting. Not even, as far as I'm aware, any surge in crime. Makes me bust my buttons with pride to have been a part of that.
Horrible watching New Orleans descend into madness and mayhem. So much seems to be coming home to roost there. I mean, sure, go ahead and structure a society so that you have a predominantly African-American underclass trapped in perpetual poverty, shut out of education and healthcare and services, but don't be surprised when decades of neglect erupt into fury and pandemonium.
And it leads me to recall New York City, when we had a blackout for sixteen hours in the largest city in North America, and it resulted in a great big party, with stores giving away free ice cream before it melted, folks checking on elderly neighbors, and the Fire Department making sure no one was trapped in any elevators in the entire city, and folks stepping up to the plate to direct traffic, and an entire town sitting out on their candlelit stoops with their neighbors. No looting. Not even, as far as I'm aware, any surge in crime. Makes me bust my buttons with pride to have been a part of that.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Mind Of Shuffle
iPod-wise, I've always been a playlist kind of guy. For the uninitiated--and what exactly are you waiting for? I was one of the original iPod owners, early adapter that I am--after you've loaded all the music you own onto your iPod (I have five days worth), you can sort your music into various playlists. I have my gym mix (code named 'Testosterone'), my heading-down-to-the-Bike Stop mix, my roadtrip mix... you get the idea, huh?
Well, when I went to the beach with UnFortunate a few months back, he was verrry excited about his new discovery: Shuffle. Heretofore, Shuffle was a feature I never used. When you have your iPod set to Shuffle, it plays every track you have loaded, one by one, without repeating.
Surrender my discriminating though eclectic tastes and creativity to sheer randomness?
Madness, surely.
But UnFortunate was all about Shuffle. "It's incredible! It will play a cover of one band, and then follow that with a track by the band covered, but not the one covered! How does Shuffle know?"
On the way back to NYC, UnFortunate suggested we give Shuffle a whirl.
No. I don't do Shuffle. Enjoy my carefully selected playlist.
But after a few weeks, I relented. I gave Shuffle a go.
Shuffle is amazing.
Shuffle just defies comprehension. Need to perk up? Shuffle will have you singing along to an old favorite of yours at the top of your lungs. Feeling a little wistful? Shuffle will remind you that however bad you've got it, Morrissey had it worst. Same goes for those boys from Joy Division. All hot and bothered by those smokin' Starbucks boys? Rammstein will sure get your pistons firing in sync.
But here's what really throws me. Lately, I've noticed something. On my ride to work, I'll hear about four songs. And, there will be this subtle theme that emerges. Water. Voyages. Absent lovers. Summer.
Not hit you over the head kind of theme. But it's there.
It's almost like someone is in charge of Shuffle. Someone somewhere is doing that selecting with care.
But of course, there's no ghost in the machine.
it is natural to the human mind to synthesize. To deduce. To see patterns. It goes back to our days on the veldt, when survival depended on reading the herds of antelope, the weather, our enemies' intentions.
Amazed at the iPod combination that greeted me on my ride home after the gym this evening, I once again thought about 'How does Shuffle know?' and then thought about our President. Who, a few weeks ago, during the earlier weeks of his vacation, met with a group of journalists from Texas. Many of them have known him since he was Governor of Texas and before. And the big revelation he made was that he is down with the whole Intelligent Design thing.
You know, the idea that this world reflects intelligence. That it couldn't have just happened. But it did. That's just the way it happened. "Should crass causality appaul..."
Okay, you're thinking, there goes Mr. Materialism, reducing the world to particle physics.
Yes. And no.
Often, I get the distinct impression that God is indeed speaking to me. I pose a question, and here comes the answer. Our of that chaotic universe comes a warm and reassuring, "Hang in there, Buddy."
So the question isn't "is it Out There or In Here?" The question is, "Which is more reassuring? That someone out there is looking out for us, or that we've got that covered ourselves?"
iPod-wise, I've always been a playlist kind of guy. For the uninitiated--and what exactly are you waiting for? I was one of the original iPod owners, early adapter that I am--after you've loaded all the music you own onto your iPod (I have five days worth), you can sort your music into various playlists. I have my gym mix (code named 'Testosterone'), my heading-down-to-the-Bike Stop mix, my roadtrip mix... you get the idea, huh?
Well, when I went to the beach with UnFortunate a few months back, he was verrry excited about his new discovery: Shuffle. Heretofore, Shuffle was a feature I never used. When you have your iPod set to Shuffle, it plays every track you have loaded, one by one, without repeating.
Surrender my discriminating though eclectic tastes and creativity to sheer randomness?
Madness, surely.
But UnFortunate was all about Shuffle. "It's incredible! It will play a cover of one band, and then follow that with a track by the band covered, but not the one covered! How does Shuffle know?"
On the way back to NYC, UnFortunate suggested we give Shuffle a whirl.
No. I don't do Shuffle. Enjoy my carefully selected playlist.
But after a few weeks, I relented. I gave Shuffle a go.
Shuffle is amazing.
Shuffle just defies comprehension. Need to perk up? Shuffle will have you singing along to an old favorite of yours at the top of your lungs. Feeling a little wistful? Shuffle will remind you that however bad you've got it, Morrissey had it worst. Same goes for those boys from Joy Division. All hot and bothered by those smokin' Starbucks boys? Rammstein will sure get your pistons firing in sync.
But here's what really throws me. Lately, I've noticed something. On my ride to work, I'll hear about four songs. And, there will be this subtle theme that emerges. Water. Voyages. Absent lovers. Summer.
Not hit you over the head kind of theme. But it's there.
It's almost like someone is in charge of Shuffle. Someone somewhere is doing that selecting with care.
But of course, there's no ghost in the machine.
it is natural to the human mind to synthesize. To deduce. To see patterns. It goes back to our days on the veldt, when survival depended on reading the herds of antelope, the weather, our enemies' intentions.
Amazed at the iPod combination that greeted me on my ride home after the gym this evening, I once again thought about 'How does Shuffle know?' and then thought about our President. Who, a few weeks ago, during the earlier weeks of his vacation, met with a group of journalists from Texas. Many of them have known him since he was Governor of Texas and before. And the big revelation he made was that he is down with the whole Intelligent Design thing.
You know, the idea that this world reflects intelligence. That it couldn't have just happened. But it did. That's just the way it happened. "Should crass causality appaul..."
Okay, you're thinking, there goes Mr. Materialism, reducing the world to particle physics.
Yes. And no.
Often, I get the distinct impression that God is indeed speaking to me. I pose a question, and here comes the answer. Our of that chaotic universe comes a warm and reassuring, "Hang in there, Buddy."
So the question isn't "is it Out There or In Here?" The question is, "Which is more reassuring? That someone out there is looking out for us, or that we've got that covered ourselves?"
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Another SingleTails Recipe!
Tonight I totally hit it with dinner.
The credit goes to my Sir. We were IMing back and forth over the weekend and I got the idea. A few months back, he was contemplating a slamon diet. As in, eating a lot of salmon. Innuits and such who eat a lot of salmon are apparently healthier. At the time, we tried to come up with ways to make salmon interesting. Alas, there's not a lot you can do with salmon. My suggestions went to salmon chowder, sushi, and there I sort of got stuck.
Until this weekend.
On Saturday, I went out and got us some sweet corn. Sweet corn is huge in Bucks County. My stepmother had it in with all the local corn farmers. They would give her a call when they were harvesting, and when they came in off the fields, she'd be waiting there with her trunk open. Meanwhile at home--she and my father had synchronized their watches--boiling pots of water would be ready on the stove.
The point? When corn is taken off the stalk, the sugar starts to change to starch. So if you want your sweet corn really really sweet, then time is of the essence.
So, whilst messaging back and forth, it came to me.
Salmon fritters. With sweet corn. And cherry tomatoes. And tarragon.
Perfect.
Just make the recipe from The Joy of Cooking for fritter batter with fish. After you've got the batter together, add salmon (don't slice it too small!), halved cherry tomatoes, lots of tarragon, and, of course, sweet corn.
Sauté them in butter over medium-high heat.
What's better?
Tonight I totally hit it with dinner.
The credit goes to my Sir. We were IMing back and forth over the weekend and I got the idea. A few months back, he was contemplating a slamon diet. As in, eating a lot of salmon. Innuits and such who eat a lot of salmon are apparently healthier. At the time, we tried to come up with ways to make salmon interesting. Alas, there's not a lot you can do with salmon. My suggestions went to salmon chowder, sushi, and there I sort of got stuck.
Until this weekend.
On Saturday, I went out and got us some sweet corn. Sweet corn is huge in Bucks County. My stepmother had it in with all the local corn farmers. They would give her a call when they were harvesting, and when they came in off the fields, she'd be waiting there with her trunk open. Meanwhile at home--she and my father had synchronized their watches--boiling pots of water would be ready on the stove.
The point? When corn is taken off the stalk, the sugar starts to change to starch. So if you want your sweet corn really really sweet, then time is of the essence.
So, whilst messaging back and forth, it came to me.
Salmon fritters. With sweet corn. And cherry tomatoes. And tarragon.
Perfect.
Just make the recipe from The Joy of Cooking for fritter batter with fish. After you've got the batter together, add salmon (don't slice it too small!), halved cherry tomatoes, lots of tarragon, and, of course, sweet corn.
Sauté them in butter over medium-high heat.
What's better?
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Mix It Up
(Scene: Somewhere on the Astral Plane)
God: All set for your trip?
Me: I guess I am... I mean...
God: Okay. I just want to give you an idea of what you'll be running into down there.
Me: Great! I'm pretty excited about this.
God: Well first off, I should let you know up front that you're going to be gay.
Me: Gay? Really? Gosh...
God: Have a problem with that?
Me: Not if you don't, but...
God: But what?
Me: Okay. If I'm gonna be gay, then I want a fourteen inch dick.
God: Nope. Standard six.
Me: No way! I'll never get laid! Okay. Eleven.
God: No. You're getting six.
Me: Nine.
God: No! Are you arguing with me?
Me: Well, it's just that I don't want to be... ...overlooked.
God: You won't be. I'll give you a quick wit.
Me: A big help that'll be. And a great body?
God: I'll tell you what. Just because I like you: you can eat everything you want and not gain an ounce.
Me: Okay. That's cool.
God: Don't be too grateful. You can also work out all you want and never gain an inch on your biceps.
Me: Why are you doing this to me?
God: Because I like things to be interesting.
Me: Oh my God. I...
God: Please don't do that.
Me: Do what?
God: Spit out my name like that. I hate that. I really hate that. I wrote it on a mountain once. I hear my name called and I drop what I'm doing and check it out, one of my children in anguish or something. And what do I find? Somebody found knock-off Pradas for $20. Pisses me off every time. Don't expect a good parking space after you do that.
Me: I'll remember that.
God: No, actually you won't.
Me: So anyway. Happy childhood?
God: Not too shabby. You're growing up in a beautiful part of the world. Oh. I've gotta make sure you look good in black.
Me: Why black?
God: Because you'll be going to a lot of funerals.
Me: What? Whose?
God: Some of your mothers.
Me: Will I be an orphan?
God: Oh you'd just love all that drama, wouldn't you? No. Just mothers. And grandparents.
Me: That's an awful childhood! I don't want that! Will I be spoiled at least?
God: You'll have a lot of love coming your way. And wait till you meet your paternal grandmother. She'll like you the best.
Me: How about adolescence? What's in the plan there?
God: Do the words "pizza face" mean anything to you?
Me: Acne? I'm going to have acne? Why? I'll be scarred for life.
God: Because you're actually going to be pretty good looking, and I don't want it to go to your head.
Me: Okay. Do I find true love? Will I find my soulmate? Someone to share my life with?
God: Actually, you'll be lucky when you find someone to share your weekend with.
Me: Your kidding me, right? You call this a life?
God: Like I said, I like to mix it up some. Keeps things interesting.
Me: Interesting to you is turmoil for me. Has that dawned on you?
God: It won't be that bad. Take a look. Here's some of the hotties you'll be hanging with.
Me: Wow. Whoa! That one is nice. Do I get much time with him?
God: Uhhh... Lemme see. No. He gets all whiney because you go to a movie he doesn't like and so you don't return his calls.
Me: How about him? He looks great.
God: Oh yeah. I'm definitely being generous to you there. He's great. You're gonna have a whole summer with him.
Me: What happens in September?
God: Let's move on, shall we?
Me: Alright. I have a request.
God: Let's hear it.
Me: If I'm gonna be gay, I want to be a Top.
God: Thank you! Thank you for mentioning that to me. I keep forgetting to make them Tops. It's all out of whack down there. Yes. You can be a Top.
Me: Great! Thanks, God!
God: Although... (murmuring while taking notes) include a double order of empathy and heavy on the self-doubt.
Me: What was that?
God: Oh, I was just remembering something I have to do for later.
Me: So will I do great things?
God: I've got some pretty good ones lined up for you. You'll be leaving My creation better than you found it in a number of ways. Of course, most of the time you won't realize that.
Me: I sound like kind of a dweeb...
God: No. You will definitely not be a dweeb. Well, maybe in junior high school. Yeah. Then it's definitely dweeb.
Me: Is it going to be a hard life?
God: I tell the same thing to everybody: it's as hard as you want to make it.
Me: Gotcha. I'll remember that.
God: You definitely won't. Well, sometimes you'll remember that.
Me: Will I be famous?
God: (laughing) I got really creative here. I'm actually pretty pleased with myself on that score.
Me: So you're saying...
God: Your best moments will end up right on the cutting room floor.
Me: God! C'mon!
God: I'm sorry. But I can't help myself. This is going to be great. My advice to you is not to care too much about that.
Me: So what else is in store for me?
God: What can I tell you at this point... Some great dogs, some great friends, risking death two... three... four times. Before it's for real.
Me: Wow!
God: Yeah. Just to keep you honest. And let's see what else. What have I given you in terms of skills... let's see. Public speaking. An eye for beauty. Good with words. A poet's soul--y'know I'm stingy with that last one. Great at throwing a whip...
Me: And that will help me how?
God: Let's just say it will give you an opportunity to remember what you're leaving behind while you're down there.
Me: How...? Why...?
God: You'll see. And, I'm giving you a lot of insight. People in your life will rely on you for that.
Me: Great. So I'll be a hit at cocktail parties, won't I?
God: Don't be so negative! Although as a matter of fact, you will.
Me: Okay. So we've covered death, acne, obscurity... How about some of the good stuff in store for me. If there is any.
God: Of course there is! The part when you're in the Nevada desert under the stars! You'll love that! And when you're ten, you're going to have your first brush with lycanthropy. Oh, and when Starbucks gets going, things will really look up for you. And in the 'early sexual experiences' department, you're totally lucking out. And great dogs you'll have! And when you and this guy fall asleep in an olive grove, and you wake up in the morning and see the sun rise... I love how you cry for that one. And after you give birth to your first child, you'll be back on the modeling circuit in a matter of weeks...
Me: What???!!!
God: Oops. My mistake. That last one was for someone named Yasmine LeBon. She's going down the same chute that you are. Yup. Same birthday. October 29, 1964.
Me: So overall, I'll have a good time?
God: I'll just say this. When the time arrives for you to come home... well, some people are more than ready. Some people are ready to go years before they do. But not with you. When you realize what's going down, you'll have to take a moment to prepare. Because you won't want it to end.
Me: Why? Because I'll be nineteen years old or something?
God: No, because of all the sweetness and the joy that you'll know, year after year after year.
(Scene: Somewhere on the Astral Plane)
God: All set for your trip?
Me: I guess I am... I mean...
God: Okay. I just want to give you an idea of what you'll be running into down there.
Me: Great! I'm pretty excited about this.
God: Well first off, I should let you know up front that you're going to be gay.
Me: Gay? Really? Gosh...
God: Have a problem with that?
Me: Not if you don't, but...
God: But what?
Me: Okay. If I'm gonna be gay, then I want a fourteen inch dick.
God: Nope. Standard six.
Me: No way! I'll never get laid! Okay. Eleven.
God: No. You're getting six.
Me: Nine.
God: No! Are you arguing with me?
