I Left My Heart... Oops! Wait! Nope. There It Is. I Put It In With My Dirty Socks.
Back from San Francisco.
The conference was great. So great. Great to see all those people again, from across the country, to be warmly greeted, to have challenging, engaging conversations, to have those moments when I get to be a star. And I learned so much! So much has happened since I've been gone from the field. Did you know that in NYC the syringe exchange programs are now getting funded by the New York City Department of Health??? And ADAPT went under? I mean... Like... Who knew???
And something else went down, too. On my previous trips to SF, the city sort of left me cold. I find the architecture precious and twee, I'm always cold there, and throughout my life, every preachy self-righteous, ultra-PC nut job I've had to deal with has done me the huge favor of getting out of my life and moving to SF, and as a result, I'm nervous about talking to anyone for fear that they're going to sense that I don't recycle and yell at me.
But on this trip, I got it. I see what there is to love about San Francisco.
First off, the weather was breathtakingly gorgeous. Cool nights and sunny warm days. Sure, I could have been hotter, but it didn't feel too bac. After all, this is November, right?
And then there were the rides. Get this! On Saturday morning, there wasn't too much going on at the conference, so I decided to treat myself to some time spent at one of my all time favorite Starbucks, the one at 18th and Castro. And it was cracklin' with sexual tension, as always. So I look at my watch and realize that it's time for me to head to Oakland so I could make the after lunch workshops. I asked where I could find the nearest BART stop, and as directions were offered, this guy said, "So where do you have to go?" I told him Oakland, and he said, "I'll drive you." And he did! All the way to Oakland.
And that kept happening. This guy I was talking to at the Eagle said, "You're getting tired, huh? Still on East Coast time? Let me take you home." And he didn't mean to his home, but to my home. As in, where I was staying. I swear, people were giving me rides all weekend.
Okay, so then there was the whole part about just where I was staying. With Special Guy and his new boyfriend. As in, the guy who's not me.
But that was totally cool.
New Boyfriend is a great guy, and even though I was up early and home late, they made me feel totally welcome.
Not like I didn't spend some time wondering where things went awry with me and Special Guy. Because we really are so good together. And even though he and New Boyfriend seem to have a good thing going on, it wasn't magic. I didn't feel the heat.
(Like the way people used to tell me they felt the heat whenever me and Special Guy were in the room when we were together.)
So... Like... Special Guy rolls differently than I do, y'know? After me, he hooked up with this guy named Bob, who was a boob. And that didn't work. So Special Guy moved to SF and was soon dating some local guy. And then that guy hit him or something, and so Special Guy left him and started up with some new guy, and there were two and three in between then and now with New Boyfriend.
You get what I'm saying?
For me, Special Guy was--and is--the Love Of My Life So Far. But for Special Guy, I was just 'that guy I dated between the Australian and Bob the boob.
There seems to be a certain grace with which Special Guy moves from relationship to relationship to relationship. Definitely a grace I don't have.
So I'm reading this book right now. It's called "Going To Pieces Without Falling Apart: A Buddhist Perspective On Wholeness," written by Mark Epstein. And I'm liking it. At one point, he discusses the work of a pediatrician named Donald Winnicott. Winnicott came up with the concept of the 'good-enough mother." No mother is perfect, with respect to meeting all the needs of her baby. But that works for the baby, because the baby adapts to the mother's... uh... lapses by making due. And that 'making due' lets the baby move slowly towards autonomy.
Sorry if there's any whiplash incurred on your end trying to follow this.
Let me explain.
As you probably know, I'm all about finding Mr. Perfect. But Special Guy seems more about Good Enough Boyfriend. He doesn't have to be perfect. He just has to be available. And good in bed. (I definitely did get the impression that Special Guy and New Boyfriend have some prettty mind-roasting hell-raising sex.)
So maybe, in imitation of Special Guy, who seems to be having a better go if it than me, I'll be more open. More willing to overlook some flaws.
Good Enough Boyfriend.
Bring it on.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Do As Madonna Says, Not As She Does. Or Doesn't
Dad and I just got back from voting at the local firehouse here in Plumstead Township. We were numbers 332 and 333, which for eleven o'clock in the morning is all but unprecedented. I'll be absolutely flabbergasted if the Dems suffer defeat at the top of the ticket here in Pennsylvania. Ed Rendell ("he'd show up for the opening of a can of beans" --my Dad) is just about assured a second term as governor, and Bob Casey has been ahead in the polls over Rick Santorum almost from the moment that he declared.
And I'm hoping hoping hoping that going down to sure defeat at the top of the ticket will depress Republican voter turn out. Because the race that I'm really interested in is the Pennsylvania 8th Congressional District, where Iraq War Vet Patrick Murphy is seeking to unseat the incumbent Republican, Mike Fitzpatrick.
I hate Mike Fitzpatrick. He went to Congress after a lackluster career as a Bucks County Commissioner, who summed up his career by saying, "I kept taxes down." And hasn't done much in Congress other than a couple of idiotic protect-our-precious-children-from-the-predations-of-the-internet bills. The Republican Party in Bucks County is a machine run by one man, Harry Fawkes. He decides who gets to run for office for every seat in the county. It's nuts.
Even though Murphy is ten years my junior (I am officially Old because of that, right?), he's a bright guy with some good ideas and a lot of pluck.
Whether he'll pull it out is another story. It's not so much that local Republicans are all about loving what's going on in Iraq. It's more the case that they think that if a Democrat wins, there will be a knock on the door in the middle of the night shortly thereafter and somebody will be there to take away their guns and they won't be able to go deer hunting. (I swear, that's almost verbatim.)
If I was a local Dem strategist, I'd introduce the idea of opening up all the lands set aside for preservation around here (which is a great idea to slow the pace of development) for hunting. Lord knows we can spare the deer, and it might assuage those fears.
But we'll see.
For now, I'm off to work.
Dad and I just got back from voting at the local firehouse here in Plumstead Township. We were numbers 332 and 333, which for eleven o'clock in the morning is all but unprecedented. I'll be absolutely flabbergasted if the Dems suffer defeat at the top of the ticket here in Pennsylvania. Ed Rendell ("he'd show up for the opening of a can of beans" --my Dad) is just about assured a second term as governor, and Bob Casey has been ahead in the polls over Rick Santorum almost from the moment that he declared.
And I'm hoping hoping hoping that going down to sure defeat at the top of the ticket will depress Republican voter turn out. Because the race that I'm really interested in is the Pennsylvania 8th Congressional District, where Iraq War Vet Patrick Murphy is seeking to unseat the incumbent Republican, Mike Fitzpatrick.
I hate Mike Fitzpatrick. He went to Congress after a lackluster career as a Bucks County Commissioner, who summed up his career by saying, "I kept taxes down." And hasn't done much in Congress other than a couple of idiotic protect-our-precious-children-from-the-predations-of-the-internet bills. The Republican Party in Bucks County is a machine run by one man, Harry Fawkes. He decides who gets to run for office for every seat in the county. It's nuts.
Even though Murphy is ten years my junior (I am officially Old because of that, right?), he's a bright guy with some good ideas and a lot of pluck.
Whether he'll pull it out is another story. It's not so much that local Republicans are all about loving what's going on in Iraq. It's more the case that they think that if a Democrat wins, there will be a knock on the door in the middle of the night shortly thereafter and somebody will be there to take away their guns and they won't be able to go deer hunting. (I swear, that's almost verbatim.)
If I was a local Dem strategist, I'd introduce the idea of opening up all the lands set aside for preservation around here (which is a great idea to slow the pace of development) for hunting. Lord knows we can spare the deer, and it might assuage those fears.
But we'll see.
For now, I'm off to work.
Do As Madonna Says, Not As She Does. Or Doesn't
Dad and I just got back from voting at the local firehouse here in Plumstead Township. We were numbers 332 and 333, which for eleven o'clock in the morning is all but unprecedented. I'll be absolutely flabbergasted if the Dems suffer defeat at the top of the ticket here in Pennsylvania. Ed Rendell ("he'd show up for the opening of a can of beans" --my Dad) is just about assured a second term as governor, and Bob Casey has been ahead in the polls over Rick Santorum almost from the moment that he declared.
And I'm hoping hoping hoping that going down to sure defeat at the top of the ticket will depress Republican voter turn out. Because the race that I'm really interested in is the Pennsylvania 8th Congressional District, where Iraq War Vet Patrick Murphy is seeking to unseat the incumbent Republican, Mike Fitzpatrick.
I hate Mike Fitzpatrick. He went to Congress after a lackluster career as a Bucks County Commissioner, who summed up his career by saying, "I kept taxes down." And hasn't done much in Congress other than a couple of idiotic protect-our-precious-children-from-the-predations-of-the-internet bills. The Republican Party in Bucks County is a machine run by one man, Harry Fawkes. He decides who gets to run for office for every seat in the county. It's nuts.
Even though Murphy is ten years my junior (I am officially Old because of that, right?), he's a bright guy with some good ideas and a lot of pluck.
Whether he'll pull it out is another story. It's not so much that local Republicans are all about loving what's going on in Iraq. It's more the case that they think that if a Democrat wins, there will be a knock on the door in the middle of the night shortly thereafter and somebody will be there to take away their guns and they won't be able to go deer hunting. (I swear, that's almost verbatim.)
If I was a local Dem strategist, I'd introduce the idea of opening up all the lands set aside for preservation around here (which is a great idea to slow the pace of development) for hunting. Lord knows we can spare the deer, and it might assuage those fears.
But we'll see.
For now, I'm off to work.
Dad and I just got back from voting at the local firehouse here in Plumstead Township. We were numbers 332 and 333, which for eleven o'clock in the morning is all but unprecedented. I'll be absolutely flabbergasted if the Dems suffer defeat at the top of the ticket here in Pennsylvania. Ed Rendell ("he'd show up for the opening of a can of beans" --my Dad) is just about assured a second term as governor, and Bob Casey has been ahead in the polls over Rick Santorum almost from the moment that he declared.
And I'm hoping hoping hoping that going down to sure defeat at the top of the ticket will depress Republican voter turn out. Because the race that I'm really interested in is the Pennsylvania 8th Congressional District, where Iraq War Vet Patrick Murphy is seeking to unseat the incumbent Republican, Mike Fitzpatrick.
I hate Mike Fitzpatrick. He went to Congress after a lackluster career as a Bucks County Commissioner, who summed up his career by saying, "I kept taxes down." And hasn't done much in Congress other than a couple of idiotic protect-our-precious-children-from-the-predations-of-the-internet bills. The Republican Party in Bucks County is a machine run by one man, Harry Fawkes. He decides who gets to run for office for every seat in the county. It's nuts.
Even though Murphy is ten years my junior (I am officially Old because of that, right?), he's a bright guy with some good ideas and a lot of pluck.
Whether he'll pull it out is another story. It's not so much that local Republicans are all about loving what's going on in Iraq. It's more the case that they think that if a Democrat wins, there will be a knock on the door in the middle of the night shortly thereafter and somebody will be there to take away their guns and they won't be able to go deer hunting. (I swear, that's almost verbatim.)
If I was a local Dem strategist, I'd introduce the idea of opening up all the lands set aside for preservation around here (which is a great idea to slow the pace of development) for hunting. Lord knows we can spare the deer, and it might assuage those fears.
But we'll see.
For now, I'm off to work.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Eureka!
Well, actually Oakland.
This Wednesday, I'm off to Oakland for a conference for work. And I'm looking forward to that. Kinda. I still haven't let my father in on the news, which he's going to take pretty hard, hating it as he does when I go away.
And another thought occurred to me. That crappy mood I've been in lately? What's that all about?
Well...
I decided to save some money by staying with someone I know. Namely, Special Guy.
The Love Of My Life So Far.
Him and his new boyfriend.
I know, right?
What was I thinking?
And I'm probably going to be quite the Problem Guest. Leaving early, coming back late.
But a good thing has come out of it. I've finally--after what? four years--getting in touch with my anger at him for dumping me. Perfect timing, right?
And anger at myself for... For what? For not putting up a fight? I've flogged a lot of passive bottoms in my time, but I've avoided flogging dead horses.
And at the time, I thought that I'd just found a new Special Guy. Just breeze on into the Special Guy store and pick myself out a new one.
And since then, nuthin'.
Will Special Guy be my last relationship?
Ludicrous, you say? Ridiculous, you bluster?
Think about it.
Lord knows I have.
I'm forty-two years old. Forty-deuce. And for me, it's all about men my age or older. So let's think of it mathematically.
Think of the complete set of gay men forty-two and older. Now subtract from that set the following:
1. Those men who are not kinky, kink-averse, or kink-phobic;
2. Those men who live outside of the greater Philadelphia area or New York City;
3. Those men not interested in dating me because I live with my father, or because I smoke, or whatever;
4. Those men who are lawyers;
5. Those men who are clean-cut, clean-shaven, and clean-livin'.
So that narrows the field considerably, right?
But wait. There's more.
Think about the men who are left over. Most of them have found one another and coupled up. While I'm out at the Bike Stop surveying the crowd and finding it wanting, they're home falling asleep watching South Park in bed together.
But then, there's the guys who aren't coupled up already. What might the reason be for that?
Fear of intimacy? Fear of life? Serious unresolved issues of one kind or another that result in all kinds of weird-ass behavior where romance is concerned?
Yeah, those are the fields I'm tilling.
So having recently come to this realization, what am I gonna do? Why, I'm gonna spend five solid days thinking about What Might Have Been.
Look for me at the Loading Dock or the Eagle or wherever the hell I can still smoke a cigar in SF this weekend!
Well, actually Oakland.
This Wednesday, I'm off to Oakland for a conference for work. And I'm looking forward to that. Kinda. I still haven't let my father in on the news, which he's going to take pretty hard, hating it as he does when I go away.
And another thought occurred to me. That crappy mood I've been in lately? What's that all about?
Well...
I decided to save some money by staying with someone I know. Namely, Special Guy.
The Love Of My Life So Far.
Him and his new boyfriend.
I know, right?
What was I thinking?
And I'm probably going to be quite the Problem Guest. Leaving early, coming back late.
But a good thing has come out of it. I've finally--after what? four years--getting in touch with my anger at him for dumping me. Perfect timing, right?
And anger at myself for... For what? For not putting up a fight? I've flogged a lot of passive bottoms in my time, but I've avoided flogging dead horses.
And at the time, I thought that I'd just found a new Special Guy. Just breeze on into the Special Guy store and pick myself out a new one.
And since then, nuthin'.
Will Special Guy be my last relationship?
Ludicrous, you say? Ridiculous, you bluster?
Think about it.
Lord knows I have.
I'm forty-two years old. Forty-deuce. And for me, it's all about men my age or older. So let's think of it mathematically.
Think of the complete set of gay men forty-two and older. Now subtract from that set the following:
1. Those men who are not kinky, kink-averse, or kink-phobic;
2. Those men who live outside of the greater Philadelphia area or New York City;
3. Those men not interested in dating me because I live with my father, or because I smoke, or whatever;
4. Those men who are lawyers;
5. Those men who are clean-cut, clean-shaven, and clean-livin'.
So that narrows the field considerably, right?
But wait. There's more.
Think about the men who are left over. Most of them have found one another and coupled up. While I'm out at the Bike Stop surveying the crowd and finding it wanting, they're home falling asleep watching South Park in bed together.
But then, there's the guys who aren't coupled up already. What might the reason be for that?
Fear of intimacy? Fear of life? Serious unresolved issues of one kind or another that result in all kinds of weird-ass behavior where romance is concerned?
Yeah, those are the fields I'm tilling.
So having recently come to this realization, what am I gonna do? Why, I'm gonna spend five solid days thinking about What Might Have Been.
Look for me at the Loading Dock or the Eagle or wherever the hell I can still smoke a cigar in SF this weekend!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Forty Deuce
A great birthday weekend, and it's not over yet.
I had to work on Saturday, covering for someone who was out at one of our weekly street outreach sites. Which was great. Even though I'm "management," I get to have direct contact with our clients, and it's one of the things I enjoy most about my work. And yet another reason why I have the best job in the world. After work, I met up with TopLthrStud4u, who got cheap airfare and a reasonable rate at his favorite hotel, so was up visiting Philadelphia from his home in Jacksonville. We had met once before at MAL after years of messaging back and forth to each other. He's a great guy, and I enjoyed spending time with him, walking through Philadelphia, and visiting Passional, a BD/leather/kink emporium. While at Passional, I made a Very Important Discovery: they have a little clearance bin in the back, where I picked up a vibrating butt plug for $5.81. No really! That's how much it cost! Woo-hooo! (I'm just going to hope and trust that the reason it was in the clearance bin wasn't beause the product was recalled in the wake of several horrible inter-rectal electrocutions or something.) TopLthrStud and I parted ways so he could return to his hotel and get a nap to prepare him from the moveable feast that is the Bike Stop on Saturday night, and I headed back up to Bucks County.
After hanging at Starbucks in Doylestown for a wee bit and getting all kindly uncle for one of the vagabond youth I befriended when I frequented the place, I headed home, packed a bag, made dinner (cream chipped beef on toast!) for my dad and headed up to NYC.
First order of business was to meet up with a man whom we'll call Brownstone, as he's the World's Foremost Leading Authority thereupon (we'll, in the Top 10 anway). Brownstone and I have had an online mutual appreciation society going for years and years now, and finally we were going to be in the same place at the same time, so we planned to get together. We met up at the Factory Cafe on Christopher Street, and talked about architecture, kink, and body building. When the Factory threw us out at 1 am, we headed up to theEagle Spiegel to peruse the local leather scene, or lack thereof. The Eagle was packed, and there were actually two or three guys there besides me in leather!
Way!
Regardless of the Spiegel experience, I think that the leather scene in NYC may, in fact, be tumescent. The New York boys of Leather is rocking the town. Leather Invasion keeps coming up with innovative outings for the cowhide clad, and now I hear that there's a bar opening up at 85 Avenue A called Big Lug ("a men's bar") that has a leather-rubber-uniform thing on Saturday nights. (If I still lived in NYC, I'd be a fixture at Big Lug.) And how cool that it's a close neighbor of the Pyramid Club, ground zero for the East Village Drag Explosion that brought the world Lady Bunny, Ru Paul, Lypsinka, Sister Dimension, and LaHoma Van Zandt. (The uninitiated might not understand why that is supremely appropriate, but you do, don'cha?)
Brownstone was feeling jet-laggy, so he called it a night early. And truth be told, I was feeling none too zippy and peppy myself. And I was starting to dread the drive across the river to Jersey City, where I planned to stay the night courtesy of my Friend and Former Landlord. But luckily, up on the roof deck catching a smoke, I was approached by a reasonably hot man who chatted for a bit, and said the magic words: "I live a few blocks from here." And so, together we repaired to his well-appointed digs in Far West Chelsea.
