Joy
Another night of sitting in my car, moaning and wailing.
And then, I decided that it might be a good time to conjure my spirit guide, Wolf.
We only talked briefly, but it was a good talk. As usual, I aske the questions, and he answers them. (Novel for someone like me, who enjoys listening to myself talk so much [g].)
As usual, a lot was conveyed in that conversation. But here's the really important thing. Wolf told me that this time will determine the rest of my life. If I allow misery to set down roots into my soul, then I'll be miserable for the rest of my life. No matter what my future circumstances. But, if I can find joy, even during this hard time, then nothing will ever be able to hurt me again. Joy will be mine for all time.
Sweet.
The stakes are high, but I feel up to the challenge.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Broke
This is unbelievable. Almost to the point of getting me to revise my cosmology.
Yesterday when I got home, fumbling around with the groceries, and I dropped one of the bags. The bag contained only one item: a dozen eggs. i swore like a sailor. Amazingly, only a few of the eggs were broke. And but dang that pissed me off.
So this morning, rushing off to work, my practially new cell phone head set thingy got caught in the door. The wire snapped. So it's broke and I can't afford to buy a new one. And that practically renders my cell phone, which is soon to be cut off anyway, all but unuseable because the teeny tiny speaker in it is broke.
After work, went kayaking, hit Starbucks, then headed to the gym. Luckily, I'm paid through the end of August. I took two weeks off and lost ten pounds. So I've got six weeks to get my body back for Inferno. If I can manage to scrape together the $350 I owe by the end of August. And that's going to be tough, because I'm flat broke. And with every day that goes by, it's less and less likely that I'll get a spot. So I might not even get to Inferno this year. And by the way, unluckily, paying for the gym exhausted my bank account. I hate that.
So at the gym, I was undressing, feeling good looking forward to my workout. (Legs tonight.) While taking off my watch, the strap broke. My watch. I love that watch. Oh hell. I hate that. Maybe I can get a new strap made. But, of course, not right now, because I'm broke. Muttering under my breath, but doing my best not to get out of my workout headspace, I threw my stuff into the locker, and put the lock on. Then, I realized that I didn't have the key to the padlock I had just secured. Unbelievable. I've never done that in twenty years of gym going.
So after my workout, I had borrowing bolt cutters from the staff to look forward to. More muttering under my breath as I broke into my locker. And in doing so, broke my padlock.
So how am I? I'm broke.
I am so broke. Broke and broken.
This is all just too much. I've been plagued by insomnia lately. Even though the weather is gorgeous (96 again today!); even though I had the opportunity to whip an amazing man on Sunday courtesy of my old buddy Bus Driver; even though I loved playing softball on Saturday and played pretty well, I'm low.
What I want... what I really want... is for someone to hold me while I cry. This is all just too much.
This is unbelievable. Almost to the point of getting me to revise my cosmology.
Yesterday when I got home, fumbling around with the groceries, and I dropped one of the bags. The bag contained only one item: a dozen eggs. i swore like a sailor. Amazingly, only a few of the eggs were broke. And but dang that pissed me off.
So this morning, rushing off to work, my practially new cell phone head set thingy got caught in the door. The wire snapped. So it's broke and I can't afford to buy a new one. And that practically renders my cell phone, which is soon to be cut off anyway, all but unuseable because the teeny tiny speaker in it is broke.
After work, went kayaking, hit Starbucks, then headed to the gym. Luckily, I'm paid through the end of August. I took two weeks off and lost ten pounds. So I've got six weeks to get my body back for Inferno. If I can manage to scrape together the $350 I owe by the end of August. And that's going to be tough, because I'm flat broke. And with every day that goes by, it's less and less likely that I'll get a spot. So I might not even get to Inferno this year. And by the way, unluckily, paying for the gym exhausted my bank account. I hate that.
So at the gym, I was undressing, feeling good looking forward to my workout. (Legs tonight.) While taking off my watch, the strap broke. My watch. I love that watch. Oh hell. I hate that. Maybe I can get a new strap made. But, of course, not right now, because I'm broke. Muttering under my breath, but doing my best not to get out of my workout headspace, I threw my stuff into the locker, and put the lock on. Then, I realized that I didn't have the key to the padlock I had just secured. Unbelievable. I've never done that in twenty years of gym going.
So after my workout, I had borrowing bolt cutters from the staff to look forward to. More muttering under my breath as I broke into my locker. And in doing so, broke my padlock.
So how am I? I'm broke.
I am so broke. Broke and broken.
This is all just too much. I've been plagued by insomnia lately. Even though the weather is gorgeous (96 again today!); even though I had the opportunity to whip an amazing man on Sunday courtesy of my old buddy Bus Driver; even though I loved playing softball on Saturday and played pretty well, I'm low.
What I want... what I really want... is for someone to hold me while I cry. This is all just too much.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
HHH
Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
My all time favorite weather conditions. And we've had day after day of it this week. Walking Faithful Companion at night feels like moving through water, the air is so heavy.
And that's good. That's what's sustaining me right now.
Yep. That's right. Another Bad Period.
How'm'I doin'? Well, I'll tell ya.
Broke. Lonely. Single. Unhappy. Trapped. Not having a good week. No word at all from the folks I sent my resume to. So hard up I'll have to forego cigars and stick to iced tea or something at Starbucks for the next two weeks. Extended myself to those two guys I talked about, and neither one has shown much interest. Did meet a hot man at the Raven last Saturday night, but, alas, he has a verrry strong penchant for raunch. As in manstink. And that never works for me. Not with my extreme aversions to smells of any kind and that hair-trigger gag reflex of mine. But I'll be open. Maybe that's negotiable with him. Beggars, as they say, can't be choosers.
I was watching "Kept" last night, my latest television obsession. The thing on VH1 where Jerry Hall puts a bunch of doofuses through their paces, to see which one will get to spend a year as her "kept man." The dramatic interest is provided by the fact that she's looking for someone to carry her bags through Heathrow, and the guys are thinking Jerry will be the winner's girlfriend.
But anyway, it occured to me that I would sweep the field. I can talk art. I can cook. I have table manners. I'm considerate. I'm a good conversationalist. I'm adventurous. I speak french, italian, some russian, some italian, and a little german. I'm handy around the house at such diverse tasks as flower arranging and welding. I can dress well when I want to. I give one hell of a massage. I'd make a great kept man.
Or, y'know, a boyfriend.
Or, y'know, a boy.
Or, even, a Sir.
Although, the conundrum is this. Both of the Current Men Of Interest are New Yorkers. And the basic rule of romance in NYC is that there's always somebody standing behind you, with a better body, better mind, better job, better apartment, better car, better everything. And at the same time, even though--summoning all the modesty I can here--I tend to rock the Bike Stop and the Raven when I stick my head in there, finding a man who both turns my crank sexually and with whom I don't mind having a conversation is statistically so improbably as to be just about beyond the realms of possibility.
Anyway.
Thank the Lord it's sweltering hot. That makes anything endurable.
(Like it's news to you that I'm twisted? C'mon.)
Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
My all time favorite weather conditions. And we've had day after day of it this week. Walking Faithful Companion at night feels like moving through water, the air is so heavy.
And that's good. That's what's sustaining me right now.
Yep. That's right. Another Bad Period.
How'm'I doin'? Well, I'll tell ya.
Broke. Lonely. Single. Unhappy. Trapped. Not having a good week. No word at all from the folks I sent my resume to. So hard up I'll have to forego cigars and stick to iced tea or something at Starbucks for the next two weeks. Extended myself to those two guys I talked about, and neither one has shown much interest. Did meet a hot man at the Raven last Saturday night, but, alas, he has a verrry strong penchant for raunch. As in manstink. And that never works for me. Not with my extreme aversions to smells of any kind and that hair-trigger gag reflex of mine. But I'll be open. Maybe that's negotiable with him. Beggars, as they say, can't be choosers.
I was watching "Kept" last night, my latest television obsession. The thing on VH1 where Jerry Hall puts a bunch of doofuses through their paces, to see which one will get to spend a year as her "kept man." The dramatic interest is provided by the fact that she's looking for someone to carry her bags through Heathrow, and the guys are thinking Jerry will be the winner's girlfriend.
But anyway, it occured to me that I would sweep the field. I can talk art. I can cook. I have table manners. I'm considerate. I'm a good conversationalist. I'm adventurous. I speak french, italian, some russian, some italian, and a little german. I'm handy around the house at such diverse tasks as flower arranging and welding. I can dress well when I want to. I give one hell of a massage. I'd make a great kept man.
Or, y'know, a boyfriend.
Or, y'know, a boy.
Or, even, a Sir.
Although, the conundrum is this. Both of the Current Men Of Interest are New Yorkers. And the basic rule of romance in NYC is that there's always somebody standing behind you, with a better body, better mind, better job, better apartment, better car, better everything. And at the same time, even though--summoning all the modesty I can here--I tend to rock the Bike Stop and the Raven when I stick my head in there, finding a man who both turns my crank sexually and with whom I don't mind having a conversation is statistically so improbably as to be just about beyond the realms of possibility.
Anyway.
Thank the Lord it's sweltering hot. That makes anything endurable.
(Like it's news to you that I'm twisted? C'mon.)
Sunday, July 17, 2005
On Guests Uninvited
So after a great day playing softball and tooling around NYC yesterday, I get up late, have a cup of tea and a protein shake, and hop in the shower. I love unrushed Sunday ablutions. I do a body scrub, a facial scrub, hose out my hole with the Shur-Shot, nice close shave of my face and scalp, body moisturizer, face moisturizer. Went and picked out something to wear today. Settled on my cargo capri pants (ya gotta see'em to understand, bought them at I. Goldberg's, some army in the world actually sends its soldiers off to battle in cargo capri pants), tight gray shirt, and my Wesco's. The loggers, not the custom harness.
And then...
*sigh*
The Wants showed up.
I hate that.
Things were going just fine, until in the door came the Wants.
Want to be able to not have to sweat to afford Inferno. Want to get to the beach. Want a job that pays me enough money to live on (I sent in a resume to a place in community development agency in Philadelphia on Thursday, everybody keep their fingers crossed.) And then, of course, the one that takes up the most space: Want a man to share my life--or significant parts of my life anyway--with.
Yeah.
Y'see, I formulated a plan of sorts. I decided to give it a try. If that Guy From LA wasn't available for much more than a twice a year Edge play session, that didn't mean that it would be impossible to find someone who was, right?
Could I replace the Guy From LA?
And I actually didn't have to think very hard to come up with a few possibilities.
Possibility #1: I've actually known him for years. How we met might warrant a retelling. Years and years and years ago (okay, maybe not that many), newly sprung from my relationship with the Seven and A Half Year Awful Relationship, I headed to the LURE. And there he was. This big guy, full leather, smoking a cigar and drinking from a can of Bud. I mean, he hit all those archetypes dead on. I had seen him a couple of times before. And he made me weak in the knees.
He was flagging everything on the left, so I did my best (which was pretty bad) to present myself. Standing in front of him, hands behind my back, head bowed. (I know, right? I know better now.) But miraculously, he took the bait. Approached. Did this great wordless breathing down my neck thing. I was rock hard. Asked, I think, what I was up for. (A question that I've never been good at answering when posed by a Top. Still haven't figured that one out.) He said something like, okay, well maybe I'll catch up with you later.
So I went to look elsewhere, hoping that I'd end up going home with him.
And that same night, I met my buddy whom we'll call PissPiggy. This stunning looking Italian guy from Brooklyn. He was all pig, and thus so much more approachable. He and I got to know each other, and there was immediate report. He's tough not to like, sunny and open disposition, and a beautiful smile that says he's up for anything.
But, it turned out that PissPiggy wasn't quite available that night. Y'see, he had already agreed that tonight, he belonged to none other than the fantasy sadist I had talked to earlier. Huh, I said, I talked to him. Oh cool! said PissPiggy. And he had a plan. Involving the three of us.
So PissPiggy, Sadist, and li'l ol' me bundled into PissPiggy's car and headed for Sadist's place on the upper upper East Side.
Once there, Sadist began putting the two of us through our paces. That was the first night that I ever drank piss. But then, Sadist started taking out his various implements. He pretty quickly realized that PissPiggy could take it (and wanted more) and I couldn't. So, PissPiggy was chained spread eagle on the bed, and I was ordered to "stand over there."
And then, at one point, Sadist handed me his flogger. He ordered me to beat the pig on the bed.
Now, this was the very first time I had ever held a flogger in my life. Ever.
I swung it around a few times, getting a feel for it. Then I started rhythmically bringing it down on PissPiggy's thighs and chest (knowing almost instinctively to focus on the muscley parts).
And, it was like I came to life. I liked it! I really liked it!
Sadist took note. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you, pig?"
I grinned, "I could really get used to this, Sir!"
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But a few years later, whom should I meet at Inferno but Sadist. He recognized me immediately. Asked what I was up to. I explained that I had found my calling in wielding singletail whips. He laughed. "I created a monster!" he said.
Okay. So why am I thinking of him now?
Well, I was totally unprepared to give Sadist what he wanted way back then. In those novice days, I guess I just wanted to be tied up or something. I had no idea. But now, I'm... uh... seasoned. And I have developed a definite taste for the kind of Edge play that Sadist likes. And, on his worldleathermen profile, he notes that he's open to finding another "bruder Top" for "something more than a weekend." Huh.
So that bears exploration, no?