Me: Well, it's just that I don't want to be... ...overlooked.
God: You won't be. I'll give you a quick wit.
Me: A big help that'll be. And a great body?
God: I'll tell you what. Just because I like you: you can eat everything you want and not gain an ounce.
Me: Okay. That's cool.
God: Don't be too grateful. You can also work out all you want and never gain an inch on your biceps.
Me: Why are you doing this to me?
God: Because I like things to be interesting.
Me: Oh my God. I...
God: Please don't do that.
Me: Do what?
God: Spit out my name like that. I hate that. I really hate that. I wrote it on a mountain once. I hear my name called and I drop what I'm doing and check it out, one of my children in anguish or something. And what do I find? Somebody found knock-off Pradas for $20. Pisses me off every time. Don't expect a good parking space after you do that.
Me: I'll remember that.
God: No, actually you won't.
Me: So anyway. Happy childhood?
God: Not too shabby. You're growing up in a beautiful part of the world. Oh. I've gotta make sure you look good in black.
Me: Why black?
God: Because you'll be going to a lot of funerals.
Me: What? Whose?
God: Some of your mothers.
Me: Will I be an orphan?
God: Oh you'd just love all that drama, wouldn't you? No. Just mothers. And grandparents.
Me: That's an awful childhood! I don't want that! Will I be spoiled at least?
God: You'll have a lot of love coming your way. And wait till you meet your paternal grandmother. She'll like you the best.
Me: How about adolescence? What's in the plan there?
God: Do the words "pizza face" mean anything to you?
Me: Acne? I'm going to have acne? Why? I'll be scarred for life.
God: Because you're actually going to be pretty good looking, and I don't want it to go to your head.
Me: Okay. Do I find true love? Will I find my soulmate? Someone to share my life with?
God: Actually, you'll be lucky when you find someone to share your weekend with.
Me: Your kidding me, right? You call this a life?
God: Like I said, I like to mix it up some. Keeps things interesting.
Me: Interesting to you is turmoil for me. Has that dawned on you?
God: It won't be that bad. Take a look. Here's some of the hotties you'll be hanging with.
Me: Wow. Whoa! That one is nice. Do I get much time with him?
God: Uhhh... Lemme see. No. He gets all whiney because you go to a movie he doesn't like and so you don't return his calls.
Me: How about him? He looks great.
God: Oh yeah. I'm definitely being generous to you there. He's great. You're gonna have a whole summer with him.
Me: What happens in September?
God: Let's move on, shall we?
Me: Alright. I have a request.
God: Let's hear it.
Me: If I'm gonna be gay, I want to be a Top.
God: Thank you! Thank you for mentioning that to me. I keep forgetting to make them Tops. It's all out of whack down there. Yes. You can be a Top.
Me: Great! Thanks, God!
God: Although... (murmuring while taking notes) include a double order of empathy and heavy on the self-doubt.
Me: What was that?
God: Oh, I was just remembering something I have to do for later.
Me: So will I do great things?
God: I've got some pretty good ones lined up for you. You'll be leaving My creation better than you found it in a number of ways. Of course, most of the time you won't realize that.
Me: I sound like kind of a dweeb...
God: No. You will definitely not be a dweeb. Well, maybe in junior high school. Yeah. Then it's definitely dweeb.
Me: Is it going to be a hard life?
God: I tell the same thing to everybody: it's as hard as you want to make it.
Me: Gotcha. I'll remember that.
God: You definitely won't. Well, sometimes you'll remember that.
Me: Will I be famous?
God: (laughing) I got really creative here. I'm actually pretty pleased with myself on that score.
Me: So you're saying...
God: Your best moments will end up right on the cutting room floor.
Me: God! C'mon!
God: I'm sorry. But I can't help myself. This is going to be great. My advice to you is not to care too much about that.
Me: So what else is in store for me?
God: What can I tell you at this point... Some great dogs, some great friends, risking death two... three... four times. Before it's for real.
Me: Wow!
God: Yeah. Just to keep you honest. And let's see what else. What have I given you in terms of skills... let's see. Public speaking. An eye for beauty. Good with words. A poet's soul--y'know I'm stingy with that last one. Great at throwing a whip...
Me: And that will help me how?
God: Let's just say it will give you an opportunity to remember what you're leaving behind while you're down there.
Me: How...? Why...?
God: You'll see. And, I'm giving you a lot of insight. People in your life will rely on you for that.
Me: Great. So I'll be a hit at cocktail parties, won't I?
God: Don't be so negative! Although as a matter of fact, you will.
Me: Okay. So we've covered death, acne, obscurity... How about some of the good stuff in store for me. If there is any.
God: Of course there is! The part when you're in the Nevada desert under the stars! You'll love that! And when you're ten, you're going to have your first brush with lycanthropy. Oh, and when Starbucks gets going, things will really look up for you. And in the 'early sexual experiences' department, you're totally lucking out. And great dogs you'll have! And when you and this guy fall asleep in an olive grove, and you wake up in the morning and see the sun rise... I love how you cry for that one. And after you give birth to your first child, you'll be back on the modeling circuit in a matter of weeks...
Me: What???!!!
God: Oops. My mistake. That last one was for someone named Yasmine LeBon. She's going down the same chute that you are. Yup. Same birthday. October 29, 1964.
Me: So overall, I'll have a good time?
God: I'll just say this. When the time arrives for you to come home... well, some people are more than ready. Some people are ready to go years before they do. But not with you. When you realize what's going down, you'll have to take a moment to prepare. Because you won't want it to end.
Me: Why? Because I'll be nineteen years old or something?
God: No, because of all the sweetness and the joy that you'll know, year after year after year.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
My Stalker
Okay. Starbucks today. I roll in and there's Farmer Guy! ('Member him? Queer. Hot. From SF. Moved back here, like me, at the death of a parent. Works to support himself by doing organic farming.) It's been a while since I've seen Farmer Guy. And as usual, he was an eyeful. Deeply tan from all that work out in the sun, wearing a wife beater and plaid shorts. We got our coffee drinks and repaired to the porch. And chatted up a storm. Catching up.
He said something like "great running into you," and I went off on a riff: "Well go figure! I'm here every day, monday through friday, from 4 pm to 6 pm. I would be so easy to stalk? Why do I not have a stalker? I'm such a creature of routine. I'm perfect for stalking."
Without looking at me, a slight smile on his lips, eyes fixed on the middle distance, Farmer Guy said, "Yeah. Calling ahead to Starbucks and asking if you were there. Carmelita would always give me the word. Usually you had fallen asleep reading your book when I got there. But then you wrecked the whole thing by asking if you wanted me to go to the movies. You can't stalk somebody who's asking you to go to the movies."
Right.
Right...
I asked him to go to thhe movies with me. He basically said that he was busy. As in always. And I took it as a not interested. For whatever reason.
So this is kooky. Farmer Guy was not only returning my keen interest, but was stalking me. But wanted to keep me at a distance.
And I get that.
We both live in thhis weird netherworld. We're spoken for, although not in a way we'd like. The future is indefinite. I do the same thing. Delighting in the company of the boys of summer at Starbucks, sucking face with guys at the Bike Stop even though I have an hour and a half drive to get home and I'll be doing that alone. Living your life in terms of "if only." I get that.
What a disaster it would be if the real thing cropped up.
Interesting.
Farmer Guy had to get going. I had to get to the gym. We shook hands goodbye out in front of Starbucks.
I had a great workout at the gym.
Okay. Starbucks today. I roll in and there's Farmer Guy! ('Member him? Queer. Hot. From SF. Moved back here, like me, at the death of a parent. Works to support himself by doing organic farming.) It's been a while since I've seen Farmer Guy. And as usual, he was an eyeful. Deeply tan from all that work out in the sun, wearing a wife beater and plaid shorts. We got our coffee drinks and repaired to the porch. And chatted up a storm. Catching up.
He said something like "great running into you," and I went off on a riff: "Well go figure! I'm here every day, monday through friday, from 4 pm to 6 pm. I would be so easy to stalk? Why do I not have a stalker? I'm such a creature of routine. I'm perfect for stalking."
Without looking at me, a slight smile on his lips, eyes fixed on the middle distance, Farmer Guy said, "Yeah. Calling ahead to Starbucks and asking if you were there. Carmelita would always give me the word. Usually you had fallen asleep reading your book when I got there. But then you wrecked the whole thing by asking if you wanted me to go to the movies. You can't stalk somebody who's asking you to go to the movies."
Right.
Right...
I asked him to go to thhe movies with me. He basically said that he was busy. As in always. And I took it as a not interested. For whatever reason.
So this is kooky. Farmer Guy was not only returning my keen interest, but was stalking me. But wanted to keep me at a distance.
And I get that.
We both live in thhis weird netherworld. We're spoken for, although not in a way we'd like. The future is indefinite. I do the same thing. Delighting in the company of the boys of summer at Starbucks, sucking face with guys at the Bike Stop even though I have an hour and a half drive to get home and I'll be doing that alone. Living your life in terms of "if only." I get that.
What a disaster it would be if the real thing cropped up.
Interesting.
Farmer Guy had to get going. I had to get to the gym. We shook hands goodbye out in front of Starbucks.
I had a great workout at the gym.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Sent By God
Yesterday, at Starbucks, there I was, enjoying my cigar and latté, and then he showed up. This... this... unbelievably hot musclefuck. Just incredible.
Now usually, body builders leave me cold. Much prefer the lean, rangey type. (Like me! Go Lean, Rangey Types!)
But there was something brutish, stoopid, and animalistic about him. Like one of the guys in the pics that PunchPig graces my email inbox with every so often. The Germans have a saying (hopefully I won't mangle this too badly): "Dumn ficte gute," which translates as, "Stupid guys are (ahem.) good in bed." And he was Class A Dumn.
He sits down right in front of me. And asks me the time. Which I was happy to provide. And then he said the magic words: "Great. I have time to have a cigar before my bus gets here."
No lie!
So I watched him sit there, smoking his cigar, big ol' side of beef that he was, until he caught his bus.
And now here's the sad part. Testimony of how pathetic my sex/love life is right now. What was going through my mind right then and there was: Yesss! Masturbatory fodder!
That's it. Casting in a starring role in my bedtime jerk off fantasies.
And ohhhh... do I have plans for him! Last night was all about suspending him in a harness and forcefeeding him. He got bigger and bigger and bigger. Topping 300. Then getting to 400. Musclefuck was now a big ol' porker. And, most importantly, my big ol' porker. Transformed. Remade
*sigh*
Tonight, I think he's gonna get beat. Just... y'know... until he breaks. Until I see some tears and sobbing out of him.
See what you get for saying the Lord's Prayer??? Must be that "give us today our daily bread" part.
Thanks, God! Just what I needed!
Yesterday, at Starbucks, there I was, enjoying my cigar and latté, and then he showed up. This... this... unbelievably hot musclefuck. Just incredible.
Now usually, body builders leave me cold. Much prefer the lean, rangey type. (Like me! Go Lean, Rangey Types!)
But there was something brutish, stoopid, and animalistic about him. Like one of the guys in the pics that PunchPig graces my email inbox with every so often. The Germans have a saying (hopefully I won't mangle this too badly): "Dumn ficte gute," which translates as, "Stupid guys are (ahem.) good in bed." And he was Class A Dumn.
He sits down right in front of me. And asks me the time. Which I was happy to provide. And then he said the magic words: "Great. I have time to have a cigar before my bus gets here."
No lie!
So I watched him sit there, smoking his cigar, big ol' side of beef that he was, until he caught his bus.
And now here's the sad part. Testimony of how pathetic my sex/love life is right now. What was going through my mind right then and there was: Yesss! Masturbatory fodder!
That's it. Casting in a starring role in my bedtime jerk off fantasies.
And ohhhh... do I have plans for him! Last night was all about suspending him in a harness and forcefeeding him. He got bigger and bigger and bigger. Topping 300. Then getting to 400. Musclefuck was now a big ol' porker. And, most importantly, my big ol' porker. Transformed. Remade
*sigh*
Tonight, I think he's gonna get beat. Just... y'know... until he breaks. Until I see some tears and sobbing out of him.
See what you get for saying the Lord's Prayer??? Must be that "give us today our daily bread" part.
Thanks, God! Just what I needed!
Monday, August 15, 2005
Must See TV
First off, on Monster House on the Discovery Channel, there's a gay welder! And I thought I was the only one.
And... and... the Little League World Series is on ESPN! Tonight I watched as Newtown PA came from behind (3-0 behind!) to beat Toms River NJ! Go Bucks County!
And it was so sweet! When Newtown hit a come-from-behind run, the pitcher from the Jersey team started to cry!
Compare that to the drama of the Philadelphia Eagles, a bunch of millionaires, one of whom doesn't even bother to show up for practice. Tune in for one game. You'll be hooked.
First off, on Monster House on the Discovery Channel, there's a gay welder! And I thought I was the only one.
And... and... the Little League World Series is on ESPN! Tonight I watched as Newtown PA came from behind (3-0 behind!) to beat Toms River NJ! Go Bucks County!
And it was so sweet! When Newtown hit a come-from-behind run, the pitcher from the Jersey team started to cry!
Compare that to the drama of the Philadelphia Eagles, a bunch of millionaires, one of whom doesn't even bother to show up for practice. Tune in for one game. You'll be hooked.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
No Bite!
A good weekend, all in all. Respite from my funk came in the form of the Lord's Prayer, which I was inspired to recite on my drive to work the other morning. It really is a perfect prayer. It's all there...
Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done
...right. I'm not in charge. It's not about what I want, it's about what the Universe serves up for me.
On earth as it is in heaven
...Just because you don't understand what's happening doesn't mean it's bad.
Give us this day our daily bread
...if you have a full belly and a roof over your head (and a good dog, and a nice cigar, and a latte), then you've got all you need. Anything else is gravy.
And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us
...yes. It's all about forgiveness. Letting it all pass through you. Forgive. Find the love.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil
...banish the hungry ghosts, banish the fear, banish that which clouds my mind. Clarity. Simplicity. Peace. Strength. Courage. Perserverance.
For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever, Amen.
...before I was, God was. After me, there will be God. Stepping out of time and into eternity.
*sigh*
Nice.
Yesterday, Saturday, was all about housecleaning. Changed my father's bedlinens, vacuumed (such a pain in the ass, we have four vacuums in the house, none of which work), and got the kitchen spic and span. Then, I had an unremarkable AOL date at 6 pm. Spicey as a glass of milk, that one was. But, y'know, got me out of the house, and you never know. I headed to Starbucks afterwards, enjoyed the evening. Then home for dinner, and later, I stopped in at the Raven in New Hope. It's a good thing the place is only fifteen minutes away from me. If I had traveled any distance to find eighty men all of whom make me wistful that I'm not straight, I'd have been pissing into every gastank in the parking lot.
And today! Today was a Special Day! Today was the day I traveled north to the Borough of Kings (better known as Brooklyn) to retrieve my St. Andrew's Cross. (You might remember that I loaned it to GMSMA for a program on singletail whips last year.) And, I got to meet the new dachshund puppies, Frieda and Tulip, of a man we'll call Hey Sailor. Formerly the chair of the program committee of GMSMA (that's how he came to have my cross), now he's crisscrossing the country on a book tour, first time author that he is.
The puppies were wonderful. We love puppies! And they love to give kisses. Unfortunately, they like to take bites at noses and chins when they give kisses, so Hey Sailor asked me to discourage that by a firm "No bite!" We talked and talked and talked, and loaded up my jeep with the cross, and had some middle eastern food down on Seventh Avenue, and then I headed home.
After I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the weather started to get dramatic. Now, I have no qualms at all about driving in the snow, but I'm actually pretty leery of driving in the rain. And it looked like it was going to pour. Remembering that it was Sunday, I headed to the Dugout where Bear Blast was in full swing.
I wasn't even in the door when I ran into Archangel. (Check the archives on him.) I was glad to see him, unbelievably hot man that he is, and he was glad to see me. I was wondering why it is that things never went further between us than the one time we hooked up. Then, as he passionately kissed me hello, I remembered. Archangel bites. I mean, really bites. All the time. Now, giving a little nip now and then when you're kissing, or sucking nipples, or whatever is fine. But Archangel gnaws. It's too... too... Dawn Of The Dead. That kind of biting. So my libido went from overdrive to a stall pretty quickly.