The next morning, I met up with Brownstone for breakfast, and then we embarked on a brief tour of nice architecture in Lower Manhattan. Too brief, to be sure. We hit the Richard Meier Towers (I was hoping that Brownstone was going to surprise me with ownership of one of the units for my birthday, but no.). And then we headed up the West Side Highway to behold the new building that Frank Gehry designed for Barry Diller at 19th Street. And it's spectacular. Around the back, there's this completely utilitarian windowless building painted white that's surrounded by the Gehry masterpiece, as though by cupped hands. It's so cool.
Brownstone and I had lunch (I know we just had breakfast, but Brownstone has a body to build, so he's all about eight meals a day.) at Bennie's Burrito's in the East Village, which was jam packed with strollers. (I love children, but I could never eat a whole one.)
And then, and then, Brownstone and I parted ways, and I headed over to my Gay Men's S/M Spirituality Discussion Group. We really need an acronym, right? GaMSamSPIDIG, maybe?
We hadn't met since April, so it was so great and much needed to sit in a circle with those guys, get centered, hear what's going on with their spiritual paths, and talk a little bit about my own.
Mostly what I talked about was my current obsession with coupling up. That's spurred, in part perhaps, by getting the Best Job In The World. So much of my previous stress and anxiety have been wiped away, and that's now come to the fore. And, my ruminations on what happened to the once prominent role that SM played in my life. As I expressed it, "Presented with a hot man with whom I had a deep connection, and given the choice between whipping him and curling up with him to keep warm on a cold winter's night, it's pretty obvious to me which way I'd go."
One of our number reminded me of something I know all too well. You've got to let go of the wanting. Because the wanting takes up space in your soul, and until you clear away the wanting, you won't have room for the thing you want. Once I let go of wanting a boyfriend, then I'll be open to having a boyfriend.
It's verrry Buddhist. And verrrrry 'Sex In The City.'
And it's just what I needed to hear.
So after we broke, we repaired to dinner to the nearby Ukrainian Home. My pork ghoulash was wonderful, and the company was marvelous.
After dinner, we said our goodbyes, and I headed down Ninth Street to where my car was parked on Eighth between Ave B and Ave C.
More than any other neighborhood in NYC, and I lived in several, I think of the East Village as my home. I know all those streets, if only because that's where I lived (at 7th and B) when I was new to New York and the City was new to me, and everything was magical, a world waiting to be explored.
Then the drive home. As I was headed for the Holland Tunnel, my BlackBerry signaled an incoming call. It was hot tub guy! I picked up, and heard that wonderful man warbling at me...
"Happy Birthday to you!
You live in a zoo!
You look like a monkey,
And you act like one, too!"
That. Made. My. Day.
And hot tub guy had a proposition: instead of heading for home, how about I come to his place in Philadelphia? We could go nutso tonight, call in sick to work the next day, and spend the first full day of my 43rd year going nutso some more. And, of course, spending the night curled up with each other in bed, keeping each other warm.
But of course, there was one problem: Faithful Companion was waiting for me at home, wanting a walk. I counter-offered that we postpone it until tomorrow (Monday) night. And hot tub guy was game.
So this morning, I brought Faithful Companion to work with me (they love him, of course), and when I get off at five, I'll head down to hot tub guy's lofty abode in scenic Fishtown. He's hard at work as I type planning some kind of Birthday Extrrrravagannnza for me. (Which may or may not include heading to the Bike Stop for Jock Strap Night sporting the requisite jock straps and werewolf masks.)
Y'know, I'm getting my needs met. I've got plenty of love in my life, plenty of people who think of me fondly and often and wish me well. My life is rich, full, and satisfying.
Happy Birthday to me.
A great birthday weekend, and it's not over yet.
I had to work on Saturday, covering for someone who was out at one of our weekly street outreach sites. Which was great. Even though I'm "management," I get to have direct contact with our clients, and it's one of the things I enjoy most about my work. And yet another reason why I have the best job in the world. After work, I met up with TopLthrStud4u, who got cheap airfare and a reasonable rate at his favorite hotel, so was up visiting Philadelphia from his home in Jacksonville. We had met once before at MAL after years of messaging back and forth to each other. He's a great guy, and I enjoyed spending time with him, walking through Philadelphia, and visiting Passional, a BD/leather/kink emporium. While at Passional, I made a Very Important Discovery: they have a little clearance bin in the back, where I picked up a vibrating butt plug for $5.81. No really! That's how much it cost! Woo-hooo! (I'm just going to hope and trust that the reason it was in the clearance bin wasn't beause the product was recalled in the wake of several horrible inter-rectal electrocutions or something.) TopLthrStud and I parted ways so he could return to his hotel and get a nap to prepare him from the moveable feast that is the Bike Stop on Saturday night, and I headed back up to Bucks County.
After hanging at Starbucks in Doylestown for a wee bit and getting all kindly uncle for one of the vagabond youth I befriended when I frequented the place, I headed home, packed a bag, made dinner (cream chipped beef on toast!) for my dad and headed up to NYC.
First order of business was to meet up with a man whom we'll call Brownstone, as he's the World's Foremost Leading Authority thereupon (we'll, in the Top 10 anway). Brownstone and I have had an online mutual appreciation society going for years and years now, and finally we were going to be in the same place at the same time, so we planned to get together. We met up at the Factory Cafe on Christopher Street, and talked about architecture, kink, and body building. When the Factory threw us out at 1 am, we headed up to the
Way!
Regardless of the Spiegel experience, I think that the leather scene in NYC may, in fact, be tumescent. The New York boys of Leather is rocking the town. Leather Invasion keeps coming up with innovative outings for the cowhide clad, and now I hear that there's a bar opening up at 85 Avenue A called Big Lug ("a men's bar") that has a leather-rubber-uniform thing on Saturday nights. (If I still lived in NYC, I'd be a fixture at Big Lug.) And how cool that it's a close neighbor of the Pyramid Club, ground zero for the East Village Drag Explosion that brought the world Lady Bunny, Ru Paul, Lypsinka, Sister Dimension, and LaHoma Van Zandt. (The uninitiated might not understand why that is supremely appropriate, but you do, don'cha?)
Brownstone was feeling jet-laggy, so he called it a night early. And truth be told, I was feeling none too zippy and peppy myself. And I was starting to dread the drive across the river to Jersey City, where I planned to stay the night courtesy of my Friend and Former Landlord. But luckily, up on the roof deck catching a smoke, I was approached by a reasonably hot man who chatted for a bit, and said the magic words: "I live a few blocks from here." And so, together we repaired to his well-appointed digs in Far West Chelsea.
The next morning, I met up with Brownstone for breakfast, and then we embarked on a brief tour of nice architecture in Lower Manhattan. Too brief, to be sure. We hit the Richard Meier Towers (I was hoping that Brownstone was going to surprise me with ownership of one of the units for my birthday, but no.). And then we headed up the West Side Highway to behold the new building that Frank Gehry designed for Barry Diller at 19th Street. And it's spectacular. Around the back, there's this completely utilitarian windowless building painted white that's surrounded by the Gehry masterpiece, as though by cupped hands. It's so cool.
Brownstone and I had lunch (I know we just had breakfast, but Brownstone has a body to build, so he's all about eight meals a day.) at Bennie's Burrito's in the East Village, which was jam packed with strollers. (I love children, but I could never eat a whole one.)
And then, and then, Brownstone and I parted ways, and I headed over to my Gay Men's S/M Spirituality Discussion Group. We really need an acronym, right? GaMSamSPIDIG, maybe?
We hadn't met since April, so it was so great and much needed to sit in a circle with those guys, get centered, hear what's going on with their spiritual paths, and talk a little bit about my own.
Mostly what I talked about was my current obsession with coupling up. That's spurred, in part perhaps, by getting the Best Job In The World. So much of my previous stress and anxiety have been wiped away, and that's now come to the fore. And, my ruminations on what happened to the once prominent role that SM played in my life. As I expressed it, "Presented with a hot man with whom I had a deep connection, and given the choice between whipping him and curling up with him to keep warm on a cold winter's night, it's pretty obvious to me which way I'd go."
One of our number reminded me of something I know all too well. You've got to let go of the wanting. Because the wanting takes up space in your soul, and until you clear away the wanting, you won't have room for the thing you want. Once I let go of wanting a boyfriend, then I'll be open to having a boyfriend.
It's verrry Buddhist. And verrrrry 'Sex In The City.'
And it's just what I needed to hear.
So after we broke, we repaired to dinner to the nearby Ukrainian Home. My pork ghoulash was wonderful, and the company was marvelous.
After dinner, we said our goodbyes, and I headed down Ninth Street to where my car was parked on Eighth between Ave B and Ave C.
More than any other neighborhood in NYC, and I lived in several, I think of the East Village as my home. I know all those streets, if only because that's where I lived (at 7th and B) when I was new to New York and the City was new to me, and everything was magical, a world waiting to be explored.
Then the drive home. As I was headed for the Holland Tunnel, my BlackBerry signaled an incoming call. It was hot tub guy! I picked up, and heard that wonderful man warbling at me...
"Happy Birthday to you!
You live in a zoo!
You look like a monkey,
And you act like one, too!"
That. Made. My. Day.
And hot tub guy had a proposition: instead of heading for home, how about I come to his place in Philadelphia? We could go nutso tonight, call in sick to work the next day, and spend the first full day of my 43rd year going nutso some more. And, of course, spending the night curled up with each other in bed, keeping each other warm.
But of course, there was one problem: Faithful Companion was waiting for me at home, wanting a walk. I counter-offered that we postpone it until tomorrow (Monday) night. And hot tub guy was game.
So this morning, I brought Faithful Companion to work with me (they love him, of course), and when I get off at five, I'll head down to hot tub guy's lofty abode in scenic Fishtown. He's hard at work as I type planning some kind of Birthday Extrrrravagannnza for me. (Which may or may not include heading to the Bike Stop for Jock Strap Night sporting the requisite jock straps and werewolf masks.)
Y'know, I'm getting my needs met. I've got plenty of love in my life, plenty of people who think of me fondly and often and wish me well. My life is rich, full, and satisfying.
Happy Birthday to me.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Love, Doctor
I'm switching doctors.
Currently, my doctor is the man who brought me into the world. He's 79 years old, and I like him fine, but I just don't feel up to... uh... like telling him that I do guys. And that's not a good doctor-patient relationship.
So I asked around, and Datt of Datt and Male, JPZapper and DogTopper all recommend their doctor. So I made an appointment. My main objective, beyond a check up that I'm overdue for, is to get a prescription for Cialis. Of late, I've been getting my kitten punched a lot more than I've been punching kittens. Me being me, I've been subjecting myself to all sorts of self-examination about What Does This Mean? But recently, I realized that the past umpteen times I've managed to get laid, my plumbing hasn't been working so well.
So things generally go down like this:
Mr. Boy: Oh yeah! Awww give it to meee...
Me: Hell yeah, boy, I'm gonna plow you into next week. I am gonna... uh...
Mr. Boy: Um, uh, it's okay if you're not that into me, I mean...
Me: No! I'm totally into you! And I wanna be totally in you... just give me a minute...
Mr. Boy: Hey that's cool. Want me to give you a back rub!
Me (panicky and hysterical): No! I don't want you to give me a back rub! I want you on your back with your legs over my shoulders and... and... Ummm... Come to think about it, a back rub would be pretty nice.
So it's kind of frought.
Luckily, I love getting plowed myself, and I have a nice tight hole that I'm told gives a sweet ride. So it's all good.
But it would be nice to have the option to Top again with my anatomy as well as with my whips and chains and such.
Back when I lived in NYC, I had a Viagra prescription, but I still have half a bottle in my medicine cabinet. It gives me a wicked headache for days, and I hate headaches. But, I'm given to understand that with Cialis, that's not so much of a problem.
So anyway, I received in the mail a form to fill out from my new doctor. Mostly asking about my medical history and my family medical history (which goes like this: Kramer's live forever and Kavetsky's don't make it to 70).
Filling out the form, I had sort of an Addams Family moment when I hit this question: "Are you in a relationship in which you have been slapped, kicked, punched, or bruised by your partner?"
No, but if you know somebody nice, I'd sure like to meet him!
I'm switching doctors.
Currently, my doctor is the man who brought me into the world. He's 79 years old, and I like him fine, but I just don't feel up to... uh... like telling him that I do guys. And that's not a good doctor-patient relationship.
So I asked around, and Datt of Datt and Male, JPZapper and DogTopper all recommend their doctor. So I made an appointment. My main objective, beyond a check up that I'm overdue for, is to get a prescription for Cialis. Of late, I've been getting my kitten punched a lot more than I've been punching kittens. Me being me, I've been subjecting myself to all sorts of self-examination about What Does This Mean? But recently, I realized that the past umpteen times I've managed to get laid, my plumbing hasn't been working so well.
So things generally go down like this:
Mr. Boy: Oh yeah! Awww give it to meee...
Me: Hell yeah, boy, I'm gonna plow you into next week. I am gonna... uh...
Mr. Boy: Um, uh, it's okay if you're not that into me, I mean...
Me: No! I'm totally into you! And I wanna be totally in you... just give me a minute...
Mr. Boy: Hey that's cool. Want me to give you a back rub!
Me (panicky and hysterical): No! I don't want you to give me a back rub! I want you on your back with your legs over my shoulders and... and... Ummm... Come to think about it, a back rub would be pretty nice.
So it's kind of frought.
Luckily, I love getting plowed myself, and I have a nice tight hole that I'm told gives a sweet ride. So it's all good.
But it would be nice to have the option to Top again with my anatomy as well as with my whips and chains and such.
Back when I lived in NYC, I had a Viagra prescription, but I still have half a bottle in my medicine cabinet. It gives me a wicked headache for days, and I hate headaches. But, I'm given to understand that with Cialis, that's not so much of a problem.
So anyway, I received in the mail a form to fill out from my new doctor. Mostly asking about my medical history and my family medical history (which goes like this: Kramer's live forever and Kavetsky's don't make it to 70).
Filling out the form, I had sort of an Addams Family moment when I hit this question: "Are you in a relationship in which you have been slapped, kicked, punched, or bruised by your partner?"
No, but if you know somebody nice, I'd sure like to meet him!
Monday, October 23, 2006
Adieu Project Runway. Hello Top Chef?
And Jeffrey won! Yesss! And this was an amazing season on Runway. Not without flaws, surely. A few pretty weak contestants were kept around just because of the whacky-factor they offered. But Uli, Laura, Michael, and Jeffrey were all so strong. But mostly what I loved was that Season Three was about emerging young artists finding their voices. And that was just amazing to watch.
So now, Bravo is promoting Top Chef.
here's the problem I have with it. Anyone who has being a chef as his or her aspiration is nuts. Or has no idea what they're getting into. Every time I cook for the Baron, he tells me I should open a restaurant. And I patiently explain to him that having a job requiring fifteen hour work days six days a week and having your one day off be like a Tuesday and knowing that the majority of new restaurants close in a year and even the successful ones have incredibly slim profit margins... Well, let's just say that there's a good reason that having worked my way through college in restaurant kitchens, it gave a slacker student like me plenty of motivation to graduate.
And Jeffrey won! Yesss! And this was an amazing season on Runway. Not without flaws, surely. A few pretty weak contestants were kept around just because of the whacky-factor they offered. But Uli, Laura, Michael, and Jeffrey were all so strong. But mostly what I loved was that Season Three was about emerging young artists finding their voices. And that was just amazing to watch.
So now, Bravo is promoting Top Chef.
here's the problem I have with it. Anyone who has being a chef as his or her aspiration is nuts. Or has no idea what they're getting into. Every time I cook for the Baron, he tells me I should open a restaurant. And I patiently explain to him that having a job requiring fifteen hour work days six days a week and having your one day off be like a Tuesday and knowing that the majority of new restaurants close in a year and even the successful ones have incredibly slim profit margins... Well, let's just say that there's a good reason that having worked my way through college in restaurant kitchens, it gave a slacker student like me plenty of motivation to graduate.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Welcome To Philadelphia
All about afterglow here.
Although it's not without some wistfulness around the edges.
I've continued to date furiously. Looking for Mr. E. "E" as in...
Choose one of the following:
A)
B)
C)
D)
E) All of the above.
But thus far, Mr. E remains 'E" as in "Elusive."
It's all been about finding a man to buddy up with for the winter. And hopefully beyond.
But, I took time out for a little recreational pigsex. In my perusal of the hook-up sites on the internet, I ran across a smokin hot Daddy. Lean, leathered, brushcut, with mega facial hair situation. Not just that "little goatee thing going on from Friday afternoon until Monday morning." Of course, he was from out of town. Way out of town. From Atlanta.
Now in general, my modus operandi is to meet up for coffee before sex. But something told me to just jump in with both feet, and I made a date for Saturday night, agreing to meet up with him at his hotel room down by Philadelphia International Airport.
Oh man.
Did that ever pay off in spades.
First off, in our run-up phone calls, he was perfect. Talking all that nasty talk, flattering me, tellling me how much he was looking forward to it. He demostrated exuberance. The Baron and I were recently talking about how rare and how winning a quality that was. And this guy had it dripping out of every pore.
Eagerly anticipating the night, I spent yesterday taking something of a trip down memory lane. My former employer, Wuperiour Soodcraft, has an annual "kitchen tour," ferrying folks around to show off some of the splendiforous kitchens they've done over the past year. I've volunteered for the past two years, and as an employee, I got to be "in charge" of a house. This year, my status downgraded, I was in charge of parking. So I spent the day standing in the driveway of a horsefarm outside of Stockton, New Jersey, pointing the arriving Escalades and BMWs to open parking spaces, and welcoming them, and radioing down to my counterpart at the other end of the driveway when they were making their way out again. So that was pretty pleasant.
Then I got dinner on the table for my dad (fish chowder, the best anywhere), and headed south on I-95.
Waiting for me was one of the hottest men I've seen anywhere. We took it so slow, kissing, touching, whispering in each other's years. And then, he unbuttoned his 501s and out flopped the largest dick I've ever seen in my entire life. Just humungous. Enormous. I just about passed out.
And I was a little bit scared. Going down on that thing, with my gag flex, would have been humourous at best. And my hole gives a real sweet ride, but it's a tight one. Would I be able to accommodate?
Not to worry. I was in good hands. This Magic Man spent a lot of time in priming the pump. For a while, he just let his head sit right inside, and pretty soon, we were going to town. I was doing the best I could with that 'rhythmic tightening of the muscles' thing, and apparently with good results.