Possibility #2: He's this really hot guy from the World Wide Internet. We've talked a few times online. He's in NYC, too. More details than that, I don't know. And as Lolita once famously advised me, "The internet doesn't mean shit; you gotta smell'em."
So how's it going?
Not well. Whenever I've gone up to NYC these past few weeks, I've called both of them. Sadist has been on vacation or traveling for work. Number Two always seems to be out on Long Island attending his niece's first holy communion or something.
Just recently, I noticed that phone messages I left and email I've sent hasn't been returned. Maybe they're both real busy.
Or maybe they're unavailable.
Anyway.
Enough of the wants. The rain has let up (oh joy, another rainy summer, so good for the roses). I'm gonna head to Starbucks in Doylestown, to sit on the porch, enjoy my latte, smoke a cigar, and dig into a book.
And maybe, maybe, some local leatherman who has somehow heretofore escaped my attention will stop at Starbucks to enjoy the afternoon, and there I'll be, all decked out in my capri cargo pants, smoking my cigar, that great ink of mine, all moisturized, and with my hole squeaky clean.
Hey! It might happen!
So after a great day playing softball and tooling around NYC yesterday, I get up late, have a cup of tea and a protein shake, and hop in the shower. I love unrushed Sunday ablutions. I do a body scrub, a facial scrub, hose out my hole with the Shur-Shot, nice close shave of my face and scalp, body moisturizer, face moisturizer. Went and picked out something to wear today. Settled on my cargo capri pants (ya gotta see'em to understand, bought them at I. Goldberg's, some army in the world actually sends its soldiers off to battle in cargo capri pants), tight gray shirt, and my Wesco's. The loggers, not the custom harness.
And then...
*sigh*
The Wants showed up.
I hate that.
Things were going just fine, until in the door came the Wants.
Want to be able to not have to sweat to afford Inferno. Want to get to the beach. Want a job that pays me enough money to live on (I sent in a resume to a place in community development agency in Philadelphia on Thursday, everybody keep their fingers crossed.) And then, of course, the one that takes up the most space: Want a man to share my life--or significant parts of my life anyway--with.
Yeah.
Y'see, I formulated a plan of sorts. I decided to give it a try. If that Guy From LA wasn't available for much more than a twice a year Edge play session, that didn't mean that it would be impossible to find someone who was, right?
Could I replace the Guy From LA?
And I actually didn't have to think very hard to come up with a few possibilities.
Possibility #1: I've actually known him for years. How we met might warrant a retelling. Years and years and years ago (okay, maybe not that many), newly sprung from my relationship with the Seven and A Half Year Awful Relationship, I headed to the LURE. And there he was. This big guy, full leather, smoking a cigar and drinking from a can of Bud. I mean, he hit all those archetypes dead on. I had seen him a couple of times before. And he made me weak in the knees.
He was flagging everything on the left, so I did my best (which was pretty bad) to present myself. Standing in front of him, hands behind my back, head bowed. (I know, right? I know better now.) But miraculously, he took the bait. Approached. Did this great wordless breathing down my neck thing. I was rock hard. Asked, I think, what I was up for. (A question that I've never been good at answering when posed by a Top. Still haven't figured that one out.) He said something like, okay, well maybe I'll catch up with you later.
So I went to look elsewhere, hoping that I'd end up going home with him.
And that same night, I met my buddy whom we'll call PissPiggy. This stunning looking Italian guy from Brooklyn. He was all pig, and thus so much more approachable. He and I got to know each other, and there was immediate report. He's tough not to like, sunny and open disposition, and a beautiful smile that says he's up for anything.
But, it turned out that PissPiggy wasn't quite available that night. Y'see, he had already agreed that tonight, he belonged to none other than the fantasy sadist I had talked to earlier. Huh, I said, I talked to him. Oh cool! said PissPiggy. And he had a plan. Involving the three of us.
So PissPiggy, Sadist, and li'l ol' me bundled into PissPiggy's car and headed for Sadist's place on the upper upper East Side.
Once there, Sadist began putting the two of us through our paces. That was the first night that I ever drank piss. But then, Sadist started taking out his various implements. He pretty quickly realized that PissPiggy could take it (and wanted more) and I couldn't. So, PissPiggy was chained spread eagle on the bed, and I was ordered to "stand over there."
And then, at one point, Sadist handed me his flogger. He ordered me to beat the pig on the bed.
Now, this was the very first time I had ever held a flogger in my life. Ever.
I swung it around a few times, getting a feel for it. Then I started rhythmically bringing it down on PissPiggy's thighs and chest (knowing almost instinctively to focus on the muscley parts).
And, it was like I came to life. I liked it! I really liked it!
Sadist took note. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you, pig?"
I grinned, "I could really get used to this, Sir!"
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But a few years later, whom should I meet at Inferno but Sadist. He recognized me immediately. Asked what I was up to. I explained that I had found my calling in wielding singletail whips. He laughed. "I created a monster!" he said.
Okay. So why am I thinking of him now?
Well, I was totally unprepared to give Sadist what he wanted way back then. In those novice days, I guess I just wanted to be tied up or something. I had no idea. But now, I'm... uh... seasoned. And I have developed a definite taste for the kind of Edge play that Sadist likes. And, on his worldleathermen profile, he notes that he's open to finding another "bruder Top" for "something more than a weekend." Huh.
So that bears exploration, no?
Possibility #2: He's this really hot guy from the World Wide Internet. We've talked a few times online. He's in NYC, too. More details than that, I don't know. And as Lolita once famously advised me, "The internet doesn't mean shit; you gotta smell'em."
So how's it going?
Not well. Whenever I've gone up to NYC these past few weeks, I've called both of them. Sadist has been on vacation or traveling for work. Number Two always seems to be out on Long Island attending his niece's first holy communion or something.
Just recently, I noticed that phone messages I left and email I've sent hasn't been returned. Maybe they're both real busy.
Or maybe they're unavailable.
Anyway.
Enough of the wants. The rain has let up (oh joy, another rainy summer, so good for the roses). I'm gonna head to Starbucks in Doylestown, to sit on the porch, enjoy my latte, smoke a cigar, and dig into a book.
And maybe, maybe, some local leatherman who has somehow heretofore escaped my attention will stop at Starbucks to enjoy the afternoon, and there I'll be, all decked out in my capri cargo pants, smoking my cigar, that great ink of mine, all moisturized, and with my hole squeaky clean.
Hey! It might happen!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Summer
No postings in a week??? What's up with that? Everything okay?
Yup. Everything is copascetic here. Doing really good.
Here are some highlights of what you've missed...
•Went to the beach. Last Tuesday. That day it was bitter freezing cold. (72 degrees.) It actually was pretty cold. And overcast. And there was a stiff wind blowing. Spraying me and UnFortunate with sand. Which hurt. "Ow. Ow. Ow! OWWW!" Eventually, I was pounding my fists in the sand saying "It's not fair!" and we headed into NYC. Good thing, too. Much longer and we would have been buried.
•In NYC, I visited the needle exchange program I used to run. That was gratifying. They're still there, and going strong. And the walls are still painted orange. And I was greeted by one of my favorite former employees, who had left about six months before I did to go to motorcycle mechanics school in Arizona. Great to see him. Love the guy. A little story by way of introduction. We were once at a conference together. All sitting around with people from other agencies in this big hotel ballroom while someone up at the podium was talking about social networks among crack injectors in New Haven or something. And we were there with folks from lots of other agencies, too. So this guy turns to a woman from another agency at our table and says, "You're a bootie freak, aren't you?" Before I could say, "You're way outta line Mister, and this means your job is on the line!" the two of them rose and headed up to her room. Wish I had one tenth of that chutzpah.
•Saturday was softball. We lost. Both games. But I haven't had so much fun playing softball in a long, long time. I did pretty well at the plate, and my base running is strong as ever, despite last year's broken ankle. And I even did my part in the field pretty well.
•Sunday was the GMSMA SM/Spirituality Special Interest Group. Two plus years in the running. And a sublime experience always.
Something I spoke to the group about...
Why did that Guy From LA get under my skin so much? Good question. I think I figured it out with the help of a child psychiatrist from Connecticut whom I fucked on Tuesday night. And a bit more. I was saying how the Guy From LA is the most withholding man I've ever met. He gives nothing away. When I went out to visit him, I was greeted at the airport, not with "Great to see you! You're looking really good!" or something along those lines, but with, "The plane was on time. I'm parked right out here."
And this propelled me to go to greater and greater lengths to get something by way of affirmation out of him. Being of basically sound mind, I didn't go so far as some of his recent exex that I know about. Nothing illegal, for instance.
So I was telling this by way of pillow talk, and child psychologist chimes in, "Like your father maybe?"
Bingo.
Wow.
And how.
So that's the deal. I couldn't get it from my dad, so it became especially important to get it from this guy.
Uh huh.
And later, I was thinking... Now, as a rule, I do not try to self-psychoanalyze my SM. Not a good thing to do. It's a black box. And best left that way.
But maybe, just maybe... Having grown up with the love of The World's Least Demonstrative Man, perhaps what turns my crank is erotic encounters with men that are very, very demonstrative.
And I can live with that. If that's one of my demons, then I'll gladly invite that one out to dance.
And now, it's back to work. Which feels good. My mantra lately is "if you're not sweating, it's not work." And since it's five to ten degrees hotter in the shop than it is outside, I'm working a lot.
And for the past two days, the weather has been beautiful. So after work, I head to Lake Galena and spend an hour or three paddling around in my kayak. I'm getting familiar with a pair of hawks. A certain heron allows me to get real close. I saw a snapping turtle today of jurassic proportions. (Seriously!)
And then, I head to Starbucks, where I smoke cigars on the porch and enjoy a latte.
I love summer. I'm broke. I ain't got nobody. But damn, am I happy.
No postings in a week??? What's up with that? Everything okay?
Yup. Everything is copascetic here. Doing really good.
Here are some highlights of what you've missed...
•Went to the beach. Last Tuesday. That day it was bitter freezing cold. (72 degrees.) It actually was pretty cold. And overcast. And there was a stiff wind blowing. Spraying me and UnFortunate with sand. Which hurt. "Ow. Ow. Ow! OWWW!" Eventually, I was pounding my fists in the sand saying "It's not fair!" and we headed into NYC. Good thing, too. Much longer and we would have been buried.
•In NYC, I visited the needle exchange program I used to run. That was gratifying. They're still there, and going strong. And the walls are still painted orange. And I was greeted by one of my favorite former employees, who had left about six months before I did to go to motorcycle mechanics school in Arizona. Great to see him. Love the guy. A little story by way of introduction. We were once at a conference together. All sitting around with people from other agencies in this big hotel ballroom while someone up at the podium was talking about social networks among crack injectors in New Haven or something. And we were there with folks from lots of other agencies, too. So this guy turns to a woman from another agency at our table and says, "You're a bootie freak, aren't you?" Before I could say, "You're way outta line Mister, and this means your job is on the line!" the two of them rose and headed up to her room. Wish I had one tenth of that chutzpah.
•Saturday was softball. We lost. Both games. But I haven't had so much fun playing softball in a long, long time. I did pretty well at the plate, and my base running is strong as ever, despite last year's broken ankle. And I even did my part in the field pretty well.
•Sunday was the GMSMA SM/Spirituality Special Interest Group. Two plus years in the running. And a sublime experience always.
Something I spoke to the group about...
Why did that Guy From LA get under my skin so much? Good question. I think I figured it out with the help of a child psychiatrist from Connecticut whom I fucked on Tuesday night. And a bit more. I was saying how the Guy From LA is the most withholding man I've ever met. He gives nothing away. When I went out to visit him, I was greeted at the airport, not with "Great to see you! You're looking really good!" or something along those lines, but with, "The plane was on time. I'm parked right out here."
And this propelled me to go to greater and greater lengths to get something by way of affirmation out of him. Being of basically sound mind, I didn't go so far as some of his recent exex that I know about. Nothing illegal, for instance.
So I was telling this by way of pillow talk, and child psychologist chimes in, "Like your father maybe?"
Bingo.
Wow.
And how.
So that's the deal. I couldn't get it from my dad, so it became especially important to get it from this guy.
Uh huh.
And later, I was thinking... Now, as a rule, I do not try to self-psychoanalyze my SM. Not a good thing to do. It's a black box. And best left that way.
But maybe, just maybe... Having grown up with the love of The World's Least Demonstrative Man, perhaps what turns my crank is erotic encounters with men that are very, very demonstrative.
And I can live with that. If that's one of my demons, then I'll gladly invite that one out to dance.
And now, it's back to work. Which feels good. My mantra lately is "if you're not sweating, it's not work." And since it's five to ten degrees hotter in the shop than it is outside, I'm working a lot.
And for the past two days, the weather has been beautiful. So after work, I head to Lake Galena and spend an hour or three paddling around in my kayak. I'm getting familiar with a pair of hawks. A certain heron allows me to get real close. I saw a snapping turtle today of jurassic proportions. (Seriously!)
And then, I head to Starbucks, where I smoke cigars on the porch and enjoy a latte.
I love summer. I'm broke. I ain't got nobody. But damn, am I happy.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Allons Les Enfants De La Patrié...
Oh. Wait. No. That's The Other One.
Happy 239th Birthday America! I'm feeling sooooo Toby Keith today!
Anyway, great weekend so far! I'm hardly regretting at all that I'm not in Florida right now.
