II. Flashback

My preparation for kinky sex came in the usual way: Saturday morning cartoons, comic books, and the Hardy Boys. The villain has captured the teenage heroes who had stumbled across his evil plan of world domination. He had captured them, and now had them securely bound. One of the teenage heroes, struggling in vain against his bonds, musters defiance and says, “What… what do you plan to do with us now?” The villain goes on to explain his diabolical (time consuming) plan for getting them out of the way, while he would be elsewhere.

As soon as I was having sex with men in my late teens, I was asking to be tied up. However, I was very much a proto-Top: I basically just wanted to get a blowjob without reciprocation. And when I was all of seventeen, a man I went home with made the unusual request that I stick my hand up his ass. I happily obliged.

Later, I would feel sort of shaken by all of this. What’s wrong with me that I enjoy this sick stuff? It’s bad enough that I’m a homo, but what’s with the ropes and boots and chains?

I did my best for years and years to stuff my kinky inclinations. My boyfriends—and there were a lot of them—tended to be not just vanilla, but kink-averse. In between boyfriends, I would wander out to my local leather bar, meet some kinky man, have a great time, and never want to see him again. It was what I wanted, but I found the implications more than a little frightening.

During my last vanilla relationship (enduring seven years), I discovered, via the Internet, that there were not just kinky men out there, but there was a community of kinky men, who were living happy, fulfilled, self-actualized lives. When that relationship inevitably ended, I decided that Dammit! I was gonna be kinky!

I started to say ‘yes’ to all those things I had previously said ‘no’ to. “Yes!” became my mantra. The more I said ‘yes,’ the happier I was. The more I came to trust my instincts, and my desires. “Yes!” opened many new doors, and I met some wonderful men.

By way of example, I met a hot man at Ty’s on Christopher Street. We called, and agreed to hook up that Saturday night. He showed up at my door with two gallon jugs of Poland Spring water. “Uh, what are they for?” I asked. He grinned. “They’re for you, Guy.” And then they’re for me. Oh. I see. He wants me to drink a lot of water so he can then drink my piss. I said, “Yes!” and I spent a great night feeding this hot man bladder after bladder full of my steaming piss.

I started to notice something, though. Being a bottom was less and less satisfying, whatever we were up to. However, being a Top was fraught with peril, too. Once, I brought home a guy I met at the L.U.R.E., hooded him with spandex, and proceeded to tie him down to my bed. While he was lying there having a good time, I stood back to admire my handiwork. What a mess. A nine-year-old could have done better. And, I asked myself, now what? How to bring my incompetently bound partner some pleasure? So, I gave him one of my lousy blowjobs.

What a conundrum! I felt myself to be a Top; that was how I was wired. But how did it work? How do I do that? What are the rules of engagement? This was roughly my state of mind when I walked into the Singletails workshop.

III. I, Whipping Top

We met on America Online. It was several months after the Singletails workshop. Months that I had filled with practice. I was the terror of the plant world, with all of the shrubbery I was whipping. A friend of mine in Pennsylvania has a macadam driveway lined by a yew hedge. The hedge and the driveway were perfect for practice. I became a frequent houseguest.

At home, I had acquired a St. Andrew’s Cross, and there I had lashed a big teddy-bear wearing an old patterned tee shirt. I could point out a spot, throw the whip, and watch the fabric jump and pucker right where I wanted it.

My AOL guy lived in Fort Lauderdale, a place I was visiting every chance I got. Must be something in the water down there: it’s a town of 1.5 million with six leather bars. He was a Top, too, with flogging and singletails heading his list of favorite activities. We had a lot to talk about. He told me that from time to time, he liked to get flogged, and asked if I would accommodate him. I readily agreed.

I flew down, unloaded my stuff at the guesthouse where I was staying, and then drove over to his house. After a light dinner, we spent time in his backyard throwing whips together. To my surprise, his style was pretty monochrome: he would throw a signal whip in the same way that kids in the gym locker room snap towels at each other. I went through my throws, showing off just a little.

Before I flogged him, he announced he had a special surprise. He had invited a boy of his to join us later in the evening. “So save yourself when you’re flogging me, because he’s a really hot muscular boy, and I think you’ll enjoy working him.” (Fort Lauderdale, the City of Hot Muscle Boys on Tap.) After a flogging scene that was very successful for both of us, he said, “The boy is probably here. I told him to let himself in, strip, and remain on his knees in the living room until we come and get him.”

And there he was. A beautiful boy. We hooded and leashed him, and lead him into the garage play-space, where we put him in stocks. I set about flogging my second back of the evening. Everybody was having a good time, when my host took me aside and said sotto voce, “He would really like it if you whipped him. He loves getting whipped.”

I was stunned. At this point, I had whipped Yew, Rhododendron, Oak, English Ivy, Forsythia, and my teddy-bear, but never a man. In fact, a few weeks earlier I had dinner with A. from the Singletails workshop. My purpose in meeting up with him was to ask, “How will I know when I’m ready?”

A. had kindly offered to coach me through my first scene. He would see what he could do about securing a bottom, and the three of us would play. That sounded ideal. Having A. there would make it all right. But A. wasn’t there in the garage in Fort Lauderdale. Just this guy, the hot boy in the stocks, my whips, and me.

“Well, I’ve never whipped anyone before. I only learned how to throw a few months ago…” I explained. “What are you talking about?” he said, “You’re a lot more accomplished than I am, and I whip this guy all the time.”

I took a minute and collected myself. I approached the boy, and gently stroked his back, red from my work with the floggers and cat. I leaned in close, and said to him in a whisper, “I’d like to try out my signal whip on your back, boy, on that beautiful back of yours. Yours will be the first back I’ve whipped, boy. You remember the safe word we talked about? Use that safe word and that will be my last stroke. You want to proceed, boy?”

Without a pause, he gave an eager, “Yes, Sir! I want to give my back to you, Sir!”

I stood well back, so he was out of range by a few feet. I began throwing my whip. Even though I was cracking twenty-four inches or more away from his back, he would jump at every crack. Slowly, slowly I moved closer. Now, I was cracking right over the skin. I could see the puff of air from the crack moving the drops of sweat on his back. His sounds were low and guttural, a good sign. (The higher the pitch, the less fun the bottom is having.)

Then I moved forward a half an inch, aiming for a spot square between his shoulder blades, and threw. He moaned long and low. I backed up for a few cracks, and then connected again. And again, and again.

I saw the blood. I gasped. He was bleeding. I was making him bleed. Blood is so sacred. This was sublime. I paused, moved in close, blowing on his back, covered with welts and cuts. “How’s it going, boy?” I asked.

“Please don’t stop, Sir,” he said. I continued. He was howling, singing. “Oh. Yes. Sir! Fucking! Yes! Sir!”

I felt like I was possessed by a demon. Only in a really, really good way. I stopped when I couldn’t take any more. It was just so intense, so moving. I felt like I would explode. I slowed my rhythm, then stopped. I approached the boy, who was heaving.