We fell asleep, sticky with each other's juices, and were entwined together all night long. And this morning, it was Round Two. And then we had breakfast at Denny's. (The scrambled eggs with jalapeños rocks.)
And now here I am back at home, looking at an afternoon of chopping firewood.
But wondering.
At one point, the Magic Man said, "You definitely are the best that Philadelphia has to offer." I demurred, but not very convincingly.
What is it about Philadelphia? Why is this so hard?
If'n you happen to be a ManHunt subscriber, do a search on guys signed in from Philadelphia, and then compare it to your town, or, for that matter, any other town in the country. First thing you're likely to notice is that Philadelphia doesn't seem to be a town of men, just penises. All you seem to get are pictures of penises. Hard penises. Floppy penises. Penises in the pool. Penises on bed-reclining bodies. Blurry penises. Sharp focus penises. Penises. And alluring "profiles" along the lines of "fum [sic] guy loking [sic] 4 hot tims [sic] w/U."
I know, right?
Like, I'm in!
Like, Not.
It is a hard row to hoe that I have.
So I ask, what goes on? Is there something in the water? What's the deal with Philadelphia?
Not that it's universally true. But it's no big surprise that hot tub guy, who is a smokin hot man, had dated this other smokin hot man that I met. The pool is not a large one. And no doubt part of the reason I'm having a hard time finding Mr. E is because coming late in the game, all the guys I'd be interested in buddying up with are already buddied up.
*sigh*
Is geography destiny?
Ah well.
I've got a great job, a good life, the autumn foliage here in Bucks County is beautiful this year. There's firewood to chop. And every now and then, I get someone like Magic Man wandering into my life.
All about afterglow here.
Although it's not without some wistfulness around the edges.
I've continued to date furiously. Looking for Mr. E. "E" as in...
Choose one of the following:
A)
B)
C)
D)
E) All of the above.
But thus far, Mr. E remains 'E" as in "Elusive."
It's all been about finding a man to buddy up with for the winter. And hopefully beyond.
But, I took time out for a little recreational pigsex. In my perusal of the hook-up sites on the internet, I ran across a smokin hot Daddy. Lean, leathered, brushcut, with mega facial hair situation. Not just that "little goatee thing going on from Friday afternoon until Monday morning." Of course, he was from out of town. Way out of town. From Atlanta.
Now in general, my modus operandi is to meet up for coffee before sex. But something told me to just jump in with both feet, and I made a date for Saturday night, agreing to meet up with him at his hotel room down by Philadelphia International Airport.
Oh man.
Did that ever pay off in spades.
First off, in our run-up phone calls, he was perfect. Talking all that nasty talk, flattering me, tellling me how much he was looking forward to it. He demostrated exuberance. The Baron and I were recently talking about how rare and how winning a quality that was. And this guy had it dripping out of every pore.
Eagerly anticipating the night, I spent yesterday taking something of a trip down memory lane. My former employer, Wuperiour Soodcraft, has an annual "kitchen tour," ferrying folks around to show off some of the splendiforous kitchens they've done over the past year. I've volunteered for the past two years, and as an employee, I got to be "in charge" of a house. This year, my status downgraded, I was in charge of parking. So I spent the day standing in the driveway of a horsefarm outside of Stockton, New Jersey, pointing the arriving Escalades and BMWs to open parking spaces, and welcoming them, and radioing down to my counterpart at the other end of the driveway when they were making their way out again. So that was pretty pleasant.
Then I got dinner on the table for my dad (fish chowder, the best anywhere), and headed south on I-95.
Waiting for me was one of the hottest men I've seen anywhere. We took it so slow, kissing, touching, whispering in each other's years. And then, he unbuttoned his 501s and out flopped the largest dick I've ever seen in my entire life. Just humungous. Enormous. I just about passed out.
And I was a little bit scared. Going down on that thing, with my gag flex, would have been humourous at best. And my hole gives a real sweet ride, but it's a tight one. Would I be able to accommodate?
Not to worry. I was in good hands. This Magic Man spent a lot of time in priming the pump. For a while, he just let his head sit right inside, and pretty soon, we were going to town. I was doing the best I could with that 'rhythmic tightening of the muscles' thing, and apparently with good results.
We fell asleep, sticky with each other's juices, and were entwined together all night long. And this morning, it was Round Two. And then we had breakfast at Denny's. (The scrambled eggs with jalapeños rocks.)
And now here I am back at home, looking at an afternoon of chopping firewood.
But wondering.
At one point, the Magic Man said, "You definitely are the best that Philadelphia has to offer." I demurred, but not very convincingly.
What is it about Philadelphia? Why is this so hard?
If'n you happen to be a ManHunt subscriber, do a search on guys signed in from Philadelphia, and then compare it to your town, or, for that matter, any other town in the country. First thing you're likely to notice is that Philadelphia doesn't seem to be a town of men, just penises. All you seem to get are pictures of penises. Hard penises. Floppy penises. Penises in the pool. Penises on bed-reclining bodies. Blurry penises. Sharp focus penises. Penises. And alluring "profiles" along the lines of "fum [sic] guy loking [sic] 4 hot tims [sic] w/U."
I know, right?
Like, I'm in!
Like, Not.
It is a hard row to hoe that I have.
So I ask, what goes on? Is there something in the water? What's the deal with Philadelphia?
Not that it's universally true. But it's no big surprise that hot tub guy, who is a smokin hot man, had dated this other smokin hot man that I met. The pool is not a large one. And no doubt part of the reason I'm having a hard time finding Mr. E is because coming late in the game, all the guys I'd be interested in buddying up with are already buddied up.
*sigh*
Is geography destiny?
Ah well.
I've got a great job, a good life, the autumn foliage here in Bucks County is beautiful this year. There's firewood to chop. And every now and then, I get someone like Magic Man wandering into my life.
Monday, October 16, 2006
So I Met A boy
For coffee. In Philadelphia. Tonight. After work.
We had chatted on ManHunt. And he made mention of an interesting fact: he was sleeping in his car. That, coupled with the fact that he's a total smokin hot man made me want to meet up with him for coffee. (And I'll admit there's a fair portion of narscicism there: his bushy stache bears uncannny resemblance to my bushy stache.
And he's hotter in person than he is on ManHunt. He's having a hard time right now. On a number of fronts. And things are looking like they might get worse before they get better. But he was honest and upfront about his situation, and he was still able to smile and laugh. In fact, he had a certain... a certain... exuberance to him. He was seeing things clearly, was doing his level best to meet the challenges, but I still got the sense that he was a man who loved life, no matter what life happened to throw at him.
Oh. And he called me 'Sir.'
And I just had to use all my will power from picking him up and holding him tight and making all the hurt go away.
I wanted to make the boy all better. Or at least let him know that I was in his corner.
So the thing that puzzles me is this: these fatherly feelings he stirred were not without an erotic charge to them.
What's that about?
Something, perhaps, about a strong, good, happy man who just needs a Daddy.
I swear!
And I've recently developed a short-hand to describe to the unitiated who inquire about my kinky inclinations: "I like to make big boys cry." And I hope that's not taken as indication that I'm cruel. Because I'm not. Because after the big boys cry, I'll be there to dry their tears and hold them tight till they stop. (That, my friends, is what a Top does!)
Perhaps that's it. Here's a big boy who has sure taken a whipping lately, only at the hands of the Universe, not me. But regardless...
"Yeah boy... It's okay... Just let it come... Daddy's got you. He's right here. And he's not going anywhere. And he won't let anything bad happen to his boy. Oh no. And he sees the strength in you that maybe you don't see, boy. And he sees your good kind heart, and your wisdom, and your generosity, and your capacity for joy, and your handsome face, and your beautiful body... And Daddy sees all that and thinks, "Dang! He's one special boy!"
So I told this wolf pup that we'd talk again. And, I hope, meet up again. And that I'd say a prayer for him.
And, if'n you're the prayin' type, I'd ask you all to say a prayer for him, too.
Thanks for that.
For coffee. In Philadelphia. Tonight. After work.
We had chatted on ManHunt. And he made mention of an interesting fact: he was sleeping in his car. That, coupled with the fact that he's a total smokin hot man made me want to meet up with him for coffee. (And I'll admit there's a fair portion of narscicism there: his bushy stache bears uncannny resemblance to my bushy stache.
And he's hotter in person than he is on ManHunt. He's having a hard time right now. On a number of fronts. And things are looking like they might get worse before they get better. But he was honest and upfront about his situation, and he was still able to smile and laugh. In fact, he had a certain... a certain... exuberance to him. He was seeing things clearly, was doing his level best to meet the challenges, but I still got the sense that he was a man who loved life, no matter what life happened to throw at him.
Oh. And he called me 'Sir.'
And I just had to use all my will power from picking him up and holding him tight and making all the hurt go away.
I wanted to make the boy all better. Or at least let him know that I was in his corner.
So the thing that puzzles me is this: these fatherly feelings he stirred were not without an erotic charge to them.
What's that about?
Something, perhaps, about a strong, good, happy man who just needs a Daddy.
I swear!
And I've recently developed a short-hand to describe to the unitiated who inquire about my kinky inclinations: "I like to make big boys cry." And I hope that's not taken as indication that I'm cruel. Because I'm not. Because after the big boys cry, I'll be there to dry their tears and hold them tight till they stop. (That, my friends, is what a Top does!)
Perhaps that's it. Here's a big boy who has sure taken a whipping lately, only at the hands of the Universe, not me. But regardless...
"Yeah boy... It's okay... Just let it come... Daddy's got you. He's right here. And he's not going anywhere. And he won't let anything bad happen to his boy. Oh no. And he sees the strength in you that maybe you don't see, boy. And he sees your good kind heart, and your wisdom, and your generosity, and your capacity for joy, and your handsome face, and your beautiful body... And Daddy sees all that and thinks, "Dang! He's one special boy!"
So I told this wolf pup that we'd talk again. And, I hope, meet up again. And that I'd say a prayer for him.
And, if'n you're the prayin' type, I'd ask you all to say a prayer for him, too.
Thanks for that.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
hot tub guy Rocks. Clearly.
This weekend is hot tub guy's birthday weekend. (Happy Birthday hot tub guy!) So of course, I'm baking him a birthday cake. (One of my many obsessions is baking birthday cakes.) Last night, I called hot tub guy and asked if it would work for him if I brought him a birthday cake sometime on Saturday, and then spent the night Saturday night as I'm doing the Philadelphia AIDS Walk (sponsor me! please!) on Sunday, and it kicks off at some ungodly hour like 8 a.m. or something, and I don't feel like getting up at 6 a.m. to drive down to the city.
This morning, on my drive in to work, hot tub guy called me back and said that absolutely he was up for some birthday cake (yessss!), and although he's flying to Terre Haute for business on Sunday, I could definitely spend the night (yessssss!!!). And hot tub guy also mentioned that he had met somebody who greeted him as "hot tub guy." As in, "Hey! You're hot tub guy, right? From SingleTails?" He was flattered and astonished, and I'm pretty astonished, too, that one of my more astute readers was able to identify him. hot tub guy can't be the only smokin' hot built man with dreamy eyes you just wanna get lost in and shares my fascination with werewolves and disdain of vampires in Philadelpha, can he? Or can he?
And while I had him on the phone, I mentioned that I had recently had dealings with someone he knew. Namely, Very Hairy Man. I described my involvement with Very Hairy Man to hot tub guy, who confirmed my assessment: Very Hairy Man is a prick. And something of a whacko, too. And as to the Unsolved Mystery of Very Hairy Man (calling to cancel our Thursday afternoon hook up after we had a nice lunch together and a few phone calls on Wednesday where both of us expressed our mutual attraction), hot tub guy offered a possible explanation: Very Hairy Man works for the FBI.
No way!
Way!
He's not a G-Man per se, but he is a computer guy, doing data base administration or something. And as such, he has all kinds of security clearances, and access to all sorts of information.
Okay. So that definitely is a possibility, although it poses as many questions as it answers. Chief among them: what could the FBI have on me?
FACT: I have an arrest record as long as your arm from acts of civil disobedience committed during my time involved in ACT UP, the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power.
FACT: I'm a nationally recognized sadomasochist (I make friends wherever I go, all across this great land of ours).
FACT: Whenever I fly, I conceal several disposable lighters on my person and in my luggage to ensure that I'll be able to light up and have a smoke as soon as possible when I get off the plane.
FACT: I have been professionally involved in making sure that injection drug users have access to sterile syringes in order to prevent the spread of HIV.
FACT: I shouted down then Vice President Dan Quayle when he was speaking in front of the New York Conservative Party in 1992.
FACT: My awful Ex hates me and thinks I'm a terrible person.
FACT: I am banned from driving in New Jersey, but I do it anyway.
FACT: I know more people who have visited Cuba than I can count.
I guess it's possible that the FBI could have caught wind of any and all of these Fun Things To Know about me, but none of them really rings true as a reason to suddenly and without warning fire the guy who gave you a blow job in a porn theater 48 hours previously.
On that issue, hot tub guy had a different explanation: not only is Very Hairy Man a prick, he's also crazy and unstable.
Aha!
And then hot tub guy said it: "You're one of the most level-headed and kindest and most genuine people I've ever met. And whatever the reason he did that, he did you a huge favor, because you don't deserve someone like him in your life."
And at that point, I made that little coughing noise I make on those rare occasions when I'm speechless.
This weekend is hot tub guy's birthday weekend. (Happy Birthday hot tub guy!) So of course, I'm baking him a birthday cake. (One of my many obsessions is baking birthday cakes.) Last night, I called hot tub guy and asked if it would work for him if I brought him a birthday cake sometime on Saturday, and then spent the night Saturday night as I'm doing the Philadelphia AIDS Walk (sponsor me! please!) on Sunday, and it kicks off at some ungodly hour like 8 a.m. or something, and I don't feel like getting up at 6 a.m. to drive down to the city.
This morning, on my drive in to work, hot tub guy called me back and said that absolutely he was up for some birthday cake (yessss!), and although he's flying to Terre Haute for business on Sunday, I could definitely spend the night (yessssss!!!). And hot tub guy also mentioned that he had met somebody who greeted him as "hot tub guy." As in, "Hey! You're hot tub guy, right? From SingleTails?" He was flattered and astonished, and I'm pretty astonished, too, that one of my more astute readers was able to identify him. hot tub guy can't be the only smokin' hot built man with dreamy eyes you just wanna get lost in and shares my fascination with werewolves and disdain of vampires in Philadelpha, can he? Or can he?
And while I had him on the phone, I mentioned that I had recently had dealings with someone he knew. Namely, Very Hairy Man. I described my involvement with Very Hairy Man to hot tub guy, who confirmed my assessment: Very Hairy Man is a prick. And something of a whacko, too. And as to the Unsolved Mystery of Very Hairy Man (calling to cancel our Thursday afternoon hook up after we had a nice lunch together and a few phone calls on Wednesday where both of us expressed our mutual attraction), hot tub guy offered a possible explanation: Very Hairy Man works for the FBI.
No way!
Way!
He's not a G-Man per se, but he is a computer guy, doing data base administration or something. And as such, he has all kinds of security clearances, and access to all sorts of information.
Okay. So that definitely is a possibility, although it poses as many questions as it answers. Chief among them: what could the FBI have on me?
FACT: I have an arrest record as long as your arm from acts of civil disobedience committed during my time involved in ACT UP, the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power.
FACT: I'm a nationally recognized sadomasochist (I make friends wherever I go, all across this great land of ours).
FACT: Whenever I fly, I conceal several disposable lighters on my person and in my luggage to ensure that I'll be able to light up and have a smoke as soon as possible when I get off the plane.
FACT: I have been professionally involved in making sure that injection drug users have access to sterile syringes in order to prevent the spread of HIV.
FACT: I shouted down then Vice President Dan Quayle when he was speaking in front of the New York Conservative Party in 1992.
FACT: My awful Ex hates me and thinks I'm a terrible person.
FACT: I am banned from driving in New Jersey, but I do it anyway.
FACT: I know more people who have visited Cuba than I can count.
I guess it's possible that the FBI could have caught wind of any and all of these Fun Things To Know about me, but none of them really rings true as a reason to suddenly and without warning fire the guy who gave you a blow job in a porn theater 48 hours previously.
On that issue, hot tub guy had a different explanation: not only is Very Hairy Man a prick, he's also crazy and unstable.
Aha!
And then hot tub guy said it: "You're one of the most level-headed and kindest and most genuine people I've ever met. And whatever the reason he did that, he did you a huge favor, because you don't deserve someone like him in your life."
And at that point, I made that little coughing noise I make on those rare occasions when I'm speechless.
Monday, October 09, 2006
That Ol' Feelin' I Get
My brother and his vegan wife are coming for dinner tomorrow night. First I was thinking I'd make ravioli, and then I remembered that Step One in making pasta is to make a 'well' in a mound of flour and break an egg in it. And eggs aren't vegan.
So then I thought about wonton noodles, which I haven't worked with before, but didn't think they'd be too hard. Alas, at my local purveyor of better chow, they had no wonton noodles. But, they did have filo dough. And filo dough, it turns out, is vegan vegan vegan. I only worked with filo a couple of decades ago when I had a job cooking in a restaurant. I don't rember it as being that hard, but we'll see. And what am I going to stuff my little filo pillows with?
Why... I'm glad you asked!
Some will be stuffed with butternut squash meat and shallots, and some will be stuffed with fennel and apples. All of them will go on a plate in a pool of a sort of cream sauce I'm making from pecans and soy milk, and they'll the heavy creamy butteryness will be relieved with some kale braised in vegetable stock.
Pretty lip smackin' good for vegan fare, huh?
But anyway.
God damn you, Very Hairy Man anyway.
What the hell?
Why can't I get a date? Why the hell is this so hard? Maybe it's the case that all the hot, happy, balanced, genuine men my age are already buddied up already, and so all I'm left with are the broken, depressive, out-of-shape, drug-addled, timid remains.
I'm getting really tired of this.
Damn you Very Hairy Man! You really pulled the rug out from under me.
My brother and his vegan wife are coming for dinner tomorrow night. First I was thinking I'd make ravioli, and then I remembered that Step One in making pasta is to make a 'well' in a mound of flour and break an egg in it. And eggs aren't vegan.
So then I thought about wonton noodles, which I haven't worked with before, but didn't think they'd be too hard. Alas, at my local purveyor of better chow, they had no wonton noodles. But, they did have filo dough. And filo dough, it turns out, is vegan vegan vegan. I only worked with filo a couple of decades ago when I had a job cooking in a restaurant. I don't rember it as being that hard, but we'll see. And what am I going to stuff my little filo pillows with?
Why... I'm glad you asked!