And, it didn't help things that once inside, I couldn't help but remember that this was the place where Special Guy and I met.
Damn, I miss him.
Damn, he's perfect.
Damn, I'm still not over him.
Damn.
Special Guy would totally get the thing about me saying the Our Father. (Although he'd probably refer to it as the Pater Noster. I'll have to give him a call sometime.
But, I ran into a guy from my softball team, and got chatted up by these two leather bears from Oneonta (and if I didn't have to be at work at 7 am tomorrow, they would have had the opportunity to do a lot more than chat me up). And had my face chewed on by Archangel some more.
The rain wasn't stopping, and it was just getting a bit too Agatha Christie ("no one can leave!") in the Dugout. So I pulled my EMS rain jacket out of my pocket and headed for the jeep. The jacket kept me dry, but every other part of me was soaked through and through. It was sort of fun though, a warm summer rain, and the streets were like wading through rivers. Good thing I was wearing my Kean's, as they're made for just that.
Luckily, not too much in the way of rain on the way home. Although now, here at home, there's a fierce thunderstorm going on. Almost theatrical. Perhaps it's extraterrestrials are making a move on Plumstead Township.
Anyway, time for bed.
A good weekend, all in all. Respite from my funk came in the form of the Lord's Prayer, which I was inspired to recite on my drive to work the other morning. It really is a perfect prayer. It's all there...
Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done
...right. I'm not in charge. It's not about what I want, it's about what the Universe serves up for me.
On earth as it is in heaven
...Just because you don't understand what's happening doesn't mean it's bad.
Give us this day our daily bread
...if you have a full belly and a roof over your head (and a good dog, and a nice cigar, and a latte), then you've got all you need. Anything else is gravy.
And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us
...yes. It's all about forgiveness. Letting it all pass through you. Forgive. Find the love.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil
...banish the hungry ghosts, banish the fear, banish that which clouds my mind. Clarity. Simplicity. Peace. Strength. Courage. Perserverance.
For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever, Amen.
...before I was, God was. After me, there will be God. Stepping out of time and into eternity.
*sigh*
Nice.
Yesterday, Saturday, was all about housecleaning. Changed my father's bedlinens, vacuumed (such a pain in the ass, we have four vacuums in the house, none of which work), and got the kitchen spic and span. Then, I had an unremarkable AOL date at 6 pm. Spicey as a glass of milk, that one was. But, y'know, got me out of the house, and you never know. I headed to Starbucks afterwards, enjoyed the evening. Then home for dinner, and later, I stopped in at the Raven in New Hope. It's a good thing the place is only fifteen minutes away from me. If I had traveled any distance to find eighty men all of whom make me wistful that I'm not straight, I'd have been pissing into every gastank in the parking lot.
And today! Today was a Special Day! Today was the day I traveled north to the Borough of Kings (better known as Brooklyn) to retrieve my St. Andrew's Cross. (You might remember that I loaned it to GMSMA for a program on singletail whips last year.) And, I got to meet the new dachshund puppies, Frieda and Tulip, of a man we'll call Hey Sailor. Formerly the chair of the program committee of GMSMA (that's how he came to have my cross), now he's crisscrossing the country on a book tour, first time author that he is.
The puppies were wonderful. We love puppies! And they love to give kisses. Unfortunately, they like to take bites at noses and chins when they give kisses, so Hey Sailor asked me to discourage that by a firm "No bite!" We talked and talked and talked, and loaded up my jeep with the cross, and had some middle eastern food down on Seventh Avenue, and then I headed home.
After I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the weather started to get dramatic. Now, I have no qualms at all about driving in the snow, but I'm actually pretty leery of driving in the rain. And it looked like it was going to pour. Remembering that it was Sunday, I headed to the Dugout where Bear Blast was in full swing.
I wasn't even in the door when I ran into Archangel. (Check the archives on him.) I was glad to see him, unbelievably hot man that he is, and he was glad to see me. I was wondering why it is that things never went further between us than the one time we hooked up. Then, as he passionately kissed me hello, I remembered. Archangel bites. I mean, really bites. All the time. Now, giving a little nip now and then when you're kissing, or sucking nipples, or whatever is fine. But Archangel gnaws. It's too... too... Dawn Of The Dead. That kind of biting. So my libido went from overdrive to a stall pretty quickly.
And, it didn't help things that once inside, I couldn't help but remember that this was the place where Special Guy and I met.
Damn, I miss him.
Damn, he's perfect.
Damn, I'm still not over him.
Damn.
Special Guy would totally get the thing about me saying the Our Father. (Although he'd probably refer to it as the Pater Noster. I'll have to give him a call sometime.
But, I ran into a guy from my softball team, and got chatted up by these two leather bears from Oneonta (and if I didn't have to be at work at 7 am tomorrow, they would have had the opportunity to do a lot more than chat me up). And had my face chewed on by Archangel some more.
The rain wasn't stopping, and it was just getting a bit too Agatha Christie ("no one can leave!") in the Dugout. So I pulled my EMS rain jacket out of my pocket and headed for the jeep. The jacket kept me dry, but every other part of me was soaked through and through. It was sort of fun though, a warm summer rain, and the streets were like wading through rivers. Good thing I was wearing my Kean's, as they're made for just that.
Luckily, not too much in the way of rain on the way home. Although now, here at home, there's a fierce thunderstorm going on. Almost theatrical. Perhaps it's extraterrestrials are making a move on Plumstead Township.
Anyway, time for bed.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Pluck
I've got it!
Come to think of it, it's one of the qualities I admire most in myself. There's a line in a 10,000 Maniacs song, "through adventure we are not adventuresome," and I'm not like that.
How to define pluck?
Perhaps by example. Ah. Here's a good one.
Way back when, I guess I was around 23 years old, I was living in Philadelphia, and volunteering as a buddy to a guy living with HIV/AIDS. And the organization sponsored a bus trip down to Washington DC to see the AIDS Quilt on the Mall. My buddy wanted to go, and I went with him. The bus dropped us off, and we were told to meet back at the bus at 4:30. At 4:30, I was back at the bus, but my buddy wasn't. After fifteen minutes, I was worried, so I went off to look for him.
Now, you should never do that, right? You know what happens, as soon as you head off to look for someone, they show up. And that's what happened, because he was on the bus heading back to Philadelphia, and I missed it because I was off looking for him.
Okay. So there I am, stranded in Washington DC, and I had no money to get home. Like, ten dollars in my pocket.
Did I panic? Did I run around begging for a ride? Did I ask the nearest policeman--who would have sent me to Traveler's Aid and they would have hooked me up with a bus ticket then and there--for help? Nope. Because I have pluck.
What I did was head that night to the DC Eagle. And there, I met a marine. His name was Doug.
Y'see, when you land in a situation like this, say you're driving through rural West Virginia and your car breaks down, the thing not to do is lock your windows and be sane and reasonable about the whole thing. Because what's going down is the Universe is saying, "Man! Have I got an adventure planned for you!"
And my adventure was Doug.
I went home with Doug. And we had sex. He was a Top, which is pretty amazing when you think about it because all marines everywhere are total bottoms. So I told Doug my plight, and asked him if he'd drive me to the bus station tomorrow, so I could take a bus to Baltimore (how much could that be?) where my friend Ed lived, and Ed would doubtless lend me money to get back to Philadelphia. Doug said sure. And then, he burst into tears.
It turns out that Doug had what we used to call a lover. Another active duty marine. Doug's lover had recently tested HIV positive when the Marine Corp gave him his annual physical. And two days before, Doug had come home from work to find that his lover had hung himself down in the basement. Doug made a mistake, and called the military police. They came, took Doug away, and they also took away the sling that Doug and his lover had in the basement, and some of their sex toys.
So Doug, in the 48 hours before I met him, had lost the man he loved, and was probably soon to lose his career in the military, where he had planned to spend the rest of his life.
Now, at the age I was then, I was totally unprepared to be any help at all in helping someone in that situation. I had know idea what to say, what to offer. And, maybe that's because there's nothing to offer, But I sure didn't know that then.
The next day, Doug and I went back to the Quilt. As we were walking around, looking at the panels, we came upon one sewn with the image of a single white heron, it's head upraised and it's beak open. Doug explained to me that among the Chinese, it's a symbol of grief and mourning for your mate. Heron's mate for life, and won't take another mate when their mate dies. And they'll mourn the death by calling out for their lost mate. Doug totally broke down at this. There we stood, this big tough marine, balling his eyes out, while a skinny kid in an ACT UP tshirt held him.
That's an example of what I'm talking about. That's pluck. Disaster strikes, and you know deep down it means that you're about to have an experience that will change your life. Just keep your head together and your eyes open.
Now, as I discussed recently here, I'm the kind of person who, if someone had suggested to me that I take a one way trip to DC without the money to get back, I would have said no to that without having to think about it. But, again and again, I do something or other that will get me stranded, with only my own resources to rely on. (Of course I knew when I walked into the crowds that the bus was getting ready to leave!)
Life offers so few opportunities step off the beaten path. Sometimes you've got to help it along. Close your eyes, plunge into the underbrush, and "Oh gosh! Now I'm lost! What to do now?"
So, being plucky has meant I've had a pretty interesting life. If'n I were to learn that I had only a month to live, of course I'd be full of regret, after all, there are several adventure-inviting things on my list of things to do. I still haven't taken off two months and spent it driving across the country and back. But I know I'd take comfort in the fact that this facility of mine has brought me to a number of wonderful places.
Thank you, pluck.
I've got it!
Come to think of it, it's one of the qualities I admire most in myself. There's a line in a 10,000 Maniacs song, "through adventure we are not adventuresome," and I'm not like that.
How to define pluck?
Perhaps by example. Ah. Here's a good one.
Way back when, I guess I was around 23 years old, I was living in Philadelphia, and volunteering as a buddy to a guy living with HIV/AIDS. And the organization sponsored a bus trip down to Washington DC to see the AIDS Quilt on the Mall. My buddy wanted to go, and I went with him. The bus dropped us off, and we were told to meet back at the bus at 4:30. At 4:30, I was back at the bus, but my buddy wasn't. After fifteen minutes, I was worried, so I went off to look for him.
Now, you should never do that, right? You know what happens, as soon as you head off to look for someone, they show up. And that's what happened, because he was on the bus heading back to Philadelphia, and I missed it because I was off looking for him.
Okay. So there I am, stranded in Washington DC, and I had no money to get home. Like, ten dollars in my pocket.
Did I panic? Did I run around begging for a ride? Did I ask the nearest policeman--who would have sent me to Traveler's Aid and they would have hooked me up with a bus ticket then and there--for help? Nope. Because I have pluck.
What I did was head that night to the DC Eagle. And there, I met a marine. His name was Doug.
Y'see, when you land in a situation like this, say you're driving through rural West Virginia and your car breaks down, the thing not to do is lock your windows and be sane and reasonable about the whole thing. Because what's going down is the Universe is saying, "Man! Have I got an adventure planned for you!"
And my adventure was Doug.
I went home with Doug. And we had sex. He was a Top, which is pretty amazing when you think about it because all marines everywhere are total bottoms. So I told Doug my plight, and asked him if he'd drive me to the bus station tomorrow, so I could take a bus to Baltimore (how much could that be?) where my friend Ed lived, and Ed would doubtless lend me money to get back to Philadelphia. Doug said sure. And then, he burst into tears.
It turns out that Doug had what we used to call a lover. Another active duty marine. Doug's lover had recently tested HIV positive when the Marine Corp gave him his annual physical. And two days before, Doug had come home from work to find that his lover had hung himself down in the basement. Doug made a mistake, and called the military police. They came, took Doug away, and they also took away the sling that Doug and his lover had in the basement, and some of their sex toys.
So Doug, in the 48 hours before I met him, had lost the man he loved, and was probably soon to lose his career in the military, where he had planned to spend the rest of his life.
Now, at the age I was then, I was totally unprepared to be any help at all in helping someone in that situation. I had know idea what to say, what to offer. And, maybe that's because there's nothing to offer, But I sure didn't know that then.
The next day, Doug and I went back to the Quilt. As we were walking around, looking at the panels, we came upon one sewn with the image of a single white heron, it's head upraised and it's beak open. Doug explained to me that among the Chinese, it's a symbol of grief and mourning for your mate. Heron's mate for life, and won't take another mate when their mate dies. And they'll mourn the death by calling out for their lost mate. Doug totally broke down at this. There we stood, this big tough marine, balling his eyes out, while a skinny kid in an ACT UP tshirt held him.
That's an example of what I'm talking about. That's pluck. Disaster strikes, and you know deep down it means that you're about to have an experience that will change your life. Just keep your head together and your eyes open.
Now, as I discussed recently here, I'm the kind of person who, if someone had suggested to me that I take a one way trip to DC without the money to get back, I would have said no to that without having to think about it. But, again and again, I do something or other that will get me stranded, with only my own resources to rely on. (Of course I knew when I walked into the crowds that the bus was getting ready to leave!)
Life offers so few opportunities step off the beaten path. Sometimes you've got to help it along. Close your eyes, plunge into the underbrush, and "Oh gosh! Now I'm lost! What to do now?"
So, being plucky has meant I've had a pretty interesting life. If'n I were to learn that I had only a month to live, of course I'd be full of regret, after all, there are several adventure-inviting things on my list of things to do. I still haven't taken off two months and spent it driving across the country and back. But I know I'd take comfort in the fact that this facility of mine has brought me to a number of wonderful places.
Thank you, pluck.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
These are two journal entries. A little sophomoric maybe, but I liked them.
Oh. Right. The job interview. I think it worked well. My big deficit is that I don't know how to do precise cost estimates of construction jobs. And they're in no big hurry to hire. So if, in the next few weeks, someone walks through the door who's been working for a construction company and is interested in making $50,000 less a year working for a non-profit community development organization, then I'm sunk.
I came back a little deflated. I guess I imagined I'd come back with a new job, or not. But, of course, that's not the way the hiring works. This was the screening interview. If I 'passed,' then I'll be called back for one or two or more interviews. it's like a process. And it will probably go on for weeks.
Onward and upwards.
Anyway...
Escape Artist
The happiest moments in my life have been when I'm making my escape.
But, of course, for every friday afternoon, there comes a monday morning. When once again, I've obligated myself. Tied myself down.
Erich Fromm (I think) called this "escape from freedom," the experience of our own freedom and independence is so terrifying to us that we are forever breaking into prison, walling ourselves away, where at least we know we'll get three square a day and a bed without lice.
What would it take for me to face freedom--if that door opens to me again anytime ever again--unafraid?
That last one. Dang. Obtainable? Not looking for anything outside of myself. Banishing the Hungry Ghosts.
To be alive is to want. But it's what you want that's key. Not wanting what you can't acquire yourself? And the discipline to obtain it?
Greasers
That's what we called them in high school. Work boots. Flannel shirts. Jeans. Always being sent down to the disciplinarian's office. Smoking in the boys' room.
We were Reagan's children. it was morning in America. Implicitly, there was some kind of promise made to us. But like, for instance, the experience of being seated in a restaurant and handed a three foot tall leatherbound menu with gold tassels emblazoned in Gothic script with the words "Ye Olde Bill of Faire"... well, some of us figured out early that we were about to get rooked.
And those farsighted folks were the greasers.
More than anything, they're a socio-economic group. They're poor kids. And they know it. It's a bad start. Dad's gone. Mom the waitress is barely holding it together.
I was in awe of them back in high school. And now, sitting with this new generation of greasers on the porch of Starbucks every afternoon, I feel a certain frisson still. There's guts there I never had. Try this drug. Break this law. Fight this outsider. Fix your car yourself. Quit school. Get wasted.
Possibly it's the result of the deracination. Starting off with the deck stacked against you. Freedom, as the old song says, is just another word for nothing left to lose.
For the greasers, there were no ambiguities. They knew that fortune wasn't going to smile on them.