“You are strong and brave. You are a warrior. Warrior strength. There is power in you. Nothing can hurt you now. You are beautiful. You are golden.”

“Yes, Sir,” he sighed.

I cleaned him up and released him from the stocks. Then, the three of us sat out back sipping Amaretto as the sky turned from orange to crimson to indigo. The boy had this huge, goofy grin on his face. He was flying.

I called him the next day. He said his back felt great, and asked when I would be back down in Fort Lauderdale.

IV. Inferno

I was invited to attend Inferno, the annual play event held by the Chicago Hellfire Club in early September. I had heard that a lot of whipping went on there. Many bloodied backs on the men who sat nightly around the dinner table. Some of the most renowned whipsmen in the world converged at that magical event. I, of course, was terrified. It was as if I was plucked from the line-up of my softball team and invited to join the Yankees for batting practice with David Wells on the mound. I mean, Gadzooks!

The wonderful man who invited me offered cautious re-assurance. Yes, most of the men there know each other and have known each other for years; and yes, there is some level of scrutiny of newcomers. But that scrutiny only reflects how highly the men of Inferno regard the event, and the delicate alchemy that makes it so wonderful. For men with a good spirit and sincerity, it’s welcoming and nurturing.

So, I packed up my whips, floggers, restraints, and other accoutrements, and after a sidetrip in Montreal, I and my sponsor headed west across Canada to Inferno.

A few weeks before, I had an email correspondence with a couple that I learned were in charge of ‘fulfilling fantasies.’ When you fill out your invitation, you’re invited to describe a fantasy of yours, and the committee will see about having your it realized over the course of the week. I left that section blank.

After saying “Yes!” so much recently, there weren’t a lot of fantasies remaining that I hadn’t been able to realize on my own]. I sent what I hoped was a humorous email enumerating my fantasies: a flying jet pack a la Buck Rogers, a job that paid well but didn’t require any actual work, butterscotch sundaes for everybody! And so on. It was well received.

Then, days before the event, a thought occurred to me. I sent another email; with lots of qualifiers (“this is probably way beyond the deadline; it’s probably not what you’re used to hearing; if it’s unworkable, don’t worry about it.”). I said that I felt my life to be in transition, going from one mode of being to another. Ritual is and always has been very important to me. Ritual is communal, and works on the subconscious. My ‘fantasy’ was a ritual of some kind to mark this transition. I clicked on ‘Send’ and didn’t think much more about it.

Inferno was like a field burning. Where I grew up in Pennsylvania, farmers burn a field that has been left fallow for a few years before planting. The burning puts nitrogen in the soil, and kills the seeds of the weeds so they won’t choke the crop you’re planting. So they set it on fire. Fire is chaotic and wild and obliterating. The flames build higher. But it’s controlled. It doesn’t (usually) get out of control. So Inferno was essentially a safe place to let my demons out and invite them to dance.

And, A. was there. He introduced me to men I knew only by their looming reputations. It’s somewhat unnerving, when you’re trying to seduce some man into letting you whip him, and you ask if he’s ever had any experience, and he says, “Yeah, at Folsom Street in San Francisco by this guy…”—and he goes on to name someone who is pretty much world class.

And yet there I was[ at Inferno chit-chatting with this world class whipsman from San Francisco; throwing whips with him and others like him. In the middle of the compound was an enormous weeping willow tree. Under the branches, men with whips would gather and practice, aiming to hit little pieces of Styrofoam, painted orange, fixed to the top of stakes planted in the ground.

When it came to actual whipping scenes, words truly can’t describe what I witnessed. At times, I wanted to turn away: it felt like I was intruding on some incredibly intimate experience, but you’re not intruding, because when you’re in a scene, the two of you have the universe to yourselves for a while. But it’s on the scale of opera orr Shakespearean tragedy. After observing a scene, I would have to go and fine some quiet place, and sit and smoke and look at the sky. What was this world? Who were these men? What was I doing here?

I was percolating with notions of what I would find at Inferno, but here’s the thing I didn’t expect, and the thing that left me awestruck: there was so much love there. Love like I have never known. A love so powerful it’s frightening.

Working set-up before things got going, somebody got a splinter while unloading scaffolding. “Ow! Fuck! A splinter!” he wailed, while his eyes teared. “It sort of amazes me,” another guy wryly observed, “that somebody that can stand up and take a singletail goes to pieces over a splinter.” “No surprise there,” someone replied, “Where’s the love in a splinter?”.

Whipping is all about love. Love is a journey to a place you’ve never been, and to the deepest part of yourself. Love takes you to heaven, but, inevitably, it also leads you through Hell. Love is transforming, it’s steel, strengthened by blazing heat. Love is laughter and tears, the best and the worst thing that will ever happen to you, if you’re lucky. To be in love is to be fully alive. Just like whipping. Exactly like whipping.

So at dinner one night, my sponsor approached me. He said in calm, measured tones, “I have been asked to participate in the fulfillment of your fantasy. Look for me tonight after dinner by the beverage tent.” Uh-oh. Just what have I let myself in for. There I sat in the deepening darkness. Soon after night fell, my sponsor approached and asked if I was ready. “As I’ll ever be,” I responded. He lead me down the hill, and into the enclosure known as ‘the Whipping Tent.’ Outfitted with crosses and stocks and posts, it was where the majority of the scenes I had witnessed transpired. “It’s appropriate,” said my sponsor, “that your journey begin here.”

We walked through the quiet tent. The evening session hadn’t yet begun. “At this point, I’m going to blindfold you.” And he did. I held his hand as we moved to a secluded area. I was instructed to meditate on my coming out as a gay man, and later, my coming out into Leather.

The sounds of the Inferno encampment receded in my ears, and then I heard a new sound. Someone was cracking a whip in the distance ahead of us.

We came to a stop. My sponsor pressed a piece of rawhide over my face. “Smell the leather,” he said. “Taste the leather. Feel the leather.” Then, the blindfold was removed. I was surrounded by a circle of men holding bodega candles. There was A. There were several of the other whipsmen that I had met. I think at this point I started to choke on sobs.

I can’t recall the words. But I can recall the sense of them, and the feelings that welled up inside of me: Welcome. You’re one of us. We are here with you. Your journey has just begun. It’s going to be wonderful.

Then, without warning, they closed in, and poured the wax from their candles down over my chest and back. It passed through me. It was wonderful. A baptism. Then, A. stepped forward. He took my hand, and into it he pressed braided kangaroo leather. A whip. I knew without looking at it. “This was made for you,” he said.

And then it was kind of over. They blew out the candles that were still lit. I said, “Uh… Thanks.” We headed back, talking in low voices. Only it wasn’t over. It had just begun.


V. A Taste of What You Serve Up

One afternoon at Inferno, I was talking to a friend of A.’s, a tall German. He was one of those internationally renowned whipsmen I was now getting all buddy-buddy with. We were saying things like, “Whipping is really cool. Yeah, it is. Way cool.” And then he said, “So, have you ever had a taste of this dish you serve up?”