Not being able to take a vacation this year meant that I could go to the annual July 4th Weekend dungeon party hosted by a couple of Inferno buddies of mine, who have made it their mission to insure that sexual deviancy thrives in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. My first trip from NYC to this party lead to much anxiety on my part, worried that I would be outclassed. This time, I just felt myself to be entirely among friends. And, because it was a quick hop, skip, and jump to get there, I brought my chains and whips and such, but if'n I didn't end up playing, that was cool, too.
Barbeque was good, and I enjoyed the company. Two of the very pillars of GMSMA were there. I have made a date to bottom to... Horowitz (no nom de plume necessary here, I don't think) at Inferno this year. He has a plan. A diabolical plan, by the sound of it. Involving an "announcement made at breakfast." So I'm pretty enthralled.
After dinner, the guys that were just there for dinner drifted homewards, and the rest of us got busy in the well-appointed dungeon.
In attendance was this... this... this man. I've seen him and his Sir for years. And they always make me drip cum. He, in particular, is just so incredibly hot. True to form, whenever he's around, I just stare at the ground sixteen inches in front of my boots, unable to make eye contact, little less engage in conversation, little less actually ask if he'd be up for a scene. (I hate that!)
But as dinner was breaking up, he approached me, greeted me, and shook my hand. Later, in the dungeon, I watched as he put a succession of subs into his vac rack. Sticking my courage to the sticking place, I complemented him on the scenes he did, and helped him clean up afterwards. And then, I did it. I asked if he wanted to play. And he said, "Sure."
He went to check in with his Sir, and I set about thinking what I might like to do. I decided on face-to-face, with boxing gloves (had mine!), maybe chained to a post (alas, no sides of any post were free of eye-bolts). I just had this image of this big, beautiful man, all chained up, and me wearing the boxing gloves, working him over. The physicality of it, getting to throw some good punches at him. And then, bringing the glove up to his face and saying, "yeaaaaah, kiss it boy. kiss it." Followed by a measured jab right in the kisser.
The Man returned, asked what I had in mind, and I told him I wanted to beat him. He declined that, but said he would sure be up for a flogging.
Okay. Not a problem. Switch gears.
Flogging... I'm good at that!
So that's what we did. At his request, he was unrestrained. Just standing there, bearing his beautiful back to me. It just reddened up beautifully. So wonderful. I was turned on the entire time. It was a sweet and pure distillation of SM. So simple. So elegant. So good for the soul.
Afterwards, he was glowing. And flying. And grateful. We talked some more. And, as it happens, he's a really great guy. Very likeable. Very upfront. Self aware. And maybe I'll have a second bite at the apple at Inferno. Hope so ("kiss it, boy. yeah. kiss it.").
Yesterday, Sunday, it was off to the beach. Namely, Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook. Aka, the Nude Beach.
Word had reached me that there was this big Bear thing going on there. Metrobears NYC, Garden State Bears, and the Liberty Bears of Philadelphia were all converging at Gunnison. And, to be sure, that was all the inclination I needed.
And... and... one of the great things about living here is I-195. If you look at a map of NJ, all the roads basically run north-south. Except for 195. Which cuts due east from Trenton and takes you to the beach, 35 miles away. It's a great road, and it's like a worm hole: you enter at one end, and in no time at all, it spits you out at the other end.
Traffic was dicey once I got off the Parkway at the opposite end of 195, but that's more a function of the fact that Sandy Hook is sort of off there on it's own on the northernmost tip of the New Jersey shoreline.
I messed up on the parking, and had to slog through the non-nude beach to get to the nude beach (I always do this), but finally, there it was: nudidity! But it was all kinds of heterosexual nudidity. I watched some hot naked straight men cavorting with their naked girlfriends/wives for a while. And then I remembered: the queers tend to congregate on the southern part of the nude beach.
Right.
So I rolled up my blanket and slogged down the beach some more. (Some nude heterosexuals complemented me on my ink work along the way. See? I make friends wherever I go!)
And there were the naked bears! A beach full of them! Yippee!
Tragically, by this point, it was four o'clock. So I had just time enough to scope out the bears, enjoy a cigar (which you can't really do with a stiff ocean breeze blowing, and get 20 pages into my collection of Nero Wolfe short stories before the bears were packing up to go.
But it's all good. I enjoyed the expanding empty beach left behind by the departing bears for a bit, then packed up my stuff and headed for home. I stopped at the New Jersey Diner With Incredibly Slow Service But Great Food (I think it's a chain... I've eaten there countless times before), and made another stop in New Hope to grab a latte at Starbucks. (I had hoped to stop and grab an iced quad venti one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte on my way in, but whaddya know, there were no parking spaces at all in the entire town. When I worked there as a pup, I had a t-shirt printed up that read, "Pave The River!" It was an inside joke, but I was the only one on the inside.) (Yes, even I, though I know better, used to wear legible t-shirts.)
But that's not all! Later that night, I headed back down to New Hope to stop into the Raven. The crowd was pretty dreary, but I did meet one hot Worldleathermen interlocutor, whom I've really gotta tie up and torture some time. He's got one of those north jersey accents that just make me melt.
So now, here I am, on July 4th, sitting on the porch, typing this account of myself.
It's a gorgeous day. ("The two most beautiful words in the English language...") My astilbe, day lilies, and lupine are just exploding. After a shopping trip, I'm heading down to Philadelphia for a party and to watch the fireworks with some local leathermen.
Nice.
Nice nice nice nice Nice.
Enjoy your weekend!
Oh. Wait. No. That's The Other One.
Happy 239th Birthday America! I'm feeling sooooo Toby Keith today!
Anyway, great weekend so far! I'm hardly regretting at all that I'm not in Florida right now.
Not being able to take a vacation this year meant that I could go to the annual July 4th Weekend dungeon party hosted by a couple of Inferno buddies of mine, who have made it their mission to insure that sexual deviancy thrives in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. My first trip from NYC to this party lead to much anxiety on my part, worried that I would be outclassed. This time, I just felt myself to be entirely among friends. And, because it was a quick hop, skip, and jump to get there, I brought my chains and whips and such, but if'n I didn't end up playing, that was cool, too.
Barbeque was good, and I enjoyed the company. Two of the very pillars of GMSMA were there. I have made a date to bottom to... Horowitz (no nom de plume necessary here, I don't think) at Inferno this year. He has a plan. A diabolical plan, by the sound of it. Involving an "announcement made at breakfast." So I'm pretty enthralled.
After dinner, the guys that were just there for dinner drifted homewards, and the rest of us got busy in the well-appointed dungeon.
In attendance was this... this... this man. I've seen him and his Sir for years. And they always make me drip cum. He, in particular, is just so incredibly hot. True to form, whenever he's around, I just stare at the ground sixteen inches in front of my boots, unable to make eye contact, little less engage in conversation, little less actually ask if he'd be up for a scene. (I hate that!)
But as dinner was breaking up, he approached me, greeted me, and shook my hand. Later, in the dungeon, I watched as he put a succession of subs into his vac rack. Sticking my courage to the sticking place, I complemented him on the scenes he did, and helped him clean up afterwards. And then, I did it. I asked if he wanted to play. And he said, "Sure."
He went to check in with his Sir, and I set about thinking what I might like to do. I decided on face-to-face, with boxing gloves (had mine!), maybe chained to a post (alas, no sides of any post were free of eye-bolts). I just had this image of this big, beautiful man, all chained up, and me wearing the boxing gloves, working him over. The physicality of it, getting to throw some good punches at him. And then, bringing the glove up to his face and saying, "yeaaaaah, kiss it boy. kiss it." Followed by a measured jab right in the kisser.
The Man returned, asked what I had in mind, and I told him I wanted to beat him. He declined that, but said he would sure be up for a flogging.
Okay. Not a problem. Switch gears.
Flogging... I'm good at that!
So that's what we did. At his request, he was unrestrained. Just standing there, bearing his beautiful back to me. It just reddened up beautifully. So wonderful. I was turned on the entire time. It was a sweet and pure distillation of SM. So simple. So elegant. So good for the soul.
Afterwards, he was glowing. And flying. And grateful. We talked some more. And, as it happens, he's a really great guy. Very likeable. Very upfront. Self aware. And maybe I'll have a second bite at the apple at Inferno. Hope so ("kiss it, boy. yeah. kiss it.").
Yesterday, Sunday, it was off to the beach. Namely, Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook. Aka, the Nude Beach.
Word had reached me that there was this big Bear thing going on there. Metrobears NYC, Garden State Bears, and the Liberty Bears of Philadelphia were all converging at Gunnison. And, to be sure, that was all the inclination I needed.
And... and... one of the great things about living here is I-195. If you look at a map of NJ, all the roads basically run north-south. Except for 195. Which cuts due east from Trenton and takes you to the beach, 35 miles away. It's a great road, and it's like a worm hole: you enter at one end, and in no time at all, it spits you out at the other end.
Traffic was dicey once I got off the Parkway at the opposite end of 195, but that's more a function of the fact that Sandy Hook is sort of off there on it's own on the northernmost tip of the New Jersey shoreline.
I messed up on the parking, and had to slog through the non-nude beach to get to the nude beach (I always do this), but finally, there it was: nudidity! But it was all kinds of heterosexual nudidity. I watched some hot naked straight men cavorting with their naked girlfriends/wives for a while. And then I remembered: the queers tend to congregate on the southern part of the nude beach.
Right.
So I rolled up my blanket and slogged down the beach some more. (Some nude heterosexuals complemented me on my ink work along the way. See? I make friends wherever I go!)
And there were the naked bears! A beach full of them! Yippee!
Tragically, by this point, it was four o'clock. So I had just time enough to scope out the bears, enjoy a cigar (which you can't really do with a stiff ocean breeze blowing, and get 20 pages into my collection of Nero Wolfe short stories before the bears were packing up to go.
But it's all good. I enjoyed the expanding empty beach left behind by the departing bears for a bit, then packed up my stuff and headed for home. I stopped at the New Jersey Diner With Incredibly Slow Service But Great Food (I think it's a chain... I've eaten there countless times before), and made another stop in New Hope to grab a latte at Starbucks. (I had hoped to stop and grab an iced quad venti one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte on my way in, but whaddya know, there were no parking spaces at all in the entire town. When I worked there as a pup, I had a t-shirt printed up that read, "Pave The River!" It was an inside joke, but I was the only one on the inside.) (Yes, even I, though I know better, used to wear legible t-shirts.)
But that's not all! Later that night, I headed back down to New Hope to stop into the Raven. The crowd was pretty dreary, but I did meet one hot Worldleathermen interlocutor, whom I've really gotta tie up and torture some time. He's got one of those north jersey accents that just make me melt.
So now, here I am, on July 4th, sitting on the porch, typing this account of myself.
It's a gorgeous day. ("The two most beautiful words in the English language...") My astilbe, day lilies, and lupine are just exploding. After a shopping trip, I'm heading down to Philadelphia for a party and to watch the fireworks with some local leathermen.
Nice.
Nice nice nice nice Nice.
Enjoy your weekend!
Saturday, July 02, 2005
More Cold-Blooded Messengers!
So this morning--or, y'know, what passes for "morning" on a Saturday here at the Humble Abode--my father called out to me from the kitchen. As I made my way there, the words "What did you say? I thought you said, 'there's a toad in the kitchen,'" were coming out of my mouth.
But as I rounded the corner, there was my father, bracing himself against a chair, and there, in the middle of the kitchen floor was a toad.
My dad was going on about 'how did that get in here? it's because you leave the door open...' or something. I scooped up the toad (he was beautiful, this pale greenish-brown, like ancient, weathered bone). I took him out on the porch, and let him go in the garden.
A toad... I used to spend my summer days in childhood catching toads and frogs.
This guy didn't even piss in my hand. (It's their defense mechanism. If Faithful Companion got a hold of him in his mouth, it would have made him sick.) And when I let him go, he just sat there.
Beautiful.
And then, just now, I was out on the porch having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I heard this sort of metallic clunking sound. I thought it was Faithful Companion's tail knocking something. But when I heard it again, I got a better sense of where it was coming from. I stepped off the porch and examined the downspout of the rain gutter.
And sure enough, there was a box turtle, knocking up against it with his hard shell.
This was a different box turtle from the one the other day. He was older, with a more mature design on his shell. I went out, plucked him up, and carried him back to themosquito breeding bog pond in the back yard and let him go. Far from the road. With fresh water. And lots of nice green vegetation for him to eat.
Turtle, toad, turtle.
Could this be something like an angelic Morse code? What's going on here?
I choose to believe it's some good portent. Something good is coming my way. Or maybe someone good.
And that's good. I need that.
That Guy From LA is on Fire Island this week. I told him how I had off all this week. How I couldn't afford to go down to Florida. How much I loved Fire Island. If it crossed his mind to invite me out for a day, he sure didn't give that away by anything he said.
Ah well. I abide.
I've been sort of hard-hearted concerning menfolk of late. I've met exactly two-and-a-half men in my life who I found... compelling. That's the word. Men who sort of had it all. They were so hot I couldn't think clearly when I looked at them. And I could just talk to them forever and ever, never exhausting things to think about. They were men who loved life, and who lived people. And what a great team we'd make. Like the Hardy Boys (only, y'know, not related; and we'd fuck), just chafing at the bit to get out there and have some new adventure.
Body, mind, spirit. Everything I love about all the men in my life, although ample quantities of each in the form of one guy. Two and a half times!