Some will be stuffed with butternut squash meat and shallots, and some will be stuffed with fennel and apples. All of them will go on a plate in a pool of a sort of cream sauce I'm making from pecans and soy milk, and they'll the heavy creamy butteryness will be relieved with some kale braised in vegetable stock.
Pretty lip smackin' good for vegan fare, huh?
But anyway.
God damn you, Very Hairy Man anyway.
What the hell?
Why can't I get a date? Why the hell is this so hard? Maybe it's the case that all the hot, happy, balanced, genuine men my age are already buddied up already, and so all I'm left with are the broken, depressive, out-of-shape, drug-addled, timid remains.
I'm getting really tired of this.
Damn you Very Hairy Man! You really pulled the rug out from under me.
Mystery!
Okay. So Very Hairy Man has cut me off cold.
Let's review.
We met up for lunch on Tuesday. Had a great time. Talked on Wednesday about the great time we had and how we liked each other and were looking forward to getting together on Thursday when I got off work. So then Thursday, he calls when I'm in a meeting and leaves this message--all nonchalant like--'going into a meeting, call you when I get out, something came up for me with work and we might have to rearrange plans,' and that was the absolute last I heard from him.
Now, I have to admit that I was hurt by that, but the hurt quickly gave way to profound curiosity. I mean, what the hell could happen to make somebody turn tale and run like that? It's weird! It's sooooo CSI, right? Before the victim disappeared, he received a phone call, from who? saying what? If we knew that...
What the hell could Very Hairy Man have learned about me that would cause him to do that? I mean, I understand. I have deal-breakers myself, but none of them are quite so dire that I'd cut off all contact with the guy when my interest was strong enough to want to set up a date with him.
He described his profession to me as "security," and I kind of get the impression that it's along the lines of Wackenhut or whatever. Did he do a background check? And even if he did, what the hell did that uncover? The D's on my college transcripts in Painting I, Intermediate Italian, and Macroeconomics? Or maybe he met somebody he liked better? Or maybe he had some personal crisis? (The last two are unlikely since he's off and on ManHunt pretty steadily.
It's crazy. And it's driving me crazy.
Probably I should just let go of it all. Chalk it up. Not like he owes me anything after only lunch and a blow job. At first I was like, "C'mon! Grow a pair and at least pick up the phone when I call," but I've moved beyond that.
*sigh*
But... but... I'd give anything to know.
Next time I talk to hot tub guy, I'll see what I can do about getting the skinny on Very Hairy Man.
Y'know...
Damn. Dammit dammit dammit.
Very Hairy Man just seemed like somebody with whom there might be possibilities. And that's what I'm having trouble letting go of.
Ah well.
Okay. So Very Hairy Man has cut me off cold.
Let's review.
We met up for lunch on Tuesday. Had a great time. Talked on Wednesday about the great time we had and how we liked each other and were looking forward to getting together on Thursday when I got off work. So then Thursday, he calls when I'm in a meeting and leaves this message--all nonchalant like--'going into a meeting, call you when I get out, something came up for me with work and we might have to rearrange plans,' and that was the absolute last I heard from him.
Now, I have to admit that I was hurt by that, but the hurt quickly gave way to profound curiosity. I mean, what the hell could happen to make somebody turn tale and run like that? It's weird! It's sooooo CSI, right? Before the victim disappeared, he received a phone call, from who? saying what? If we knew that...
What the hell could Very Hairy Man have learned about me that would cause him to do that? I mean, I understand. I have deal-breakers myself, but none of them are quite so dire that I'd cut off all contact with the guy when my interest was strong enough to want to set up a date with him.
He described his profession to me as "security," and I kind of get the impression that it's along the lines of Wackenhut or whatever. Did he do a background check? And even if he did, what the hell did that uncover? The D's on my college transcripts in Painting I, Intermediate Italian, and Macroeconomics? Or maybe he met somebody he liked better? Or maybe he had some personal crisis? (The last two are unlikely since he's off and on ManHunt pretty steadily.
It's crazy. And it's driving me crazy.
Probably I should just let go of it all. Chalk it up. Not like he owes me anything after only lunch and a blow job. At first I was like, "C'mon! Grow a pair and at least pick up the phone when I call," but I've moved beyond that.
*sigh*
But... but... I'd give anything to know.
Next time I talk to hot tub guy, I'll see what I can do about getting the skinny on Very Hairy Man.
Y'know...
Damn. Dammit dammit dammit.
Very Hairy Man just seemed like somebody with whom there might be possibilities. And that's what I'm having trouble letting go of.
Ah well.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Washington DC... Softball Can Be Your Alibi!
Friday after work, I jumped into the jeep and headed south on I-95 towards Washington DC, leaving behind my consternation regarding the Very Hairy Man. Unfortunately, I wasn't feeling very well. I had an 11:30 meeting that day, and during the meeting, I got a headache. I thought I needed something to eat, but a panini at the Mean Bean didn't do much for me. And it just got worse as the day went on. And on the road, it got much worse. Like, one of the worst headaches I've ever had. Pounding. Throbbing. Bringing tears to my eyes.
It was so bad that when I stopped at a "welcome center" in Delaware to get a Starbucks, I left without my Starbucks. I just couldn't bear the thought of a pumpkin spice latté. That's how bad it was. I did pick up some Advil and took two of them. But they didn't seem to kick in. But they did give me a pretty sour stomach.
As I was heading past exits reading Christiana, Delaware, the Baron's home town, I thought about stopping off and begging the Baron to take me in, giving me the corner of a dark room to curl up in. But I kept on going. On the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, I pulled over for $2.15-a-gallon gas and to see if I could bring something up to settle my stomach. At a well appointed gas station, I spent a while in the bathroom, but nothing would come. But walking around in the cool, fresh night air did me a little good. By the time I rolled into the Washington Plaza Hotel, I was feeling better. I was greeted by my fellow Ball Breakers in the lobby, who had brought me some ginger ale to settle my stomach. I headed up to my room, drew a nice hot bath, and relaxed before bed. Tommorrow would be all about softball!
Or not.
In the morning, although I was feeling 100%, it was cold and rainy, so all the games that day were called off. Alas! A whole day to spend in Washington DC. We piled into cars and headed to the World War II Memorial (unimpressive), and while the rest of the team headed to Arlington, I went to the National Building Museum. Which was wonderful. They're having this whole Green thing going on. I got to commune with my fellow Design Nerds, picked up a few books in the bookstore, and enjoyed a few of the exhibitions. I met up with my teammates, we were all getting hungry, so I took us to one of my favorite restaurants on the planet, Afterwords Cafe at Kramerbooks off Dupont Circle. I'm just never disappointed by Afterwords. We all ate well, I had Fettuccine New Orleans, my favorite thing on the menu. Back to the hotel for another bath. Because we had plans for the evening: we were intent on watching the Mets game.
We got on our cell phones, calling all the gay bars in DC, and found that the only bar that was going to have the Mets-Dodgers game on: the DC Eagle.
Yessss!
Now, I love the DC Eagle. The Eagle has never disappointed me. I know DC guys love to be hatin' on their local pub, but I love the place. As a matter of fact, I'd go so far (and I've done it in the past), declare the DC Eagle to be the Best Leather Bar Ever.
Truth!
I've made the argument before here that DC is naturally a great town for SM. It's a town of transients, and people who gravitate there go for one reason: power. They're particularly attuned to it. And that being the case... Well, you see where I'm going.
So we watched the Mets take on the Dodgers and win, and our manager had a question to put to us. It seems that since the first day of games was canceled, the games played on Sunday would have special rules to fit all the games in. First off, no game would go beyond 30 minutes. And second, when a batter came to the plate, he'd do it with a 3-2 count.
Say what???
Yeah. That was terrifically unappealing to all of us. And, or first game was scheduled for 8 am.
Eeeew!
So, although we spent all that money and came all that way to play softball, it looked like we wouldn't be playing any softball. I, for one, wasn't disappointed. I had a great time hanging out with the Ball Breakers. I'm totally looking forward to April. This will be the year that it all comes together for me! I just know it!
Oh. And the Eagle did not let me down. I ended up taking two of the hottest guys in the joint back to my room at the Washington Plaza Hotel, and the three of us had a great time. In fact, this was the only threesome I've been involved in that really worked. Nobody felt like a third wheel, and I'm glad they both were there.
It was pretty healing, after the recent disturbance to my usual Zen calm and general contentment caused by Very Hairy Man.
The next morning, the Ball Breakers assembled in the lobby for a final brunch together before we bid a fond farewell to Washington DC.
Man. I needed that.
On the way home, I stopped off in Philadelphia to catch the tail-end of OutFest, some gay thing involving vendors, tshirts, blaring music from crappy sound systems, stickers, and a hell of a lot of rainbow motifs. And then stopped in to the Bike Stop. Alas, where smoking cigars--or anything else--is no longer permitted. But they did have karaoke in full force.
I was in and out of there in about four minutes, wondering how I could move me and my father to Washington DC so I could go to the Eagle more than twice a year.
Thanks, DC! Thanks, Ball Breakers! And a special thanks to Tom's Friend Tom and Luis from Kearny, New Jersey!
Friday after work, I jumped into the jeep and headed south on I-95 towards Washington DC, leaving behind my consternation regarding the Very Hairy Man. Unfortunately, I wasn't feeling very well. I had an 11:30 meeting that day, and during the meeting, I got a headache. I thought I needed something to eat, but a panini at the Mean Bean didn't do much for me. And it just got worse as the day went on. And on the road, it got much worse. Like, one of the worst headaches I've ever had. Pounding. Throbbing. Bringing tears to my eyes.
It was so bad that when I stopped at a "welcome center" in Delaware to get a Starbucks, I left without my Starbucks. I just couldn't bear the thought of a pumpkin spice latté. That's how bad it was. I did pick up some Advil and took two of them. But they didn't seem to kick in. But they did give me a pretty sour stomach.
As I was heading past exits reading Christiana, Delaware, the Baron's home town, I thought about stopping off and begging the Baron to take me in, giving me the corner of a dark room to curl up in. But I kept on going. On the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, I pulled over for $2.15-a-gallon gas and to see if I could bring something up to settle my stomach. At a well appointed gas station, I spent a while in the bathroom, but nothing would come. But walking around in the cool, fresh night air did me a little good. By the time I rolled into the Washington Plaza Hotel, I was feeling better. I was greeted by my fellow Ball Breakers in the lobby, who had brought me some ginger ale to settle my stomach. I headed up to my room, drew a nice hot bath, and relaxed before bed. Tommorrow would be all about softball!
Or not.
In the morning, although I was feeling 100%, it was cold and rainy, so all the games that day were called off. Alas! A whole day to spend in Washington DC. We piled into cars and headed to the World War II Memorial (unimpressive), and while the rest of the team headed to Arlington, I went to the National Building Museum. Which was wonderful. They're having this whole Green thing going on. I got to commune with my fellow Design Nerds, picked up a few books in the bookstore, and enjoyed a few of the exhibitions. I met up with my teammates, we were all getting hungry, so I took us to one of my favorite restaurants on the planet, Afterwords Cafe at Kramerbooks off Dupont Circle. I'm just never disappointed by Afterwords. We all ate well, I had Fettuccine New Orleans, my favorite thing on the menu. Back to the hotel for another bath. Because we had plans for the evening: we were intent on watching the Mets game.
We got on our cell phones, calling all the gay bars in DC, and found that the only bar that was going to have the Mets-Dodgers game on: the DC Eagle.
Yessss!
Now, I love the DC Eagle. The Eagle has never disappointed me. I know DC guys love to be hatin' on their local pub, but I love the place. As a matter of fact, I'd go so far (and I've done it in the past), declare the DC Eagle to be the Best Leather Bar Ever.
Truth!
I've made the argument before here that DC is naturally a great town for SM. It's a town of transients, and people who gravitate there go for one reason: power. They're particularly attuned to it. And that being the case... Well, you see where I'm going.
So we watched the Mets take on the Dodgers and win, and our manager had a question to put to us. It seems that since the first day of games was canceled, the games played on Sunday would have special rules to fit all the games in. First off, no game would go beyond 30 minutes. And second, when a batter came to the plate, he'd do it with a 3-2 count.
Say what???
Yeah. That was terrifically unappealing to all of us. And, or first game was scheduled for 8 am.
Eeeew!
So, although we spent all that money and came all that way to play softball, it looked like we wouldn't be playing any softball. I, for one, wasn't disappointed. I had a great time hanging out with the Ball Breakers. I'm totally looking forward to April. This will be the year that it all comes together for me! I just know it!
Oh. And the Eagle did not let me down. I ended up taking two of the hottest guys in the joint back to my room at the Washington Plaza Hotel, and the three of us had a great time. In fact, this was the only threesome I've been involved in that really worked. Nobody felt like a third wheel, and I'm glad they both were there.
It was pretty healing, after the recent disturbance to my usual Zen calm and general contentment caused by Very Hairy Man.
The next morning, the Ball Breakers assembled in the lobby for a final brunch together before we bid a fond farewell to Washington DC.
Man. I needed that.
On the way home, I stopped off in Philadelphia to catch the tail-end of OutFest, some gay thing involving vendors, tshirts, blaring music from crappy sound systems, stickers, and a hell of a lot of rainbow motifs. And then stopped in to the Bike Stop. Alas, where smoking cigars--or anything else--is no longer permitted. But they did have karaoke in full force.
I was in and out of there in about four minutes, wondering how I could move me and my father to Washington DC so I could go to the Eagle more than twice a year.
Thanks, DC! Thanks, Ball Breakers! And a special thanks to Tom's Friend Tom and Luis from Kearny, New Jersey!
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Blast!
So tomorrow, after work, I head down to DC with my softball team for a tournament. And it gets better: we're staying in the Washington Plaza Hotel on Thomas Circle. Which is, of course, the hotel where MAL is held. And one of my favorite hotels in the world.
So why am I in such a foul mood?
Because of a guy, of course.
The Hairy Man.
So we checked each other out on Manhunt. He liked the looks of me, and I liked the looks of him. He lives in Philadelphia, and I work in Philadelphia. In short order, we progressed from typing at each other to talking on the phone. And he sounded great. And, come to think of it, we made the phone call because he typed at me, "So are you just after sex or something more?"
After "Something More"? Am I ever.
On the phone revealed an interesting detail: he used to date hot tub guy. Until he dropped hot tub guy. I was upfront about liking hot tub guy a lot. We talked a lot. We even did the phone sex thing, which I never do because I think it's stupid, and I enjoyed it.
And he kept up with the patter: I'm likin everything I'm seeing and hearing, I think this could really go somewhere, that kind of thing.
So we met for lunch. And he is ten times hotter in person than he is in his pics. I mean, just smokin hot. At lunch, I put all my cards on the table, and his response was, "Well, I'm still sittin here."
And then he made a novel and creative suggestion: that we step around the corner to a porn theater, the kind with the little booths, and get it on.
*sigh*
And I thought that was just the best.
And with our shirts off, running up against each other in the dark. He is very, very hairy.
So at this point, I'm pretty far gone. Thinking that finally my ship had come in. This was a man I could really go places with. This could maybe be it.
And we made a plan. Today, after work, I'd shoot down to his place, and spend some time together naked.
So today, I had a lunch meeting with this guy from the Department of Health. It was the Very Hairy Man. I couldn't pick up and interrupt the meeting, but as soon as it was over, I picked up my voice mail message.
Oh. No.
"Hey what's up. Just about to go into a meeting, I'll be busy for the next hour and a half, then I'll give you a call. Have to do a workaround for later. I have to work from midnight to eight tomorrow morning. So I'll talk to you later."
Now, it wasn't clear to me that we were off for after work. I called him, telling him I got the message, and waited for the phone to ring.
I should have remembered: "I'll talk to you tonight" with the Very Hairy Man means "If you give me a call tonight, I might pick up the phone."
The last three hours of work went pretty slow. I was really looking forward to seeing the Very Hairy Man. Even if we couldn't do the get naked thing, having coffee would be good for me.
He didn't call.
Huh.
I drove down to his neighborhood, just about impossible as Bill Clinton and George Bush père are in town to receive a medal at the Constitution Center and most of the town is shut down. I called from the corner where he lives.
"Hey! It's me. I'm in your neighborhood. It's six o'clock. Give me a call and let me know what's going on."
And of course I heard nothing.
Okay.
So what's up with that?
Specific plans to get together. An ambiguous phone call. And then silence. No "I'm really sorry, I was looking forward to it." No "Hope we can make it another time."
No nothing.
The deal is, I wouldn't do that to someone.
Whether it's the case that work came out of nowhere and he couldn't make it, or if it's that he chickened out, or if he just decided the energy wasn't there...
All I can say buddy is, Grow a pair and give a call.
Dang.
So tomorrow, after work, I head down to DC with my softball team for a tournament. And it gets better: we're staying in the Washington Plaza Hotel on Thomas Circle. Which is, of course, the hotel where MAL is held. And one of my favorite hotels in the world.
So why am I in such a foul mood?
Because of a guy, of course.
The Hairy Man.
So we checked each other out on Manhunt. He liked the looks of me, and I liked the looks of him. He lives in Philadelphia, and I work in Philadelphia. In short order, we progressed from typing at each other to talking on the phone. And he sounded great. And, come to think of it, we made the phone call because he typed at me, "So are you just after sex or something more?"
After "Something More"? Am I ever.
On the phone revealed an interesting detail: he used to date hot tub guy. Until he dropped hot tub guy. I was upfront about liking hot tub guy a lot. We talked a lot. We even did the phone sex thing, which I never do because I think it's stupid, and I enjoyed it.
And he kept up with the patter: I'm likin everything I'm seeing and hearing, I think this could really go somewhere, that kind of thing.
So we met for lunch. And he is ten times hotter in person than he is in his pics. I mean, just smokin hot. At lunch, I put all my cards on the table, and his response was, "Well, I'm still sittin here."
And then he made a novel and creative suggestion: that we step around the corner to a porn theater, the kind with the little booths, and get it on.
*sigh*
And I thought that was just the best.
And with our shirts off, running up against each other in the dark. He is very, very hairy.
So at this point, I'm pretty far gone. Thinking that finally my ship had come in. This was a man I could really go places with. This could maybe be it.
And we made a plan. Today, after work, I'd shoot down to his place, and spend some time together naked.
So today, I had a lunch meeting with this guy from the Department of Health. It was the Very Hairy Man. I couldn't pick up and interrupt the meeting, but as soon as it was over, I picked up my voice mail message.
Oh. No.
"Hey what's up. Just about to go into a meeting, I'll be busy for the next hour and a half, then I'll give you a call. Have to do a workaround for later. I have to work from midnight to eight tomorrow morning. So I'll talk to you later."