No. No,I hadn’t. Not really. I mean, at the conclusion of the Singletails workshop, we lined up and, one by one, wearing a denim jacket, each took a few hits. It was over before I knew it. So, in replying to my new acquaintance, I wanted to burst out in an explanation: “Y’know, I’m a lousy bottom. I don’t process pain very well. I don’t like the experience of giving up control. I’m much more Top-wired.” Blah blah blah. But I didn’t. I just said, “No.”

“Well,” said the man from Munich, “you should.” Twenty feet away, there was [“A,”] working his twin signal whips under the branches of the willow tree. He caught my eye and smiled.

Over the course of the run, I noticed that hardly any of these guys were exclusively Tops. One by one, they would be showing up at dinner with hamburger backs. I reasoned that it was a function of the paucity of whipping bottoms in the world. And it was probably instructive. And it would doubtless put bottoms at ease to know that you had been where you were aiming to take them.

When I returned from Inferno, I took up my responsibilities with the GMSMA Program Committee. One of the first Wednesday evening programs we were doing was on Singletails, and I was the coordinator. At the suggestion of my Inferno sponsor (although it didn’t take a lot to convince me), I asked A. if he would be the presenter, and he agreed. An email correspondence ensued: How do you want the room set up? Will you need a cross? Try and be there about 7:45 pm. Gene will introduce you.

At the end of one of my emails to A. I wrote: “PS: will you whip me sometime?” His response was an enthusiastic ‘yes.’ We agreed on a day and time, and Andrew found a place for us.

It would be a learning experience. I trusted A. and if it was really more than I could handle, we could pack it in. I sat down over dinner with my Inferno sponsor so I could get his advice on bottoming. “Breathe,” he said, “breathe.” I asked him if I could possibly be endorphin-naïve. Pain always triggered an adrenaline response: Anger, increased heart rate, tightening of the muscles. That would be bad.

The October days wore on. The weather got colder. I woke up on the day that I would be whipped and my very first conscious thought was, “You can call it off.” No, no. Just go through with it. How bad can it possibly be? It’s a learning experience. I prayed. I prayed for A., and I prayed for me. For courage and strength. And I thanked God for loving me all my life, and for loving me tonight at A.’s hands.

It was cold and raining that day. A few days earlier, shopping for clothes in Chelsea, I found this great pair of leather pants. The price was amazingly reasonable. I looked pretty hot in them, and I thought they’d be perfect for getting whipped, since they were pretty low-waisted, showing off my back. As I took a cab to the place where I would be whipped, sporting my new pants, I fished around in the pocket for money to pay the cabbie. I found a little piece of paper and pulled it out. When we went under a streetlight, I read, “Made from 100% Man Made Materials.” I was wearing pleather pants. I was a Pleatherman. A fabulous fake.

I got there early and sat sipping Vitamin Water, waiting for A. When he showed up, he greeted me warmly. We went back into the play space. There was the cross. It was a nice one. I’d been in this room before, but never particularly noticed it. I stripped off my shirt. I left on my pleather pants (“Don’t think about that now!”). A. put wrist restraints on me. Really nice ones. Very secure. I told him that instead of having my arms extended over my head, I’d rather have my wrists bound in front of me, sort of embracing the cross. He was fine with that.

He started out with a flogger. Breathe! I breathed. I didn’t anticipate. I just let it all happen. I felt loose and relaxed. After each blow, I would absorb it, let it pass through me. Feel it. And then open up my back again to signal to A. that I was ready for another.

I made a lot of noise. That was the first thing that I noted as significant. The sounds would come from deep inside me. “Uhn! Ahh! Hurrrgh!” It was like I wasn’t ‘making’ the sounds, they were just coming out of me. Making noise—loudly—felt great. I opted to really let loose, and not hold back. I love to sing, but I’ve been told again and again that I had an awful singing voice, and would I please be quiet. This was my time. I was going to sing out strong if I wanted to. And I did.

After the flogger, came a braided cat. ‘Sting’ rather than ‘thud.’ I was really making noise now.

Then the whip. I felt the first crack I felt in every molecule in my body. More cracks. A. was moving closer. Then, I felt it. Like a kiss. The sensation felt abstracted. I was experiencing it, my mind recorded the event, but it was like eavesdropping into the mind of someone else. I was floating. There were no thoughts. No thoughts at all. It’s just happening to me.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, the New England Divine, wrote in his essay ‘Nature,’ “Crossing a common, in the snow, I become a transparent eyeball. I am nothing. I see all. The currents of the universal being flow through me.” That sort of sums it up.

I recognized the sounds I was making as crying. Crying like I’d never cried before. Not crying ‘because,’ or ‘for,’ but just crying. I was my crying. No. Not crying. I’m laughing. Not crying but laughing. Howling laughter. Sometimes, I couldn’t tell whether I was laughing or crying, or something in between. Or neither. Perhaps some new thing.

I was there in my body. I was my body. Here I was, flesh and bone and muscle and sinew and blood coursing through veins. I was matter. Just like earth and air and water, planets, stars, the far-flung atoms in the vast interstellar spaces. “Man is matter and man matters.” Who said that?

The amazing thing was, when A.’s whip would crack, it didn’t matter if it was connecting with my back or not. The reaction from my body was the same. I hadn’t realized that…

A. paused, and approached. “Are you ready for the ten count?” he asked. This is a trusted trope, a good way to close. The bottom counts the strokes, from ten to one, or from one to ten. He only counts the strokes that ‘count.’ So, it gives the bottom control over for how much longer the scene will go on.

“Let’s go for a while longer, then ask me again,” I said. (My first conscious thought that morning: “You can call it off.”) So we went for a while longer. And when we began the count, it was gut-wrenching. “Five, Sir” I’d bellow, weeping, laughing, contorting, and then regret it. “Damn! You hardly felt that! Damn!”

Then it was over. The whipping part, anyway. I got spritzed with the hydrogen peroxide (arguably the only part I didn’t enjoy). A. sat there with me. I was flying. Absolutely flying. I realized I had a big, goofy whipping bottom’s grin plastered on my face. Then I realized that the space where we were playing was starting to fill up. During the scene, A. and I had been the only people in the universe.

That night and the following week, I took off my shirt at every opportunity. The next morning, I craned my neck to see my back. There they were, A.’s marks, an archipelago of welts and scars. Every morning in the shower, I would have a sort of reminder of the whipping. It was like the savored aftertaste of a delicious dinner. I dropped off a present for A., apples in a carved wooden bowl.

I really noticed it exactly a week later, when I went to opening night of the Big Apple Circus. I was jumping out of my seat. I was laughing at the clowns, gasping in excitement at the acrobats and tumblers. When one of the trapeze artists came sailing from the summit of the big top earthward down a bolt of cloth, only to catch himself inches from hitting the ground, I cried out so loud I felt like I was becoming unhinged. I was feeling, I was experiencing, emotions were flowing through me like a swollen creek carrying the melting snow in the Spring.