And at this point in my life, I'm less and less willing to settle for anything less than the complete package. Settling just gets me into trouble. Sure, he has an amazing body with that beer gut and those sixteen inch guns on him and all that hair, but if I have to hear about how this is like a Will & Grace episode one more time... Or, gosh, it's amazing that this guy can reel off these amazing poems from memory, but what is up with those toenails of his?
Oh. And he has to be accessible, too. Someone I can call up and make plans for Friday night with on a wednesday afternoon at Starbucks.
And, it goes without saying, he has to be absolutely twisted. And omnivorously so.
Anyway. I'm off to the annual July Fourth Weekend Dungeon Party hosted by friends of mine who live in Pottstown. Longtime readers may remember the Yellow Dress dilemma when I went there two years ago. No such anxieties this time around. I'm just going for the burgers and hot dogs. Although maybe I'll meet some special guy...
Or maybe those were just a couple of turtles and a toad that happenstance placed in my path.
So this morning--or, y'know, what passes for "morning" on a Saturday here at the Humble Abode--my father called out to me from the kitchen. As I made my way there, the words "What did you say? I thought you said, 'there's a toad in the kitchen,'" were coming out of my mouth.
But as I rounded the corner, there was my father, bracing himself against a chair, and there, in the middle of the kitchen floor was a toad.
My dad was going on about 'how did that get in here? it's because you leave the door open...' or something. I scooped up the toad (he was beautiful, this pale greenish-brown, like ancient, weathered bone). I took him out on the porch, and let him go in the garden.
A toad... I used to spend my summer days in childhood catching toads and frogs.
This guy didn't even piss in my hand. (It's their defense mechanism. If Faithful Companion got a hold of him in his mouth, it would have made him sick.) And when I let him go, he just sat there.
Beautiful.
And then, just now, I was out on the porch having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I heard this sort of metallic clunking sound. I thought it was Faithful Companion's tail knocking something. But when I heard it again, I got a better sense of where it was coming from. I stepped off the porch and examined the downspout of the rain gutter.
And sure enough, there was a box turtle, knocking up against it with his hard shell.
This was a different box turtle from the one the other day. He was older, with a more mature design on his shell. I went out, plucked him up, and carried him back to the
Turtle, toad, turtle.
Could this be something like an angelic Morse code? What's going on here?
I choose to believe it's some good portent. Something good is coming my way. Or maybe someone good.
And that's good. I need that.
That Guy From LA is on Fire Island this week. I told him how I had off all this week. How I couldn't afford to go down to Florida. How much I loved Fire Island. If it crossed his mind to invite me out for a day, he sure didn't give that away by anything he said.
Ah well. I abide.
I've been sort of hard-hearted concerning menfolk of late. I've met exactly two-and-a-half men in my life who I found... compelling. That's the word. Men who sort of had it all. They were so hot I couldn't think clearly when I looked at them. And I could just talk to them forever and ever, never exhausting things to think about. They were men who loved life, and who lived people. And what a great team we'd make. Like the Hardy Boys (only, y'know, not related; and we'd fuck), just chafing at the bit to get out there and have some new adventure.
Body, mind, spirit. Everything I love about all the men in my life, although ample quantities of each in the form of one guy. Two and a half times!
And at this point in my life, I'm less and less willing to settle for anything less than the complete package. Settling just gets me into trouble. Sure, he has an amazing body with that beer gut and those sixteen inch guns on him and all that hair, but if I have to hear about how this is like a Will & Grace episode one more time... Or, gosh, it's amazing that this guy can reel off these amazing poems from memory, but what is up with those toenails of his?
Oh. And he has to be accessible, too. Someone I can call up and make plans for Friday night with on a wednesday afternoon at Starbucks.
And, it goes without saying, he has to be absolutely twisted. And omnivorously so.
Anyway. I'm off to the annual July Fourth Weekend Dungeon Party hosted by friends of mine who live in Pottstown. Longtime readers may remember the Yellow Dress dilemma when I went there two years ago. No such anxieties this time around. I'm just going for the burgers and hot dogs. Although maybe I'll meet some special guy...
Or maybe those were just a couple of turtles and a toad that happenstance placed in my path.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Turtle
This is so cool.
On my way home today, I was thinking about turtles.
Sometimes, driving the backroads of Bucks County in the summer months, you run across box turtles. My father would always stop the car, get out, and bring me home a turtle. I love turtles. Just the word... turtle. What a great word. Can you resist smiling when you say 'turtle?' Turtle. Say it out loud.
Don't you just love turtles?
And then, I knew this guy who lived in Reading. He had a place in the city with a little twelve by twelve foot yard behind it. He once brought home a turtle and put it in his back yard. Among his friends, it became "a thing" to bring him turtles. They couldn't go anywhere as his backyard was surrounded by a wall. And the turtles bred. In no time at all, his back yard was full of box turtles.
And they were great! You'd come out into the back yard and they'd all retreat into their shells, but one by one they'd pop out. And get this, because he always had lettuce or whatever with him, they'd come up to you, expecting to be fed.
Friendly turtles!
So as I drive along, I'm thinking all about turtles. And... y'know... keeping an eye on the road, on the lookout for turtles.
I didn't find a turtle.
I got home, and, of course, the first order of business was walking Faithful Companion. I leashed him up and we headed out.
And there, just off the driveway, about ten feet from the road, was a box turtle.
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked at me.
Faithful Companion had urgent business to attend to. And we took care of that business.
When we came back from our walk, the turtle was gone. He had been headed in the direction of the road, and... well... that's too terrible to think about.
So I hunted for the turtle.
We found him about fifteen feet away (fast turtle, huh?).
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked up at me.
I picked up the turtle, and took him to themosquito infested slime hole pond in the woods behind the house. I found a nice green spot for the turtle, and put him down. He came out of his shell.
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked at me.
See? This is how it is with me. Just when I start to get into A Mood, the Universe reaches out to me, giving me what I need,
Sending me a messenger. In the form of a turtle.
This is so cool.
On my way home today, I was thinking about turtles.
Sometimes, driving the backroads of Bucks County in the summer months, you run across box turtles. My father would always stop the car, get out, and bring me home a turtle. I love turtles. Just the word... turtle. What a great word. Can you resist smiling when you say 'turtle?' Turtle. Say it out loud.
Don't you just love turtles?
And then, I knew this guy who lived in Reading. He had a place in the city with a little twelve by twelve foot yard behind it. He once brought home a turtle and put it in his back yard. Among his friends, it became "a thing" to bring him turtles. They couldn't go anywhere as his backyard was surrounded by a wall. And the turtles bred. In no time at all, his back yard was full of box turtles.
And they were great! You'd come out into the back yard and they'd all retreat into their shells, but one by one they'd pop out. And get this, because he always had lettuce or whatever with him, they'd come up to you, expecting to be fed.
Friendly turtles!
So as I drive along, I'm thinking all about turtles. And... y'know... keeping an eye on the road, on the lookout for turtles.
I didn't find a turtle.
I got home, and, of course, the first order of business was walking Faithful Companion. I leashed him up and we headed out.
And there, just off the driveway, about ten feet from the road, was a box turtle.
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked at me.
Faithful Companion had urgent business to attend to. And we took care of that business.
When we came back from our walk, the turtle was gone. He had been headed in the direction of the road, and... well... that's too terrible to think about.
So I hunted for the turtle.
We found him about fifteen feet away (fast turtle, huh?).
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked up at me.
I picked up the turtle, and took him to the
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked at me.
See? This is how it is with me. Just when I start to get into A Mood, the Universe reaches out to me, giving me what I need,
Sending me a messenger. In the form of a turtle.
Monday, June 27, 2005
I Am Lana Turner
Except for time at work today, the past 30 hours have just about all been spent in the company of the Baron von Philadelphia.
Yesterday (that would be Sunday), I picked him up at the train station in Doylestown, and we headed up to NYC for Pride festivities. On the drive up, we talked politics and economics. Well, I kept my mouth shut mostly, because I know better at this point than to argue with the Baron about politics. We arrived in the city at about 3 pm, found parking in my newly discovered parking spot haven (like I'm gonna tell you where!), and positioned ourselves at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 24th Street.
Timing couldn't have been better. At least, I can't think of any contingent that I'd want to see that I missed out on. I saw the leather/fetish/BDSM groups (Go GMSMA! Go Eulenspiegel Society! Go LSM!). And, I was treated to the spectacle of all five of the Fab Five from Queer Eye riding in convertible VWs. (I nearly wet my pants.) (Carson, Ted, and Thom waved back to me.) And then, we saw the religious affiliated contingent. And, the Episcopalians sure constituted about 75% of that section. (Go Home Team!). And, newly ordained openly gay Bishop Gene Robinson was on hand. I was hoping to get a blessing out of the Bishop, but he was just in smile-and-wave mode. Purple is definitely his color though!
So that was all very cool.
The Baron and I grabbed some food, wandered down to the Village, hung out for awhile, grabbed some more food (at Mamoun's on MacDougal Street--Woof! to the guy behind the counter, worth the trip all by himself, not counting the best humous and falafel anywhere), and then slowly made our way back to the car.
More non-stop-turn-down-the-radio conversation on the way back home. Not about politics this time, so I plunged right in.
We arrived back at the Humble Abode at a decent hour, and I got a good night's sleep.
After work today, I headed home to retrieve the Baron, who was my houseguest for the night, and then we went to hang at Starbucks until the Baron's train arrived to take him back down to Philadelphia.
"So," asked the Baron,"When are you going to get published?"
I hemmed. I hawed. "Well, y'see..."
The Baron took me to task. "You," he said, "should be a columnist. You should be writing for the Voice, or for Instigator. Or somewhere. What you should do, and what I suggested you do two years ago, is put together a sampling of some of your best writing and send it off to every publication you can think of and..."
No.
No, I told the Baron.
No.
I care too much about my writiing. And I can't do that. When I put together my poetry and sent it off to the fine folks at the MFA program at Temple University all those years ago, and received in the mail the thin envelope instead of the fat envelope, I stopped writing poetry then and there.
I just can't deal with rejection. And every time in my life that I've tried to compete in that way, I've failed. And it hurts terribly.
The Baron countered that I'll never get published without doing that. That's how the game works. You write, you send off your stuff, you get rejection after rejection after rejection, but then maybe your hard work will pay off, and you'll get a letter of acceptance. Why, if you were an actor instead of a writer, it would be all about going to auditions...
And then, the proverbial lightbulb came on.
Not quite, y'see.
I've met with a lot of success in my life. I've had some wonderful romances. I've had some great jobs (I was the Executive Director a non-profit organization with a staff of 25 and a budget (when Ieft, after increasing it by 500%) of $4 million.
But, none of those successes came my way by putting my hat in the ring and hoping for the best.
I operate differently.
And that's when I thought of Lana Turner.
You remember Lana Turner, right?
There she was, sitting at the counter of Schrafft's, sucking on an ice cream soda, wearing her pink angora sweater, when in walked some big Hollywood director or producer or someone who took one look at her and signed her on the spot.
Okay. So I leave it all up to chance, huh?
Uh uh. And neither did Lana.
Lana decided to eschew the route of running to all those auditions with all those other hopeful would-be starlets. She knew that Hollywood types frequented Schrafft's. So she strategically positioned herself at the counter, and made sure she looked radiant, and dressed in something eye-catching, like a pink angora sweater.
And that's how I operate, too.
Not the pink angora sweater part though.
I don't send out my resume to eighty different ads I find on Craig's List and hope for the best. Because that's never worked for me. And when it doesn't work for me, I go into an emotional tailspin. I don't have the fortitude for that. It would wreck me.
Rather, I look for opportunities in the modest situations that my daily life presents to me wherein I can shine. When I meet people, I do my best to be friendly and engaging. When I'm given the opportunity to have the spotlight, I do my best to rise to the occasion. I try to come off as warm, thoughtful, smart, and fun. (And I am, pretty much, warm, thougtful, smart, and fun.)
And every once in a while, someone notices and approaches me with an offer. "Would you consider...?"
The Baron was not impressed.
"But," he countered, you can't count on that. Lana Turner was all of eighteen. If she had tried that at 40, the result might have been different."
Not so fast, Baron!
"Yeah, but here's the thing. Even though I make $10 an hour, even though I can't go to Florida, even though this guy from LA that I'm wild about takes me for granted, even though my father makes me crazy on a regular basis, even though I'm no longer tooling around NYC and getting laid as much as I like... I am happy. I am at peace. I might not like my life, but I like living it. I like what I do at work. I like sitting at Starbucks and shooting the breeze and making cute boys nervous with my Scorpio gaze, I like going to the gym despite the fact that I'll never be a big muscle-bound thug, I like walking my dog and seeing the fireflies every night. Life is good. I am happy. And if, perchance, someone out there says, "Hey! I've read your blog! I really like your writing! How would you like to be a columnist for my publication?", well then that's gravy.
So screw the whole sending off what I affectionately refer to as "my stuff" to several dozen publications. And dying a slow death by a thousand knives in the following weeks.
I'll be at Starbucks. Enjoying my iced venti quad one-pump-vanila easy ice latte. Waiting patiently.
And if my patience goes unrewarded, then I'll head to Lake Galena and enjoy the sweet breeze and the sunshine and working my muscles paddling my kayak for a few hours.
Except for time at work today, the past 30 hours have just about all been spent in the company of the Baron von Philadelphia.