Now, it wasn't clear to me that we were off for after work. I called him, telling him I got the message, and waited for the phone to ring.
I should have remembered: "I'll talk to you tonight" with the Very Hairy Man means "If you give me a call tonight, I might pick up the phone."
The last three hours of work went pretty slow. I was really looking forward to seeing the Very Hairy Man. Even if we couldn't do the get naked thing, having coffee would be good for me.
He didn't call.
Huh.
I drove down to his neighborhood, just about impossible as Bill Clinton and George Bush père are in town to receive a medal at the Constitution Center and most of the town is shut down. I called from the corner where he lives.
"Hey! It's me. I'm in your neighborhood. It's six o'clock. Give me a call and let me know what's going on."
And of course I heard nothing.
Okay.
So what's up with that?
Specific plans to get together. An ambiguous phone call. And then silence. No "I'm really sorry, I was looking forward to it." No "Hope we can make it another time."
No nothing.
The deal is, I wouldn't do that to someone.
Whether it's the case that work came out of nowhere and he couldn't make it, or if it's that he chickened out, or if he just decided the energy wasn't there...
All I can say buddy is, Grow a pair and give a call.
Dang.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Do We Really Need Another Starbucks?
If you're asking me that question, you're asking the wrong person.
Especially if we're talking about the recently opened Starbucks at 12th and Walnut Streets in Philadelphia.
That would be half a block from the parkinggarage structure where I park my car. And a mere hop, skip, and jump away from the Bike Stop. It'll be my new home away from home, I'm sure. I've been going to a place in Philadelphia called the Mean Bean. It works in that I can sit out front and watch the boys go by, but... well... it's not Starbucks.
But now I have a Starbucks, just where I want one.
If you're asking me that question, you're asking the wrong person.
Especially if we're talking about the recently opened Starbucks at 12th and Walnut Streets in Philadelphia.
That would be half a block from the parking
But now I have a Starbucks, just where I want one.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Looking At Deer Differently
Deer are vermin, right?
The suburban equivalent of rats.
That's how I looked at them. Just knowing that somewhere out there was a deer that would eventually come in contact with the front bumper of my Jeep. Always lurking by the side of the road, ready to strike.
Well no more. I've had a change of heart.
I remembered something.
My sister.
A little background here, for those of you who haven't been paying attention. My sister Kathy was thirteen years older than me. Our mother died when I was three and a half, and so her relationship with me was as much maternal as sisterly. Not that it was uncomplicated. She contended with a lot of pain in her life, and numbed that pain with alcohol. She would lash out, sometimes at me, and that really hurt. She had several stays in rehab, but it just didn't work. Until it did. Clean and sober, Kathy started to put her life back together. And there she was, owning a sweet little former one room school house in upper Bucks County, paying off some ancient bills, going back to school, finding outlets for her artistic talents and creativity.
And then she took a stress test as part of her routine checkup. And it went badly. It turned out shhe had Primary Pumonary Hypertension. It's a slowly debilitating illness, and short of a heart-lung transplant, there is no cure. So over the course of the next couple of years, she went down hill, the slightest exertion left her short of breath and weak. Until she passed away on July 14th, 1999. she passed away.
And deer play into this how?
Well you see, my sister and I are 1/16th Native American. And she considered herself something of a throwback, very in touch with that. And she once told me the story of how she found her spirit guide. One night in midsummer, she wanted to sleep outside. So she headed to nearby Ralph Stover State Park, left her car in the lot, hiked into the woods in the dark, and under a pine tree, the ground soft from needles, she lay down and went to sleep. She awoke in the first light of dawn, and found a doe standing over her. The doe gave a loud snort, and stomped her hoof. My sister and the doe looked into each others eyes. Then the doe slowly walked off into the woods. So my sister's spirit guide had made herself known.
It was a few weeks ago, driving home, when the thought passed through my mind. Y'see, I miss my sister so much. I would give anything to spend just one more day with her. Anything.
You probably see where this is going.
Now, when I'm driving home at dusk, like tonight, and there she is, standing by the edge of the road, a sleek (okay, pretty plump actually) young doe, still with a few white spots in her coat, so probably only six or seven months old at most.
I slow down, and call out, "Hi Kathy! Hi! I love you! I'm doing harm reduction work again! Remember when you visited me up at the place I worked in New York?"
Every time I see a deer, it's my sister checking in on me.
Deer are vermin, right?
The suburban equivalent of rats.
That's how I looked at them. Just knowing that somewhere out there was a deer that would eventually come in contact with the front bumper of my Jeep. Always lurking by the side of the road, ready to strike.
Well no more. I've had a change of heart.
I remembered something.
My sister.
A little background here, for those of you who haven't been paying attention. My sister Kathy was thirteen years older than me. Our mother died when I was three and a half, and so her relationship with me was as much maternal as sisterly. Not that it was uncomplicated. She contended with a lot of pain in her life, and numbed that pain with alcohol. She would lash out, sometimes at me, and that really hurt. She had several stays in rehab, but it just didn't work. Until it did. Clean and sober, Kathy started to put her life back together. And there she was, owning a sweet little former one room school house in upper Bucks County, paying off some ancient bills, going back to school, finding outlets for her artistic talents and creativity.
And then she took a stress test as part of her routine checkup. And it went badly. It turned out shhe had Primary Pumonary Hypertension. It's a slowly debilitating illness, and short of a heart-lung transplant, there is no cure. So over the course of the next couple of years, she went down hill, the slightest exertion left her short of breath and weak. Until she passed away on July 14th, 1999. she passed away.
And deer play into this how?
Well you see, my sister and I are 1/16th Native American. And she considered herself something of a throwback, very in touch with that. And she once told me the story of how she found her spirit guide. One night in midsummer, she wanted to sleep outside. So she headed to nearby Ralph Stover State Park, left her car in the lot, hiked into the woods in the dark, and under a pine tree, the ground soft from needles, she lay down and went to sleep. She awoke in the first light of dawn, and found a doe standing over her. The doe gave a loud snort, and stomped her hoof. My sister and the doe looked into each others eyes. Then the doe slowly walked off into the woods. So my sister's spirit guide had made herself known.
It was a few weeks ago, driving home, when the thought passed through my mind. Y'see, I miss my sister so much. I would give anything to spend just one more day with her. Anything.
You probably see where this is going.
Now, when I'm driving home at dusk, like tonight, and there she is, standing by the edge of the road, a sleek (okay, pretty plump actually) young doe, still with a few white spots in her coat, so probably only six or seven months old at most.
I slow down, and call out, "Hi Kathy! Hi! I love you! I'm doing harm reduction work again! Remember when you visited me up at the place I worked in New York?"
Every time I see a deer, it's my sister checking in on me.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Life Is Rich And Full
I dreamed up this reallly smart, innovative idea at work that could allow us to expand the number of people we're reaching exponentially without hugely increasing our expenses. If it works, it could totally put us on the map.
Tonight was the first meeting of an adult Christian formation thing at my church. We went around the room and introduced ourselves. I came out.
I'm going to spend the weekend with hot tub guy at his cabin in Pennsylvania's gay campground (no, not that one, the other one)>
Next weekend, I head to DC to play in a softball tournement with the Ball Breakers.
I've got a couple of dates to hook up with these potentially hot manhunt.net guys tomorrow and Friday after work. (It's been a very long time since I got laid. Y'all know that?)
Bob Casey is apparently widening his lead over incumbent Senator Rick Santorum (R.-Penna.).
And now this... on Project Runway, Laura, Michael, Uli, AND Jeffrey are all going to Fashion Week! That. Is. So. Cool. They're all so great.
I dreamed up this reallly smart, innovative idea at work that could allow us to expand the number of people we're reaching exponentially without hugely increasing our expenses. If it works, it could totally put us on the map.
Tonight was the first meeting of an adult Christian formation thing at my church. We went around the room and introduced ourselves. I came out.
I'm going to spend the weekend with hot tub guy at his cabin in Pennsylvania's gay campground (no, not that one, the other one)>
Next weekend, I head to DC to play in a softball tournement with the Ball Breakers.
I've got a couple of dates to hook up with these potentially hot manhunt.net guys tomorrow and Friday after work. (It's been a very long time since I got laid. Y'all know that?)
Bob Casey is apparently widening his lead over incumbent Senator Rick Santorum (R.-Penna.).
And now this... on Project Runway, Laura, Michael, Uli, AND Jeffrey are all going to Fashion Week! That. Is. So. Cool. They're all so great.
Life Is Rich And Full
I dreamed up this reallly smart, innovative idea at work that could allow us to expand the number of people we're reaching exponentially without hugely increasing our expenses. If it works, it could totally put us on the map.
Tonight was the first meeting of an adult Christian formation thing at my church. We went around the room and introduced ourselves. I came out.
I'm going to spend the weekend with hot tub guy at his cabin in Pennsylvania's gay campground (no, not that one, the other one)>
Next weekend, I head to DC to play in a softball tournement with the Ball Breakers.
I've got a couple of dates to hook up with these potentially hot manhunt.net guys tomorrow and Friday after work. (It's been a very long time since I got laid. Y'all know that?)
Bob Casey is apparently widening his lead over incumbent Senator Rick Santorum (R.-Penna.).
And now this... on Project Runway, Laura, Michael, Uli, AND Jeffrey are all going to Fashion Week! That. Is. So. Cool. They're all so great.
I dreamed up this reallly smart, innovative idea at work that could allow us to expand the number of people we're reaching exponentially without hugely increasing our expenses. If it works, it could totally put us on the map.
Tonight was the first meeting of an adult Christian formation thing at my church. We went around the room and introduced ourselves. I came out.
I'm going to spend the weekend with hot tub guy at his cabin in Pennsylvania's gay campground (no, not that one, the other one)>
Next weekend, I head to DC to play in a softball tournement with the Ball Breakers.
I've got a couple of dates to hook up with these potentially hot manhunt.net guys tomorrow and Friday after work. (It's been a very long time since I got laid. Y'all know that?)
Bob Casey is apparently widening his lead over incumbent Senator Rick Santorum (R.-Penna.).
And now this... on Project Runway, Laura, Michael, Uli, AND Jeffrey are all going to Fashion Week! That. Is. So. Cool. They're all so great.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
And So It Goes
Spent the past twenty-two hours in the company of hot tub guy.
The plan was for us to go to Great Adventure and ride rollercoasters all day. On Friday, I made the mistake--under the sway of my father--of checking the weather report. Which was calling for rain. I sent hot tub guy a message letting him know this, and we agreed to spend the day hanging out in Philadelphia. Of course, it was a beautiful day, perfect for riding rollercoasters. So I took some needling for that.
We went to see a play, Chariot of the Sun, at a puppet theater in Old City (a lot of fun!), grabbed something to eat and sampled the cocktails at Continental (truly mediocre food, and my French Martini tasted like Tang® dissolved in grain alcohol, After dinner we went to Buffalo Billiards and shot a couple of games of pool. I'm not much good at pool, but luckily hot tub guy is only slightly better than me. I managed to narrowly beat him in the first game, and then he scratched while going for the eight ball when I had four balls on the table in our second game, sort of a pyhrric victory. After pool, we decided to see a movie. The only thing we could get into when we got to the theater was "Jackass 2." Which was great. Worth watching if for nothing else than for the butt beer bong. I found watching it a really interesting experience fresh as I am from my Inferno experience. The similarities were almost uncanny. In one of the Jackass stunts, they even used the same fishhooks that were used in the hook dance, although piercing a different part of the anatomy. At one point, one of the Jackass posse mentioned the fact that he was flying on adrenaline after a scene. Uh... I mean, "stunt." We walked up Delaware Avenue and up South Street (Ahhh, South Street! Site of so many youthful hijinx when I was in high school and college.) Our destination was the Bike Stop, where this is possibly the last weekend I'll be able to enjoy a cigar with my beer in the basement bar, since anti-smoking laws are going into effect about now. There's an exemption for "neighborhood taverns getting most of their revenue from alcohol sales," but I have no idea if the venerable Bike Stop will fit into that category.
As we turned down the block of the Bike Stop, hot tub guy reported that he had a bad stomach, and felt that it was best he headed home and spent some time sitting on the john. So we headed back to hot tub guys. We watched the Pacifier (well... I watched Vin "Chained at my feet, soaked in my piss" Diesel).
Then came what I had been waiting for since we made plans. I curled up and in bed next to hot tub guy. There's nobody better. Nobody better at all. When it comes to curling up in bed, hot tub guy has the competition beat.
But during our time together, walking through the streets of Philadelphia, sitting next to him watching a movie, over dinner, I had an insight: it's never gonna happen with me and hot tub guy.
Never?
Probably not.
Now let me clarify. By "it" I have in mind wine and roses, passionate kissing in thunderstorms, weekends at remote country inns, "that dizzy dancing way you feel." That kind of thing. And by "going to happen," I mean hot tub guys opening, and suddenly seeing me as a handsome, strong, competent, kind, passionate man who cares about him deeply and cares more finds that his happiness is the source of great happiness to me.
It's not going to happen.
But that doesn't necessarily mean that nothing is going to happen with me and hot tub guy. I like his company. I like him. I like being the person he can call when his back is to the wall. And heck, I'm spending next weekend up at his cabin at Pennsylvania's gay campground (no, not that gay campground, the other one) because they're having "Leather Weekend." (Isn't that cute? Do you think there will be bondage?)
So I'm totally down.
But I guess on another level, I'm still looking. Still hoping out there is a man who's going to look at me and I'll look at him and we'll be off to the races.
Spent the past twenty-two hours in the company of hot tub guy.
The plan was for us to go to Great Adventure and ride rollercoasters all day. On Friday, I made the mistake--under the sway of my father--of checking the weather report. Which was calling for rain. I sent hot tub guy a message letting him know this, and we agreed to spend the day hanging out in Philadelphia. Of course, it was a beautiful day, perfect for riding rollercoasters. So I took some needling for that.
We went to see a play, Chariot of the Sun, at a puppet theater in Old City (a lot of fun!), grabbed something to eat and sampled the cocktails at Continental (truly mediocre food, and my French Martini tasted like Tang® dissolved in grain alcohol, After dinner we went to Buffalo Billiards and shot a couple of games of pool. I'm not much good at pool, but luckily hot tub guy is only slightly better than me. I managed to narrowly beat him in the first game, and then he scratched while going for the eight ball when I had four balls on the table in our second game, sort of a pyhrric victory. After pool, we decided to see a movie. The only thing we could get into when we got to the theater was "Jackass 2." Which was great. Worth watching if for nothing else than for the butt beer bong. I found watching it a really interesting experience fresh as I am from my Inferno experience. The similarities were almost uncanny. In one of the Jackass stunts, they even used the same fishhooks that were used in the hook dance, although piercing a different part of the anatomy. At one point, one of the Jackass posse mentioned the fact that he was flying on adrenaline after a scene. Uh... I mean, "stunt." We walked up Delaware Avenue and up South Street (Ahhh, South Street! Site of so many youthful hijinx when I was in high school and college.) Our destination was the Bike Stop, where this is possibly the last weekend I'll be able to enjoy a cigar with my beer in the basement bar, since anti-smoking laws are going into effect about now. There's an exemption for "neighborhood taverns getting most of their revenue from alcohol sales," but I have no idea if the venerable Bike Stop will fit into that category.
As we turned down the block of the Bike Stop, hot tub guy reported that he had a bad stomach, and felt that it was best he headed home and spent some time sitting on the john. So we headed back to hot tub guys. We watched the Pacifier (well... I watched Vin "Chained at my feet, soaked in my piss" Diesel).
Then came what I had been waiting for since we made plans. I curled up and in bed next to hot tub guy. There's nobody better. Nobody better at all. When it comes to curling up in bed, hot tub guy has the competition beat.
But during our time together, walking through the streets of Philadelphia, sitting next to him watching a movie, over dinner, I had an insight: it's never gonna happen with me and hot tub guy.
Never?
Probably not.
Now let me clarify. By "it" I have in mind wine and roses, passionate kissing in thunderstorms, weekends at remote country inns, "that dizzy dancing way you feel." That kind of thing. And by "going to happen," I mean hot tub guys opening, and suddenly seeing me as a handsome, strong, competent, kind, passionate man who cares about him deeply and cares more finds that his happiness is the source of great happiness to me.
It's not going to happen.
But that doesn't necessarily mean that nothing is going to happen with me and hot tub guy. I like his company. I like him. I like being the person he can call when his back is to the wall. And heck, I'm spending next weekend up at his cabin at Pennsylvania's gay campground (no, not that gay campground, the other one) because they're having "Leather Weekend." (Isn't that cute? Do you think there will be bondage?)
So I'm totally down.
But I guess on another level, I'm still looking. Still hoping out there is a man who's going to look at me and I'll look at him and we'll be off to the races.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Coming From A Place Of Anger
Oh hell.
I've been having problems with my cell phone, a Nokia from Cingular. Thinking that with the new job I needed a PDA, and deciding that Mac was never ever ever going to come up with an iPhone (just imagine what that would be like... remember what MP3 players were like before the iPod came along?), I decided to go for a BlackBerry.
I ordered. Fedex delivered. I got service. Good to go, right?
Not quite.
Early adopter that I am, I was once the owner of a Handspring Treo. And it was great. I totally relied on it. It ran my life.
I would drop my Treo into its little cradle hooked up to my Mac laptop, and it would get all synced up. A beautiful thing.
Tonight, I dropped the cd into the drive on my iBook G4, and that new software thing didn't happen. A wee bit of research and my worst fears were realized: the BlackBerry software isn't compatible with the Mac OS.
Like... expletive deletive!
Jump over to Google. Do a search on BlackBerry Mac, and I came up with "PocketMac for BlackBerry."
Woohoooo! A patch!
I downloaded. I installed. I launched.
Or didn't launch. I can click on that damn icon until the cows come home. Nothing is going to happen.
Time to call Tech Support, right?
Not hardly.
Remember back in the day when you could get tech support?
*sigh*
Well, those days are gone forever.
The folks at PocketMac will be happy to talk to me. For the low low low low price of $20 per "incident."
Why do I think that all of those phone sex entrepreneurs of yore have all switched to providing tech support. 'Member, where it was "free" to be teased, but if you really wanted to talk with a person (allegedly "HOT GUYS who are NEAR YOU looking for SEX NOW!!!"), you had to cough up. and then it all became a ploy to keep you on the phone longer and longer ("Do you want to know what I'm wearing? Yeah? I'd love to tell you what I'm wearing. I bet you really want to know what I'm wearing. You do, don't you? Want to know what I'm wearing I mean? I bet you can't guess what I'm wearing, can you? A jock strap? Do you want me to be wearing a jock strap? I might be wearing a jock strap. Do you want me to tell you what I'm wearing?")