* * * * *


Here is how I was changed. This is the crux of the transformation I have undergone. I will live my life only for love. Nothing else really matters. Love alone.

I had a horrific day. I'm wondering what the highest bridge with pedestrian access in the city might be. Just horrendous. Once again, I was subjected to that screaming piece-of-shit, my Boss. And look at the time, ten-and-a-half hours before I go back for a second helping. Welll, probably longer, as the fat idiot usually doesn't drag show up at the office before two p.m. If he doesn't have one of his four psychotherapy appointments per week, a hair salon appointment, or some hypochondria-driven doctor's appointment.

Thank God I went to GMSMA. It was a great program. It involved a slide show, so the room was too dark for me to do Treasurer's drudgery. And, I was oh-so-pleasantly surprised when I felt something odd under the table where I was sitting, and there was one of the hottest boys I've had the pleasure to have known licking my boots. He looked up and smiled, and I said, "Did I say you could stop?" So he continued whilst I penned checks. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you. I can't tell you how much I needed that then.

Anyway, here's the big news. I decided. I'm leaving New York. Probably, I'm moving to Fort Lauderdale. That would be easiest. Probably in June. That's the month I moved to New York, thirteen years ago. So it seems fitting. Also, leaving before I'm done with my Treasurer duties would leave GMSMA in the lurch, and I did, in fact, raise my hand and volunteer to take on this mishigass. June will give me time to get my house in order here in New York. And, possibly, put out feelers for a job down there. I'm not 100% sold on Fort Lauderdale. But, since I already own a condo down there, it would seem to be the logical choice. Southern California is attractive as well, but I think it wouldn't make much sense to live there and have a getaway condo in Fort Lauderdale. Other than the fact that you can swim in the ocean on the Atlantic Coast, they are both of a piece. Although one has earthquakes and one has hurricanes.

My therapist will be pissed. She has lived here all her life, and whenever I mention having a good time in wherever I've been in my travels, she says in so many words, or gives me a pointed look so as to communicate, "What a hole." She's got it bad.

I think I'm pretty firm in my commitment, in that I'm sort of missing the place already. But I just feel there isn't any other alternative. Any that I like, anyway. If I found another job, it would still mean that I'd be living here.

What will I do with all my winter clothes? My buddy Woodsy gave away something like eight leather jackets when he moved down there. It never gets so cold that it makes sense to wear them.

I feel soooo much better having come to this decision. My Dad will hate the idea. Just hate it. But, I believe there are planes that fly between Fort Lauderdale and Philadelphia. So I might be able to see him once in a while, as long as mankind continues to take to the air. I can't really think of anything I'm giving up.

Oh. Yes I can. My grandfather's desk. Dig. It's a beautiful little secretary. It used to be stained this dark mahogany. (It's not mahogany, it's probably pine. My grandparents didn't have a lot of money.) But my Ex had the idea of painting it. Sort of multi-colored, to look like a circus wagon or something. The effect is really wonderful. Anyway, the predominant color in the condo will be orange. And the desk is about three shades of orange. So I think it might be a little much. Oooooh... I can't wait to get rid of 60% of everything I own in preparation for the move down there. If anyone is in the market for down comfortors, winter coats (I take a 44 long) and the like, y'all let me know.

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In the wake of the passage of the Sexual Orientation Non-Discrimination Act (SONDA), activists for people of transgender experience are pushing for 'GENDA,' the Gender Expression Non-Discrimination Act. A guy in my office wondered why we were leaving out Bisexuals? After all, if the Bisexual Expression Non-Discrimination Act was a companion bill, then we'd all be pushing for GENDA BENDA.

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I'm listening to George Pataki's State of the State address, live from the Assembly Chamber. Guess what he's talking about? Jobs, healthcare, seniors, schools. Seniors, jobs, schools, healthcare. Healthcare, schools, jobs, seniors. Schools, seniors, healthcare, jobs. This is all Bill Clinton's fault. Everything is completely poll-tested, and there's not a politician in the landscape that ever varies from this script. (Well, if Pataki were a Democrat, he'd mention 'gun violence.') I'm old enough to remember when what politicians strove for was some hot, new, big idea as the basis for getting elected, an idea that reflected their core values, but at the same time challenged received wisdom.

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DICK!

The best thinga bout the Republican Convention coming to New York in 2004? I'll make a fortune. I'm going to start now designing and printing a complete line of t-shirts, mugs, baseball caps, and key chains bearing the words I LIKE DICK!. (With a wee picture of the Vice President's face as the dot in the exclamation point.) It's time for all of us unabashed fans of the former CEO of Halliburten to put our admiration, respect, and deep love of the undeisclosed location dweller right out there in the daylight. If romors continue to grow that W. is contemplating replacing the Number Two spot on the ticket with Condoleeza Rice, well that will call for a corrollary line of t-shirts: YA GOTTA HAVE DICK!. It's a great country, and the myocardial infarction prone, lesbian daughter lovin' VPOTUS makes it all the greater.

Dang. I felt the need to re-read Joan Didion's essay, "On Self-Esteem," from her non-fiction work, Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I couldn't find the book where it should have been. Then I remembered. I lent it to Special Guy. My fault. Never lend books. Unless you really don't care if you'll ever see them again. Ah well. I guess I'll just have to go and buy another copy. So brilliant. It was pretty instrumental in propelling me out of the seven-and-a-half year stretch with my Ex. If you haven't read it, you need to. Trust me on that one.

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Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?

I don't know what Trooper Gilchrist was doing tonight, but it wasn't showing up in court in Newburgh, New York, to testify against me. Henceforth, the case against me was dismissed, I was adjudged to be no threat to the People of the State of New York, and I was free to go. And, no points on my license.

Cool. And, I didn't even need the intervention of my politico boss. Who seems to have come down with that disease you get on cruise ships. Deadpan: Nothing serious. I hope.

This afternoon I did a Google search on 'beat speeding ticket new york' and came up with a website that indeed purported to offer advice on how to beat a speeding ticket. Their description of the process was that the Trooper would take the stand and give testimony against you, and then you would have the opportunity to cross examine. Sundry advice included to object (to actually say, "Objection, Your Honor. Inadmissable.") if the Trooper didn't describe the make and model of the radar gun he was using, and tell when was the last time it was tested and calibrated.

That's a winning strategy? Hello?!! "Isn't it true, Trooper Gilchrist, that when you observed the silver Jeep Liberty it was moving with a group of other cars? And that being the case, can you be sure, Trooper Gilchrist, that in fact your radar gun was reading the speed limit of the silver Jeep Liberty and not one of the other cars in the group? Are you certain, Trooper Gilchrist? Can you, in fact, be certain beyond a reasonable doubt as to what occurred over sixty days ago, Trooper Gilchrist?" They'd just love that. How endearing! And, totally incorrect. Here's what happened. You checked in and sat in a big room with all the other speed demons. Then, state troopers would come in and call out names. These, in fact, were the troopers who wrote the tickets. You would go outside with your trooper, and he would offer you a plea, and apparently this was subject to negotiation. Maybe it was an idiosyncracy of Judge Werner (presiding), but no body had to plead guilty to a charge that would earn you points on your license. Everybody was pleading guilty to the lesser charge of 'stopping on the pavement' and 'faulty spedometer' and the like, paying a fine of $35, and heading back out on the highway.