Yesterday (that would be Sunday), I picked him up at the train station in Doylestown, and we headed up to NYC for Pride festivities. On the drive up, we talked politics and economics. Well, I kept my mouth shut mostly, because I know better at this point than to argue with the Baron about politics. We arrived in the city at about 3 pm, found parking in my newly discovered parking spot haven (like I'm gonna tell you where!), and positioned ourselves at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 24th Street.
Timing couldn't have been better. At least, I can't think of any contingent that I'd want to see that I missed out on. I saw the leather/fetish/BDSM groups (Go GMSMA! Go Eulenspiegel Society! Go LSM!). And, I was treated to the spectacle of all five of the Fab Five from Queer Eye riding in convertible VWs. (I nearly wet my pants.) (Carson, Ted, and Thom waved back to me.) And then, we saw the religious affiliated contingent. And, the Episcopalians sure constituted about 75% of that section. (Go Home Team!). And, newly ordained openly gay Bishop Gene Robinson was on hand. I was hoping to get a blessing out of the Bishop, but he was just in smile-and-wave mode. Purple is definitely his color though!
So that was all very cool.
The Baron and I grabbed some food, wandered down to the Village, hung out for awhile, grabbed some more food (at Mamoun's on MacDougal Street--Woof! to the guy behind the counter, worth the trip all by himself, not counting the best humous and falafel anywhere), and then slowly made our way back to the car.
More non-stop-turn-down-the-radio conversation on the way back home. Not about politics this time, so I plunged right in.
We arrived back at the Humble Abode at a decent hour, and I got a good night's sleep.
After work today, I headed home to retrieve the Baron, who was my houseguest for the night, and then we went to hang at Starbucks until the Baron's train arrived to take him back down to Philadelphia.
"So," asked the Baron,"When are you going to get published?"
I hemmed. I hawed. "Well, y'see..."
The Baron took me to task. "You," he said, "should be a columnist. You should be writing for the Voice, or for Instigator. Or somewhere. What you should do, and what I suggested you do two years ago, is put together a sampling of some of your best writing and send it off to every publication you can think of and..."
No.
No, I told the Baron.
No.
I care too much about my writiing. And I can't do that. When I put together my poetry and sent it off to the fine folks at the MFA program at Temple University all those years ago, and received in the mail the thin envelope instead of the fat envelope, I stopped writing poetry then and there.
I just can't deal with rejection. And every time in my life that I've tried to compete in that way, I've failed. And it hurts terribly.
The Baron countered that I'll never get published without doing that. That's how the game works. You write, you send off your stuff, you get rejection after rejection after rejection, but then maybe your hard work will pay off, and you'll get a letter of acceptance. Why, if you were an actor instead of a writer, it would be all about going to auditions...
And then, the proverbial lightbulb came on.
Not quite, y'see.
I've met with a lot of success in my life. I've had some wonderful romances. I've had some great jobs (I was the Executive Director a non-profit organization with a staff of 25 and a budget (when Ieft, after increasing it by 500%) of $4 million.
But, none of those successes came my way by putting my hat in the ring and hoping for the best.
I operate differently.
And that's when I thought of Lana Turner.
You remember Lana Turner, right?
There she was, sitting at the counter of Schrafft's, sucking on an ice cream soda, wearing her pink angora sweater, when in walked some big Hollywood director or producer or someone who took one look at her and signed her on the spot.
Okay. So I leave it all up to chance, huh?
Uh uh. And neither did Lana.
Lana decided to eschew the route of running to all those auditions with all those other hopeful would-be starlets. She knew that Hollywood types frequented Schrafft's. So she strategically positioned herself at the counter, and made sure she looked radiant, and dressed in something eye-catching, like a pink angora sweater.
And that's how I operate, too.
Not the pink angora sweater part though.
I don't send out my resume to eighty different ads I find on Craig's List and hope for the best. Because that's never worked for me. And when it doesn't work for me, I go into an emotional tailspin. I don't have the fortitude for that. It would wreck me.
Rather, I look for opportunities in the modest situations that my daily life presents to me wherein I can shine. When I meet people, I do my best to be friendly and engaging. When I'm given the opportunity to have the spotlight, I do my best to rise to the occasion. I try to come off as warm, thoughtful, smart, and fun. (And I am, pretty much, warm, thougtful, smart, and fun.)
And every once in a while, someone notices and approaches me with an offer. "Would you consider...?"
The Baron was not impressed.
"But," he countered, you can't count on that. Lana Turner was all of eighteen. If she had tried that at 40, the result might have been different."
Not so fast, Baron!
"Yeah, but here's the thing. Even though I make $10 an hour, even though I can't go to Florida, even though this guy from LA that I'm wild about takes me for granted, even though my father makes me crazy on a regular basis, even though I'm no longer tooling around NYC and getting laid as much as I like... I am happy. I am at peace. I might not like my life, but I like living it. I like what I do at work. I like sitting at Starbucks and shooting the breeze and making cute boys nervous with my Scorpio gaze, I like going to the gym despite the fact that I'll never be a big muscle-bound thug, I like walking my dog and seeing the fireflies every night. Life is good. I am happy. And if, perchance, someone out there says, "Hey! I've read your blog! I really like your writing! How would you like to be a columnist for my publication?", well then that's gravy.
So screw the whole sending off what I affectionately refer to as "my stuff" to several dozen publications. And dying a slow death by a thousand knives in the following weeks.
I'll be at Starbucks. Enjoying my iced venti quad one-pump-vanila easy ice latte. Waiting patiently.
And if my patience goes unrewarded, then I'll head to Lake Galena and enjoy the sweet breeze and the sunshine and working my muscles paddling my kayak for a few hours.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Emersonian
So yesterday, the first day of Spring, I was sitting at Starbucks enjoying a cigar and a latte. And coming out of a rough period. I had just had the double whammy: realizing that my financial straits were too dire to afford a trip down to Florida; and having that man from LA with whom I'm totally smitten inform me, without a trace of 'gosh sorry' in his voice, that although he knew I'd be attending Session A of Inferno, he was opting for Session B. (I give, and I give, and I give...)
But the night before, I had taken Faithful Companion for his last walk of the day, and the night air was thick with fireflies. Millions of them. Everywhere. It was just breathtaking.
And then there I was, soaking up the sunlight, enjoying a very good cigar, and watching the seemingly endless parade of Really Hot Boys that seem to be swarming around Starbucks in Doylestown this year...
And then it happened.
Out of nowhere, I just had this sense of myself as... nothing. As a chance agglomeration of energy, just like the trees. Just like the chair I was sitting on. Just like the air moving in and out of my lungs. And so ephemeral. Since the Big Bang until the end of time, I'm not even a blink of an eye. I am nothing. Nothing at all.
Kooky, I know.
But it was just so amazing.
I've never been good at meditation. Never able to quiet my mind. Stop the endless thoughts. The best I can do is to count.
But yesterday, without even trying, there I was in Zen bliss.
So nothing is wrong. Nothing is bad. Because nothing is.
So yesterday, the first day of Spring, I was sitting at Starbucks enjoying a cigar and a latte. And coming out of a rough period. I had just had the double whammy: realizing that my financial straits were too dire to afford a trip down to Florida; and having that man from LA with whom I'm totally smitten inform me, without a trace of 'gosh sorry' in his voice, that although he knew I'd be attending Session A of Inferno, he was opting for Session B. (I give, and I give, and I give...)
But the night before, I had taken Faithful Companion for his last walk of the day, and the night air was thick with fireflies. Millions of them. Everywhere. It was just breathtaking.
And then there I was, soaking up the sunlight, enjoying a very good cigar, and watching the seemingly endless parade of Really Hot Boys that seem to be swarming around Starbucks in Doylestown this year...
And then it happened.
Out of nowhere, I just had this sense of myself as... nothing. As a chance agglomeration of energy, just like the trees. Just like the chair I was sitting on. Just like the air moving in and out of my lungs. And so ephemeral. Since the Big Bang until the end of time, I'm not even a blink of an eye. I am nothing. Nothing at all.
Kooky, I know.
But it was just so amazing.
I've never been good at meditation. Never able to quiet my mind. Stop the endless thoughts. The best I can do is to count.
But yesterday, without even trying, there I was in Zen bliss.
So nothing is wrong. Nothing is bad. Because nothing is.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Hello, Thrill Seekers!
Here's a cool article from the NY Times emailed me by Diabolique. If you enjoy taking personality tests--I know I do!--then here's a link where you can take one to determine just how much of a thrill-seeker you are.
Enjoy! And keep those dopamine levels elevated!
The New York Times
June 20, 2005
What's the Lure of the Edge?
By RICHARD A. FRIEDMAN, M.D.
DURING a vacation last winter, I took a zip-line canopy tour of the
Costa Rican rain forest. Strapped into a harness 100 feet above the jungle
floor, I was flying through the air, with the toucans and parrots,
attached to a steel cable strung between two platforms. I was having far
too much fun to think that this could be dangerous. At first it was pretty
thrilling, but by the 10th zip line I felt it was losing its charge.
On the last and highest platform, a guy just in front of me began to
hyperventilate. Being a psychiatrist, I realized he was having a panic
attack. I got him to relax with some deep breathing and then asked him
whether he had had this problem before. "Oh, yes," he said. "I thought
this would be a way to conquer my fear of heights."
Why was he terrified by what was beginning to bore me? We were both
members of the sex that studies and more informal surveys indicate is more
drawn to thrill seeking (for better or worse - more men than women have
orbited the earth, while men are two to three more times likely to be
pathological gamblers). But this man and I seemed to be on opposite ends
of the thrill-seeking spectrum.
On an individual level, the difference seems to be hard-wired in our
brains, scientists have begun to discover. What is more surprising is that
thrill seeking appears to be enjoyed not just by an elite - or, as some
think, aberrant - bunch of people who put their lives at peril for a jolt
of excitement.
The focus of research on a relatively small, though dramatic, group of
unsavory characters like psychopaths and drug addicts can give the
impression that thrill is only for the mentally unbalanced. Far from it.
Thrill seeking in one form or another is so widespread that it has
practically become institutionalized in the culture. From reality TV shows
like "Fear Factor," shot through with danger and risk, to the growing
popularity of extreme sports, there is something to suit everyone's taste.
The root of the thrill-seeking experience lies in an ancient neural
circuit buried deep inside the brain that is intimately involved in
pleasure, reward and novelty seeking. This system, which connects our
thinking cortex with our more primitive limbic emotional center, runs on
dopamine, a neurotransmitter. Many of life's greatest pleasures feel good
because, in the end, they cause the release of dopamine from the brain's
reward pathway. Sex, food and recreational drugs all flood the brain with
dopamine - and so does thrill seeking.
Like just about every other human attribute, there is great variation
in individual taste for novelty and thrill seeking, much of it rooted in
the brain. For example, Dr. Nora Volkow at the National Institute on Drug
Abuse has shown that response to euphoria-producing drugs is related to
the levels of brain dopamine receptors.
In one experiment, she gave normal male controls intravenous Ritalin,
which releases dopamine, and found that those who experienced the drug as
pleasant had significantly fewer dopamine receptors than participants who
reported unpleasant effects. Those with more dopamine receptors at
baseline are probably less likely to abuse drugs or seek any thrill
because their brains already have more dopamine activity to start with. In
fact, these guys are likely to be thrill-averse, like that fellow I met on
the zip line.
For the chronically underaroused, a simple bike ride or jog in the
park doesn't do the trick; it would take something more intense like
diving 50 feet into a gorge or snorting cocaine to provide them with
enough dopamine for them to feel excited.
An entire industry has emerged in the last decade to satisfy such
voracious appetites for thrills. Rich Hopkins, an inveterate surfer,
stuntman and extreme sportsman, is president of ThrillSeekers Unlimited, a
company he founded in 1992. Clients try anything from skydiving, bungee
jumping and paragliding to zip-line or stunt driving. They will even give
you the "fire burn," where you are set safely on fire, like a real
stuntman. "When we started, we had around 50 to 75 customers that first
year," Mr. Hopkins said. "Now, we routinely take out several hundred
people in just one adventure."
Who are these thrill seekers? About 80 percent are men, Mr. Hopkins
said. But the big surprise is that some of the largest clients are
corporations and that many participants are men well into their 50's and
60's. "Instead of a golf holiday, they are sending their employees for an
extreme sports adventure and they love it," Mr. Hopkins said.
Charles Edwards has been chasing tornadoes in Oklahoma ever since he
studied meteorology in college. "I've been obsessed with tornadoes for the
last 15 years," he said. "Every storm is completely different, and you
just get this adrenaline rush and try to get as close as possible to them.
I've seen houses getting blown apart and cows tossed aside. Just awesome."
Mr. Edwards was so hooked by the thrill of chasing storms that he
created his own company, Cloud 9 Tours, to support his habit, as he called
it. "We take people out during the tornado season here in Oklahoma, from
April through August. These guys come back again and again."
But what about thrill-averse guys? Can they learn to enjoy a little
more excitement? If so, would thrilling activity itself change their
neural circuitry to make them more like thrill lovers?
Probably not, judging from studies of Dr. Jerome Kagan at Harvard, who
has shown that certain temperamental traits you are born with are pretty
stable. Using M.R.I. brain scanning, Dr. Carl Schwartz at Harvard recently
found that these anxious adults showed greater responses in the amygdala,
a brain region that processes fearful and threatening stimuli, to faces of
strangers than to familiar faces. In other words, people who like novelty
have biologically different brains than cautious folks, and no one knows
if experience changes this.