I am so pissed off.
Handspring was a company that cared. Three months after I got mine, it dropped out of the pocket of my bathrobe and broke. I called Handspring (and got them on the phone no problem) and asked where I could take it to get it repaired. "Oh," the nice representative informed me, "I'm afraid we don't do repairs. But you should be receiving your replacement tomorrow morning."
Yikes! How much will that cost?
Nothing, of course.
And, of course, all I had to do is drop my replacement Treo in the cradle and it synced right up with all my data and I was good to go.
The software from PocketMac is free, and I wish it wasn't. I'd pay money for one that worked.
Oh hell.
I've been having problems with my cell phone, a Nokia from Cingular. Thinking that with the new job I needed a PDA, and deciding that Mac was never ever ever going to come up with an iPhone (just imagine what that would be like... remember what MP3 players were like before the iPod came along?), I decided to go for a BlackBerry.
I ordered. Fedex delivered. I got service. Good to go, right?
Not quite.
Early adopter that I am, I was once the owner of a Handspring Treo. And it was great. I totally relied on it. It ran my life.
I would drop my Treo into its little cradle hooked up to my Mac laptop, and it would get all synced up. A beautiful thing.
Tonight, I dropped the cd into the drive on my iBook G4, and that new software thing didn't happen. A wee bit of research and my worst fears were realized: the BlackBerry software isn't compatible with the Mac OS.
Like... expletive deletive!
Jump over to Google. Do a search on BlackBerry Mac, and I came up with "PocketMac for BlackBerry."
Woohoooo! A patch!
I downloaded. I installed. I launched.
Or didn't launch. I can click on that damn icon until the cows come home. Nothing is going to happen.
Time to call Tech Support, right?
Not hardly.
Remember back in the day when you could get tech support?
*sigh*
Well, those days are gone forever.
The folks at PocketMac will be happy to talk to me. For the low low low low price of $20 per "incident."
Why do I think that all of those phone sex entrepreneurs of yore have all switched to providing tech support. 'Member, where it was "free" to be teased, but if you really wanted to talk with a person (allegedly "HOT GUYS who are NEAR YOU looking for SEX NOW!!!"), you had to cough up. and then it all became a ploy to keep you on the phone longer and longer ("Do you want to know what I'm wearing? Yeah? I'd love to tell you what I'm wearing. I bet you really want to know what I'm wearing. You do, don't you? Want to know what I'm wearing I mean? I bet you can't guess what I'm wearing, can you? A jock strap? Do you want me to be wearing a jock strap? I might be wearing a jock strap. Do you want me to tell you what I'm wearing?")
I am so pissed off.
Handspring was a company that cared. Three months after I got mine, it dropped out of the pocket of my bathrobe and broke. I called Handspring (and got them on the phone no problem) and asked where I could take it to get it repaired. "Oh," the nice representative informed me, "I'm afraid we don't do repairs. But you should be receiving your replacement tomorrow morning."
Yikes! How much will that cost?
Nothing, of course.
And, of course, all I had to do is drop my replacement Treo in the cradle and it synced right up with all my data and I was good to go.
The software from PocketMac is free, and I wish it wasn't. I'd pay money for one that worked.
Monday, September 18, 2006
The Inferno Post
(Thinking ahead this year, I carried with me a pen and notebook, jotting down thoughts at random. So here they are, in lieu of a narrative. I mean, at this point, you know what the narrative is, right?)
Left at 3:00 a.m.
Foggy hills dappled with goldenrod in Western Pennsylvania.
Crows watch me speed by from the side of the highway.
Just past the halfway mark at the first rest stop on the Ohio Turnpike, I get my first Starbucks. (And see several hot Ohio men.)
Other than Starbucks, I'm still boycotting Ohio because we have them to blame for the last election.
The Left Turn Signal Gambit that hot tub guy taught me (while on the interstate, put drive with your left turn signal on to indicate to truckers that you're up for sex) proves fruitless. I think that must only work in Florida.
From what I've seen, the entire state of Indiana has let themselves go. Everybody needs a makeover. That could be their state motto: "Indiana -- Just Let Yourself Go!"
Michigan is beautiful countryside. It puts me in mind of Hemingway's Nick Adams Stories. If you haven't read it, take it on your next vacation. Especially if it's a camping trip.
I get to Inferno! Thirteen hours on the road.
I'm in my room unpacking and hot tub guy calls. Crying. Really crying. Because he was out riding his bike and had a spill. And got hurt. Bad. And was alone.
That. Was. Rough.
I did the best I could to talk him through it. Called later on and there was no answer. The next day, he called me. He took a bunch of sleeping pills and passed out. Woke up the next morning in sheets soaked in blood. Made it to work where they patched him up in the infirmary or whatever.
And hot tub guy thanked me for being there for him.
The first night of Inferno. The dungeons are open. It's cold and drizzly. Maybe because I drove twelve hours on four hours of sleep, maybe because I was worried about hot tub guy... I just feel so detached. So out of it. I head to bed early.
The next morning, I renew my acquaintance with Officer Wes. Officer Wes met my best Inferno buddy Alpha when they were roommates their freshman year of college. Such a sweet man. He mentions that he wants to be singletailed at some point. (!) I would totally be up for whipping Officer Wes! The connection is definitely there.
In the alternative, there's my roommate from LA. It's his first Inferno. He's a gentle, thoughtful man, and I immediately liked him. So I did my best to impart to him some words of wisdom for his first Inferno, and before dinner, gave him a quick tour of the compound.
Monday, 5 p.m.
Rain, rain, go away.
No play today. The bondage tent collapsed. No one was injured, and the facilities crew did an amazing job in rearranging the equipment so there was no interruption in the availability the various bondage tables and such.
But I couldn't help thinking that the collapse of the bondage tent was somehow symbolic. The overall mood was somewhat subdued.
Yossie from SF organized a hook dance. Whuzzat? Wellllll... Participants get a couple of large gauge fish hooks through their pectoral muscles, strung with loops of cord. Attaching the other end of the loop to some fixed object, leaning back and letting the hooks support one's weight, giving it to a partner to tug. Very quickly, the sublime dance began. If endorphins could be harnessed to produce electricity, we could have powered some midwestern metropolis.
Watching it, however, I felt fragile.
Fragile?
Fragile.
Perhaps not trusting myself after my reaction getting whipped by roadkill last year. Or, perhaps, the psychic energy I expend keeping pain and loneliness at bay in my daily life depletes my resources. I had a feeling watching the men with hooks in their chests that I was staying up with the grown ups.
This morning at breakfast I proposed to Officer Wes that I whip him. But he has a bacterial infection and doesn't feel up to it.
And no other topportunities have presented themselves.
But then, I got the phone call from hot tub guy, reporting that he was alright. And that was the best thing that happened to me all day.
Huh. A thought occurs to me. I'm internalizing. The weather is crappy. People are staying in their rooms. The bondage tent collapsed. Maybe the reason that I'm not having any opportunities to play is because no one is playing. It's not about me.
But maybe I'm just not cut out for all this stuff. I'd rather be making dinner for hot tub guy. I want to fall in love, and it's unlikely that will happen at Inferno.
Now if it's not not about me, just what am I doing? Or not doing? Maybe it's just the case that my expectations are too easily raised. Or a general awkwardness in new situations.
Maybe I'm just "Complicated." Am I "Complicated?"
I thoroughly enjoyed a shaving scene with Manboy Bill. The first scene I did during my first Inferno was giving Manboy Bill a mohawk. This time, he wanted to leave what was on top, but take off the back and sides. I was as obsessive shaving his head as I am with my own, not letting up until it was smoothe as a baby's ass. And he looked great. And it was very even.
Wandered around with my whip around my neck for awhile. No takers. Not even close.
With my sponsee (the one who showed up!), I watched ARt whipping the Mann von München. My sponsee commented, "I feel my spiritual quest and my sexual longings are one." (Can I pick'em or can I pick'em?)
More rain today. Good news for performance outerwear fetishists, bad news for the rest of us.
Text message from hot tub guy asking about the weather. My reply: You can see your breath. Then I messaged him: There are a few porn guys here, and many other hot men, but all I want is to curl up next to you in bed. He gave me an emoticon smile for that.
Maybe everyone who was here for A made dates or is all played out.
What vibe am I giving off?
At this point, if I did have an opportunity to play, my head would totally be in the wrong place.
"Own your power" was what Yossie told a reluctant hook dance participant.
"I have really bad news. The rain gods want us to sacrifice a virgin. So we're shit out of luck."
In the world but not of the world. That's how I feel. Just like the 2004 season of the Ball Breakers.
Tuesday, 1 p.m.
In matters of the heart, I don't deal well with ambiguity. (Thanks, Dad!)
So that's why I'm having such a hard time.
However, my roommate from Los Angeles has asked me to flog him this evening after dinner. So now I can relax.
Tuesday After Midnight
Flogging my roommate from Los Angeles went really well. I gave him a sampling of as many sensations on his beautiful back as I could squeeze in. Afterwards, I was supposed to get my butt beat by TxLthrDad. After the scene with my roommate, I needed to unwind just a wee bit. I saw TxLthrDad as I was heading up to my room to get a cigar, but on my return, he was gone. I have to admit though, I was steeling myself rather than panting with anticipation. I can't take anything at all on my butt. It makes me cry. Anything but that. Bondage, edge play, knives, face punching... But not my butt. I hung around the beverage tent until midnight snack. No sign of him. So I decided to go to bed. After all, long day of Tear Down tomorrow.
Huh.
I wonder if my SM is different now. Not so much about whips and needles and wax and such, but more about relationships, connection... Not so much about bodies but more about heart, mind, and soul.
If someone so much as pokes me, I'm going to cry.
So I had a crappy Inferno, but a great Tear Down.
Could it have been a failure of my sadistic imagination? I used to be so much more involved with things. Before I lived out in the howling wilderness. I'm so out of the game.
During the final brunch of the run, before everyone heads for home whose not staying for Tear Down, they read a list of all the groups represented by the men attending. "GMSMA, Dallas Discipline Corp, Renegades..." In the middle of the list I heard "American Organists Guild." I was sitting next to church organist Manboy Bill. I turned to him, and barely looking up he said offhandedly, "You don't know for sure that was me."
I never jerk off during Inferno. The eroticism is the sea I swim in, it seems so de trop. But the first night of Inferno, I decided to give it a shot. It was slow to get going. Like I had to teach myself to do it again.
During Tear Down, the facades began to drop. (Or mine did anyway.) We became ourselves again, little by little. The men we are the other fifty-one weeks of the year. Comparing notes on PDAs. The price of gas back home. Flooded basements. Overweight cats. I found that DCSMTop and I shared a preoccupation with Project Runway. At dinner, I met a Russian man with great energy. And, he lives not so far away from me. Hope to be seeing him sometime again.
Diabolique was the Tear Down co-chair. He was perfect. Set just the right tone. Encouraging, clear, concise, focused. Just perfect. In the wake of a nuclear apocalypse, I'd be hunting for Diabolique because I'm sure he'd have us growing organic vegetables under geodesic domes to get us through the nuclear winter in no time at all.
Some secondary roads that overpass or underpass the Ohio Turnpike:
Fangboner
Mudd
Dishinger
Copp
Humm
Frailey
Joppa
Angling
Vermillion
Bagley
Usher
Sprague
During Tear Down, while we were toting away the St. Andrew's crosses, I was singing to myself one of my favorite hymns: "Raise high the cross! The love of Christ proclaim!"
Overheard during Tear Down: "Hey Tiger! Oh... I'm sorry. I didn't mean you, I meant the other Tiger.
The first morning of Tear Down, I awoke to the sound of rain drumming on the roof. It took me about twenty minutes to put on my boots. I was just dreading heading out in it. But it was fine. Better than fine.
Okay okay okay. So it seems I like Joe the Barber. This always happens to me. Just when I make up my mind not to like someone, I become a big fan.
The "Last Day Of Inferno Conversation Phenomenon." You've got to get a move on and head for home, and there's that guy you did that scene with last night, and what transpires is this staccatto "That scene we did. Transformative. So powerful. Changed my life. Get home safe." Like drive-by affirmation.
So anyway. I get home on Friday. Saturday, I headed up to NYC (MUCH to my father's chagrin) for an awards ceremony for softball. And that was cool. I had heard that the New York boys of Leather (NYboL) was having a bar night at the 9th Avenue Saloon, and figured that would be worth a stop-in.
And was it ever. I knew half the place. And they were happy to see me. Really happy to see me. Like a homecoming. Which it was. And I was asked to become an associate member of NYboL. You bet I said yes! And there was my buddy Rick who moved down to FTL!!! Back in town for some meeting. Such a wonderful, sweet man with a smile that lights up a room. Rich was the last person in my life with whom I could go out and get drunk off my ass and laugh myself silly. I miss him so much. I miss everybody so much.
That's what was awry at Inferno. It's not the SM I need. It's to feel like I'm part of... ...something. A brotherhood. A family. A circle. A band of warriors. Among people who know me. Who find my presence in their life something to celebrate. Not to mention that numinous cloud of romantic possibility.
Although it meant giving up several opportunities for play at Inferno (among other things, it was pretty Top-heavy this year), I think I did the right thing by not bottoming. I'm bottoming most of the time these days. And I've always felt so much more myself when I'm on Top.
(Thinking ahead this year, I carried with me a pen and notebook, jotting down thoughts at random. So here they are, in lieu of a narrative. I mean, at this point, you know what the narrative is, right?)
Left at 3:00 a.m.
Foggy hills dappled with goldenrod in Western Pennsylvania.
Crows watch me speed by from the side of the highway.
Just past the halfway mark at the first rest stop on the Ohio Turnpike, I get my first Starbucks. (And see several hot Ohio men.)
Other than Starbucks, I'm still boycotting Ohio because we have them to blame for the last election.
The Left Turn Signal Gambit that hot tub guy taught me (while on the interstate, put drive with your left turn signal on to indicate to truckers that you're up for sex) proves fruitless. I think that must only work in Florida.
From what I've seen, the entire state of Indiana has let themselves go. Everybody needs a makeover. That could be their state motto: "Indiana -- Just Let Yourself Go!"
Michigan is beautiful countryside. It puts me in mind of Hemingway's Nick Adams Stories. If you haven't read it, take it on your next vacation. Especially if it's a camping trip.
I get to Inferno! Thirteen hours on the road.
I'm in my room unpacking and hot tub guy calls. Crying. Really crying. Because he was out riding his bike and had a spill. And got hurt. Bad. And was alone.
That. Was. Rough.
I did the best I could to talk him through it. Called later on and there was no answer. The next day, he called me. He took a bunch of sleeping pills and passed out. Woke up the next morning in sheets soaked in blood. Made it to work where they patched him up in the infirmary or whatever.
And hot tub guy thanked me for being there for him.
The first night of Inferno. The dungeons are open. It's cold and drizzly. Maybe because I drove twelve hours on four hours of sleep, maybe because I was worried about hot tub guy... I just feel so detached. So out of it. I head to bed early.
The next morning, I renew my acquaintance with Officer Wes. Officer Wes met my best Inferno buddy Alpha when they were roommates their freshman year of college. Such a sweet man. He mentions that he wants to be singletailed at some point. (!) I would totally be up for whipping Officer Wes! The connection is definitely there.
In the alternative, there's my roommate from LA. It's his first Inferno. He's a gentle, thoughtful man, and I immediately liked him. So I did my best to impart to him some words of wisdom for his first Inferno, and before dinner, gave him a quick tour of the compound.
Monday, 5 p.m.
Rain, rain, go away.
No play today. The bondage tent collapsed. No one was injured, and the facilities crew did an amazing job in rearranging the equipment so there was no interruption in the availability the various bondage tables and such.
But I couldn't help thinking that the collapse of the bondage tent was somehow symbolic. The overall mood was somewhat subdued.
Yossie from SF organized a hook dance. Whuzzat? Wellllll... Participants get a couple of large gauge fish hooks through their pectoral muscles, strung with loops of cord. Attaching the other end of the loop to some fixed object, leaning back and letting the hooks support one's weight, giving it to a partner to tug. Very quickly, the sublime dance began. If endorphins could be harnessed to produce electricity, we could have powered some midwestern metropolis.
Watching it, however, I felt fragile.
Fragile?
Fragile.
Perhaps not trusting myself after my reaction getting whipped by roadkill last year. Or, perhaps, the psychic energy I expend keeping pain and loneliness at bay in my daily life depletes my resources. I had a feeling watching the men with hooks in their chests that I was staying up with the grown ups.
This morning at breakfast I proposed to Officer Wes that I whip him. But he has a bacterial infection and doesn't feel up to it.
And no other topportunities have presented themselves.
But then, I got the phone call from hot tub guy, reporting that he was alright. And that was the best thing that happened to me all day.
Huh. A thought occurs to me. I'm internalizing. The weather is crappy. People are staying in their rooms. The bondage tent collapsed. Maybe the reason that I'm not having any opportunities to play is because no one is playing. It's not about me.
But maybe I'm just not cut out for all this stuff. I'd rather be making dinner for hot tub guy. I want to fall in love, and it's unlikely that will happen at Inferno.
Now if it's not not about me, just what am I doing? Or not doing? Maybe it's just the case that my expectations are too easily raised. Or a general awkwardness in new situations.
Maybe I'm just "Complicated." Am I "Complicated?"
I thoroughly enjoyed a shaving scene with Manboy Bill. The first scene I did during my first Inferno was giving Manboy Bill a mohawk. This time, he wanted to leave what was on top, but take off the back and sides. I was as obsessive shaving his head as I am with my own, not letting up until it was smoothe as a baby's ass. And he looked great. And it was very even.
Wandered around with my whip around my neck for awhile. No takers. Not even close.
With my sponsee (the one who showed up!), I watched ARt whipping the Mann von München. My sponsee commented, "I feel my spiritual quest and my sexual longings are one." (Can I pick'em or can I pick'em?)
More rain today. Good news for performance outerwear fetishists, bad news for the rest of us.
Text message from hot tub guy asking about the weather. My reply: You can see your breath. Then I messaged him: There are a few porn guys here, and many other hot men, but all I want is to curl up next to you in bed. He gave me an emoticon smile for that.
Maybe everyone who was here for A made dates or is all played out.
What vibe am I giving off?
At this point, if I did have an opportunity to play, my head would totally be in the wrong place.
"Own your power" was what Yossie told a reluctant hook dance participant.
"I have really bad news. The rain gods want us to sacrifice a virgin. So we're shit out of luck."
In the world but not of the world. That's how I feel. Just like the 2004 season of the Ball Breakers.
Tuesday, 1 p.m.
In matters of the heart, I don't deal well with ambiguity. (Thanks, Dad!)