Oh. And if you're ever in Newburgh, New York, be sure to stop in at Villa Italiana at the intersection of Route 300 and Route 32. I went there after court to grab a bite to eat. I ordered lasagna, expecting... y'know, the greasy mess you get in pizza parlors and greek diners. Uh uh. The sauce, the pasta, the mozzarella... it was really, really good. I'll have to remember Villa Italiana (north on Route 300 off Exit 17 of the Thruway for the next time I'm looking for chow on the way home. Much better than an Arby's roast beef sandwich at the rest stop.

Free at last, free at last...

I am sooooo tired. If I sit in any one position for too long, I’ll probably nod off and go to sleep. And of course, the Boss called me as I was walking to the train this morning to tell me that because he had a stomach virus, the 9 am meeting I was going to was called off. More likely he’s just tired because he spent the weekend at this sleepaway camp for State legislators (Attention Al Quaeda operatives…) and he probably had to work for a change.

Speaking of work, I’m officially looking for a new job. I want to put together a sort of ‘skills-based’ resume, a la “What Color Is Your Parachute?” Thinking back on elements of the last few jobs I’ve had that I’ve enjoyed and where I’ve met with some success, I think the three major skill sets are as follows:

Strategic Planning and Project Management
Coalition Building
Advocacy

My inclination is to get the hell out of the public sector. No more non-profit, no more politics. Something with real, concrete, tangible results. Like making money.

Unfortunately, this is probably the worst time in my adult life to be looking for a job, as sour as the economy is these days. I met with a friend of mine who used to work here until he fled to Paris to preserve his sanity. He suggested that I approach my boss, castigate him for luring me away from a job I enjoyed into this morass, and demand that he find me a new job and get out of his clutches. Although I like the ‘out of his clutches’ part, to me that plan smacks of way too much drama in the script. Like some episode of ‘Dynasty.’ Since it’s been a decade since I got a job by going through the want ads and sending in my resume, I don’t have a lot of hope in that course of action. My inclination is to ask around among people I know and see if anybody knows of anything. I wonder if Schlitz is hiring at his international business development consulting firm. Wouldn’t that be fun? “Next week? I’d love to, but I’m in Los Angeles on Monday and Tuesday, Sydney on Wednesday and Thursday, and Seattle on Friday and Saturday. Maybe Sunday for Brunch?”


Perhaps I’ll run away and join the circus. I could be an elephant handler or something. Cleaning up after elephants couldn’t be much worse than the current gig. I understand elephants can be awfully temperamental. Being on the road the entire year could forestall anything in the way of romantic entanglements. It’ll be a boy in every city coast to coast. I’m actually sort of serious. Go to CraigsList for New York City and search on ‘circus’ and you’ll see what I mean. It all depends on whether or not I could take my dog. I wonder if they could use a whip act? I bet half the ensemble is Russian. How Xopomo would that be? Oh. Never mind. I just re read the add. I’d have to have an RV. I assume they mean I’d need to come to the job with my own Airstream Trailer or whatever. I probably couldn’t live out of my Jeep. How would I make tea? Oh. And I just checked their website. Their touring cities include Atlanta (nice), New York City (I kinda know my way around there. I mean here.), and Boston (I’ve heard nothing but bad things about Boston, although there are some hot LeatherNavigator men that live there). And then, Rhode Island, Long Island, and Bridgewater, New Jersey.

Time to switch to Plan B. Now, what was Plan B again?

........................................................

Stuff like this is why I love the Internet. God bless the military folks and scientists who brought it into being!

..................................................

4:30 a.m. Eternal

4:30 in the morning is the hour of snakes. From time to time, I wake up at 4:30 with an anxiety attack. Like just now. I was having this hallucenogenic dream (I'm watching a corny slasher flick; it's just the expositionary part, where we're introduced to cartioonish, narrowly drawn caricatures of characters, and you can determine by how annoying they are how quickly they'll be killed; I'm in my car, it's night, summer, it starts to move down hill slowly, I can't get the brake to work, I turn the key, trying to get it to turn over, it won't, and then it does, jarringly screamiing to life). And then I'm awake. And the snakes come out. (I say snakes because, like Indiana Jones, snakes are my one phobia.) I've been aware of the coming conundrum of Tuesday night. I have therapy on Tuesday nights. Although for the past three Tuesday nights, I've missed therapy. First, because I got crazy at work and totally forgot, and then because it was Christmas Eve, and then because it was New Years' Eve. The last two are sort of legitimate, and the first one is excusable. But here's the thing: I didn't call my therapist. Not once. So this Tuesday night is the GMSMA Executive Committee meeting of the Board. So I'll need to call my therapist and reschedule. I'm not looking forward to that phone call. "Oh hell," I thought, "Tuesday night I have to go to Newburgh New York to stand trial for a speeding ticket. That means I have to miss both. And that would have been fine if I had replied to the reminder email about the Executive Committee meeting when I got it a week ago. But I didn't. I never put it together in my mind that the two things were mutually exclusive. And, once againn, I'm behind in my Treasurer duties for GMSMA. Why am I behind? How does this keep happening? Because I have no time. Why do I have no time? Hmmm. Why is it that I spend so much time in pursuit of sex or scenes, and yet I don't seem to have a lot of sex or scenes? And I sort of feel my shoulder as I turn over in bed. It feels boney. Why can't I get to the gym? I'll go to the gym tomorrow. No. I can't. Because I've got to come straight home from work and get caught up on GMSMA stuff. The next night. That's Newburgh. And I sort of have this weird feeling that I need to be 'policed' in some way. And this feeling is very, very dangerous. I had this feeling nine years ago. I went on a date with this guy that I wasn't particularly attracted to. he had an apartment that was neat as a pin, and an ordered and productive life. No getting behind and botching his scheduling for him. And wanting what he seemed to have, I ended up in a seven-and-a-half-year relationship that was unfulfilling and made me miserable. I was policed out the wazoo. And why was it unfulfilling? Well, for one thing, there wasn't a moment that you could call 'intimate' in all seven years. Am I afraid of intimacy? Nah... I couldn't be. I've done scenes that were unbelievably intimate. Yeah, but is that sort of 'junk-food' intimacy? Is it legitimate? I mean, shouldn't intimacy take place within the context of a committed relationship? Or, at least, a relationship? And does all of this have anything to do with this recent urge to be submissive? Am I trying to find a Master when I should be trying to find a therapist? But I have a therapist. But I haven't been telling her any of this shit. I need to be policed. Maybe by my therapist. She'd open up a can of whup-ass on me if I told her that. Savvy therapist that she is. Snakes. Snakes snakes snakes snakes snakes. A sort of roiling nest of snakes. Coming out of every crevice. And I have to be together for a 9 a.m. meeting with my boss and a confidant of his. And now it's 5:30. I'll go back to bed. When the alarm clock rings in an hour and fifteen minutes, I'll be exhausted. Maybe I should just stay up? Uh-huh. And after work today I'll be exhausted and come home and fall asleep, and I won't get the GMSMA stuff done for yet another night. Criminy.