I, on the other hand, was sure that fortune would do just that. My smarts, my easy smile, my quick wit, my winning ways... Something would see me through.
But this brought its own fear. A subtle obsessive compulsive disorder. Say the right prayers at the right altar, carry the right talisman, observe all the taboos. Or else.
And every reversal, no matter how small and seemingly inconsequential, is to be dreaded. Leaves you knotting your sheets at night, because it might be the first sign that you did something wrong. That it's all downhill from here. So not only the persisting fear, but the ongoing examen de conscience, like a medieval monk.
It's impossible to be good.
And the trap is circular. And the circle grows smaller and smaller. More and more you sense you're living on borrowed time. Surely the ax is soon to fall, if it hasn't already.
Better, by far, to be a greaser. Knowing from the git go that it all pretty much sucks. People like you don't win the lottery or get to be on television. So payday is as good an excuse as any other to go out and get wasted.
I, for one, see a certain nobility in that.
Oh. Right. The job interview. I think it worked well. My big deficit is that I don't know how to do precise cost estimates of construction jobs. And they're in no big hurry to hire. So if, in the next few weeks, someone walks through the door who's been working for a construction company and is interested in making $50,000 less a year working for a non-profit community development organization, then I'm sunk.
I came back a little deflated. I guess I imagined I'd come back with a new job, or not. But, of course, that's not the way the hiring works. This was the screening interview. If I 'passed,' then I'll be called back for one or two or more interviews. it's like a process. And it will probably go on for weeks.
Onward and upwards.
Anyway...
Escape Artist
The happiest moments in my life have been when I'm making my escape.
- Getting away from my troubled teenage home, however briefly. To work. To meet up with friends. To head off alone.
- Going to college, leaving it all behind.
- Leaving my first NYC boyfriend. Heh heh. When I moved out of the apartment we shared, I couldn't afford a mover, or even to rent a truck. But, since I didn't own much, I figured that borrowing a dolly would get the job done. The apartment was at 7th Street and Avenue B, overlooking scenic Tompkins Square Park. My new apartment was on First Avenue between 5th and 6th Streets. And the day I moved was the day of riots in Tompkins Square Park. So while East Village anarchists squared off against the NYPD, I trundled through the middle of this conflagration with all my worldly belongings stacked atop a dolly. Grinning.
- Taking off on a plane--alone--going anywhere. This was before September 11th made air travel a miserable experience.
- Leaving behind the Awful Ex and the Seven-And-A-Half-Year-Relationship. Few better days of my life.
- Getting off work on any given Friday afternoon. My favorite moment of the week. The weekend stretches ahead, filled with nothing but possibilty.
But, of course, for every friday afternoon, there comes a monday morning. When once again, I've obligated myself. Tied myself down.
Erich Fromm (I think) called this "escape from freedom," the experience of our own freedom and independence is so terrifying to us that we are forever breaking into prison, walling ourselves away, where at least we know we'll get three square a day and a bed without lice.
What would it take for me to face freedom--if that door opens to me again anytime ever again--unafraid?
- A roof over my head.
- The metaphorical room of my own.
- A society of sorts. I am, after all, a social animal.
- Trust in myself.
- Being at ease with myself.
That last one. Dang. Obtainable? Not looking for anything outside of myself. Banishing the Hungry Ghosts.
To be alive is to want. But it's what you want that's key. Not wanting what you can't acquire yourself? And the discipline to obtain it?
Greasers
That's what we called them in high school. Work boots. Flannel shirts. Jeans. Always being sent down to the disciplinarian's office. Smoking in the boys' room.
We were Reagan's children. it was morning in America. Implicitly, there was some kind of promise made to us. But like, for instance, the experience of being seated in a restaurant and handed a three foot tall leatherbound menu with gold tassels emblazoned in Gothic script with the words "Ye Olde Bill of Faire"... well, some of us figured out early that we were about to get rooked.
And those farsighted folks were the greasers.
More than anything, they're a socio-economic group. They're poor kids. And they know it. It's a bad start. Dad's gone. Mom the waitress is barely holding it together.
I was in awe of them back in high school. And now, sitting with this new generation of greasers on the porch of Starbucks every afternoon, I feel a certain frisson still. There's guts there I never had. Try this drug. Break this law. Fight this outsider. Fix your car yourself. Quit school. Get wasted.
Possibly it's the result of the deracination. Starting off with the deck stacked against you. Freedom, as the old song says, is just another word for nothing left to lose.
For the greasers, there were no ambiguities. They knew that fortune wasn't going to smile on them.
I, on the other hand, was sure that fortune would do just that. My smarts, my easy smile, my quick wit, my winning ways... Something would see me through.
But this brought its own fear. A subtle obsessive compulsive disorder. Say the right prayers at the right altar, carry the right talisman, observe all the taboos. Or else.
And every reversal, no matter how small and seemingly inconsequential, is to be dreaded. Leaves you knotting your sheets at night, because it might be the first sign that you did something wrong. That it's all downhill from here. So not only the persisting fear, but the ongoing examen de conscience, like a medieval monk.
It's impossible to be good.
And the trap is circular. And the circle grows smaller and smaller. More and more you sense you're living on borrowed time. Surely the ax is soon to fall, if it hasn't already.
Better, by far, to be a greaser. Knowing from the git go that it all pretty much sucks. People like you don't win the lottery or get to be on television. So payday is as good an excuse as any other to go out and get wasted.
I, for one, see a certain nobility in that.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Welcome To My World
Check this out! Doylestown has a live web cam! Just go to www.doylestownsfrontporch.com. Some of the shots include the corner of State and Main Streets, where my beloved Starbucks is located. Soooo... if'n you tune in around 4 pm to 5:30 pm Monday through Friday, chances are good that you'll be catching site of me. And possibly some of the boys I ogle.
Check this out! Doylestown has a live web cam! Just go to www.doylestownsfrontporch.com. Some of the shots include the corner of State and Main Streets, where my beloved Starbucks is located. Soooo... if'n you tune in around 4 pm to 5:30 pm Monday through Friday, chances are good that you'll be catching site of me. And possibly some of the boys I ogle.
Jitters
Job interview tomorrow!
Nervous? Yeah.
Some job interview flubs I've made...
•In front of this tight assed human resources manager, I made the horrible error of rocking back in my chair and putting my ankle over my knee. (I didn't get that job, like I'd want to work there.)
•When asked to name a quality of mine that might detract from my ability to do the job, I said, "I can be indecisive." (I ended up getting that job anyway.)
•When looking out the window of the woman interviewing me for a job at a brokerage firm on the 102nd floor of 2 World Trade Center, I said, "Holy shit!" (Definitely didn't get that job; she seemed cool up to that point, then she turned decidedly uncool.)
At work, I told them I had a dentist appointment. The boss was cool, coming back with "what are you having done? We have tools here..." But I think they know what's up. And they're terrified. They have that deer in the headlights look.
And I feel terrible about that. I love those guys. I love my job. I'm going to be sad to leave it all behind.
But I've realized that I will never be a master cabinet maker.
Well, not entirely true. About the time I hit sixty I might be a master cabinet maker.
Get it now?
I sort of realized this months ago. When as part of the apprenticeship program, I had to build a box of some kind. So I built a humidor for my Sir. It was done in cherry, and I put walnut trim on it. I was pretty proud of the effort. One of the foremen at work came over to take a look. "Nice job, Dutch!" he complemented. All good. Then he followed that with "Cherry and walnut is a great combination. When I was sixteen I made a grandfather clock with cherry and walnut."
Now you get it.
I decided to dress to kill tomorrow. I have this blue wool/lycra pinstripe suit. I mean, it's All That. I'm even gonna wear a tie. Although it could very well be the final time they see me wearing a tie. I decided a few years ago that I don't wear ties.
But hey. Be cool. Just be cool. When it comes to a job search, one important thing to remember: disappointment happens.
I'll let you all know how goes.
Job interview tomorrow!
Nervous? Yeah.
Some job interview flubs I've made...
•In front of this tight assed human resources manager, I made the horrible error of rocking back in my chair and putting my ankle over my knee. (I didn't get that job, like I'd want to work there.)
•When asked to name a quality of mine that might detract from my ability to do the job, I said, "I can be indecisive." (I ended up getting that job anyway.)
•When looking out the window of the woman interviewing me for a job at a brokerage firm on the 102nd floor of 2 World Trade Center, I said, "Holy shit!" (Definitely didn't get that job; she seemed cool up to that point, then she turned decidedly uncool.)
At work, I told them I had a dentist appointment. The boss was cool, coming back with "what are you having done? We have tools here..." But I think they know what's up. And they're terrified. They have that deer in the headlights look.
And I feel terrible about that. I love those guys. I love my job. I'm going to be sad to leave it all behind.
But I've realized that I will never be a master cabinet maker.
Well, not entirely true. About the time I hit sixty I might be a master cabinet maker.
Get it now?
I sort of realized this months ago. When as part of the apprenticeship program, I had to build a box of some kind. So I built a humidor for my Sir. It was done in cherry, and I put walnut trim on it. I was pretty proud of the effort. One of the foremen at work came over to take a look. "Nice job, Dutch!" he complemented. All good. Then he followed that with "Cherry and walnut is a great combination. When I was sixteen I made a grandfather clock with cherry and walnut."
Now you get it.
I decided to dress to kill tomorrow. I have this blue wool/lycra pinstripe suit. I mean, it's All That. I'm even gonna wear a tie. Although it could very well be the final time they see me wearing a tie. I decided a few years ago that I don't wear ties.
But hey. Be cool. Just be cool. When it comes to a job search, one important thing to remember: disappointment happens.
I'll let you all know how goes.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Meeting Jesus
And how could I forget...
Orlando, of course, is the city of Theme Parks. Mickey, Shamu, all the rest of them. And it's also the home of the Holy Land Experience. It's a Biblical theme park.
Now, I can't quite imagine what that entails, although from the highway, we could see what looked to be Herod's Temple.
My host informed me that there's another interesting aspect of the Holy Land Experience. Similar to Disney, they have strolling actors portraying actual figures from the Bible. Including Jesus.
Now... That's a whole new ballgame.
I mean, there you are, strolling through the Holy Land Experience, and you meet up with Jesus. How are you gonna handle that one? After you get your picture taken with your Lord and Savior, what are you gonna do for small talk?
I, for one, would be moved to quiz him. "What's the Parable of the Sower really mean?" "What are you doing here among all these Christians? Shouldn't you be hanging with prostitutes and tax collectors and such?"
I shared this information with Columbine Boy, my Bush-votin' Bible-thumpin buddy at work. He was against it. And what would Columbine Boy say to Jesus? "Loved you in The Passion! Did you do your own stunts?"
Before we depart this thread, something else. At the Holy Land Experience, do they have rides? What would those rides be like...?
Mom: "Nero's Circus." Now that sounds fun, huh? I love the circus! Let's go on that one!
Oh this is weird! It's dark in here.
Dad: Hey wait. Here's a door. Oh wait, we're outside again.
Mom: Listen to that cheering! I wonder what's going on...
Dad: Look kids! Lions! I guess this is a lion taming thing, huh? Hey!! Who closed that door?
Mom: Those lions aren't tied up or anything, Doug! They're coming over here! Tyler! Tiffany! Come here NOW!
(screams)
(more cheering)
And how could I forget...
Orlando, of course, is the city of Theme Parks. Mickey, Shamu, all the rest of them. And it's also the home of the Holy Land Experience. It's a Biblical theme park.
Now, I can't quite imagine what that entails, although from the highway, we could see what looked to be Herod's Temple.
My host informed me that there's another interesting aspect of the Holy Land Experience. Similar to Disney, they have strolling actors portraying actual figures from the Bible. Including Jesus.
Now... That's a whole new ballgame.
I mean, there you are, strolling through the Holy Land Experience, and you meet up with Jesus. How are you gonna handle that one? After you get your picture taken with your Lord and Savior, what are you gonna do for small talk?
I, for one, would be moved to quiz him. "What's the Parable of the Sower really mean?" "What are you doing here among all these Christians? Shouldn't you be hanging with prostitutes and tax collectors and such?"
I shared this information with Columbine Boy, my Bush-votin' Bible-thumpin buddy at work. He was against it. And what would Columbine Boy say to Jesus? "Loved you in The Passion! Did you do your own stunts?"
Before we depart this thread, something else. At the Holy Land Experience, do they have rides? What would those rides be like...?
Mom: "Nero's Circus." Now that sounds fun, huh? I love the circus! Let's go on that one!
Oh this is weird! It's dark in here.
Dad: Hey wait. Here's a door. Oh wait, we're outside again.
Mom: Listen to that cheering! I wonder what's going on...
Dad: Look kids! Lions! I guess this is a lion taming thing, huh? Hey!! Who closed that door?
Mom: Those lions aren't tied up or anything, Doug! They're coming over here! Tyler! Tiffany! Come here NOW!
(screams)
(more cheering)
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Whorlando
I just flew in from Orlando, and boy! Are my arms tired! (Hey... wait a minute... you're broke! How'd you get to Orlando? Well... I have always relied on the frequent flier miles of others. Nuff said.)
Sad commentary that I had to fly down to Orlando to get laid, huh? But that's the long and short of it. And, as I truly am broke, I'm not in much of a position to refuse any offer of all-expenses-paid travel.
Verrrry interesting trip overall.
My host, FilthyNasty, had a great house with a screened in pool and a hot tub overlooking one of Orlando's many lakes. Lovely and serene setting. My intention was to find pigspace. (Since I found bottomspace, that's next on my list.) Alas, I didn't. Quite.
Mostly, FilthyNasty and I talked. A lot. Really good talking. And so I'm coming back here with a lot of clarity. Clarity about the many ways in which I am conflicted, interestingly enough. I don't want to want what I want. But that's not gonna stop me from having a good time. I hope.
And by the by, if you're visiting Orlando, don't miss a trip to Parliament House. It's this huge motel complex, with a pool and tiki bar in the center. Verrrrry mid-century (and we love that!). And lots of guys who seem to have no air-conditioning in their rooms as they lie on the bed wearing boxers watching television with the door open. That kind of scene. FilthyNasty informs me that until recently, there was a trailer park next door. Over the years, many gay guys moved into the trailers...
...imagine that. A gay trailer park. I know exactly where I want to live when I grow up. How cool would that be?
But alas, the owners of the Parliament House felt they needed more parking or something, so they bought the trailer park, evicted all the trailer livin' homos and plowed it all under.
Also had some good vietnamese food while I was down there. (I think Pho is the perfect thing to eat.) Sadly, we have no vietnamese available in Central Bucks County.
And now I'm ready to swing into my work week. And start getting myself prepared for the Job Inteview on Wednesday.
Oh. No. I didn't go to Disney.
I just flew in from Orlando, and boy! Are my arms tired! (Hey... wait a minute... you're broke! How'd you get to Orlando? Well... I have always relied on the frequent flier miles of others. Nuff said.)
Sad commentary that I had to fly down to Orlando to get laid, huh? But that's the long and short of it. And, as I truly am broke, I'm not in much of a position to refuse any offer of all-expenses-paid travel.
Verrrry interesting trip overall.
My host, FilthyNasty, had a great house with a screened in pool and a hot tub overlooking one of Orlando's many lakes. Lovely and serene setting. My intention was to find pigspace. (Since I found bottomspace, that's next on my list.) Alas, I didn't. Quite.
Mostly, FilthyNasty and I talked. A lot. Really good talking. And so I'm coming back here with a lot of clarity. Clarity about the many ways in which I am conflicted, interestingly enough. I don't want to want what I want. But that's not gonna stop me from having a good time. I hope.
And by the by, if you're visiting Orlando, don't miss a trip to Parliament House. It's this huge motel complex, with a pool and tiki bar in the center. Verrrrry mid-century (and we love that!). And lots of guys who seem to have no air-conditioning in their rooms as they lie on the bed wearing boxers watching television with the door open. That kind of scene. FilthyNasty informs me that until recently, there was a trailer park next door. Over the years, many gay guys moved into the trailers...
...imagine that. A gay trailer park. I know exactly where I want to live when I grow up. How cool would that be?