So that's why I'm having such a hard time.
However, my roommate from Los Angeles has asked me to flog him this evening after dinner. So now I can relax.
Tuesday After Midnight
Flogging my roommate from Los Angeles went really well. I gave him a sampling of as many sensations on his beautiful back as I could squeeze in. Afterwards, I was supposed to get my butt beat by TxLthrDad. After the scene with my roommate, I needed to unwind just a wee bit. I saw TxLthrDad as I was heading up to my room to get a cigar, but on my return, he was gone. I have to admit though, I was steeling myself rather than panting with anticipation. I can't take anything at all on my butt. It makes me cry. Anything but that. Bondage, edge play, knives, face punching... But not my butt. I hung around the beverage tent until midnight snack. No sign of him. So I decided to go to bed. After all, long day of Tear Down tomorrow.
Huh.
I wonder if my SM is different now. Not so much about whips and needles and wax and such, but more about relationships, connection... Not so much about bodies but more about heart, mind, and soul.
If someone so much as pokes me, I'm going to cry.
So I had a crappy Inferno, but a great Tear Down.
Could it have been a failure of my sadistic imagination? I used to be so much more involved with things. Before I lived out in the howling wilderness. I'm so out of the game.
During the final brunch of the run, before everyone heads for home whose not staying for Tear Down, they read a list of all the groups represented by the men attending. "GMSMA, Dallas Discipline Corp, Renegades..." In the middle of the list I heard "American Organists Guild." I was sitting next to church organist Manboy Bill. I turned to him, and barely looking up he said offhandedly, "You don't know for sure that was me."
I never jerk off during Inferno. The eroticism is the sea I swim in, it seems so de trop. But the first night of Inferno, I decided to give it a shot. It was slow to get going. Like I had to teach myself to do it again.
During Tear Down, the facades began to drop. (Or mine did anyway.) We became ourselves again, little by little. The men we are the other fifty-one weeks of the year. Comparing notes on PDAs. The price of gas back home. Flooded basements. Overweight cats. I found that DCSMTop and I shared a preoccupation with Project Runway. At dinner, I met a Russian man with great energy. And, he lives not so far away from me. Hope to be seeing him sometime again.
Diabolique was the Tear Down co-chair. He was perfect. Set just the right tone. Encouraging, clear, concise, focused. Just perfect. In the wake of a nuclear apocalypse, I'd be hunting for Diabolique because I'm sure he'd have us growing organic vegetables under geodesic domes to get us through the nuclear winter in no time at all.
Some secondary roads that overpass or underpass the Ohio Turnpike:
Fangboner
Mudd
Dishinger
Copp
Humm
Frailey
Joppa
Angling
Vermillion
Bagley
Usher
Sprague
During Tear Down, while we were toting away the St. Andrew's crosses, I was singing to myself one of my favorite hymns: "Raise high the cross! The love of Christ proclaim!"
Overheard during Tear Down: "Hey Tiger! Oh... I'm sorry. I didn't mean you, I meant the other Tiger.
The first morning of Tear Down, I awoke to the sound of rain drumming on the roof. It took me about twenty minutes to put on my boots. I was just dreading heading out in it. But it was fine. Better than fine.
Okay okay okay. So it seems I like Joe the Barber. This always happens to me. Just when I make up my mind not to like someone, I become a big fan.
The "Last Day Of Inferno Conversation Phenomenon." You've got to get a move on and head for home, and there's that guy you did that scene with last night, and what transpires is this staccatto "That scene we did. Transformative. So powerful. Changed my life. Get home safe." Like drive-by affirmation.
So anyway. I get home on Friday. Saturday, I headed up to NYC (MUCH to my father's chagrin) for an awards ceremony for softball. And that was cool. I had heard that the New York boys of Leather (NYboL) was having a bar night at the 9th Avenue Saloon, and figured that would be worth a stop-in.
And was it ever. I knew half the place. And they were happy to see me. Really happy to see me. Like a homecoming. Which it was. And I was asked to become an associate member of NYboL. You bet I said yes! And there was my buddy Rick who moved down to FTL!!! Back in town for some meeting. Such a wonderful, sweet man with a smile that lights up a room. Rich was the last person in my life with whom I could go out and get drunk off my ass and laugh myself silly. I miss him so much. I miss everybody so much.
That's what was awry at Inferno. It's not the SM I need. It's to feel like I'm part of... ...something. A brotherhood. A family. A circle. A band of warriors. Among people who know me. Who find my presence in their life something to celebrate. Not to mention that numinous cloud of romantic possibility.
Although it meant giving up several opportunities for play at Inferno (among other things, it was pretty Top-heavy this year), I think I did the right thing by not bottoming. I'm bottoming most of the time these days. And I've always felt so much more myself when I'm on Top.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Back From Inferno
Here's the précis: Inferno had it's moments, but they were few and far between. But Tear Down rocked.
First the drive out.
I got all bent out of shape with my packing. On my way back from putting yet another pair of boots in the jeep, I'd think of something else to bring, and something else, and something else. So instead of 7:00 p.m., it was more like ten when i finally finished up and went to bed. And so I overslept some, not managing to hit the road until 3 a.m. Regardless, my evil plan worked perfectly. I made great time in the middle of the night, and had almost made it all the way across Pennsylvania before the sun came up.
Pennsylvania is a beautiful part of the country. The early morning mist on the mountains, all those blackbirds by the side of the road, the meadows dotted with goldenrod... it was pretty wonderful.
A few times, I tried to rouse the interest of truckers with the "left turn signal gambit": according to hot tub guy, in Florida, if you want sex on the interstate, you drive with your left turn signal on for no reason. When you notice someone else with the left turn signal on, you pull into the next rest stop and there ya go! Trucker sex! But apparently that only works in Florida. (Let's change that, okay?)
Just past the half-way point on the Ohio Turnpike, I had my first Starbucks. And not a moment too soon.
That venti triple pumpkin spice latte lasted me until Indiana, when I stopped again. Although there was lots of eye candy in Ohio, there was not one single hot man in Indiana. From what I saw, the entire state of Indiana has let themselves go. That could be their motto: "Indiana -- Let Yourself Go!"
Of course, neither Ohio nor Indiana are particularly interesting to drive through. Flat flat flat. Michigan, however, is beautiful. Driving through Michigan I always remember Hemingway's "Nick Adams Stories," which I read so many years ago, about a young man traumatised by war taking off into the woods of northern Michigan to heal.
With almost perfect timing, I made it to the Top Secret Location, registered, and found my room.
I was unpacking when the phone rang. It was hot tub guy. Crying. Just balling. He had taken a bike ride and fallen off his bike. He was hurt bad. And hurting. Panicking. Blood everywhere. A four inch piece of flesh hanging off his elbow. I did my best to get him to go to the ER to get patched up, advising him to go knock on neighbors doors till he found someone at home to drive him. Unfortunately, giving this a try, he caught his toes in the industrial steel door to his apartment. More blood. More pain. He called me back to report.
I called him later to check up. No answer. Texted him the next morning. Finally he called. He had taken some sleeping pills and passed out as soon as he hit the bed. He woke up the next morning in blood soaked sheets, made it to work where he was patched up in the infirmary or whatever.
And then he thanked me for being there when he called. Hanging on the phone with him. And of all the people in the world, he called me.
Me.
But enough about hot tub guy. Let's get back to Inferno.
Although I never really did get back to Inferno.
No I didn't.
I kept thinking about hot tub guy.
*sigh*
Sunday night, the first night of Inferno, I sort of wandered around, seeing who was there. And who wasn't. And there were a lot of people who weren't there. roadkill, Alpha...
One of my roommates was making his first Inferno. A swet guy from LA. I did my best to pass on some pearls of wisdom, trying to remember what had worked for me my first Inferno. And I gave him a tour: this is the raunch tent, this is the whipping tent, this is the
So nothing happened. Around midnight, I decided to call it a night.
Here's the précis: Inferno had it's moments, but they were few and far between. But Tear Down rocked.
First the drive out.
I got all bent out of shape with my packing. On my way back from putting yet another pair of boots in the jeep, I'd think of something else to bring, and something else, and something else. So instead of 7:00 p.m., it was more like ten when i finally finished up and went to bed. And so I overslept some, not managing to hit the road until 3 a.m. Regardless, my evil plan worked perfectly. I made great time in the middle of the night, and had almost made it all the way across Pennsylvania before the sun came up.
Pennsylvania is a beautiful part of the country. The early morning mist on the mountains, all those blackbirds by the side of the road, the meadows dotted with goldenrod... it was pretty wonderful.
A few times, I tried to rouse the interest of truckers with the "left turn signal gambit": according to hot tub guy, in Florida, if you want sex on the interstate, you drive with your left turn signal on for no reason. When you notice someone else with the left turn signal on, you pull into the next rest stop and there ya go! Trucker sex! But apparently that only works in Florida. (Let's change that, okay?)
Just past the half-way point on the Ohio Turnpike, I had my first Starbucks. And not a moment too soon.
That venti triple pumpkin spice latte lasted me until Indiana, when I stopped again. Although there was lots of eye candy in Ohio, there was not one single hot man in Indiana. From what I saw, the entire state of Indiana has let themselves go. That could be their motto: "Indiana -- Let Yourself Go!"
Of course, neither Ohio nor Indiana are particularly interesting to drive through. Flat flat flat. Michigan, however, is beautiful. Driving through Michigan I always remember Hemingway's "Nick Adams Stories," which I read so many years ago, about a young man traumatised by war taking off into the woods of northern Michigan to heal.
With almost perfect timing, I made it to the Top Secret Location, registered, and found my room.
I was unpacking when the phone rang. It was hot tub guy. Crying. Just balling. He had taken a bike ride and fallen off his bike. He was hurt bad. And hurting. Panicking. Blood everywhere. A four inch piece of flesh hanging off his elbow. I did my best to get him to go to the ER to get patched up, advising him to go knock on neighbors doors till he found someone at home to drive him. Unfortunately, giving this a try, he caught his toes in the industrial steel door to his apartment. More blood. More pain. He called me back to report.
I called him later to check up. No answer. Texted him the next morning. Finally he called. He had taken some sleeping pills and passed out as soon as he hit the bed. He woke up the next morning in blood soaked sheets, made it to work where he was patched up in the infirmary or whatever.
And then he thanked me for being there when he called. Hanging on the phone with him. And of all the people in the world, he called me.
Me.
But enough about hot tub guy. Let's get back to Inferno.
Although I never really did get back to Inferno.
No I didn't.
I kept thinking about hot tub guy.
*sigh*
Sunday night, the first night of Inferno, I sort of wandered around, seeing who was there. And who wasn't. And there were a lot of people who weren't there. roadkill, Alpha...
One of my roommates was making his first Inferno. A swet guy from LA. I did my best to pass on some pearls of wisdom, trying to remember what had worked for me my first Inferno. And I gave him a tour: this is the raunch tent, this is the whipping tent, this is the
So nothing happened. Around midnight, I decided to call it a night.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Ya Cain't!
Alright, this is it. I'm off to Inferno. (Well, after I make my dad dinner, pack, load up the car, and get some sleep.) But since I won't be able to post from the Top Secret Location, I'll leave you all with this little treat while I'm away.
(Sung to the tune of "You Can't Get A Man With A Gun," from
"Annie Get Your Gun!"
I trim my shrubs and tulips
with signals, snakes and bullwhips
to keep my aim in shape top tip,
But when it comes to datin'
It's zero that I'm ratin'
Cuz ya cain't get a man with a whip!
If your up for a paddlin'
My sawhorse you'll be straddlin'
Bend over 'n' I'll let'er rip.
But when I want to kiss and cuddle
It's nothin' but a muddle,
Cuz ya cain't get a man with a whip!
With a whi-i-i-ip! With a whi-i-i-ip! No ya cain't get a man with a whip!
When it's floggin' that they're wantin'
For me they come a'huntin'
I can give you quite a trip!
But when they're lookin' for romance,
I haven't got a chance,
Cuz ya cain't get a man with a whip!
With a singletail,
A flogger or a flail,
I have quite a relationship!
But though my skills I hone
Ev'ry night I sleep alone,
Cuz ya cain't get a man with a whip!
With a whi-i-i-ip! With a whi-i-i-ip! No ya cain't get a man with a whip!
If it's a whippin' that you're lackin'
Turn around show me your back 'n'
We'll take care of that in a zip.
But if it's love then I betchya,
Some other guy will getchya
Cuz I cain't get a man with a whip!
There. Something to hum to yourself while I'm away.
Alright, this is it. I'm off to Inferno. (Well, after I make my dad dinner, pack, load up the car, and get some sleep.) But since I won't be able to post from the Top Secret Location, I'll leave you all with this little treat while I'm away.
(Sung to the tune of "You Can't Get A Man With A Gun," from
"Annie Get Your Gun!"
I trim my shrubs and tulips
with signals, snakes and bullwhips
to keep my aim in shape top tip,
But when it comes to datin'
It's zero that I'm ratin'
Cuz ya cain't get a man with a whip!
If your up for a paddlin'
My sawhorse you'll be straddlin'
Bend over 'n' I'll let'er rip.
But when I want to kiss and cuddle
It's nothin' but a muddle,
Cuz ya cain't get a man with a whip!
With a whi-i-i-ip! With a whi-i-i-ip! No ya cain't get a man with a whip!
When it's floggin' that they're wantin'
For me they come a'huntin'
I can give you quite a trip!
But when they're lookin' for romance,
I haven't got a chance,
Cuz ya cain't get a man with a whip!
With a singletail,
A flogger or a flail,
I have quite a relationship!
But though my skills I hone
Ev'ry night I sleep alone,
Cuz ya cain't get a man with a whip!
With a whi-i-i-ip! With a whi-i-i-ip! No ya cain't get a man with a whip!
If it's a whippin' that you're lackin'
Turn around show me your back 'n'
We'll take care of that in a zip.
But if it's love then I betchya,
Some other guy will getchya
Cuz I cain't get a man with a whip!
There. Something to hum to yourself while I'm away.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
That's the sound that I make when I'm really excited about something. (But not when strangers are around, because people just wouldn't understand why that big, built, stached, inked bald man making that odd noise.)
And right now, I'm really excited.
Because I get off work at 5 pm today, and then I head for home, and maybe stop off at Starbucks on my way, and definitely stop off at StoopidFresh in Doylestown to buy something for dinner (and hopefully remember that I'm out of mouthwash), and then I go home and make dinner, and then I maybe watch some television, and then I go to bed, and then I get up early tomorrow morning, and then I do some packing, and then I take Faithful Companion to doggie lock-up, and then I pick up some cigars and other last minute items in Doylestown, and then I go home and finish up packing and load up the Bucephalus, my trusty silver Jeep Liberty, and then I make an early dinner for my dad, and then I go to bed even though there are still several hours of daylight, and then I wake up when my alarm goes off at midnight, and I take a shower, and then I hit the road and drive to Inferno!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
It's here it's here it's here it's finally here!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
That's the sound that I make when I'm really excited about something. (But not when strangers are around, because people just wouldn't understand why that big, built, stached, inked bald man making that odd noise.)
And right now, I'm really excited.
Because I get off work at 5 pm today, and then I head for home, and maybe stop off at Starbucks on my way, and definitely stop off at StoopidFresh in Doylestown to buy something for dinner (and hopefully remember that I'm out of mouthwash), and then I go home and make dinner, and then I maybe watch some television, and then I go to bed, and then I get up early tomorrow morning, and then I do some packing, and then I take Faithful Companion to doggie lock-up, and then I pick up some cigars and other last minute items in Doylestown, and then I go home and finish up packing and load up the Bucephalus, my trusty silver Jeep Liberty, and then I make an early dinner for my dad, and then I go to bed even though there are still several hours of daylight, and then I wake up when my alarm goes off at midnight, and I take a shower, and then I hit the road and drive to Inferno!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
It's here it's here it's here it's finally here!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
The Karen Black Decade
It's been quite awhile since we heard from the Apt Metaphor Think Tank here at SingleTails. (Okay, we've actually never heard from them before, which leads me to question why I'm paying them all this money and giving them lush office space in the silo at the I.M. Pei re-designed farm that we here at SingleTails call home.) But they've come up with a good one!
I've written before about guys in their twenties. I do not and will not date them. I dated a 26 year old once and it was pretty bad. My reason has always been that guys in their twenties have no idea who they are. You have to spend years in therapy, and/or have an experience that brings home to you the fact that you're going to die, and/or get to a point in your life where you feel that you're an absolute failure, and/or just get real, and few and far between are guys in their twenties who have compassed any of those.
So they conduct their lives doing things and making decisions without having any good reason or the slightest inkling why. Such as, always picking fights on the second date, or always being late for work, or always maxing out their credit cards and having to ask their parents to bail them out, or... Well, you get the picture. And it takes a long time (usually a decade) before they notice a pattern in their behavior and start to wonder why it's there.
But until then, it's just like... (Here it comes!) Karen Black in the movie Airport, where the flight crew was incapacitated by a bomb and... the stewardess had to fly the plane!
Right? Right?
Isn't that what it's like being in your twenties? Don't you feel like you're in the cockpit of this enormous vehicle cruising along at 50,000 feet above the earth and somehow you're expected to be able to direct it and make it do things like find an airstrip and come in for a landing. But look at that! You're headed right for that mountain in front of you! What's up with that? Is there something maybe you should be doing? Is there a button to push? Do you go left or right or up? Wouldn't it be nice if you just could concern yourself with making sure everybody had hot coffee and their seatbelts were fastened correctly and passing around steaming hot towels?
Ah, it's sweet being the guy who knows how to fly the plane. For the most part, I know the mountain is there before it appears over the horizon line, and I've adjusted my flight plan accordingly.
It's been quite awhile since we heard from the Apt Metaphor Think Tank here at SingleTails. (Okay, we've actually never heard from them before, which leads me to question why I'm paying them all this money and giving them lush office space in the silo at the I.M. Pei re-designed farm that we here at SingleTails call home.) But they've come up with a good one!
I've written before about guys in their twenties. I do not and will not date them. I dated a 26 year old once and it was pretty bad. My reason has always been that guys in their twenties have no idea who they are. You have to spend years in therapy, and/or have an experience that brings home to you the fact that you're going to die, and/or get to a point in your life where you feel that you're an absolute failure, and/or just get real, and few and far between are guys in their twenties who have compassed any of those.
So they conduct their lives doing things and making decisions without having any good reason or the slightest inkling why. Such as, always picking fights on the second date, or always being late for work, or always maxing out their credit cards and having to ask their parents to bail them out, or... Well, you get the picture. And it takes a long time (usually a decade) before they notice a pattern in their behavior and start to wonder why it's there.