Okay. Get a grip. What you're feeling is stress. Your life was no different essentially three months ago, and you were happy as a clam. In that three months, you changed jobs, and from the git-go, there were intimations that that might not have been a wise move. That is a cause of stress. What you're feeling is stress. Focus on the actual problems. Break the big problems down into smaller problems, and figure out solutions to those. That's the process of taking back control. Start doing that and the stress goes away. It's not indicative of the fact that you're somehow a 'bad person' because you're feeling stress. So just relax. Breathe. Now get to bed so you can get a little more sleep. You have a busy day tomorrow.

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

I had such a great night with Bob. I'm now in a much better mood. Even with the awful horror of five days of work looking me in the face tomorrow. Although actually I guess it's four-and-a-half, since I'll have to leave early on Tuesday to go up to Newburgh to stand trial for the crime of speeding. How tedious is that. I'll have to be sure to flirt with the Trooper who gave me the ticket. That should make it interesting.

Last November, I got hit by a car service guy while I was on my way into town to go to the Lure on a Saturday night. When the police got there, I wondered how they would deal with the sight of all 6'2" of me, leathered up, unfolding out of my Jeep. It was fine. it was better than fine. I swear I could have gotten the one officer's phone number.

Oh. Here's a thought that's been careening around in my brain for the past 24 hours or so. Yesterday on my trip up to visit Podunk, I was talking to a guy (and a reader!) who I'm looking forward to meeting up with for a scene at MAL. We'll call him Sweetheart Sir. Sweetheart Sir related to me a conversation he had with a friend of his. S'Sir was telling his friend how he met had one of those experiences where he met up with someone who turned out to be the slave of an acquaintance of S'Sir's. S'Sir summed it up by saying, "Small world, isn't it?" And his friend responded, "It's not that the world is small, it's that your life is large. Live it." Sweetheart Sir loved that, and so do I. I love my big ol' life.

Oh. My blog surpassed the 2000 mark. Golly. Small potatoes to some, but I'm sort of amazed by that. Anyway. I'm off to bed.

All's well ends well. Yesterday, I drove up to visit Podunk. I had tragically misinterpreted his email: he meant for me not to come because of the weather and attendant disasters. But I made it up and back, and except for getting lost on the way home and going 20 miles out of my way (from the Thruway, mind you), it was a great trip.

Although, I can't help feeling a little deflated. In part because I'm looking at five days of work starting tomorrow, and there's bunches of stuff I meant to get done here this weekend, and now I won't be able to. And, I don't feel as though I'm any closer to the realization of either collaring or being collared.

Anyway, I'm off to have dinner with an amazing Israeli. And looking forward to that a lot.

Y'know what's great? Blogging looks like work from a distance.

Got news from Podunk, the guy that I was supposed to go meet up with tomorrow. He lives way upstate (hence the nomenclature), and he's buried in snow. Just totally burried. So, he advised me to cancel out for tomorrow. Uh uh. I am made of stronger stuff. For one thing, I grew up in the sticks. If you decided not to drive in the snow, then you didn't go anywhere from November through March. I have no problem driving in the snow, or hiking in from the end of the driveway. And, if at any point it gets too bad, I sure don't mind turning around and coming back. It's not softball season, so what else would I be doing with a Saturday?

And, I really really really like this guy. We've had some amazing phone conversations. Of course, you never really know until you do the face-to-face thing, but I'm pretty hopeful. Oh. And I have to go to court on Tuesday all the way up in Newburgh. The People of the State of New York vs. moi!. I, speeder..


Y'know, I'm really talking and thinking more and more about leaving NYC. Maybe even getting a little obsessive about the whole thing. Just about every conversation I have sort of works its way around to that issue. True, most people respond by some variation or other on the theme of 'Are you nuts?". But I think that overall, it's time. It's not as though I hate New York. That is truly not the case. I've even made my peace with those elements of the city that used to really get to me. And, I no longer live in that goddawful Borough of Brooklyn. I just sort of feel like there is no further novelty. I've done it all.

Y'know what's great? Blogging looks like work from a distance.

Got news from Podunk, the guy that I was supposed to go meet up with tomorrow. He lives way upstate (hence the nomenclature), and he's buried in snow. Just totally burried. So, he advised me to cancel out for tomorrow. Uh uh. I am made of stronger stuff. For one thing, I grew up in the sticks. If you decided not to drive in the snow, then you didn't go anywhere from November through March. I have no problem driving in the snow, or hiking in from the end of the driveway. And, if at any point it gets too bad, I sure don't mind turning around and coming back. It's not softball season, so what else would I be doing with a Saturday?

And, I really really really like this guy. We've had some amazing phone conversations. Of course, you never really know until you do the face-to-face thing, but I'm pretty hopeful. Oh. And I have to go to court on Tuesday all the way up in Newburgh. The People of the State of New York vs. moi!. I, speeder..


Y'know, I'm really talking and thinking more and more about leaving NYC. Maybe even getting a little obsessive about the whole thing. Just about every conversation I have sort of works its way around to that issue. True, most people respond by some variation or other on the theme of 'Are you nuts?". But I think that overall, it's time. It's not as though I hate New York. That is truly not the case. I've even made my peace with those elements of the city that used to really get to me. And, I no longer live in that goddawful Borough of Brooklyn. I just sort of feel like there is no further novelty. I've done it all.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird (fragment)
By Wallace Stevens

Yes. My head is a tree full of blackbirds. Two in particular. I am in the thrall of r. He wants to serve me. This feeds in me a desire to have his service. When I give him some command, verbalized or by gesture, in a great thing or a small thing, his face shines with delight. This makes me want to give another command. (See? My focus is on giving pleasure to my partner.) I am thinking of buying him a collar tomorrow evening, and going over and presenting it to him. It made me so sad to remove the collar I had given him to wear Tuesday night at the Lure, put it in my toybag, and take it home with me on Wednesday. It made me sad because it made him sad. He told me that after we played on Christmas night, he spent the following days searching for evidence that I had been there. When he's wearing my collar, he'll have that reassurance that I was there, and that I'll be there again. I'm not going to be a stickler about it. If he needs to take it off, he can take it off. If he wants to take it off, he can take it off. That's fine. It's his to do with and enjoy as he wishes. But one thing: if he takes it off, before he puts it back on again, he has to call and ask me permission. And, if I can, I'll come to his house and put it on myself.

That's the song that one blackbird is singing.