Of course, the surge of dopamine that thrill seekers search out can
literally be addicting. The reason is that anything that activates our
reward system, whether it's a natural reinforcer like sex, food or a
thrilling act, is seen by the brain as something that should be repeated -
over and over. And despite how smart we think we are, our brain can't
really distinguish among the activating effects of drugs, thrill or useful
behaviors. Even worse, for some people, drugs and thrill are more
powerfully self-reinforcing than even food and sex. So the very design of
our brain that promotes survival also makes us vulnerable.
Alain Robert, a k a Spiderman, is known for climbing skyscrapers
without special equipment or a safety net. He recently climbed the Taipei
101 Tower in Taiwan, which, standing at 1,670 feet, is the world's tallest
building. "The euphoria when I reach the summit maybe lasts a few hours or
days at the most, and then I have to have it again," he said. "I enjoy the
risk and to be in control of my fear and have to do it again and again. I
cannot stop climbing."
Not all men get their thrills in such physically spectacular ways as
Mr. Robert; some get it from their work.
James Cramer, a founder of TheStreet
.com and a financial commentator, used to manage a hedge fund. "I
craved the risk," he said. "I would come to work and if by midday I hadn't
made a serious bet, I'd be miserable. The bigger the bet, the better."
"I got such energy and felt so alive," he added, "I was ecstatic on a
daily basis."
For some, though, there may be more to thrill than only a dopamine
rush. "Guys like extreme sports not just because it's exciting, but
because it makes them feel accomplished and more self-confident," Mr.
Hopkins said.
John Bardes, a freshman at Carleton College in Northfield, Minn., who
enjoys scaling 50-foot walls, echoed this. "The wall is a genuine test of
your ability and if your muscles can't make it, you fall. It's a way of
finding your limits and seeing how far you can push yourself."
Mr. Bardes, however, is not fearless. "At first I was nervous, and the
higher I went the more anxious I became," he said. "But I got over that.
Up there, I feel like I'm alone in my own world and it clears my head."
Thrill has a dark side, too. In the sexual arena, it can literally be
fatal. Men with a strong taste for sexual novelty in the form of multiple
partners are at high risk of both getting and spreading H.I.V. and other
sexually transmitted diseases as they move from one encounter to the next.
But few forms of thrill are as insidiously destructive as gambling.
Recently, scientists have peered into the brain while people are
playing a game that simulates gambling. Dr. Hans Breiter at Harvard had
subjects play a computer game of chance in which they either won or lost
money, and monitored their brain activity. He found that the prospect of
winning money activates the same dopamine reward pathway in the brain as
recreational drugs like cocaine do. No wonder gambling is so compelling.
This also helps explain why gamblers, like drug addicts, often seem
helpless to resist an impulse that brings intense pleasure but can ruin
their lives.
Curiously, winning the prize is not what seems to make gambling so
thrilling and addictive. Dr. David Zald at Vanderbilt University measured
dopamine release in a group of subjects who played a computer game in two
different conditions. In the first, subjects selected one of four cards
and knew they might win a $1 reward, but didn't know when it might occur.
In the second, subjects knew ahead that they were guaranteed to win $1
with every fourth card.
Dr. Zald found a large increase in dopamine activity when winning was
unpredictable, but not when the subjects knew what was coming. The
implication is that gambling is powerfully addictive precisely because the
outcome is uncertain.
Believe it or not, thrill seeking is pretty much a modern phenomenon.
Our hominid ancestors did not bungee jump or do any of the silly things
that we do these days for thrill. Life back on the savannah was exciting
enough on its own, with ferocious predators and an overall lack of
amenities.
Nowadays, where the basics like food or a sexual partner are a mouse
click away, we don't really need our reward circuit for survival; we are
free to use it just for pleasure. (To determine your risk comfort level,
you can try a test adapted from the Zuckerman-Kuhlman Personality
Questionnaire at nytimes.com/menshealth.)
With few exceptions, like 9/11, modern life has become so safe and
controlled that you have to work at finding a little excitement. In fact,
one might predict that as life becomes more predictable, riskier forms of
excitement will emerge. Hang gliding off Mount Everest? Antarctic
triathlon? There's no telling what's next.
Here's a cool article from the NY Times emailed me by Diabolique. If you enjoy taking personality tests--I know I do!--then here's a link where you can take one to determine just how much of a thrill-seeker you are.
Enjoy! And keep those dopamine levels elevated!
The New York Times
June 20, 2005
What's the Lure of the Edge?
By RICHARD A. FRIEDMAN, M.D.
DURING a vacation last winter, I took a zip-line canopy tour of the
Costa Rican rain forest. Strapped into a harness 100 feet above the jungle
floor, I was flying through the air, with the toucans and parrots,
attached to a steel cable strung between two platforms. I was having far
too much fun to think that this could be dangerous. At first it was pretty
thrilling, but by the 10th zip line I felt it was losing its charge.
On the last and highest platform, a guy just in front of me began to
hyperventilate. Being a psychiatrist, I realized he was having a panic
attack. I got him to relax with some deep breathing and then asked him
whether he had had this problem before. "Oh, yes," he said. "I thought
this would be a way to conquer my fear of heights."
Why was he terrified by what was beginning to bore me? We were both
members of the sex that studies and more informal surveys indicate is more
drawn to thrill seeking (for better or worse - more men than women have
orbited the earth, while men are two to three more times likely to be
pathological gamblers). But this man and I seemed to be on opposite ends
of the thrill-seeking spectrum.
On an individual level, the difference seems to be hard-wired in our
brains, scientists have begun to discover. What is more surprising is that
thrill seeking appears to be enjoyed not just by an elite - or, as some
think, aberrant - bunch of people who put their lives at peril for a jolt
of excitement.
The focus of research on a relatively small, though dramatic, group of
unsavory characters like psychopaths and drug addicts can give the
impression that thrill is only for the mentally unbalanced. Far from it.
Thrill seeking in one form or another is so widespread that it has
practically become institutionalized in the culture. From reality TV shows
like "Fear Factor," shot through with danger and risk, to the growing
popularity of extreme sports, there is something to suit everyone's taste.
The root of the thrill-seeking experience lies in an ancient neural
circuit buried deep inside the brain that is intimately involved in
pleasure, reward and novelty seeking. This system, which connects our
thinking cortex with our more primitive limbic emotional center, runs on
dopamine, a neurotransmitter. Many of life's greatest pleasures feel good
because, in the end, they cause the release of dopamine from the brain's
reward pathway. Sex, food and recreational drugs all flood the brain with
dopamine - and so does thrill seeking.
Like just about every other human attribute, there is great variation
in individual taste for novelty and thrill seeking, much of it rooted in
the brain. For example, Dr. Nora Volkow at the National Institute on Drug
Abuse has shown that response to euphoria-producing drugs is related to
the levels of brain dopamine receptors.
In one experiment, she gave normal male controls intravenous Ritalin,
which releases dopamine, and found that those who experienced the drug as
pleasant had significantly fewer dopamine receptors than participants who
reported unpleasant effects. Those with more dopamine receptors at
baseline are probably less likely to abuse drugs or seek any thrill
because their brains already have more dopamine activity to start with. In
fact, these guys are likely to be thrill-averse, like that fellow I met on
the zip line.
For the chronically underaroused, a simple bike ride or jog in the
park doesn't do the trick; it would take something more intense like
diving 50 feet into a gorge or snorting cocaine to provide them with
enough dopamine for them to feel excited.
An entire industry has emerged in the last decade to satisfy such
voracious appetites for thrills. Rich Hopkins, an inveterate surfer,
stuntman and extreme sportsman, is president of ThrillSeekers Unlimited, a
company he founded in 1992. Clients try anything from skydiving, bungee
jumping and paragliding to zip-line or stunt driving. They will even give
you the "fire burn," where you are set safely on fire, like a real
stuntman. "When we started, we had around 50 to 75 customers that first
year," Mr. Hopkins said. "Now, we routinely take out several hundred
people in just one adventure."
Who are these thrill seekers? About 80 percent are men, Mr. Hopkins
said. But the big surprise is that some of the largest clients are
corporations and that many participants are men well into their 50's and
60's. "Instead of a golf holiday, they are sending their employees for an
extreme sports adventure and they love it," Mr. Hopkins said.
Charles Edwards has been chasing tornadoes in Oklahoma ever since he
studied meteorology in college. "I've been obsessed with tornadoes for the
last 15 years," he said. "Every storm is completely different, and you
just get this adrenaline rush and try to get as close as possible to them.
I've seen houses getting blown apart and cows tossed aside. Just awesome."
Mr. Edwards was so hooked by the thrill of chasing storms that he
created his own company, Cloud 9 Tours, to support his habit, as he called
it. "We take people out during the tornado season here in Oklahoma, from
April through August. These guys come back again and again."
But what about thrill-averse guys? Can they learn to enjoy a little
more excitement? If so, would thrilling activity itself change their
neural circuitry to make them more like thrill lovers?
Probably not, judging from studies of Dr. Jerome Kagan at Harvard, who
has shown that certain temperamental traits you are born with are pretty
stable. Using M.R.I. brain scanning, Dr. Carl Schwartz at Harvard recently
found that these anxious adults showed greater responses in the amygdala,
a brain region that processes fearful and threatening stimuli, to faces of
strangers than to familiar faces. In other words, people who like novelty
have biologically different brains than cautious folks, and no one knows
if experience changes this.
Of course, the surge of dopamine that thrill seekers search out can
literally be addicting. The reason is that anything that activates our
reward system, whether it's a natural reinforcer like sex, food or a
thrilling act, is seen by the brain as something that should be repeated -
over and over. And despite how smart we think we are, our brain can't
really distinguish among the activating effects of drugs, thrill or useful
behaviors. Even worse, for some people, drugs and thrill are more
powerfully self-reinforcing than even food and sex. So the very design of
our brain that promotes survival also makes us vulnerable.
Alain Robert, a k a Spiderman, is known for climbing skyscrapers
without special equipment or a safety net. He recently climbed the Taipei
101 Tower in Taiwan, which, standing at 1,670 feet, is the world's tallest
building. "The euphoria when I reach the summit maybe lasts a few hours or
days at the most, and then I have to have it again," he said. "I enjoy the
risk and to be in control of my fear and have to do it again and again. I
cannot stop climbing."
Not all men get their thrills in such physically spectacular ways as
Mr. Robert; some get it from their work.
James Cramer, a founder of TheStreet
.com and a financial commentator, used to manage a hedge fund. "I
craved the risk," he said. "I would come to work and if by midday I hadn't
made a serious bet, I'd be miserable. The bigger the bet, the better."
"I got such energy and felt so alive," he added, "I was ecstatic on a
daily basis."
For some, though, there may be more to thrill than only a dopamine
rush. "Guys like extreme sports not just because it's exciting, but
because it makes them feel accomplished and more self-confident," Mr.
Hopkins said.
John Bardes, a freshman at Carleton College in Northfield, Minn., who
enjoys scaling 50-foot walls, echoed this. "The wall is a genuine test of
your ability and if your muscles can't make it, you fall. It's a way of
finding your limits and seeing how far you can push yourself."
Mr. Bardes, however, is not fearless. "At first I was nervous, and the
higher I went the more anxious I became," he said. "But I got over that.
Up there, I feel like I'm alone in my own world and it clears my head."
Thrill has a dark side, too. In the sexual arena, it can literally be
fatal. Men with a strong taste for sexual novelty in the form of multiple
partners are at high risk of both getting and spreading H.I.V. and other
sexually transmitted diseases as they move from one encounter to the next.
But few forms of thrill are as insidiously destructive as gambling.
Recently, scientists have peered into the brain while people are
playing a game that simulates gambling. Dr. Hans Breiter at Harvard had
subjects play a computer game of chance in which they either won or lost
money, and monitored their brain activity. He found that the prospect of
winning money activates the same dopamine reward pathway in the brain as
recreational drugs like cocaine do. No wonder gambling is so compelling.
This also helps explain why gamblers, like drug addicts, often seem
helpless to resist an impulse that brings intense pleasure but can ruin
their lives.
Curiously, winning the prize is not what seems to make gambling so
thrilling and addictive. Dr. David Zald at Vanderbilt University measured
dopamine release in a group of subjects who played a computer game in two
different conditions. In the first, subjects selected one of four cards
and knew they might win a $1 reward, but didn't know when it might occur.
In the second, subjects knew ahead that they were guaranteed to win $1
with every fourth card.
Dr. Zald found a large increase in dopamine activity when winning was
unpredictable, but not when the subjects knew what was coming. The
implication is that gambling is powerfully addictive precisely because the
outcome is uncertain.
Believe it or not, thrill seeking is pretty much a modern phenomenon.
Our hominid ancestors did not bungee jump or do any of the silly things
that we do these days for thrill. Life back on the savannah was exciting
enough on its own, with ferocious predators and an overall lack of
amenities.
Nowadays, where the basics like food or a sexual partner are a mouse
click away, we don't really need our reward circuit for survival; we are
free to use it just for pleasure. (To determine your risk comfort level,
you can try a test adapted from the Zuckerman-Kuhlman Personality
Questionnaire at nytimes.com/menshealth.)