But alas, the owners of the Parliament House felt they needed more parking or something, so they bought the trailer park, evicted all the trailer livin' homos and plowed it all under.
Also had some good vietnamese food while I was down there. (I think Pho is the perfect thing to eat.) Sadly, we have no vietnamese available in Central Bucks County.
And now I'm ready to swing into my work week. And start getting myself prepared for the Job Inteview on Wednesday.
Oh. No. I didn't go to Disney.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Downhill
Something occured to me the other day.
If my life was a John Updike novel. Or even a John Cheever short story (I think I'm much more an Updike character, but I live in a Cheever world), then I can pinpoint the day that it all started.
"It" of course, is this slow but steady decline, to my present morose state.
Remember back over the winter, when I drove down to West Virginia to visit Mountain Man? And I was driving up the steep mountain road, when all of a sudden, although my foot was on the gas and I was going forward, I started moving backwards down the mountain?
Remember that? The scary descent, skidding all over the road until I went right off it and lodged on a culvert by 3/8ths of an inch? Remember the towtruck that showed up to tow me out and lost control on the same icy road, slamming into the back of my jeep and almost knocking me all the way down into a deep ravine?
Well that was it.
I had to drive around in the Ford Taurus. And when the bill came in, paying the $1000 deductible TWICE (two accidents: me going off the road, and the towtruck slamming into me), that pretty much exhausted my resources. And, then my insurance went up to almost $3000 per year.
So that was when it all started.
I remember at the time being proud of my pluck, my ability to roll with the punches.
But that day the downhill skid started, and it hasn't stopped since.
Huh.
I guess if either Updike or Cheever did use that conceit in a piece of fiction, they or their editors would scratch it out.
I mean, way too obvious, right?
Something occured to me the other day.
If my life was a John Updike novel. Or even a John Cheever short story (I think I'm much more an Updike character, but I live in a Cheever world), then I can pinpoint the day that it all started.
"It" of course, is this slow but steady decline, to my present morose state.
Remember back over the winter, when I drove down to West Virginia to visit Mountain Man? And I was driving up the steep mountain road, when all of a sudden, although my foot was on the gas and I was going forward, I started moving backwards down the mountain?
Remember that? The scary descent, skidding all over the road until I went right off it and lodged on a culvert by 3/8ths of an inch? Remember the towtruck that showed up to tow me out and lost control on the same icy road, slamming into the back of my jeep and almost knocking me all the way down into a deep ravine?
Well that was it.
I had to drive around in the Ford Taurus. And when the bill came in, paying the $1000 deductible TWICE (two accidents: me going off the road, and the towtruck slamming into me), that pretty much exhausted my resources. And, then my insurance went up to almost $3000 per year.
So that was when it all started.
I remember at the time being proud of my pluck, my ability to roll with the punches.
But that day the downhill skid started, and it hasn't stopped since.
Huh.
I guess if either Updike or Cheever did use that conceit in a piece of fiction, they or their editors would scratch it out.
I mean, way too obvious, right?
Please Hire Me
Okay. Got a job interview. Next week. For a Construction Manager position. (How butch is that, huh? "Yeah. I work construction. Whaddyou do? Sumfin wid computers?") The guy and I bonded on the phone. Had a good talk. (I'm so good at that!) By no means a shoe in. They're looking for someone who can estimate construction bids. I can't even guess the dollar amount of the groceries in my basket. And I just about always use the Fifteen Items Or Less line.
Quick! Anybody out there able to teach me that in the six days before my interview???
And this weekend I'm going away. Nope. Not gonna say where. If you want to find out you'll have to hack into my email account. (Please don't hack into my email account.)
Funny. Getting a new job would mean a lot to me, but I'm not feeling much in the way of anxiety about the interview. More concerned with what I'm gonna say to get the day off work. Doctor's appointment? Meeting with my probation officer?
Oh. And another interesting thing happened today. My partner at work, the Bush-votin', Bible-thumpin' guy with whom I get along really well (there's genuine affection between us), today asked me what I thought about men who become women and women who become men.
I could see where this was going.
I said I had no big problems with that. Not even as a Christian. I pointed out that a surprisingly large number of babies are born who are intersex, and an arbitrary decision is made to assign sex. Columbine Boy disagreed. He thought it was wrong. His reasoning was that if you were born a boy, then that's because God intended you to be a boy. And you best not try to go against God's will for you.
I asked about infants born with congenital abnormalities, that are corrected. Conjoined twins was the example I raised. If you separate conjoined twins, wouldn't that be going against God's will? (Sorry readers of transgendered experience, for comparing your situation to a birth defect.)
Columbine Boy had an answer ready for me. He views those things as the result of sin. The sins of our fathers, and of all mankind, going back to Adam. And, sin can be forgiven, but it can't be erased. And even when those defects are corrected, there's still some scar, some remnant. Because sin can't be erased.
And I think I agree with that. I sort of shut up, thinking about how it's our sense of ourselves as sinners, and our memories of all the sins we've committed (interpret the word "sin" anyway you wish, I think of it as those actions which separate us from God and from others) that make us truly human. Not much in the way of compassion coming from the sinless amongst us.
Egad! Had Columbine Boy won that round?
I continued to mull the issue as we worked.
And then Bingo! Galations 3:28: There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.
Sooo... God doesn't see any distinction between the sexes. So changing your apparatus, in God's eyes, is like changing your tshirt.
Because I quoted scripture, I won the argument. (And I'm an Episcopalian! We're not supposed to be able to do that!)
Man. I'll miss the current job. Miss the debates with Columbine Boy. Miss working with the guys. Miss the high regard in which I'm held by my co-workers. A lot to miss. But I won't miss $10-an-hour.
Okay. Got a job interview. Next week. For a Construction Manager position. (How butch is that, huh? "Yeah. I work construction. Whaddyou do? Sumfin wid computers?") The guy and I bonded on the phone. Had a good talk. (I'm so good at that!) By no means a shoe in. They're looking for someone who can estimate construction bids. I can't even guess the dollar amount of the groceries in my basket. And I just about always use the Fifteen Items Or Less line.
Quick! Anybody out there able to teach me that in the six days before my interview???
And this weekend I'm going away. Nope. Not gonna say where. If you want to find out you'll have to hack into my email account. (Please don't hack into my email account.)
Funny. Getting a new job would mean a lot to me, but I'm not feeling much in the way of anxiety about the interview. More concerned with what I'm gonna say to get the day off work. Doctor's appointment? Meeting with my probation officer?
Oh. And another interesting thing happened today. My partner at work, the Bush-votin', Bible-thumpin' guy with whom I get along really well (there's genuine affection between us), today asked me what I thought about men who become women and women who become men.
I could see where this was going.
I said I had no big problems with that. Not even as a Christian. I pointed out that a surprisingly large number of babies are born who are intersex, and an arbitrary decision is made to assign sex. Columbine Boy disagreed. He thought it was wrong. His reasoning was that if you were born a boy, then that's because God intended you to be a boy. And you best not try to go against God's will for you.
I asked about infants born with congenital abnormalities, that are corrected. Conjoined twins was the example I raised. If you separate conjoined twins, wouldn't that be going against God's will? (Sorry readers of transgendered experience, for comparing your situation to a birth defect.)
Columbine Boy had an answer ready for me. He views those things as the result of sin. The sins of our fathers, and of all mankind, going back to Adam. And, sin can be forgiven, but it can't be erased. And even when those defects are corrected, there's still some scar, some remnant. Because sin can't be erased.
And I think I agree with that. I sort of shut up, thinking about how it's our sense of ourselves as sinners, and our memories of all the sins we've committed (interpret the word "sin" anyway you wish, I think of it as those actions which separate us from God and from others) that make us truly human. Not much in the way of compassion coming from the sinless amongst us.
Egad! Had Columbine Boy won that round?
I continued to mull the issue as we worked.
And then Bingo! Galations 3:28: There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.
Sooo... God doesn't see any distinction between the sexes. So changing your apparatus, in God's eyes, is like changing your tshirt.
Because I quoted scripture, I won the argument. (And I'm an Episcopalian! We're not supposed to be able to do that!)
Man. I'll miss the current job. Miss the debates with Columbine Boy. Miss working with the guys. Miss the high regard in which I'm held by my co-workers. A lot to miss. But I won't miss $10-an-hour.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
You Are Beautiful
I remember this phenomenon from when I would spend my summers working in restaurants in New Hope when I was growing up. At the time, it reminded me of an Agatha Christie novel. (Aggie was a youthful obsession.) At the outset, a cast of characters--very boldly drawn characters--are introduced and assembled.
"Miss Chittenwell descended the steps of 10:20 from Paddington, blinking in the sun, mopping her brow with her handkerchief, and clutching her carpet bag. "To be expected," she said, not seeing anyone from Pauncett House waiting on the platofrm to meet her."
The characters gather at some remote country house for the weekend, and over the course of the book, much of the interest is generated by their interactions. Fortunes rise, fortunes fall. A body or five is discovered. And in the final pages a murderer is uncovered.
No murders in New Hope--well, one that I remember, but that's another posting--but amazingly, things tended to unfold in the same way. In June, you met the cast of characters. Billy's hustler that he brought back from New York and gave a job in the club. Dino from Los Angeles, who was close-mouthed about his past. Gary, just graduated from the Culinary Institute of America, and frustrated to be making salads when he knew how to make a sauce américaine. Dominique, Carol's new opera singer girlfriend. Wacky Nina who would drive up to New York City every weekend to attend classes at the Famous Soap Opera Actor's School of Soap Opera Acting.
Combine.
Mix well.
Bake in the sun.
Be surprised.
And now, midway through my second summer of hanging on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown smoking cigars and enjoying my iced-quad-venti-one-pump-vanila-easy-ice-latté, the same thing is happening.
These people just appear out of nowhere. A different set from last summer.
So here's the cast of characters this year.
Top O' The Mornin': Sweet guy who works at Starbucks. He went to college at Trinity University in Dublin, Ireland. Majoring in Guiness. Something of a songster, he's convinced Starbucks to do a live music thing on monday nights, And he's a Top O' The Mornin' and his guitar are a huge hit.
Grand Cherokee: Busy hanging out. Allegedly a painting contractor, although no one has ever known him to do anything besides hanging out. And he's a pro at that. He brings his own chair! One of those fold up jobs you buy for $7. And seems to have a constant array of snack foods available. So Grand Cherokee will set up his chair on the porch of Starbucks, or, y'know, in the middle of the sidewalk out front (Seriously!) After years of not being able to drive because of an unfortunate DWI situation, Gran Cherokee is the proud new owner of... a Jeep Grand Cherokee! Periodically, he'll leap up from his chair (think Batman upon seeing the Bat Signal projected on the clouds over Gotham), hastily gather up his snack foods, dash to the Jeep Grand Cherokee, power down all the windows, crank the sound system, and go tearing off. Only to return moments later.
Bimbeaux: She asked me what I did for work. And I told her. Then I asked what she did. She loves animals, she explained, so she works with animals. "Oh," I probed, "do you work at a shelter?" No. No, she doesn't. She works in a lab, injecting bunnies, puppies, and kittens with toxic substances and taking careful notes of their decline. (Seriously!) I tend to avoid her after that revelation. That and the fact that her idea of conversation is "No way! Oh wow. Wow. Oh my God. No way. That's really cool." (This in response to a statement like, "I just got off work.") But, she's built like a brick outbuilding. So, those nutty heterosexual guys always seem to have time for her. I mean, she's one of the eleven women on the planet who can wear low-rider jeans without evoking winces.
Mr. Miserable: I hate him. Like a little black cloud at a picnic. And so hostile. But in that vague and can't-quite-put-your-finger-on-it sort of way. Never misses a chance to undermine you. Disagrees with everything you say, relying on his seemingly bottomless repository of incorrect knowledge. I flat out ignore him.
The Boy: There's not much of the Death In Venice in me, but he brings it out. Oh. My. God. He is just so fuckin beautiful. About nineteen (legal!), this shock of wiry dirty blond hair, these impossibly beautiful lips that would look so good glistening with my cum, amazing blue eyes, and, beneath the drapey shapeless black clothing he wears all the time, a really sweet little body, combining baby fat and decent muscle. Most nights, I see him in my dreams. Only he's chained up. And crying. And I comfort him. Then make him cry some more.
He's Gay!: Again, like nineteen or twenty years old. Rose colored glasses. Grungey long sideburns. I mean, soooo Boy Bar circa 1988. And he's Queer! I mean, he greets all these presumably straight boys he knows from high school with "Hey Handsome Man!", a kiss on the cheek, and a fanny pat. (Seriously!) I mean, all these straight kids sit there talking about their girlfriends and the motorcycles they want to buy, and he's applying liquid eyeliner. I'm a huge fan of his. Haven't made his acquaintance yet, but he's definitely in my sites.
...and last but not least...
Stewie!: I'm not even using a nom de plume here. Stewie totally rocks. He's just incredible. He grew up with his hippie father on a commune in Oregon. He's tattooing himself. Thhis wild, organic design, incorporating a blessing in Sanskrit characters running down his arm. It looks amazing. Stewie is an expert canoer. He can make his canoe go sideways in the river. His girlfriend is this total waif babe. Such a babe. A babe with brains. I love seeing them together. Taking turns sitting on each other's laps. Today, I wrote on a piece of looseleaf paper, "Pick a nice summer light, dim the lights, light candles, share a bottle of wine, take turns reading to each other from the Journals of Anaïs Nin." They're gonna do it, too. Here's something magical that Stewie told me today. We were watching the Tuesday evening Vigil for Peace planting themselves at the intersection. "WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER!" and the like. Stewie told me how last summer, he made up fifty signs that read, "You are Beautiful" and got fifty friends to stand around Doylestown for three hours holding them up for passing cars and pedestrians.
So at this point, I'm spending hours on the porch of Starbucks. If'n you happen to be in town, stop by. I'll introduce you around.
I remember this phenomenon from when I would spend my summers working in restaurants in New Hope when I was growing up. At the time, it reminded me of an Agatha Christie novel. (Aggie was a youthful obsession.) At the outset, a cast of characters--very boldly drawn characters--are introduced and assembled.
"Miss Chittenwell descended the steps of 10:20 from Paddington, blinking in the sun, mopping her brow with her handkerchief, and clutching her carpet bag. "To be expected," she said, not seeing anyone from Pauncett House waiting on the platofrm to meet her."
The characters gather at some remote country house for the weekend, and over the course of the book, much of the interest is generated by their interactions. Fortunes rise, fortunes fall. A body or five is discovered. And in the final pages a murderer is uncovered.
No murders in New Hope--well, one that I remember, but that's another posting--but amazingly, things tended to unfold in the same way. In June, you met the cast of characters. Billy's hustler that he brought back from New York and gave a job in the club. Dino from Los Angeles, who was close-mouthed about his past. Gary, just graduated from the Culinary Institute of America, and frustrated to be making salads when he knew how to make a sauce américaine. Dominique, Carol's new opera singer girlfriend. Wacky Nina who would drive up to New York City every weekend to attend classes at the Famous Soap Opera Actor's School of Soap Opera Acting.
Combine.
Mix well.
Bake in the sun.
Be surprised.
And now, midway through my second summer of hanging on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown smoking cigars and enjoying my iced-quad-venti-one-pump-vanila-easy-ice-latté, the same thing is happening.
These people just appear out of nowhere. A different set from last summer.
So here's the cast of characters this year.
Top O' The Mornin': Sweet guy who works at Starbucks. He went to college at Trinity University in Dublin, Ireland. Majoring in Guiness. Something of a songster, he's convinced Starbucks to do a live music thing on monday nights, And he's a Top O' The Mornin' and his guitar are a huge hit.