On Saturday, I'm going to pack an overnight bag, load my dog into the Jeep, and drive up the Pallisades, heading North and West. I'm going to spend Saturday and Sunday with a Master who lives out towards Binghamton. I've talked with him several times on the phone. He's smart, kinky, dominant, romantic, spiritual, and looking for a slave. He has a lot of work to do on his property. Clearing rusted equipment from barns to make play spaces, and, when the weather's warmer, probably painting, cleaning, and outfitting those spaces. And maybe he would like a garden planted. Maybe he would like to keep chickens. I can build a coop and an enclosure. It's work I can do, work I grew up doing, and work I do well. If the energy is good between us, we will play. He suggested that we erect a pillory post in the barn, and he takes a whip to my back. "Yo." I said, "You're playing with fire." He said I was probably right about that. At this point, I've heard nothing to indicate that I wouldn't want to wear this man's collar.

That's a second blackbird singing.

I recently flagged down a hot looking guy on Leather Navigator. He lives in Northwest Ohio. He's a Top, into knifeplay in particular. Whaddyaknow. He was coming into NYC for New Years. "Call me when you hit town," I said. We can meet up for coffee. On Tuesday, I was walking up Christopher Street. My head was filled with all the preparations for the whipping I was giving r. that night at the Lure. I saw a knockout guy standing on the corner of Bleecker and Christopher. Our eyes locked. He said my name. It was him. Toledo. He had just driven ten hours and parked his car, ready to have fun in Gotham for the evening. We had coffee and talked. He had great energy. He described a scene wherein he pissed up a bottoms ass, then, as he was fisting him, the piss continued to come out in a stream. (Apologies to my readers who are appauled by that. I think it's way hot.) We also talked about dog ownership. His dog, a golden lab, died two weeks ago. He just acquired a puppy, a Siberian Husky. He planned to get to the Lure that night. Unfortunately, he got to his hotel, and decided to take a quick nap, and over slept. He didn't get there until after I had done my scene. We talked briefly before I took r. home. He said, "We definitely have to play sometime." Oh yeah. We definitely have to play. I definitely want to submit to him. I want to feel the cold steel blade of his knife playing across my tightly bound body. I want him to hold my life in his capable hands. I want to see just where he can take me that I've never been before.

A third blackbird. A third song.

I've been thinking about him frequently. I want to see his big body trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Like the stuffed porkloin I make so well. He's blindfolded, and by the way his breathing responds, I can tell he's straining to paint a picture of me in his mind's eye. Am I nearby? Have I left him? I will let him know of my presence. Hot candle wax making a Pollock canvas of his body. Clothespins. I want to tantalize his asshole, make it open for me like a flower. I want to probe the mystery of his submission. How far can I take him? What will make him melt? I want him to be screaming when he cums.

Another blackbird singing his song.

Be close to me. Let me enfold you in my arms while we sleep. You are asleep already. I will match the pace and depth of my breathing to yours. I feel the warmth of your body close to mine. I love sharing my bed with you. I love the fact that the stickiness of our mingled cum glues us together as we sleep. I'll probably wake up first tomorrow. Smiling. Perhaps I'll linger. Perhaps I'll get up, and make you coffee. (I keep coffee for just such an occasion, although I never drink it at home.) I'll wake you up by massaging your foot that protrudes from beneath the blankets. (Did you know that foot massage is the least startling way to wake someone up?) I'll shower. You'll shower. I don't like to shower with someone. I need that time alone, the water running over my body, thoughts of you tripping through my mind.

I hear the song of this blackbird, too.

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

Happy New Year, Baby!

I’m back at work in the office of my dry-drunk boss. Happily, he won’t be here much over the next few weeks. I’m way not happy about that being back in this saddle. But, I’ll do my best to report on New Years’ Eve.

Which was great. Really great. I went over to wonder boy’s well appointed loft at 10 p.m. He was all a’quiver with excitement and anticipation. We talked and I checked in with him, letting him know that as the time available to us was only forty minutes, I would have to work up more quickly than I had before. We drove to the Lure, and I found parking not too far away. I opened up the back door of my Jeep and pointed to my toy bag. He picked up the bag, and followed me, keeping about three steps behind and to my left. Love that.

At the Lure, we met up with the All American Kink guys, and the other duo that would be doing a demo that night. After w.b. checked our coats, I collared and leashed him, and restrained his hands behind his back. He squatted at my feet, and he looked wonderful. They had champagne at midnight, and I put the glass to his lips and tipped it so most of it went dribbling down his chin and chest. We kissed, and I told him, “You’re going to give me a lot of pleasure tonight.” He just melted.

Then it was waiting and waiting and waiting. I sort of wished that the Lure had a Green Room.

When we decided that the time had come, I led him over to our area and got set up. I attached two lengths of chain to a steal girder suspended from the ceiling, put him in wrist restraints, and attached him so that his hands were at about the level of his shoulders. After holding him and thanking him and saying a silent prayer, I started in with the flogging. His body responded beautifully, his back reddening quickly, and his low moans were music to my ears. The music, although not what I would have chosen, worked well. “It has a good beat and I can flog to it. I’d give it a seven, Dick.” It was interesting hearing the sounds of the floggings taking place with the other two duos. We sort of went in and out of sync, like a jazz trio. Most of my attention was focused on w.b., though. I honestly couldn’t tell you how the Lure patrons were responding to this display. After fifteen minutes, I transitioned from floggers to whips. Much initial cracking with out hitting, and then slowly I moved forward. Because w.b. requested that he be gagged during the scene, I wasn’t able to give him sips of water. I compensated for this by asking him if he still wanted the gag when I periodically checked in with him. I did do that great trick I learned at Inferno, taking a good swig of water myself and then spitting it in a fine spray over w.b.’s back, then blowing on it gently. It’s impressive: it looks sadistic, but actually it’s cooling and gives the bottom a break.

Very quickly, the whipping put w.b. right into the statosphere. He was just flying. I left some wonderful marks on him, although I seemed to favor the right. I hate asymmetry. I almost want to have another go of it to even things up, but as time has passed, it could become an unending effort, like trying to shorten one leg of a table. Every throw was right on the mark, though.

After I took my final five, I held him closely and we rocked gently, just drinking in the moment. I spritzed his back with hydrogen peroxide and witch hazel, fanned it dry, and blotted the rest with a towel.

And then… I unfolded a large black flannel flat sheet I had brought along. I released his restraints, wrapped it around us, and down we went together. I hope that was effective for on-lookers. I hoped that I would look like a vampire, swooping in to feast and slake my bloodlust on my victim. For a time (I have no idea how long), we sat on the floor under the blanket, rocking and whispering and holding. It was wonderful, a cozy wee island of intimacy.

And then we hung out for a while; w.b. was just glowing. Before we left, w.b. presented me with electric clippers, and told me that it would mean a lot to him if I would take his hair tonight. So I did. Right there, in the middle of the Lure.