But until then, it's just like... (Here it comes!) Karen Black in the movie Airport, where the flight crew was incapacitated by a bomb and... the stewardess had to fly the plane!
Right? Right?
Isn't that what it's like being in your twenties? Don't you feel like you're in the cockpit of this enormous vehicle cruising along at 50,000 feet above the earth and somehow you're expected to be able to direct it and make it do things like find an airstrip and come in for a landing. But look at that! You're headed right for that mountain in front of you! What's up with that? Is there something maybe you should be doing? Is there a button to push? Do you go left or right or up? Wouldn't it be nice if you just could concern yourself with making sure everybody had hot coffee and their seatbelts were fastened correctly and passing around steaming hot towels?
Ah, it's sweet being the guy who knows how to fly the plane. For the most part, I know the mountain is there before it appears over the horizon line, and I've adjusted my flight plan accordingly.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Hot Bear Alert!
Oh man.
On Queer Eye, they're having "fat month." Every show they're including weight reduction as part of their makeover thing. So tonight, they're doing these two best friends, Adam and Steve.
In the opening sequence, they showed Adam and Steve in profile, in boxer shorts.
Fukken beautiful.
And as the show progresses, we get to know Adman and Steve. And whaddya know, they're great guys. They're total bears. All about having a good time and enjoying life. And the relationship they have... You can tell that the wife and girlfriend on some level realize that they can't compete with their husband/boyfriend's most serious relationship.
Wow. I love bears. Especially when they're as hot as Adam and Steve.
Oh man.
On Queer Eye, they're having "fat month." Every show they're including weight reduction as part of their makeover thing. So tonight, they're doing these two best friends, Adam and Steve.
In the opening sequence, they showed Adam and Steve in profile, in boxer shorts.
Fukken beautiful.
And as the show progresses, we get to know Adman and Steve. And whaddya know, they're great guys. They're total bears. All about having a good time and enjoying life. And the relationship they have... You can tell that the wife and girlfriend on some level realize that they can't compete with their husband/boyfriend's most serious relationship.
Wow. I love bears. Especially when they're as hot as Adam and Steve.
Super Genius
Okay. So on Saturday at midnight, I hit the road bound for Inferno. After the run is over on Wednesday, I'll be working Tear Down, under that relentless task master, Diabolique. According to D., we should be all done by Friday morning, and then I hit the road back. Pretty much, I'll be gone Sunday through Friday.
So, what will happen to my father?
Over the weekend, I was inspired. I made a phone call, and the fix is in.
My deceased sister's ex-husband will be staying here taking care of my father. and mostly, keeping him company.
If I know my deceased sister's ex-husband, he'll do his best to spend a week spoiling my father rotten. And he even likes football, and the Eagles are having their season opener on Sunday. (Twirling moustache with evil glint in my eye: "BWAH-ha-ha-ha-HA! I've thought of everything!") (I love baseball, but football holds my interest as much as a real estate transaction, which is about all a football game is.)
Ahem.
I'm going to Inferno!!!!! I get to whip men!!!! I get to chain men up!!!!
(If you were here, you'd witness me dissolving into incoherent squeals of joy.)
Okay. So on Saturday at midnight, I hit the road bound for Inferno. After the run is over on Wednesday, I'll be working Tear Down, under that relentless task master, Diabolique. According to D., we should be all done by Friday morning, and then I hit the road back. Pretty much, I'll be gone Sunday through Friday.
So, what will happen to my father?
Over the weekend, I was inspired. I made a phone call, and the fix is in.
My deceased sister's ex-husband will be staying here taking care of my father. and mostly, keeping him company.
If I know my deceased sister's ex-husband, he'll do his best to spend a week spoiling my father rotten. And he even likes football, and the Eagles are having their season opener on Sunday. (Twirling moustache with evil glint in my eye: "BWAH-ha-ha-ha-HA! I've thought of everything!") (I love baseball, but football holds my interest as much as a real estate transaction, which is about all a football game is.)
Ahem.
I'm going to Inferno!!!!! I get to whip men!!!! I get to chain men up!!!!
(If you were here, you'd witness me dissolving into incoherent squeals of joy.)
Monday, September 04, 2006
Eeeewwwwwww...
Tonight, I will have a hot shower.
(I know that any pigs reading this into manstank are uttering a disappointed, "Awwww!")
But I'm happy!
Here's the whole tale of woe.
When I went to take a shower Saturday morning, there was no hot water. I went to investigate, and didn't need to go further than the top of the cellar steps. The bottom two steps were underwater. Uh oh.
I put on my Wellies, which weren't quite tall enough to do thhe trick, and waded over to the sump pump. Which was dead. So we called the plumber. The plumber diagnosed the problem: one of our three freezers in the basement had gone on the fritz, and blown out the circuit breaker. And the sump pump was on the same line. With all the rain we had from Ernesto going by, the water came seeping in and the basement flooded, putting the guts of the furnace under water.
So the plumber pumped out our basement, and today the furnace guy came and got our furnace operable.
My big thing to do was to clean out the freezers.
In the coverage of post-Katrina New Orleans on NPR, they reported that when people started to come back, unopened refrigerators were out on curbs all over the city. Don't know if you've ever had the pleasure, but a refrigerator full of rotten food is just indescribably gross. I ran to the store and bought some heavy duty trash bags, headed down to the basement, and set to work.
It was pretty awful.
Okay, astute readers might ask, what the hell were you doing with three freezers full of food in your cellar?
That's all about my stepmother. During the last few years of her life, her mind wasn't too sharp, and she got a little bit obsessive. So the last couple of spoonfuls of mashed potatoes that no one wanted? It went down to the freezer. The leftover dipping sauce from takeout chinese? Down to the freezer. And when she found something on sale at the supermarket, then just look out. The woman believed strongly in buying in bulk. About eleven different kinds of non-butter spread (which I have totally no use for), doughnuts, fishsticks, blowpops, pie crust... And then, of course, fruit and vegetables in season were bought in bulk, sealed in plastic bags, and taken down to the freezer until hell froze over. Which haven't happened yet. The earliest I found was dated 1978, when Jimmy Carter was president and gay men were still having sex in public places because the internet hadn't happened yet. Early on here, I suggested that we empty them out. Of course not. So there they've sat all these years, humming away, keeping little plastic baggies of ducksauce and twenty year old zucchini frozen for all eternity.
Until it thawed.
And then it became countless bags of stinking goo blanketed in some really evil looking black mold.
One by one, I filled up the heavy duty trashbags till all the... uh... solid stuff was out of there. Then I wiped them down over and over and over again with disinfectant.
And I didn't toss my cookies once.
So it's the end of an era here at the Old Homestead.
Tonight, I will have a hot shower.
(I know that any pigs reading this into manstank are uttering a disappointed, "Awwww!")
But I'm happy!
Here's the whole tale of woe.
When I went to take a shower Saturday morning, there was no hot water. I went to investigate, and didn't need to go further than the top of the cellar steps. The bottom two steps were underwater. Uh oh.
I put on my Wellies, which weren't quite tall enough to do thhe trick, and waded over to the sump pump. Which was dead. So we called the plumber. The plumber diagnosed the problem: one of our three freezers in the basement had gone on the fritz, and blown out the circuit breaker. And the sump pump was on the same line. With all the rain we had from Ernesto going by, the water came seeping in and the basement flooded, putting the guts of the furnace under water.
So the plumber pumped out our basement, and today the furnace guy came and got our furnace operable.
My big thing to do was to clean out the freezers.
In the coverage of post-Katrina New Orleans on NPR, they reported that when people started to come back, unopened refrigerators were out on curbs all over the city. Don't know if you've ever had the pleasure, but a refrigerator full of rotten food is just indescribably gross. I ran to the store and bought some heavy duty trash bags, headed down to the basement, and set to work.
It was pretty awful.
Okay, astute readers might ask, what the hell were you doing with three freezers full of food in your cellar?
That's all about my stepmother. During the last few years of her life, her mind wasn't too sharp, and she got a little bit obsessive. So the last couple of spoonfuls of mashed potatoes that no one wanted? It went down to the freezer. The leftover dipping sauce from takeout chinese? Down to the freezer. And when she found something on sale at the supermarket, then just look out. The woman believed strongly in buying in bulk. About eleven different kinds of non-butter spread (which I have totally no use for), doughnuts, fishsticks, blowpops, pie crust... And then, of course, fruit and vegetables in season were bought in bulk, sealed in plastic bags, and taken down to the freezer until hell froze over. Which haven't happened yet. The earliest I found was dated 1978, when Jimmy Carter was president and gay men were still having sex in public places because the internet hadn't happened yet. Early on here, I suggested that we empty them out. Of course not. So there they've sat all these years, humming away, keeping little plastic baggies of ducksauce and twenty year old zucchini frozen for all eternity.
Until it thawed.
And then it became countless bags of stinking goo blanketed in some really evil looking black mold.
One by one, I filled up the heavy duty trashbags till all the... uh... solid stuff was out of there. Then I wiped them down over and over and over again with disinfectant.
And I didn't toss my cookies once.
So it's the end of an era here at the Old Homestead.
Farewell, Croc Hunter
I've played with stingrays. They're docile and affectionate. On CNN, they're bending over backwards to explain this, and what a "rare" thing it is that an encounter with a stingray is fatal. I think it's safe to say that Steve Irwin is the only person ever killed by a stingray. There's probably more people out there who have met their ends at the hands of bunnies than stingrays.
I always found him unwatchable. One of the most annoying people ever to grace the television screen.
Huh.
Maybe that explains it.
The gentle, playful stingray had had enough. "Christ Man! Will you please just shut up?"
I've played with stingrays. They're docile and affectionate. On CNN, they're bending over backwards to explain this, and what a "rare" thing it is that an encounter with a stingray is fatal. I think it's safe to say that Steve Irwin is the only person ever killed by a stingray. There's probably more people out there who have met their ends at the hands of bunnies than stingrays.
I always found him unwatchable. One of the most annoying people ever to grace the television screen.
Huh.
Maybe that explains it.
The gentle, playful stingray had had enough. "Christ Man! Will you please just shut up?"
Farewell, Croc Hunter
I've played with stingrays. They're docile and affectionate. On CNN, they're bending over backwards to explain this, and what a "rare" thing it is that an encounter with a stingray is fatal. I think it's safe to say that Steve Irwin is the only person ever killed by a stingray. There's probably more people out there who have met their ends at the hands of bunnies than stingrays.
I always found him unwatchable. One of the most annoying people ever to grace the television screen.
Huh.
Maybe that explains it.
The gentle, playful stingray had had enough. "Christ Man! Will you please just shut up?"
I always found him unwatchable. One of the most annoying people ever to grace the television screen.
Huh.
Maybe that explains it.
The gentle, playful stingray had had enough. "Christ Man! Will you please just shut up?"
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Saturday, September 02, 2006
I Hate My Life!!!
Oh NO!
If I go to Inferno as planned, that means I'll miss the New York boys of Leather Car Wash!
I can't think of a better way to bid a fond farewell to the Summer of '06 than having those smokin hotties from NYboL (pronounced "nibble") give the ol' Silver Jeep Liberty a nice, wet, frothy, lathered bath. (With the possible exception of having the smokin hotties from NYboL giving me a nice, we, frothy, lathered bath.)
Inferno? NYboL carwash? Inferno? NYboL carwash?
It's too hard! I can't decide!
Waaaaaaaaaaaah!
Oh NO!
If I go to Inferno as planned, that means I'll miss the New York boys of Leather Car Wash!
I can't think of a better way to bid a fond farewell to the Summer of '06 than having those smokin hotties from NYboL (pronounced "nibble") give the ol' Silver Jeep Liberty a nice, wet, frothy, lathered bath. (With the possible exception of having the smokin hotties from NYboL giving me a nice, we, frothy, lathered bath.)
Inferno? NYboL carwash? Inferno? NYboL carwash?
It's too hard! I can't decide!
Waaaaaaaaaaaah!
Friday, September 01, 2006
Am I All Gay?
In the new job, I have a lot of contact with the transgendered among us. (We have a really great HIV prevention program up and running doing work with people of transgendered experience, and like all great HIV prevention programs, the services are peer-delivered.)
And on the job, I've met up with a couple of guys who, upon first meeting them, I think to myself, "Woof! Damn hot one he is!" (Of course, consumate professional that I am, I don't give voice to this. For a change. Straight family men at the supermarket in Plumsteadville, Pennsylvania, are one thing, but workplace romance is always a bad idea.)
But anyway, not infrequently, I come to learn that by gosh, by golly, these are men of transgender experience. That is to say, you probably wouldn't know them if you had only their 6th grade class picture to go by.
And this isn't a new phenomenon. In fact, most of the trans-men I've met I've been hot for.
I've never taken that anywhere, and I'm not sure how I'd feel about the absence of a penis, but it does give one pause. Or at least, it give sme pause.
After all, I am a gender essentialist. (I know, I know... All the transfolks reading this were on my side up until right then, right?) I feel there are essential male qualities and essential female qualities. Sort of like the logic that St. Thomas Aquinas came up with to explain how the bread and the wine at Mass becomes the true body and blood of Christ: he used the Aristotelian argument of substance and accidents. The substance of the wine is it's "wine-ness," the essence that makes it truly wine. Whether it's red or white, Merlot or Chardonnay, those are mere accidents, and it's still wine. And what happens when the wine is consecrated is that the accidents stay the same, but the substance changes into... uh... "Body-of-Christ-ness." That's why it's called "transubstantiation."
Okay, that's a bit obtuse. Let's just say that having the experience of being in the world as a female at an earlier point must leave something indelible behind.
And I think that those experiences at the other end of the gender continuum, in combination with all those secondary sex characteristics that I love love love (facial hair! baldness! beer guts!) are pretty potent.
Oh yeah. I also an often enthralled by butch lesbians.
Remember Leslie B. Feinberg? She wrote an amazing book back in the Eighties called Stone Butch Blues, about being a butch lesbian in Buffalo, New York, during the middle of the Twentieth Century. I once met Leslie B. Feinberg at some queer social event, and spent some time pretty much throwing myself at her thinking that I was throwing myself at him.
And it doesn't have to be the case that there's a trompe l'oeil thing going on. I've always been drawn to butch lesbians, even the ones who are obviously women.
Oh. And one of the best experiences I've ever had whipping a boy--sometimes I think the all time best--was a scene where the boy was the mother of a five year old.
And of course, in the SM realm, someday I'm going to come up behind girlfag, yank her by the hair so it hurts, and growl into her ear, "You're mine now bitch," and proceed to flog her, giving it all I've got. (I have it from a very reliable source that the grabbing-by-the-hair thing may cause girlfag to cum right then and there.)
What would it be like to take a woman to bed?
I came close a few times in high school and college, but never... uh... went all the way.
In terms of my experience, I'm a Kinsey 6.
Huh.
Would I still maintain my Kinsey 6 status if I got it on with a transman? The stubble, the musculature, the deep voice whispering in my ear, and that soft skin and the vagina?
Our contemporary understanding of the gender continuum and claiming one's own gender identity doesn't quite lend itself to hair-splitting like that, does it?
And... Uh... I guess they'd kick me out of Inferno.
Oh. No they wouldn't. That's right: there are heterosexual men at Inferno who have regular dealings with cooze. It's just the cooze itself that's not permitted within the sacred apollonian grove.
In the new job, I have a lot of contact with the transgendered among us. (We have a really great HIV prevention program up and running doing work with people of transgendered experience, and like all great HIV prevention programs, the services are peer-delivered.)
And on the job, I've met up with a couple of guys who, upon first meeting them, I think to myself, "Woof! Damn hot one he is!" (Of course, consumate professional that I am, I don't give voice to this. For a change. Straight family men at the supermarket in Plumsteadville, Pennsylvania, are one thing, but workplace romance is always a bad idea.)
But anyway, not infrequently, I come to learn that by gosh, by golly, these are men of transgender experience. That is to say, you probably wouldn't know them if you had only their 6th grade class picture to go by.
And this isn't a new phenomenon. In fact, most of the trans-men I've met I've been hot for.
I've never taken that anywhere, and I'm not sure how I'd feel about the absence of a penis, but it does give one pause. Or at least, it give sme pause.
After all, I am a gender essentialist. (I know, I know... All the transfolks reading this were on my side up until right then, right?) I feel there are essential male qualities and essential female qualities. Sort of like the logic that St. Thomas Aquinas came up with to explain how the bread and the wine at Mass becomes the true body and blood of Christ: he used the Aristotelian argument of substance and accidents. The substance of the wine is it's "wine-ness," the essence that makes it truly wine. Whether it's red or white, Merlot or Chardonnay, those are mere accidents, and it's still wine. And what happens when the wine is consecrated is that the accidents stay the same, but the substance changes into... uh... "Body-of-Christ-ness." That's why it's called "transubstantiation."
Okay, that's a bit obtuse. Let's just say that having the experience of being in the world as a female at an earlier point must leave something indelible behind.
And I think that those experiences at the other end of the gender continuum, in combination with all those secondary sex characteristics that I love love love (facial hair! baldness! beer guts!) are pretty potent.
Oh yeah. I also an often enthralled by butch lesbians.
Remember Leslie B. Feinberg? She wrote an amazing book back in the Eighties called Stone Butch Blues, about being a butch lesbian in Buffalo, New York, during the middle of the Twentieth Century. I once met Leslie B. Feinberg at some queer social event, and spent some time pretty much throwing myself at her thinking that I was throwing myself at him.
And it doesn't have to be the case that there's a trompe l'oeil thing going on. I've always been drawn to butch lesbians, even the ones who are obviously women.
Oh. And one of the best experiences I've ever had whipping a boy--sometimes I think the all time best--was a scene where the boy was the mother of a five year old.
And of course, in the SM realm, someday I'm going to come up behind girlfag, yank her by the hair so it hurts, and growl into her ear, "You're mine now bitch," and proceed to flog her, giving it all I've got. (I have it from a very reliable source that the grabbing-by-the-hair thing may cause girlfag to cum right then and there.)
What would it be like to take a woman to bed?
I came close a few times in high school and college, but never... uh... went all the way.
In terms of my experience, I'm a Kinsey 6.
Huh.
Would I still maintain my Kinsey 6 status if I got it on with a transman? The stubble, the musculature, the deep voice whispering in my ear, and that soft skin and the vagina?
Our contemporary understanding of the gender continuum and claiming one's own gender identity doesn't quite lend itself to hair-splitting like that, does it?
And... Uh... I guess they'd kick me out of Inferno.
Oh. No they wouldn't. That's right: there are heterosexual men at Inferno who have regular dealings with cooze. It's just the cooze itself that's not permitted within the sacred apollonian grove.
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