With few exceptions, like 9/11, modern life has become so safe and
controlled that you have to work at finding a little excitement. In fact,
one might predict that as life becomes more predictable, riskier forms of
excitement will emerge. Hang gliding off Mount Everest? Antarctic
triathlon? There's no telling what's next.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Life With Father, Part LCXXXIV
So I get home this evening in a black mood. How black? Well, I sat in my jeep in the driveway for a good half hour bellowing, first from anguish, and then with rage.
Pour quoi?
One thing I won't go into. For... certain reasons. But, I realized that the numbers don't add up and I won't be able to drive down to Florida the first week of July to visit my brother and a bunch of my leather brothers along the way. I just can't afford it. Not on $10 an hour.
Poverty = Sucks.
And then, of course, there's my dad. "Why can't he be different?" was the basic gist. (jist?)
So after I had exercised myself some, the first order of business was to take the groceries inside, and take Faithful Companion for a walk.
The sky was beautiful. Everything is so lush and green. So much in bloom. Beautiful.
Then, I went back and relayed the days events to my father. And then I fixed him dinner (Monday means ham and eggs).
And then...
Well, more correctly, and now...
He and I are sitting here smoking cigars, flipping the channel back and forth betweent the Red Sox-Indians game (Go Bosox! Dave Wells on the mound! Yesss!) and Swan Lake, Tchaikovsky's ballet, Tchaikovsky being my father's second favorite composer after Hector Berlioz.
So I'm still miffed about the cancelled vacation, but overall, things are better.
So I get home this evening in a black mood. How black? Well, I sat in my jeep in the driveway for a good half hour bellowing, first from anguish, and then with rage.
Pour quoi?
One thing I won't go into. For... certain reasons. But, I realized that the numbers don't add up and I won't be able to drive down to Florida the first week of July to visit my brother and a bunch of my leather brothers along the way. I just can't afford it. Not on $10 an hour.
Poverty = Sucks.
And then, of course, there's my dad. "Why can't he be different?" was the basic gist. (jist?)
So after I had exercised myself some, the first order of business was to take the groceries inside, and take Faithful Companion for a walk.
The sky was beautiful. Everything is so lush and green. So much in bloom. Beautiful.
Then, I went back and relayed the days events to my father. And then I fixed him dinner (Monday means ham and eggs).
And then...
Well, more correctly, and now...
He and I are sitting here smoking cigars, flipping the channel back and forth betweent the Red Sox-Indians game (Go Bosox! Dave Wells on the mound! Yesss!) and Swan Lake, Tchaikovsky's ballet, Tchaikovsky being my father's second favorite composer after Hector Berlioz.
So I'm still miffed about the cancelled vacation, but overall, things are better.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Been Busy Today
Yo. Check this out...
So tomorrow, at Folsom Street East, all these guys will be like "Dang! Look at your boots? They are sick! They are phat! Who you got blackin' for ya out there in howling wilderness?"
And I'll be like, "Yo. This is my work."
And they be like, "Yo. No way. You got the excellent services of cubby j. sherwood working on your boots, right?"
And I'll be like, "Dig. I was makin' with the saddle soap and makin' with the Huberts. This is my work."
And they'll be like, "Yo! Dawg! Can't touch that."
So, y'know, it should be good.
Tragically, it's going to be cold. San Francisco cold. Like mid 70s. (Brrrrrr...) But I'll do my best to show up my ink work.
See ya there!
Yo. Check this out...
So tomorrow, at Folsom Street East, all these guys will be like "Dang! Look at your boots? They are sick! They are phat! Who you got blackin' for ya out there in howling wilderness?"
And I'll be like, "Yo. This is my work."
And they be like, "Yo. No way. You got the excellent services of cubby j. sherwood working on your boots, right?"
And I'll be like, "Dig. I was makin' with the saddle soap and makin' with the Huberts. This is my work."
And they'll be like, "Yo! Dawg! Can't touch that."
So, y'know, it should be good.
Tragically, it's going to be cold. San Francisco cold. Like mid 70s. (Brrrrrr...) But I'll do my best to show up my ink work.
See ya there!
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Dose Of Reality
I am an absolute sucker for reality tv. (I'm really upset about how all my favorite castaways keep losing the contests on The Real Gilligan's Island.) Fan as I am of the genre, I've thought some about how about BDSM could serve as the basis of a reality show. I mean, the possibilities for contests are endless. But what could the overall scheme be?
Well, it looks like VH1 is a few steps ahead of me.
Check out Kept.
Okay okay okay. So it's not overtly about BDSM.
Here's what it is about...
Jerry Hall, the former Mrs. Mick Jagger, is seeking a kept man. A troop of hot, stupid, and narciscistic American boys are flown to London to compete for the honor. All the guys just don't get it. At all.
Like, they're constantly saying things like, "I wish I could get some time alone with Jerry cuz I'm sure we'd have a romantic connection." And Jerry is constantly saying things like, "My kept man must no how to handle himself in a variety of social situations as I won't have him embarrassing me. Ever."
Uh huh.
And what's that "kept man" thing about anyway?
Well, the winner gets to be Jerry's escort of sorts, and will receive a six figure "allowance" for one year. Doing what Jerry wants him to do, wearing what Jerry wants him to wear, looking the way Jerry wants him to look.
And Jerry is constantly saying things like, "What a great opportunity to take this raw material and create from it my ideal kept man."
In the episode I saw, the guys got a lesson in etiquette (how many times have I heard that etiquette is the key component of a good boy?), and for an art lesson, had to strip and pose naked with spears, shields, and such.
How humiliating, huh?
(Yeah. I'm grinning.)
So what we're talking about is one of these hot, clueless, men competing to spend a year as the boy of Jerry Hall.
boy, my bags. boy, amuse me. boy, I'll have a massage now.
I mean, can't you just see it dawning on the guy what he's gotten himself into? Like maybe Jerry, after a long day of shopping, will use him as a footstool, and he'll realize that the "romantic connection" he was hoping for isn't going to transpire anytime soon.
Sweeeet.
My choice for a boy... oh excuse me "kept man" was tragically eliminated in the art contest. But I think he's a hot one.
Long live power imbalance relationships!
I am an absolute sucker for reality tv. (I'm really upset about how all my favorite castaways keep losing the contests on The Real Gilligan's Island.) Fan as I am of the genre, I've thought some about how about BDSM could serve as the basis of a reality show. I mean, the possibilities for contests are endless. But what could the overall scheme be?
Well, it looks like VH1 is a few steps ahead of me.
Check out Kept.
Okay okay okay. So it's not overtly about BDSM.
Here's what it is about...
Jerry Hall, the former Mrs. Mick Jagger, is seeking a kept man. A troop of hot, stupid, and narciscistic American boys are flown to London to compete for the honor. All the guys just don't get it. At all.
Like, they're constantly saying things like, "I wish I could get some time alone with Jerry cuz I'm sure we'd have a romantic connection." And Jerry is constantly saying things like, "My kept man must no how to handle himself in a variety of social situations as I won't have him embarrassing me. Ever."
Uh huh.
And what's that "kept man" thing about anyway?
Well, the winner gets to be Jerry's escort of sorts, and will receive a six figure "allowance" for one year. Doing what Jerry wants him to do, wearing what Jerry wants him to wear, looking the way Jerry wants him to look.
And Jerry is constantly saying things like, "What a great opportunity to take this raw material and create from it my ideal kept man."
In the episode I saw, the guys got a lesson in etiquette (how many times have I heard that etiquette is the key component of a good boy?), and for an art lesson, had to strip and pose naked with spears, shields, and such.
How humiliating, huh?
(Yeah. I'm grinning.)
So what we're talking about is one of these hot, clueless, men competing to spend a year as the boy of Jerry Hall.
boy, my bags. boy, amuse me. boy, I'll have a massage now.
I mean, can't you just see it dawning on the guy what he's gotten himself into? Like maybe Jerry, after a long day of shopping, will use him as a footstool, and he'll realize that the "romantic connection" he was hoping for isn't going to transpire anytime soon.
Sweeeet.
My choice for a boy... oh excuse me "kept man" was tragically eliminated in the art contest. But I think he's a hot one.
Long live power imbalance relationships!
Monday, June 13, 2005
I Am gps
Whoa!
Kick in the stomach!
What was that weirdness with the hot bear from New Hampshire I met at the Salt Ash Inn? Been wondering and wondering. I've been wanting some action between the sheets, and here was hot action with a hot man, so why couldn't I get my head together?
Now I get it.
This sounds sort of extreme and dramatic, but here goes. Remember that LA guy who had me all hot and bothered? Well, I thought I was over him, worked my way through, but guess what... He's spoiled me for all other men.
Trust.
It was just so good with him. So good. I couldn't ask for more. And I'm trying to find a viable alternative. One that's just like him.
Damn.
Not that I blame him. At all. It's just that he was designed by the Creator to be able to reach to the very depths of my soul and satisfy all of my deepest desires. It would be like blaming cuban cigars. Like blaming single malt scotch. Like blaming Joe Wheeler's whips. So they're unbelievably great. Not their fault, just a fact.
But of course, there's that fact that I'm in the same boat as Adam. Of Genesis fame. Evicted from paradise.
But don't be dismayed. I'm not. My story with the guy from LA isn't over. And the search for other terrific scenes and men continues. I'll do whatever it takes.
It just kinda hurts sometimes.
Wish he'd call me.
Whoa!
Kick in the stomach!
What was that weirdness with the hot bear from New Hampshire I met at the Salt Ash Inn? Been wondering and wondering. I've been wanting some action between the sheets, and here was hot action with a hot man, so why couldn't I get my head together?
Now I get it.
This sounds sort of extreme and dramatic, but here goes. Remember that LA guy who had me all hot and bothered? Well, I thought I was over him, worked my way through, but guess what... He's spoiled me for all other men.
Trust.
It was just so good with him. So good. I couldn't ask for more. And I'm trying to find a viable alternative. One that's just like him.
Damn.
Not that I blame him. At all. It's just that he was designed by the Creator to be able to reach to the very depths of my soul and satisfy all of my deepest desires. It would be like blaming cuban cigars. Like blaming single malt scotch. Like blaming Joe Wheeler's whips. So they're unbelievably great. Not their fault, just a fact.
But of course, there's that fact that I'm in the same boat as Adam. Of Genesis fame. Evicted from paradise.
But don't be dismayed. I'm not. My story with the guy from LA isn't over. And the search for other terrific scenes and men continues. I'll do whatever it takes.
It just kinda hurts sometimes.
Wish he'd call me.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
I Say We Go For It
Seen this? Kinda cool...
Dear Red States,
We're ticked off at the way you've treated California, and we've decided we're leaving. We intend to form our own country, and we're taking the other Blue States with us.
In case you aren't aware, that includes Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois and all the Northeast. We believe this split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to the people of the new country of New California.
To sum up briefly: You get Texas, Oklahoma and all the slave states. We get stem cell research and the best beaches. We get Elliot Spitzer. You get Ken Lay.
We get the Statue of Liberty. You get OpryLand. We get Intel and Microsoft. You get WorldCom. We get Harvard. You get Ole' Miss.
We get 85 percent of America's venture capital and entrepreneurs. You get Alabama. We get two-thirds of the tax revenue, you get to make the red states pay their fair share.
Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than the Christian Coalition's,we get a bunch of happy families. You get a bunch of single moms.
Please be aware that Nuevo California will be pro-choice and anti-war, and we're going to want all our citizens back from Iraq at once. If you need people to fight, ask your evangelicals. They have kids they're apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and they don't care if you don't show pictures of their children's
caskets coming home. We do wish you success in Iraq, and hope that the WMDs turn up, but we're not willing to spend our resources in Bush's Quagmire.
With the Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80 percent of the country's fresh water, more than 90 percent of the pineapple and lettuce, 92 percent of the nation's fresh fruit, 95 percent of America's
quality wines (you can serve French wines at state dinners) 90 percent of all cheese, 90 percent of the high tech industry, most of the U.S. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods, sequoias and condors, all the Ivy and
Seven Sister schools, plus Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Cal Tech and MIT.
With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88 percent of all obese Americans (and their projected health care costs), 92 percent of all U.S. mosquitoes, nearly 100 percent of the tornadoes, 90 percent of the hurricanes, 99 percent of all Southern Baptists, virtually 100 percent of all televangelists, Rush Limbaugh, Bob Jones University, Clemson and the University of Georgia.
We get Hollywood and Yosemite, thank you.
Additionally, 38 percent of those in the Red states believe Jonah was actually swallowed by a whale, 62 percent believe life is sacred unless we're discussing the death penalty or gun laws, 44 percent say that evolution is only a theory, 53 percent that Saddam was involved in 9/11 and 61 percent of you crazy bastards believe you are people with higher morals then we lefties.
By the way, we're taking the good pot, too. You can have that dirt weed they grow in Mexico.
Sincerely,
Author Unknown in New California
Seen this? Kinda cool...
Dear Red States,
We're ticked off at the way you've treated California, and we've decided we're leaving. We intend to form our own country, and we're taking the other Blue States with us.
In case you aren't aware, that includes Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois and all the Northeast. We believe this split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to the people of the new country of New California.
To sum up briefly: You get Texas, Oklahoma and all the slave states. We get stem cell research and the best beaches. We get Elliot Spitzer. You get Ken Lay.
We get the Statue of Liberty. You get OpryLand. We get Intel and Microsoft. You get WorldCom. We get Harvard. You get Ole' Miss.