Then back to his place. I decided to accept his invitation to spend the night. Once home, he was filled with nervous energy, and ran around making sure I had something to eat and getting my room ready. My room was very ready. An enormous bed with piles of pillows and a fire he had built in the fire place. I sat down, and without a word, as though we’d been doing this for years, he got on his knees and lovingly and respectfully removed my boots. I stroked his newly shorn head, he looked up at me, and said, “You are a very powerful man.” Love that.

I brushed my teeth, got undressed, and told him, “You’ve made me very happy tonight. Very happy. Truly, it is a happy new year. I want you to give me a massage while I go to sleep. And so he did, so thrilled and excited to do so. And so there I lay, with the warmth and the firelight, him gently rubbing my back.


The next morning. I awoke. The place was quiet. I made my way to the kitchen and found the makings for a cup of tea. I was putting away a cinnamon bun when w.b. found me. Still floating, still wearing the collar I had put on him the night before. I asked him how he was doing, and received gurgles and half sentences of joy. He told me that he had slept on the floor outside my door last night, although he wasn’t able to sleep much as he was so excited. Love that.

I showered, dressed, packed up my toy bag, and headed out. January 1st, 2003.

Happy New Year.

Lord God, Heavenly Father, God who creates me, God who has redeemed me, God who sustains me...

Give me strength, give me wisdom, give me courage, give me skill. Fill me with your love, your boundless love. As your Son Jesus took up a whip to cleanse the temple, driving from it all that was not of you, be with me tonight as I take up the whip.

Be with r. Give him strength, and courage, and fortitude, and charity. Give him the trusting heart he will need to allow me to take him to the center of himself. Guide my hands and my heart to be for him the one who will lead him on his journey.

I am only a man. I am beset with fear and doubt and trouble. Anything I build is like a castle in the sand, it will pass away. But you are the Eternal One. Anything you do through me will never fade away. For awhile tonight, let r. and I step outside of this world of sorrow, toil, and woe. Let us dance with angels. Let us see your face in each other. Let us drink from springs of living water, so that we will never be thirsty again.

Thank you, Lord God, for the gift of your love, for the gift of myself, and for r.'s great gift to me. With each gift comes a task. Let me bring your love to others. Let me be more fully who I am, the child of God that you created me to be. Let me do honor to the great gift that r. will give me.

Blessed be God.
Blessed be his Holy Name.
Blessed be Jesus, the only begotten son of God, our Emmanuel, God With Us.
Blessed be the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete, God's Help For Us.
Blessed be the Holy Angels.
Blessed be the Communion of the Saints.
Blessed be the earth, God's own creation.

I am persuaded to believe that nothing can separate us from the love of God. Neither heights, nor depths, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor principalities, nor even the efforts of the Evil One.

This I pray in Jesus' name.

Amen.

Even though all sorts of warning bellls and whistles are going off in my head ("You could be at this for hours!"), I think I'll do a Year End Wrap Up of 2002

Best Movie Why, XXX, of course.
Best Musical This of course was the year that I saw all the musicals I've seen in my life, and Hairspray certainly was the best of the four.
Best Roadtrip Hands down, heading north on the New York Thruway with Past President as navigator to play in a softballl tournement (We came in Third and earned the Bronze) with my team, Ty's Ballbreakers; followed by a trip to Michigan to attend Inferno XXXI.
Best Transformational Event This would be me getting whipped by ARt. Yowza. Changed my whole outlook on life. First Runner-Up here would be taking a whip to a man's back for the first time that balmy night down in Fort Lauderdale, and Honorable Mention goes to spending an evening in Aubrey Sparks' cage in Seattle.
Best Romantic Entanglement Special Guy. *sigh* I'm flooded by warm feelings.
Best and Most Rewarding New Endeavor You're soaking in it! SingleTails was born in June, 2002. Honorable Mention goes to signing up to play softball.
Best Cup of TeaTaylor's of Harrogate Special Rare South African Kwazulu Ntingwe Estate. Hands down.
Best Meal Prepared Although Honorable Mention goes to Thanksgiving dinner for my family, I think the Indian Summer Fish Stew I made for Special Guy wins out.
Best Moment With My Dog When he provided an objective correlative moment and peed all over the floor at the house I was staying in on Fire Island.
Best Wardrobe Acquisition Not the chic Almost Prada suit, but the leather superhero-esque flight suit made for me by David Samuel Menkes
Best Acquisition Overall The Joe Wheeler-made bullwhip/signalwhip hybrid presented to me at my Inferno Ritual by ARt.
Most Fun I Had All By MyselfSunrise On The Beach in the Fire Island Pines

So overall 2002 certainly had some great things happen. But, to be sure, the year overall was mixed. Regrets, I've had a few...

"What was I thinking?" Moment of the Year Raising my hand to volunteer to take on the role of Treasurer of GMSMA
Decision That May Very Well Re-Shape Events For The Worst Going Forward Into 2003 Leaving my job and going to work for Senator Sunshine
Most Problematic Shopping Spree. Maybe. I bought a condo in Fort Lauderdale, that sufficiently lowered my bank account to prevent me from visiting Fort Lauderdale. But hey! It's an investment property!
Most Quixotic Decision "I'm going to learn vietnamese!"
Least Favorite Moment of the Year Having to announce to the staff at my last job that because of an inexplicable delay in receiving checks from the New York State Department of Health, we did not have the money in the bank to make payroll.

Wow! What a year it's been! Pretty dramatic. My life has changed so dramatically over the past year, that I can't help but wonder if this trend of change will continue into 2003. My way of checking in with myself is to silently ask myself, "Where would you rather be?" When things are bad, the answer comes, "Anywhere!" Often, the answer serves to re-focus me: "At home" or "Alone" or "On the beach" or "Not with this person." But with more frequency than I've known in my life, the answer during 2003 has been, "Nowhere else. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. This is where I belong."

I'm brought back again to the awakening I had at Inferno. I didn't expect to find so much love there. And I decided that that was what I'd live my life for: for love. That will be my priority. For transcendence and transformation, risking it all in the pursuit of joy, for connection and intimacy. Next to that, nothing else really matters. This outlook has taken me to places I never thought I'd see. And it adds to my life a level of uncertainty that I need. Among the reasons that I left a relationship of seven years duration in 2001 was because I could see the rest of my life stretched out before me, like a study in perspective in a Renaissance painting. Next this, then this, then this, then this, then I die. My Ex got a great deal of comfort from that. I felt like I was being strangled. And, that was largely what got me out of my last job. What would the next five years look like? I knew. Same problems, same issues, same achievements. Week in and week out. Where will I be in December, 2003? I have no idea? New York City or a monastery or some Master's dungeon or Fort Lauderdale or Los Angeles or Pennsylvania or Nepal. Anything is possible. Who will I know? What will I be doing? Who will I love? Who will love me? What pieces of the furniture of my current life will still be standing? I have no idea. And I like that. Even if a year from now I'm sitting here in my den, blogging away, I don't know that I'll be disappointed, because that won't be the inevitable and foreseeable outcome. Let the mystery be.

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