Grand Cherokee: Busy hanging out. Allegedly a painting contractor, although no one has ever known him to do anything besides hanging out. And he's a pro at that. He brings his own chair! One of those fold up jobs you buy for $7. And seems to have a constant array of snack foods available. So Grand Cherokee will set up his chair on the porch of Starbucks, or, y'know, in the middle of the sidewalk out front (Seriously!) After years of not being able to drive because of an unfortunate DWI situation, Gran Cherokee is the proud new owner of... a Jeep Grand Cherokee! Periodically, he'll leap up from his chair (think Batman upon seeing the Bat Signal projected on the clouds over Gotham), hastily gather up his snack foods, dash to the Jeep Grand Cherokee, power down all the windows, crank the sound system, and go tearing off. Only to return moments later.
Bimbeaux: She asked me what I did for work. And I told her. Then I asked what she did. She loves animals, she explained, so she works with animals. "Oh," I probed, "do you work at a shelter?" No. No, she doesn't. She works in a lab, injecting bunnies, puppies, and kittens with toxic substances and taking careful notes of their decline. (Seriously!) I tend to avoid her after that revelation. That and the fact that her idea of conversation is "No way! Oh wow. Wow. Oh my God. No way. That's really cool." (This in response to a statement like, "I just got off work.") But, she's built like a brick outbuilding. So, those nutty heterosexual guys always seem to have time for her. I mean, she's one of the eleven women on the planet who can wear low-rider jeans without evoking winces.
Mr. Miserable: I hate him. Like a little black cloud at a picnic. And so hostile. But in that vague and can't-quite-put-your-finger-on-it sort of way. Never misses a chance to undermine you. Disagrees with everything you say, relying on his seemingly bottomless repository of incorrect knowledge. I flat out ignore him.
The Boy: There's not much of the Death In Venice in me, but he brings it out. Oh. My. God. He is just so fuckin beautiful. About nineteen (legal!), this shock of wiry dirty blond hair, these impossibly beautiful lips that would look so good glistening with my cum, amazing blue eyes, and, beneath the drapey shapeless black clothing he wears all the time, a really sweet little body, combining baby fat and decent muscle. Most nights, I see him in my dreams. Only he's chained up. And crying. And I comfort him. Then make him cry some more.
He's Gay!: Again, like nineteen or twenty years old. Rose colored glasses. Grungey long sideburns. I mean, soooo Boy Bar circa 1988. And he's Queer! I mean, he greets all these presumably straight boys he knows from high school with "Hey Handsome Man!", a kiss on the cheek, and a fanny pat. (Seriously!) I mean, all these straight kids sit there talking about their girlfriends and the motorcycles they want to buy, and he's applying liquid eyeliner. I'm a huge fan of his. Haven't made his acquaintance yet, but he's definitely in my sites.
...and last but not least...
Stewie!: I'm not even using a nom de plume here. Stewie totally rocks. He's just incredible. He grew up with his hippie father on a commune in Oregon. He's tattooing himself. Thhis wild, organic design, incorporating a blessing in Sanskrit characters running down his arm. It looks amazing. Stewie is an expert canoer. He can make his canoe go sideways in the river. His girlfriend is this total waif babe. Such a babe. A babe with brains. I love seeing them together. Taking turns sitting on each other's laps. Today, I wrote on a piece of looseleaf paper, "Pick a nice summer light, dim the lights, light candles, share a bottle of wine, take turns reading to each other from the Journals of Anaïs Nin." They're gonna do it, too. Here's something magical that Stewie told me today. We were watching the Tuesday evening Vigil for Peace planting themselves at the intersection. "WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER!" and the like. Stewie told me how last summer, he made up fifty signs that read, "You are Beautiful" and got fifty friends to stand around Doylestown for three hours holding them up for passing cars and pedestrians.
So at this point, I'm spending hours on the porch of Starbucks. If'n you happen to be in town, stop by. I'll introduce you around.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Joy
Another night of sitting in my car, moaning and wailing.
And then, I decided that it might be a good time to conjure my spirit guide, Wolf.
We only talked briefly, but it was a good talk. As usual, I aske the questions, and he answers them. (Novel for someone like me, who enjoys listening to myself talk so much [g].)
As usual, a lot was conveyed in that conversation. But here's the really important thing. Wolf told me that this time will determine the rest of my life. If I allow misery to set down roots into my soul, then I'll be miserable for the rest of my life. No matter what my future circumstances. But, if I can find joy, even during this hard time, then nothing will ever be able to hurt me again. Joy will be mine for all time.
Sweet.
The stakes are high, but I feel up to the challenge.
Another night of sitting in my car, moaning and wailing.
And then, I decided that it might be a good time to conjure my spirit guide, Wolf.
We only talked briefly, but it was a good talk. As usual, I aske the questions, and he answers them. (Novel for someone like me, who enjoys listening to myself talk so much [g].)
As usual, a lot was conveyed in that conversation. But here's the really important thing. Wolf told me that this time will determine the rest of my life. If I allow misery to set down roots into my soul, then I'll be miserable for the rest of my life. No matter what my future circumstances. But, if I can find joy, even during this hard time, then nothing will ever be able to hurt me again. Joy will be mine for all time.
Sweet.
The stakes are high, but I feel up to the challenge.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Broke
This is unbelievable. Almost to the point of getting me to revise my cosmology.
Yesterday when I got home, fumbling around with the groceries, and I dropped one of the bags. The bag contained only one item: a dozen eggs. i swore like a sailor. Amazingly, only a few of the eggs were broke. And but dang that pissed me off.
So this morning, rushing off to work, my practially new cell phone head set thingy got caught in the door. The wire snapped. So it's broke and I can't afford to buy a new one. And that practically renders my cell phone, which is soon to be cut off anyway, all but unuseable because the teeny tiny speaker in it is broke.
After work, went kayaking, hit Starbucks, then headed to the gym. Luckily, I'm paid through the end of August. I took two weeks off and lost ten pounds. So I've got six weeks to get my body back for Inferno. If I can manage to scrape together the $350 I owe by the end of August. And that's going to be tough, because I'm flat broke. And with every day that goes by, it's less and less likely that I'll get a spot. So I might not even get to Inferno this year. And by the way, unluckily, paying for the gym exhausted my bank account. I hate that.
So at the gym, I was undressing, feeling good looking forward to my workout. (Legs tonight.) While taking off my watch, the strap broke. My watch. I love that watch. Oh hell. I hate that. Maybe I can get a new strap made. But, of course, not right now, because I'm broke. Muttering under my breath, but doing my best not to get out of my workout headspace, I threw my stuff into the locker, and put the lock on. Then, I realized that I didn't have the key to the padlock I had just secured. Unbelievable. I've never done that in twenty years of gym going.
So after my workout, I had borrowing bolt cutters from the staff to look forward to. More muttering under my breath as I broke into my locker. And in doing so, broke my padlock.
So how am I? I'm broke.
I am so broke. Broke and broken.
This is all just too much. I've been plagued by insomnia lately. Even though the weather is gorgeous (96 again today!); even though I had the opportunity to whip an amazing man on Sunday courtesy of my old buddy Bus Driver; even though I loved playing softball on Saturday and played pretty well, I'm low.
What I want... what I really want... is for someone to hold me while I cry. This is all just too much.
This is unbelievable. Almost to the point of getting me to revise my cosmology.
Yesterday when I got home, fumbling around with the groceries, and I dropped one of the bags. The bag contained only one item: a dozen eggs. i swore like a sailor. Amazingly, only a few of the eggs were broke. And but dang that pissed me off.
So this morning, rushing off to work, my practially new cell phone head set thingy got caught in the door. The wire snapped. So it's broke and I can't afford to buy a new one. And that practically renders my cell phone, which is soon to be cut off anyway, all but unuseable because the teeny tiny speaker in it is broke.
After work, went kayaking, hit Starbucks, then headed to the gym. Luckily, I'm paid through the end of August. I took two weeks off and lost ten pounds. So I've got six weeks to get my body back for Inferno. If I can manage to scrape together the $350 I owe by the end of August. And that's going to be tough, because I'm flat broke. And with every day that goes by, it's less and less likely that I'll get a spot. So I might not even get to Inferno this year. And by the way, unluckily, paying for the gym exhausted my bank account. I hate that.
So at the gym, I was undressing, feeling good looking forward to my workout. (Legs tonight.) While taking off my watch, the strap broke. My watch. I love that watch. Oh hell. I hate that. Maybe I can get a new strap made. But, of course, not right now, because I'm broke. Muttering under my breath, but doing my best not to get out of my workout headspace, I threw my stuff into the locker, and put the lock on. Then, I realized that I didn't have the key to the padlock I had just secured. Unbelievable. I've never done that in twenty years of gym going.
So after my workout, I had borrowing bolt cutters from the staff to look forward to. More muttering under my breath as I broke into my locker. And in doing so, broke my padlock.
So how am I? I'm broke.
I am so broke. Broke and broken.
This is all just too much. I've been plagued by insomnia lately. Even though the weather is gorgeous (96 again today!); even though I had the opportunity to whip an amazing man on Sunday courtesy of my old buddy Bus Driver; even though I loved playing softball on Saturday and played pretty well, I'm low.
What I want... what I really want... is for someone to hold me while I cry. This is all just too much.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
HHH
Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
My all time favorite weather conditions. And we've had day after day of it this week. Walking Faithful Companion at night feels like moving through water, the air is so heavy.
And that's good. That's what's sustaining me right now.
Yep. That's right. Another Bad Period.
How'm'I doin'? Well, I'll tell ya.
Broke. Lonely. Single. Unhappy. Trapped. Not having a good week. No word at all from the folks I sent my resume to. So hard up I'll have to forego cigars and stick to iced tea or something at Starbucks for the next two weeks. Extended myself to those two guys I talked about, and neither one has shown much interest. Did meet a hot man at the Raven last Saturday night, but, alas, he has a verrry strong penchant for raunch. As in manstink. And that never works for me. Not with my extreme aversions to smells of any kind and that hair-trigger gag reflex of mine. But I'll be open. Maybe that's negotiable with him. Beggars, as they say, can't be choosers.
I was watching "Kept" last night, my latest television obsession. The thing on VH1 where Jerry Hall puts a bunch of doofuses through their paces, to see which one will get to spend a year as her "kept man." The dramatic interest is provided by the fact that she's looking for someone to carry her bags through Heathrow, and the guys are thinking Jerry will be the winner's girlfriend.
But anyway, it occured to me that I would sweep the field. I can talk art. I can cook. I have table manners. I'm considerate. I'm a good conversationalist. I'm adventurous. I speak french, italian, some russian, some italian, and a little german. I'm handy around the house at such diverse tasks as flower arranging and welding. I can dress well when I want to. I give one hell of a massage. I'd make a great kept man.
Or, y'know, a boyfriend.
Or, y'know, a boy.
Or, even, a Sir.
Although, the conundrum is this. Both of the Current Men Of Interest are New Yorkers. And the basic rule of romance in NYC is that there's always somebody standing behind you, with a better body, better mind, better job, better apartment, better car, better everything. And at the same time, even though--summoning all the modesty I can here--I tend to rock the Bike Stop and the Raven when I stick my head in there, finding a man who both turns my crank sexually and with whom I don't mind having a conversation is statistically so improbably as to be just about beyond the realms of possibility.
Anyway.
Thank the Lord it's sweltering hot. That makes anything endurable.
(Like it's news to you that I'm twisted? C'mon.)
Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
My all time favorite weather conditions. And we've had day after day of it this week. Walking Faithful Companion at night feels like moving through water, the air is so heavy.
And that's good. That's what's sustaining me right now.
Yep. That's right. Another Bad Period.
How'm'I doin'? Well, I'll tell ya.
Broke. Lonely. Single. Unhappy. Trapped. Not having a good week. No word at all from the folks I sent my resume to. So hard up I'll have to forego cigars and stick to iced tea or something at Starbucks for the next two weeks. Extended myself to those two guys I talked about, and neither one has shown much interest. Did meet a hot man at the Raven last Saturday night, but, alas, he has a verrry strong penchant for raunch. As in manstink. And that never works for me. Not with my extreme aversions to smells of any kind and that hair-trigger gag reflex of mine. But I'll be open. Maybe that's negotiable with him. Beggars, as they say, can't be choosers.
I was watching "Kept" last night, my latest television obsession. The thing on VH1 where Jerry Hall puts a bunch of doofuses through their paces, to see which one will get to spend a year as her "kept man." The dramatic interest is provided by the fact that she's looking for someone to carry her bags through Heathrow, and the guys are thinking Jerry will be the winner's girlfriend.
But anyway, it occured to me that I would sweep the field. I can talk art. I can cook. I have table manners. I'm considerate. I'm a good conversationalist. I'm adventurous. I speak french, italian, some russian, some italian, and a little german. I'm handy around the house at such diverse tasks as flower arranging and welding. I can dress well when I want to. I give one hell of a massage. I'd make a great kept man.
Or, y'know, a boyfriend.
Or, y'know, a boy.
Or, even, a Sir.
Although, the conundrum is this. Both of the Current Men Of Interest are New Yorkers. And the basic rule of romance in NYC is that there's always somebody standing behind you, with a better body, better mind, better job, better apartment, better car, better everything. And at the same time, even though--summoning all the modesty I can here--I tend to rock the Bike Stop and the Raven when I stick my head in there, finding a man who both turns my crank sexually and with whom I don't mind having a conversation is statistically so improbably as to be just about beyond the realms of possibility.
Anyway.
Thank the Lord it's sweltering hot. That makes anything endurable.
(Like it's news to you that I'm twisted? C'mon.)
Sunday, July 17, 2005
On Guests Uninvited
So after a great day playing softball and tooling around NYC yesterday, I get up late, have a cup of tea and a protein shake, and hop in the shower. I love unrushed Sunday ablutions. I do a body scrub, a facial scrub, hose out my hole with the Shur-Shot, nice close shave of my face and scalp, body moisturizer, face moisturizer. Went and picked out something to wear today. Settled on my cargo capri pants (ya gotta see'em to understand, bought them at I. Goldberg's, some army in the world actually sends its soldiers off to battle in cargo capri pants), tight gray shirt, and my Wesco's. The loggers, not the custom harness.
And then...
*sigh*
The Wants showed up.
I hate that.
Things were going just fine, until in the door came the Wants.
Want to be able to not have to sweat to afford Inferno. Want to get to the beach. Want a job that pays me enough money to live on (I sent in a resume to a place in community development agency in Philadelphia on Thursday, everybody keep their fingers crossed.) And then, of course, the one that takes up the most space: Want a man to share my life--or significant parts of my life anyway--with.
Yeah.
Y'see, I formulated a plan of sorts. I decided to give it a try. If that Guy From LA wasn't available for much more than a twice a year Edge play session, that didn't mean that it would be impossible to find someone who was, right?
Could I replace the Guy From LA?
And I actually didn't have to think very hard to come up with a few possibilities.
Possibility #1: I've actually known him for years. How we met might warrant a retelling. Years and years and years ago (okay, maybe not that many), newly sprung from my relationship with the Seven and A Half Year Awful Relationship, I headed to the LURE. And there he was. This big guy, full leather, smoking a cigar and drinking from a can of Bud. I mean, he hit all those archetypes dead on. I had seen him a couple of times before. And he made me weak in the knees.
He was flagging everything on the left, so I did my best (which was pretty bad) to present myself. Standing in front of him, hands behind my back, head bowed. (I know, right? I know better now.) But miraculously, he took the bait. Approached. Did this great wordless breathing down my neck thing. I was rock hard. Asked, I think, what I was up for. (A question that I've never been good at answering when posed by a Top. Still haven't figured that one out.) He said something like, okay, well maybe I'll catch up with you later.
So I went to look elsewhere, hoping that I'd end up going home with him.
And that same night, I met my buddy whom we'll call PissPiggy. This stunning looking Italian guy from Brooklyn. He was all pig, and thus so much more approachable. He and I got to know each other, and there was immediate report. He's tough not to like, sunny and open disposition, and a beautiful smile that says he's up for anything.
But, it turned out that PissPiggy wasn't quite available that night. Y'see, he had already agreed that tonight, he belonged to none other than the fantasy sadist I had talked to earlier. Huh, I said, I talked to him. Oh cool! said PissPiggy. And he had a plan. Involving the three of us.
So PissPiggy, Sadist, and li'l ol' me bundled into PissPiggy's car and headed for Sadist's place on the upper upper East Side.