We get 85 percent of America's venture capital and entrepreneurs. You get Alabama. We get two-thirds of the tax revenue, you get to make the red states pay their fair share.
Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than the Christian Coalition's,we get a bunch of happy families. You get a bunch of single moms.
Please be aware that Nuevo California will be pro-choice and anti-war, and we're going to want all our citizens back from Iraq at once. If you need people to fight, ask your evangelicals. They have kids they're apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and they don't care if you don't show pictures of their children's
caskets coming home. We do wish you success in Iraq, and hope that the WMDs turn up, but we're not willing to spend our resources in Bush's Quagmire.
With the Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80 percent of the country's fresh water, more than 90 percent of the pineapple and lettuce, 92 percent of the nation's fresh fruit, 95 percent of America's
quality wines (you can serve French wines at state dinners) 90 percent of all cheese, 90 percent of the high tech industry, most of the U.S. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods, sequoias and condors, all the Ivy and
Seven Sister schools, plus Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Cal Tech and MIT.
With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88 percent of all obese Americans (and their projected health care costs), 92 percent of all U.S. mosquitoes, nearly 100 percent of the tornadoes, 90 percent of the hurricanes, 99 percent of all Southern Baptists, virtually 100 percent of all televangelists, Rush Limbaugh, Bob Jones University, Clemson and the University of Georgia.
We get Hollywood and Yosemite, thank you.
Additionally, 38 percent of those in the Red states believe Jonah was actually swallowed by a whale, 62 percent believe life is sacred unless we're discussing the death penalty or gun laws, 44 percent say that evolution is only a theory, 53 percent that Saddam was involved in 9/11 and 61 percent of you crazy bastards believe you are people with higher morals then we lefties.
By the way, we're taking the good pot, too. You can have that dirt weed they grow in Mexico.
Sincerely,
Author Unknown in New California
Green Mountain Adventures
Yo!
You never know!
This weekend, I joined CigarBiker and his babyboy for a stay at the Salt Ash Inn in Plymouth, Vermont.
Now, Plymouth is 300 miles away from me. A long, long drive. I was making that long, long drive because I always enjoy the company of CigarBiker and babyboy. I envisioned the Salt Ash Inn as being something like the sad and tragic Rainbow Mountain Resort that Sir and I visited back in December. Namely, a weird wee outpost of homo-ness in an otherwise hetero wilderness.
Can you say... Wrong!
I mean, the place was great!
The men were Hot! Like, way hot! And they were all Tops! (Thank the leathergods for my newfound versatility!) the hosts, Jonathan and Jordan, are really great guys. The place was nice, but not fussy. The room rates are entirely reasonable, and the dungeon space was kickass. (Love the Rustic Country Dungeon!)
And, they have a hot tub.
I had planned to head up on Friday night. Unfortunately, I had to do a service call for work on Friday. I was assured that I'd be back at 5 pm, in time to cash my paycheck, stock up on cigars, and head out on the road.
I got back to the shop at 8:15.
So, I had to head up on Saturday. And it was a long drive. Although a beautiful one. If you're ever in Hoosic, New York, be sure to visit Helvi's BBQ on Route 7. If the barbequed beef I had is any indication, the pulled pork, which they were out of, is amazing. And beautiful Vermont offers road signs bearing quaint names like "Wooten Pond" and "Hoopletonville" and the like. But eventually, at 7:30 pm, I got there.
I said my hellos and hit the hot tub. Every seven hour drive should have a hot tub at the other end.
Especially when it's a hot tub filled with gropey men.
Hot gropey men.
I exited the hot tub when I had to piss, and whaddyaknow, there was a watersports party going on! So I headed for the Rustic Country Dungeon. Hardly in the door, and no sooner had I relieved myself into babyboy's rubber waders, than I was set upon by two hot tops, who treated me to some CBT and TT, which I took like a trooper!
After I had all I could take (my tits are still sore) (love that), I grabbed a sandwich for dinner, and went to cruise the pub room. More hot men were arriving every minute.
And here's another surprising thing: the level of play was fairly sophisticated. We're talking sounds, scrotal inflation, fisting... And, I witnessed a really creative and innovative scene wherein one of the numerous Tops sprayed the back of a few men with a shower of sparks from a grinder held against a hunk of stainless steel. (Kudos! Reminded me of welding! And verrrry dramatic to watch. Like fireworks.)
I awed all present (aw shucks) by showing off my flogging and singletail prowess.
That felt good.
But, alas, no rose without thorns, no earthly paradise without a serpent slithering somewhere. Things started to get piggy. And, as readers know, I needed some of that. So I paired off with the hot bear who had worked my balls so well.
And wouldn't you know it, I just got sucked up into my head. My cerebral cortex just would not stop. Totally chatty cathy.
Mostly concerning the HIV thing. Damn my precious HIV-negative sero-status anyway. Had to keep reminding myself: hate doctors, hate pills, hate doctors, hate pills, hate doctors, hate pills...
Dealing with all that, and trying to keep a hardon to show this way hot bear how appreciative I was of his intentions resulted in a splitting headache.
Which further complicated things.
But all turned out well. He messaged me to let me know he had the best time with limp-dicked non-pig me that he's had in ten years. I guess that's the plight of being a Top in Vermont, the only state in the Union where Tops out number bottoms by about 30 to 1.
But don't let my crappy head space fool you! The Salt Ash Inn is well worth the trip. They have two more of what they bill as "men's parties" this summer, the last weekend of July and August respectively. July I'll be playing softball, but I'm hoping to make the August party. What could be sweeter than a sultry summer weekend in that beautiful corner of the world?
And, if'n you need a weekend getaway, the Salt Ash Inn comes highly recommended by me.
Onwards and upwards!
Yo!
You never know!
This weekend, I joined CigarBiker and his babyboy for a stay at the Salt Ash Inn in Plymouth, Vermont.
Now, Plymouth is 300 miles away from me. A long, long drive. I was making that long, long drive because I always enjoy the company of CigarBiker and babyboy. I envisioned the Salt Ash Inn as being something like the sad and tragic Rainbow Mountain Resort that Sir and I visited back in December. Namely, a weird wee outpost of homo-ness in an otherwise hetero wilderness.
Can you say... Wrong!
I mean, the place was great!
The men were Hot! Like, way hot! And they were all Tops! (Thank the leathergods for my newfound versatility!) the hosts, Jonathan and Jordan, are really great guys. The place was nice, but not fussy. The room rates are entirely reasonable, and the dungeon space was kickass. (Love the Rustic Country Dungeon!)
And, they have a hot tub.
I had planned to head up on Friday night. Unfortunately, I had to do a service call for work on Friday. I was assured that I'd be back at 5 pm, in time to cash my paycheck, stock up on cigars, and head out on the road.
I got back to the shop at 8:15.
So, I had to head up on Saturday. And it was a long drive. Although a beautiful one. If you're ever in Hoosic, New York, be sure to visit Helvi's BBQ on Route 7. If the barbequed beef I had is any indication, the pulled pork, which they were out of, is amazing. And beautiful Vermont offers road signs bearing quaint names like "Wooten Pond" and "Hoopletonville" and the like. But eventually, at 7:30 pm, I got there.
I said my hellos and hit the hot tub. Every seven hour drive should have a hot tub at the other end.
Especially when it's a hot tub filled with gropey men.
Hot gropey men.
I exited the hot tub when I had to piss, and whaddyaknow, there was a watersports party going on! So I headed for the Rustic Country Dungeon. Hardly in the door, and no sooner had I relieved myself into babyboy's rubber waders, than I was set upon by two hot tops, who treated me to some CBT and TT, which I took like a trooper!
After I had all I could take (my tits are still sore) (love that), I grabbed a sandwich for dinner, and went to cruise the pub room. More hot men were arriving every minute.
And here's another surprising thing: the level of play was fairly sophisticated. We're talking sounds, scrotal inflation, fisting... And, I witnessed a really creative and innovative scene wherein one of the numerous Tops sprayed the back of a few men with a shower of sparks from a grinder held against a hunk of stainless steel. (Kudos! Reminded me of welding! And verrrry dramatic to watch. Like fireworks.)
I awed all present (aw shucks) by showing off my flogging and singletail prowess.
That felt good.
But, alas, no rose without thorns, no earthly paradise without a serpent slithering somewhere. Things started to get piggy. And, as readers know, I needed some of that. So I paired off with the hot bear who had worked my balls so well.
And wouldn't you know it, I just got sucked up into my head. My cerebral cortex just would not stop. Totally chatty cathy.
Mostly concerning the HIV thing. Damn my precious HIV-negative sero-status anyway. Had to keep reminding myself: hate doctors, hate pills, hate doctors, hate pills, hate doctors, hate pills...
Dealing with all that, and trying to keep a hardon to show this way hot bear how appreciative I was of his intentions resulted in a splitting headache.
Which further complicated things.
But all turned out well. He messaged me to let me know he had the best time with limp-dicked non-pig me that he's had in ten years. I guess that's the plight of being a Top in Vermont, the only state in the Union where Tops out number bottoms by about 30 to 1.
But don't let my crappy head space fool you! The Salt Ash Inn is well worth the trip. They have two more of what they bill as "men's parties" this summer, the last weekend of July and August respectively. July I'll be playing softball, but I'm hoping to make the August party. What could be sweeter than a sultry summer weekend in that beautiful corner of the world?
And, if'n you need a weekend getaway, the Salt Ash Inn comes highly recommended by me.
Onwards and upwards!
Thursday, June 09, 2005
In The Midst Of Life...
So today at work, my partner turns to me and asks, "What do you want out of life?"
I thought for a minute, and replied, "To enjoy friendship, to love, and to leave the world better than I found it."
I realized that I was getting close to The Place...
The Place?
Okay. You at home can play along. I sprang this on my partner.
Sit back. Get comfy.
Now think about this: What do you want to do before you die? What will make your time on this earth complete?
Try to think of at least three things. But by all means, keep going beyond three.
Take your time.
Right.
Now, imagine that your phone rings. It's your doctor. He has some bad news for you. It seems you've got about three days to live. You won't feel any pain until the very end. But pretty much, your number's up.
How are you going to spend those three days? What are you going to do with yourself?
Here's the life transforming part: why are the answers to those two questions that you just came up with so different? I posed the same question twice. The only thing different was the time frame.
When this gumball for the mind was first presented to me, I was a junior in college, at a conference for campus leaders or something. It was at a workshop on "time management." I went in expecting to hear about how to be more productive by breaking your day into fifteen minute increments or something. What I got was the two questions.
My answer to the first one was something along the lines of, "Get a novel published, spend a year living abroad, own a great house, find a job I enjoy, get my PhD., etc. My answer to the second one was, I'd go to the beach, and bring with me all the people I love and care about. We'd splash in the waves during the day, and sit around a campfire listening to the surf and telling stories at night."
And today, the question from my partner was pretty much the grace of the moment. No matter how he had framed the question, my answer would be the same. Having the same answer to either question is being in The Place.
As in, the good place. The right place. The place where you're supposed to be. The place you want to be. Not the place where you ought to be, or where people think you should be, but the place you are because it's your place.
You're home.
Speaking of being places, I'll be in Vermont this weekend. At the Salt Ash Inn. It's some kind of a dungeon party I've been invited to. At an inn with a hot tub. I don't think I could ask for much more.
Well, okay, it's a five and a half hour drive for me to get there. I could ask for somewhere closer.
But wherever I am, I'm in The Place.
So today at work, my partner turns to me and asks, "What do you want out of life?"
I thought for a minute, and replied, "To enjoy friendship, to love, and to leave the world better than I found it."
I realized that I was getting close to The Place...
The Place?
Okay. You at home can play along. I sprang this on my partner.
Sit back. Get comfy.
Now think about this: What do you want to do before you die? What will make your time on this earth complete?
Try to think of at least three things. But by all means, keep going beyond three.
Take your time.
Right.
Now, imagine that your phone rings. It's your doctor. He has some bad news for you. It seems you've got about three days to live. You won't feel any pain until the very end. But pretty much, your number's up.
How are you going to spend those three days? What are you going to do with yourself?
Here's the life transforming part: why are the answers to those two questions that you just came up with so different? I posed the same question twice. The only thing different was the time frame.
When this gumball for the mind was first presented to me, I was a junior in college, at a conference for campus leaders or something. It was at a workshop on "time management." I went in expecting to hear about how to be more productive by breaking your day into fifteen minute increments or something. What I got was the two questions.
My answer to the first one was something along the lines of, "Get a novel published, spend a year living abroad, own a great house, find a job I enjoy, get my PhD., etc. My answer to the second one was, I'd go to the beach, and bring with me all the people I love and care about. We'd splash in the waves during the day, and sit around a campfire listening to the surf and telling stories at night."
And today, the question from my partner was pretty much the grace of the moment. No matter how he had framed the question, my answer would be the same. Having the same answer to either question is being in The Place.
As in, the good place. The right place. The place where you're supposed to be. The place you want to be. Not the place where you ought to be, or where people think you should be, but the place you are because it's your place.
You're home.
Speaking of being places, I'll be in Vermont this weekend. At the Salt Ash Inn. It's some kind of a dungeon party I've been invited to. At an inn with a hot tub. I don't think I could ask for much more.
Well, okay, it's a five and a half hour drive for me to get there. I could ask for somewhere closer.
But wherever I am, I'm in The Place.
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