Once there, Sadist began putting the two of us through our paces. That was the first night that I ever drank piss. But then, Sadist started taking out his various implements. He pretty quickly realized that PissPiggy could take it (and wanted more) and I couldn't. So, PissPiggy was chained spread eagle on the bed, and I was ordered to "stand over there."
And then, at one point, Sadist handed me his flogger. He ordered me to beat the pig on the bed.
Now, this was the very first time I had ever held a flogger in my life. Ever.
I swung it around a few times, getting a feel for it. Then I started rhythmically bringing it down on PissPiggy's thighs and chest (knowing almost instinctively to focus on the muscley parts).
And, it was like I came to life. I liked it! I really liked it!
Sadist took note. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you, pig?"
I grinned, "I could really get used to this, Sir!"
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But a few years later, whom should I meet at Inferno but Sadist. He recognized me immediately. Asked what I was up to. I explained that I had found my calling in wielding singletail whips. He laughed. "I created a monster!" he said.
Okay. So why am I thinking of him now?
Well, I was totally unprepared to give Sadist what he wanted way back then. In those novice days, I guess I just wanted to be tied up or something. I had no idea. But now, I'm... uh... seasoned. And I have developed a definite taste for the kind of Edge play that Sadist likes. And, on his worldleathermen profile, he notes that he's open to finding another "bruder Top" for "something more than a weekend." Huh.
So that bears exploration, no?
Possibility #2: He's this really hot guy from the World Wide Internet. We've talked a few times online. He's in NYC, too. More details than that, I don't know. And as Lolita once famously advised me, "The internet doesn't mean shit; you gotta smell'em."
So how's it going?
Not well. Whenever I've gone up to NYC these past few weeks, I've called both of them. Sadist has been on vacation or traveling for work. Number Two always seems to be out on Long Island attending his niece's first holy communion or something.
Just recently, I noticed that phone messages I left and email I've sent hasn't been returned. Maybe they're both real busy.
Or maybe they're unavailable.
Anyway.
Enough of the wants. The rain has let up (oh joy, another rainy summer, so good for the roses). I'm gonna head to Starbucks in Doylestown, to sit on the porch, enjoy my latte, smoke a cigar, and dig into a book.
And maybe, maybe, some local leatherman who has somehow heretofore escaped my attention will stop at Starbucks to enjoy the afternoon, and there I'll be, all decked out in my capri cargo pants, smoking my cigar, that great ink of mine, all moisturized, and with my hole squeaky clean.
Hey! It might happen!
So after a great day playing softball and tooling around NYC yesterday, I get up late, have a cup of tea and a protein shake, and hop in the shower. I love unrushed Sunday ablutions. I do a body scrub, a facial scrub, hose out my hole with the Shur-Shot, nice close shave of my face and scalp, body moisturizer, face moisturizer. Went and picked out something to wear today. Settled on my cargo capri pants (ya gotta see'em to understand, bought them at I. Goldberg's, some army in the world actually sends its soldiers off to battle in cargo capri pants), tight gray shirt, and my Wesco's. The loggers, not the custom harness.
And then...
*sigh*
The Wants showed up.
I hate that.
Things were going just fine, until in the door came the Wants.
Want to be able to not have to sweat to afford Inferno. Want to get to the beach. Want a job that pays me enough money to live on (I sent in a resume to a place in community development agency in Philadelphia on Thursday, everybody keep their fingers crossed.) And then, of course, the one that takes up the most space: Want a man to share my life--or significant parts of my life anyway--with.
Yeah.
Y'see, I formulated a plan of sorts. I decided to give it a try. If that Guy From LA wasn't available for much more than a twice a year Edge play session, that didn't mean that it would be impossible to find someone who was, right?
Could I replace the Guy From LA?
And I actually didn't have to think very hard to come up with a few possibilities.
Possibility #1: I've actually known him for years. How we met might warrant a retelling. Years and years and years ago (okay, maybe not that many), newly sprung from my relationship with the Seven and A Half Year Awful Relationship, I headed to the LURE. And there he was. This big guy, full leather, smoking a cigar and drinking from a can of Bud. I mean, he hit all those archetypes dead on. I had seen him a couple of times before. And he made me weak in the knees.
He was flagging everything on the left, so I did my best (which was pretty bad) to present myself. Standing in front of him, hands behind my back, head bowed. (I know, right? I know better now.) But miraculously, he took the bait. Approached. Did this great wordless breathing down my neck thing. I was rock hard. Asked, I think, what I was up for. (A question that I've never been good at answering when posed by a Top. Still haven't figured that one out.) He said something like, okay, well maybe I'll catch up with you later.
So I went to look elsewhere, hoping that I'd end up going home with him.
And that same night, I met my buddy whom we'll call PissPiggy. This stunning looking Italian guy from Brooklyn. He was all pig, and thus so much more approachable. He and I got to know each other, and there was immediate report. He's tough not to like, sunny and open disposition, and a beautiful smile that says he's up for anything.
But, it turned out that PissPiggy wasn't quite available that night. Y'see, he had already agreed that tonight, he belonged to none other than the fantasy sadist I had talked to earlier. Huh, I said, I talked to him. Oh cool! said PissPiggy. And he had a plan. Involving the three of us.
So PissPiggy, Sadist, and li'l ol' me bundled into PissPiggy's car and headed for Sadist's place on the upper upper East Side.
Once there, Sadist began putting the two of us through our paces. That was the first night that I ever drank piss. But then, Sadist started taking out his various implements. He pretty quickly realized that PissPiggy could take it (and wanted more) and I couldn't. So, PissPiggy was chained spread eagle on the bed, and I was ordered to "stand over there."
And then, at one point, Sadist handed me his flogger. He ordered me to beat the pig on the bed.
Now, this was the very first time I had ever held a flogger in my life. Ever.
I swung it around a few times, getting a feel for it. Then I started rhythmically bringing it down on PissPiggy's thighs and chest (knowing almost instinctively to focus on the muscley parts).
And, it was like I came to life. I liked it! I really liked it!
Sadist took note. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you, pig?"
I grinned, "I could really get used to this, Sir!"
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But a few years later, whom should I meet at Inferno but Sadist. He recognized me immediately. Asked what I was up to. I explained that I had found my calling in wielding singletail whips. He laughed. "I created a monster!" he said.
Okay. So why am I thinking of him now?
Well, I was totally unprepared to give Sadist what he wanted way back then. In those novice days, I guess I just wanted to be tied up or something. I had no idea. But now, I'm... uh... seasoned. And I have developed a definite taste for the kind of Edge play that Sadist likes. And, on his worldleathermen profile, he notes that he's open to finding another "bruder Top" for "something more than a weekend." Huh.
So that bears exploration, no?
Possibility #2: He's this really hot guy from the World Wide Internet. We've talked a few times online. He's in NYC, too. More details than that, I don't know. And as Lolita once famously advised me, "The internet doesn't mean shit; you gotta smell'em."
So how's it going?
Not well. Whenever I've gone up to NYC these past few weeks, I've called both of them. Sadist has been on vacation or traveling for work. Number Two always seems to be out on Long Island attending his niece's first holy communion or something.
Just recently, I noticed that phone messages I left and email I've sent hasn't been returned. Maybe they're both real busy.
Or maybe they're unavailable.
Anyway.
Enough of the wants. The rain has let up (oh joy, another rainy summer, so good for the roses). I'm gonna head to Starbucks in Doylestown, to sit on the porch, enjoy my latte, smoke a cigar, and dig into a book.
And maybe, maybe, some local leatherman who has somehow heretofore escaped my attention will stop at Starbucks to enjoy the afternoon, and there I'll be, all decked out in my capri cargo pants, smoking my cigar, that great ink of mine, all moisturized, and with my hole squeaky clean.
Hey! It might happen!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Summer
No postings in a week??? What's up with that? Everything okay?
Yup. Everything is copascetic here. Doing really good.
Here are some highlights of what you've missed...
•Went to the beach. Last Tuesday. That day it was bitter freezing cold. (72 degrees.) It actually was pretty cold. And overcast. And there was a stiff wind blowing. Spraying me and UnFortunate with sand. Which hurt. "Ow. Ow. Ow! OWWW!" Eventually, I was pounding my fists in the sand saying "It's not fair!" and we headed into NYC. Good thing, too. Much longer and we would have been buried.
•In NYC, I visited the needle exchange program I used to run. That was gratifying. They're still there, and going strong. And the walls are still painted orange. And I was greeted by one of my favorite former employees, who had left about six months before I did to go to motorcycle mechanics school in Arizona. Great to see him. Love the guy. A little story by way of introduction. We were once at a conference together. All sitting around with people from other agencies in this big hotel ballroom while someone up at the podium was talking about social networks among crack injectors in New Haven or something. And we were there with folks from lots of other agencies, too. So this guy turns to a woman from another agency at our table and says, "You're a bootie freak, aren't you?" Before I could say, "You're way outta line Mister, and this means your job is on the line!" the two of them rose and headed up to her room. Wish I had one tenth of that chutzpah.
•Saturday was softball. We lost. Both games. But I haven't had so much fun playing softball in a long, long time. I did pretty well at the plate, and my base running is strong as ever, despite last year's broken ankle. And I even did my part in the field pretty well.
•Sunday was the GMSMA SM/Spirituality Special Interest Group. Two plus years in the running. And a sublime experience always.
Something I spoke to the group about...
Why did that Guy From LA get under my skin so much? Good question. I think I figured it out with the help of a child psychiatrist from Connecticut whom I fucked on Tuesday night. And a bit more. I was saying how the Guy From LA is the most withholding man I've ever met. He gives nothing away. When I went out to visit him, I was greeted at the airport, not with "Great to see you! You're looking really good!" or something along those lines, but with, "The plane was on time. I'm parked right out here."
And this propelled me to go to greater and greater lengths to get something by way of affirmation out of him. Being of basically sound mind, I didn't go so far as some of his recent exex that I know about. Nothing illegal, for instance.
So I was telling this by way of pillow talk, and child psychologist chimes in, "Like your father maybe?"
Bingo.
Wow.
And how.
So that's the deal. I couldn't get it from my dad, so it became especially important to get it from this guy.
Uh huh.
And later, I was thinking... Now, as a rule, I do not try to self-psychoanalyze my SM. Not a good thing to do. It's a black box. And best left that way.
But maybe, just maybe... Having grown up with the love of The World's Least Demonstrative Man, perhaps what turns my crank is erotic encounters with men that are very, very demonstrative.
And I can live with that. If that's one of my demons, then I'll gladly invite that one out to dance.
And now, it's back to work. Which feels good. My mantra lately is "if you're not sweating, it's not work." And since it's five to ten degrees hotter in the shop than it is outside, I'm working a lot.
And for the past two days, the weather has been beautiful. So after work, I head to Lake Galena and spend an hour or three paddling around in my kayak. I'm getting familiar with a pair of hawks. A certain heron allows me to get real close. I saw a snapping turtle today of jurassic proportions. (Seriously!)
And then, I head to Starbucks, where I smoke cigars on the porch and enjoy a latte.
I love summer. I'm broke. I ain't got nobody. But damn, am I happy.
No postings in a week??? What's up with that? Everything okay?
Yup. Everything is copascetic here. Doing really good.
Here are some highlights of what you've missed...
•Went to the beach. Last Tuesday. That day it was bitter freezing cold. (72 degrees.) It actually was pretty cold. And overcast. And there was a stiff wind blowing. Spraying me and UnFortunate with sand. Which hurt. "Ow. Ow. Ow! OWWW!" Eventually, I was pounding my fists in the sand saying "It's not fair!" and we headed into NYC. Good thing, too. Much longer and we would have been buried.
•In NYC, I visited the needle exchange program I used to run. That was gratifying. They're still there, and going strong. And the walls are still painted orange. And I was greeted by one of my favorite former employees, who had left about six months before I did to go to motorcycle mechanics school in Arizona. Great to see him. Love the guy. A little story by way of introduction. We were once at a conference together. All sitting around with people from other agencies in this big hotel ballroom while someone up at the podium was talking about social networks among crack injectors in New Haven or something. And we were there with folks from lots of other agencies, too. So this guy turns to a woman from another agency at our table and says, "You're a bootie freak, aren't you?" Before I could say, "You're way outta line Mister, and this means your job is on the line!" the two of them rose and headed up to her room. Wish I had one tenth of that chutzpah.
•Saturday was softball. We lost. Both games. But I haven't had so much fun playing softball in a long, long time. I did pretty well at the plate, and my base running is strong as ever, despite last year's broken ankle. And I even did my part in the field pretty well.
•Sunday was the GMSMA SM/Spirituality Special Interest Group. Two plus years in the running. And a sublime experience always.
Something I spoke to the group about...
Why did that Guy From LA get under my skin so much? Good question. I think I figured it out with the help of a child psychiatrist from Connecticut whom I fucked on Tuesday night. And a bit more. I was saying how the Guy From LA is the most withholding man I've ever met. He gives nothing away. When I went out to visit him, I was greeted at the airport, not with "Great to see you! You're looking really good!" or something along those lines, but with, "The plane was on time. I'm parked right out here."
And this propelled me to go to greater and greater lengths to get something by way of affirmation out of him. Being of basically sound mind, I didn't go so far as some of his recent exex that I know about. Nothing illegal, for instance.
So I was telling this by way of pillow talk, and child psychologist chimes in, "Like your father maybe?"
Bingo.
Wow.
And how.
So that's the deal. I couldn't get it from my dad, so it became especially important to get it from this guy.
Uh huh.
And later, I was thinking... Now, as a rule, I do not try to self-psychoanalyze my SM. Not a good thing to do. It's a black box. And best left that way.
But maybe, just maybe... Having grown up with the love of The World's Least Demonstrative Man, perhaps what turns my crank is erotic encounters with men that are very, very demonstrative.
And I can live with that. If that's one of my demons, then I'll gladly invite that one out to dance.
And now, it's back to work. Which feels good. My mantra lately is "if you're not sweating, it's not work." And since it's five to ten degrees hotter in the shop than it is outside, I'm working a lot.
And for the past two days, the weather has been beautiful. So after work, I head to Lake Galena and spend an hour or three paddling around in my kayak. I'm getting familiar with a pair of hawks. A certain heron allows me to get real close. I saw a snapping turtle today of jurassic proportions. (Seriously!)
And then, I head to Starbucks, where I smoke cigars on the porch and enjoy a latte.
I love summer. I'm broke. I ain't got nobody. But damn, am I happy.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Allons Les Enfants De La Patrié...
Oh. Wait. No. That's The Other One.
Happy 239th Birthday America! I'm feeling sooooo Toby Keith today!
Anyway, great weekend so far! I'm hardly regretting at all that I'm not in Florida right now.
Not being able to take a vacation this year meant that I could go to the annual July 4th Weekend dungeon party hosted by a couple of Inferno buddies of mine, who have made it their mission to insure that sexual deviancy thrives in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. My first trip from NYC to this party lead to much anxiety on my part, worried that I would be outclassed. This time, I just felt myself to be entirely among friends. And, because it was a quick hop, skip, and jump to get there, I brought my chains and whips and such, but if'n I didn't end up playing, that was cool, too.
Barbeque was good, and I enjoyed the company. Two of the very pillars of GMSMA were there. I have made a date to bottom to... Horowitz (no nom de plume necessary here, I don't think) at Inferno this year. He has a plan. A diabolical plan, by the sound of it. Involving an "announcement made at breakfast." So I'm pretty enthralled.
After dinner, the guys that were just there for dinner drifted homewards, and the rest of us got busy in the well-appointed dungeon.
In attendance was this... this... this man. I've seen him and his Sir for years. And they always make me drip cum. He, in particular, is just so incredibly hot. True to form, whenever he's around, I just stare at the ground sixteen inches in front of my boots, unable to make eye contact, little less engage in conversation, little less actually ask if he'd be up for a scene. (I hate that!)
But as dinner was breaking up, he approached me, greeted me, and shook my hand. Later, in the dungeon, I watched as he put a succession of subs into his vac rack. Sticking my courage to the sticking place, I complemented him on the scenes he did, and helped him clean up afterwards. And then, I did it. I asked if he wanted to play. And he said, "Sure."
He went to check in with his Sir, and I set about thinking what I might like to do. I decided on face-to-face, with boxing gloves (had mine!), maybe chained to a post (alas, no sides of any post were free of eye-bolts). I just had this image of this big, beautiful man, all chained up, and me wearing the boxing gloves, working him over. The physicality of it, getting to throw some good punches at him. And then, bringing the glove up to his face and saying, "yeaaaaah, kiss it boy. kiss it." Followed by a measured jab right in the kisser.
The Man returned, asked what I had in mind, and I told him I wanted to beat him. He declined that, but said he would sure be up for a flogging.
Okay. Not a problem. Switch gears.
Flogging... I'm good at that!
So that's what we did. At his request, he was unrestrained. Just standing there, bearing his beautiful back to me. It just reddened up beautifully. So wonderful. I was turned on the entire time. It was a sweet and pure distillation of SM. So simple. So elegant. So good for the soul.
Afterwards, he was glowing. And flying. And grateful. We talked some more. And, as it happens, he's a really great guy. Very likeable. Very upfront. Self aware. And maybe I'll have a second bite at the apple at Inferno. Hope so ("kiss it, boy. yeah. kiss it.").
Yesterday, Sunday, it was off to the beach. Namely, Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook. Aka, the Nude Beach.
Word had reached me that there was this big Bear thing going on there. Metrobears NYC, Garden State Bears, and the Liberty Bears of Philadelphia were all converging at Gunnison. And, to be sure, that was all the inclination I needed.
And... and... one of the great things about living here is I-195. If you look at a map of NJ, all the roads basically run north-south. Except for 195. Which cuts due east from Trenton and takes you to the beach, 35 miles away. It's a great road, and it's like a worm hole: you enter at one end, and in no time at all, it spits you out at the other end.
Traffic was dicey once I got off the Parkway at the opposite end of 195, but that's more a function of the fact that Sandy Hook is sort of off there on it's own on the northernmost tip of the New Jersey shoreline.
I messed up on the parking, and had to slog through the non-nude beach to get to the nude beach (I always do this), but finally, there it was: nudidity! But it was all kinds of heterosexual nudidity. I watched some hot naked straight men cavorting with their naked girlfriends/wives for a while. And then I remembered: the queers tend to congregate on the southern part of the nude beach.
Right.
So I rolled up my blanket and slogged down the beach some more. (Some nude heterosexuals complemented me on my ink work along the way. See? I make friends wherever I go!)
And there were the naked bears! A beach full of them! Yippee!
Tragically, by this point, it was four o'clock. So I had just time enough to scope out the bears, enjoy a cigar (which you can't really do with a stiff ocean breeze blowing, and get 20 pages into my collection of Nero Wolfe short stories before the bears were packing up to go.
But it's all good. I enjoyed the expanding empty beach left behind by the departing bears for a bit, then packed up my stuff and headed for home. I stopped at the New Jersey Diner With Incredibly Slow Service But Great Food (I think it's a chain... I've eaten there countless times before), and made another stop in New Hope to grab a latte at Starbucks. (I had hoped to stop and grab an iced quad venti one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte on my way in, but whaddya know, there were no parking spaces at all in the entire town. When I worked there as a pup, I had a t-shirt printed up that read, "Pave The River!" It was an inside joke, but I was the only one on the inside.) (Yes, even I, though I know better, used to wear legible t-shirts.)
But that's not all! Later that night, I headed back down to New Hope to stop into the Raven. The crowd was pretty dreary, but I did meet one hot Worldleathermen interlocutor, whom I've really gotta tie up and torture some time. He's got one of those north jersey accents that just make me melt.
So now, here I am, on July 4th, sitting on the porch, typing this account of myself.
It's a gorgeous day. ("The two most beautiful words in the English language...") My astilbe, day lilies, and lupine are just exploding. After a shopping trip, I'm heading down to Philadelphia for a party and to watch the fireworks with some local leathermen.
Nice.
Nice nice nice nice Nice.
Enjoy your weekend!
Oh. Wait. No. That's The Other One.
Happy 239th Birthday America! I'm feeling sooooo Toby Keith today!
Anyway, great weekend so far! I'm hardly regretting at all that I'm not in Florida right now.
Not being able to take a vacation this year meant that I could go to the annual July 4th Weekend dungeon party hosted by a couple of Inferno buddies of mine, who have made it their mission to insure that sexual deviancy thrives in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. My first trip from NYC to this party lead to much anxiety on my part, worried that I would be outclassed. This time, I just felt myself to be entirely among friends. And, because it was a quick hop, skip, and jump to get there, I brought my chains and whips and such, but if'n I didn't end up playing, that was cool, too.
Barbeque was good, and I enjoyed the company. Two of the very pillars of GMSMA were there. I have made a date to bottom to... Horowitz (no nom de plume necessary here, I don't think) at Inferno this year. He has a plan. A diabolical plan, by the sound of it. Involving an "announcement made at breakfast." So I'm pretty enthralled.
After dinner, the guys that were just there for dinner drifted homewards, and the rest of us got busy in the well-appointed dungeon.
In attendance was this... this... this man. I've seen him and his Sir for years. And they always make me drip cum. He, in particular, is just so incredibly hot. True to form, whenever he's around, I just stare at the ground sixteen inches in front of my boots, unable to make eye contact, little less engage in conversation, little less actually ask if he'd be up for a scene. (I hate that!)
But as dinner was breaking up, he approached me, greeted me, and shook my hand. Later, in the dungeon, I watched as he put a succession of subs into his vac rack. Sticking my courage to the sticking place, I complemented him on the scenes he did, and helped him clean up afterwards. And then, I did it. I asked if he wanted to play. And he said, "Sure."
He went to check in with his Sir, and I set about thinking what I might like to do. I decided on face-to-face, with boxing gloves (had mine!), maybe chained to a post (alas, no sides of any post were free of eye-bolts). I just had this image of this big, beautiful man, all chained up, and me wearing the boxing gloves, working him over. The physicality of it, getting to throw some good punches at him. And then, bringing the glove up to his face and saying, "yeaaaaah, kiss it boy. kiss it." Followed by a measured jab right in the kisser.
The Man returned, asked what I had in mind, and I told him I wanted to beat him. He declined that, but said he would sure be up for a flogging.
Okay. Not a problem. Switch gears.
Flogging... I'm good at that!
So that's what we did. At his request, he was unrestrained. Just standing there, bearing his beautiful back to me. It just reddened up beautifully. So wonderful. I was turned on the entire time. It was a sweet and pure distillation of SM. So simple. So elegant. So good for the soul.
Afterwards, he was glowing. And flying. And grateful. We talked some more. And, as it happens, he's a really great guy. Very likeable. Very upfront. Self aware. And maybe I'll have a second bite at the apple at Inferno. Hope so ("kiss it, boy. yeah. kiss it.").
Yesterday, Sunday, it was off to the beach. Namely, Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook. Aka, the Nude Beach.
Word had reached me that there was this big Bear thing going on there. Metrobears NYC, Garden State Bears, and the Liberty Bears of Philadelphia were all converging at Gunnison. And, to be sure, that was all the inclination I needed.
And... and... one of the great things about living here is I-195. If you look at a map of NJ, all the roads basically run north-south. Except for 195. Which cuts due east from Trenton and takes you to the beach, 35 miles away. It's a great road, and it's like a worm hole: you enter at one end, and in no time at all, it spits you out at the other end.
Traffic was dicey once I got off the Parkway at the opposite end of 195, but that's more a function of the fact that Sandy Hook is sort of off there on it's own on the northernmost tip of the New Jersey shoreline.
I messed up on the parking, and had to slog through the non-nude beach to get to the nude beach (I always do this), but finally, there it was: nudidity! But it was all kinds of heterosexual nudidity. I watched some hot naked straight men cavorting with their naked girlfriends/wives for a while. And then I remembered: the queers tend to congregate on the southern part of the nude beach.
Right.
So I rolled up my blanket and slogged down the beach some more. (Some nude heterosexuals complemented me on my ink work along the way. See? I make friends wherever I go!)
And there were the naked bears! A beach full of them! Yippee!
Tragically, by this point, it was four o'clock. So I had just time enough to scope out the bears, enjoy a cigar (which you can't really do with a stiff ocean breeze blowing, and get 20 pages into my collection of Nero Wolfe short stories before the bears were packing up to go.
But it's all good. I enjoyed the expanding empty beach left behind by the departing bears for a bit, then packed up my stuff and headed for home. I stopped at the New Jersey Diner With Incredibly Slow Service But Great Food (I think it's a chain... I've eaten there countless times before), and made another stop in New Hope to grab a latte at Starbucks. (I had hoped to stop and grab an iced quad venti one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte on my way in, but whaddya know, there were no parking spaces at all in the entire town. When I worked there as a pup, I had a t-shirt printed up that read, "Pave The River!" It was an inside joke, but I was the only one on the inside.) (Yes, even I, though I know better, used to wear legible t-shirts.)
But that's not all! Later that night, I headed back down to New Hope to stop into the Raven. The crowd was pretty dreary, but I did meet one hot Worldleathermen interlocutor, whom I've really gotta tie up and torture some time. He's got one of those north jersey accents that just make me melt.
So now, here I am, on July 4th, sitting on the porch, typing this account of myself.
It's a gorgeous day. ("The two most beautiful words in the English language...") My astilbe, day lilies, and lupine are just exploding. After a shopping trip, I'm heading down to Philadelphia for a party and to watch the fireworks with some local leathermen.
Nice.
Nice nice nice nice Nice.
Enjoy your weekend!
Saturday, July 02, 2005
More Cold-Blooded Messengers!
So this morning--or, y'know, what passes for "morning" on a Saturday here at the Humble Abode--my father called out to me from the kitchen. As I made my way there, the words "What did you say? I thought you said, 'there's a toad in the kitchen,'" were coming out of my mouth.
But as I rounded the corner, there was my father, bracing himself against a chair, and there, in the middle of the kitchen floor was a toad.
My dad was going on about 'how did that get in here? it's because you leave the door open...' or something. I scooped up the toad (he was beautiful, this pale greenish-brown, like ancient, weathered bone). I took him out on the porch, and let him go in the garden.
A toad... I used to spend my summer days in childhood catching toads and frogs.
This guy didn't even piss in my hand. (It's their defense mechanism. If Faithful Companion got a hold of him in his mouth, it would have made him sick.) And when I let him go, he just sat there.
Beautiful.
And then, just now, I was out on the porch having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I heard this sort of metallic clunking sound. I thought it was Faithful Companion's tail knocking something. But when I heard it again, I got a better sense of where it was coming from. I stepped off the porch and examined the downspout of the rain gutter.
And sure enough, there was a box turtle, knocking up against it with his hard shell.
This was a different box turtle from the one the other day. He was older, with a more mature design on his shell. I went out, plucked him up, and carried him back to themosquito breeding bog pond in the back yard and let him go. Far from the road. With fresh water. And lots of nice green vegetation for him to eat.
Turtle, toad, turtle.
Could this be something like an angelic Morse code? What's going on here?
I choose to believe it's some good portent. Something good is coming my way. Or maybe someone good.
And that's good. I need that.
That Guy From LA is on Fire Island this week. I told him how I had off all this week. How I couldn't afford to go down to Florida. How much I loved Fire Island. If it crossed his mind to invite me out for a day, he sure didn't give that away by anything he said.
Ah well. I abide.
I've been sort of hard-hearted concerning menfolk of late. I've met exactly two-and-a-half men in my life who I found... compelling. That's the word. Men who sort of had it all. They were so hot I couldn't think clearly when I looked at them. And I could just talk to them forever and ever, never exhausting things to think about. They were men who loved life, and who lived people. And what a great team we'd make. Like the Hardy Boys (only, y'know, not related; and we'd fuck), just chafing at the bit to get out there and have some new adventure.
Body, mind, spirit. Everything I love about all the men in my life, although ample quantities of each in the form of one guy. Two and a half times!
And at this point in my life, I'm less and less willing to settle for anything less than the complete package. Settling just gets me into trouble. Sure, he has an amazing body with that beer gut and those sixteen inch guns on him and all that hair, but if I have to hear about how this is like a Will & Grace episode one more time... Or, gosh, it's amazing that this guy can reel off these amazing poems from memory, but what is up with those toenails of his?
Oh. And he has to be accessible, too. Someone I can call up and make plans for Friday night with on a wednesday afternoon at Starbucks.
And, it goes without saying, he has to be absolutely twisted. And omnivorously so.
Anyway. I'm off to the annual July Fourth Weekend Dungeon Party hosted by friends of mine who live in Pottstown. Longtime readers may remember the Yellow Dress dilemma when I went there two years ago. No such anxieties this time around. I'm just going for the burgers and hot dogs. Although maybe I'll meet some special guy...
Or maybe those were just a couple of turtles and a toad that happenstance placed in my path.
So this morning--or, y'know, what passes for "morning" on a Saturday here at the Humble Abode--my father called out to me from the kitchen. As I made my way there, the words "What did you say? I thought you said, 'there's a toad in the kitchen,'" were coming out of my mouth.
But as I rounded the corner, there was my father, bracing himself against a chair, and there, in the middle of the kitchen floor was a toad.
My dad was going on about 'how did that get in here? it's because you leave the door open...' or something. I scooped up the toad (he was beautiful, this pale greenish-brown, like ancient, weathered bone). I took him out on the porch, and let him go in the garden.
A toad... I used to spend my summer days in childhood catching toads and frogs.
This guy didn't even piss in my hand. (It's their defense mechanism. If Faithful Companion got a hold of him in his mouth, it would have made him sick.) And when I let him go, he just sat there.
Beautiful.
And then, just now, I was out on the porch having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I heard this sort of metallic clunking sound. I thought it was Faithful Companion's tail knocking something. But when I heard it again, I got a better sense of where it was coming from. I stepped off the porch and examined the downspout of the rain gutter.
And sure enough, there was a box turtle, knocking up against it with his hard shell.
This was a different box turtle from the one the other day. He was older, with a more mature design on his shell. I went out, plucked him up, and carried him back to the
Turtle, toad, turtle.
Could this be something like an angelic Morse code? What's going on here?
I choose to believe it's some good portent. Something good is coming my way. Or maybe someone good.
And that's good. I need that.
That Guy From LA is on Fire Island this week. I told him how I had off all this week. How I couldn't afford to go down to Florida. How much I loved Fire Island. If it crossed his mind to invite me out for a day, he sure didn't give that away by anything he said.
Ah well. I abide.
I've been sort of hard-hearted concerning menfolk of late. I've met exactly two-and-a-half men in my life who I found... compelling. That's the word. Men who sort of had it all. They were so hot I couldn't think clearly when I looked at them. And I could just talk to them forever and ever, never exhausting things to think about. They were men who loved life, and who lived people. And what a great team we'd make. Like the Hardy Boys (only, y'know, not related; and we'd fuck), just chafing at the bit to get out there and have some new adventure.
Body, mind, spirit. Everything I love about all the men in my life, although ample quantities of each in the form of one guy. Two and a half times!
And at this point in my life, I'm less and less willing to settle for anything less than the complete package. Settling just gets me into trouble. Sure, he has an amazing body with that beer gut and those sixteen inch guns on him and all that hair, but if I have to hear about how this is like a Will & Grace episode one more time... Or, gosh, it's amazing that this guy can reel off these amazing poems from memory, but what is up with those toenails of his?
Oh. And he has to be accessible, too. Someone I can call up and make plans for Friday night with on a wednesday afternoon at Starbucks.
And, it goes without saying, he has to be absolutely twisted. And omnivorously so.
Anyway. I'm off to the annual July Fourth Weekend Dungeon Party hosted by friends of mine who live in Pottstown. Longtime readers may remember the Yellow Dress dilemma when I went there two years ago. No such anxieties this time around. I'm just going for the burgers and hot dogs. Although maybe I'll meet some special guy...
Or maybe those were just a couple of turtles and a toad that happenstance placed in my path.
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