Interlude of Servitude
Okay. An interesting weekend. Friday night, I came home to watch the game (the one in which the Angels defeated the Yankees). I logged on to AOL, where my screen name is NYYankeesM4M. I went to the Musclebears chat room. They're usually a friendly and communicative group. Very shortly, I was exchanging instant messages with the six other gay men on AOL that were also watching the game. And then, into the chatroom came a Master guy. In his profile, he declared himself to be in search of a slave, or rather, a masculine, muscular guy to become his slave.

Moi? Entertain fantasies of being a slave? Yeah. Not for years though. Back in the bad old days when I was with my Ex, I had a whole string of AOL misadventures in slavery. Usually, these went down when I was feeling particularly bad about myself. Low self-esteem coupled with a feeling of being trapped and desperate. In other words, they were really fantasies of self-annnihilation. If I were looking for a slave, and I came across me, I would probably read the situation pretty quickly and move on.

But anyway, this guy sounded pretty hot, and so I flagged him down and sent him my picture. Thus ensued a conversation. He basically made up his mind that I was the ticket. I was pretty up front in all respects. I'm a Top. I do whipping and flogging. I don't have a submissive bone in my body. Although a certain boneless organ does from time to time respond to the idea of submission, I'm not a very good bottom. When it comes to processing pain, I'm inept. When it comes to letting go and giving myself over, I'm hopeless. My experiences in trying to do either usually have left me feeling resentful and angry. But we kept on talking.

I guess what moved me was his persistence, and his apparent desire to have me. The more he told me about himself, the more I liked him. He was a big, powerful guy. Smart, sane, and self-aware. Being desired by a chucklehead is bothersome. Being strongly desired by a hot man--no matter what the specifics of his desire might be--is quite the aphrodisiacal tonic. It sure put wood in me.

We were on the phone for a few hours. "I will own you. You will wear my collar. We both know that's you're destiny, don't we? Beg me for this opportunity, boy." He had me 'in position,' that is to say, naked and on my knees, hands behind my back, while we spoke.

So there I was, re-writing the script for my life. After a few visits (which would be sublime), I'd resign my job and head down there to Atlanta. (Atlanta, a city that has no appeal to me whatsoever.) I'd be collared, and become his slave, giving up my will and identity, disolving into submission. We talked more (a lot more) on Saturday, the next day. At this point, concerns had cropped up for me. I re-iterated all the things I believed would make me ineligible for slavery. He responded well in every case. He described to me how he had had a slave who had been in every way his ideal. The guy's name was Jason, and he was a New York City Police Officer, killed in the line of duty. When I had gotten off the phone the night before, it was like I had stepped off the plane of reality onto the tarmac of fantasy. Although it did seem possible that I could, with effort, make fantasy my reality. By the time he was done with me on Saturday, it felt like my wearing his collar was an inevitable thing. All roads lead to that destination. I had no other choice.

Saturday, I loaded up my dog in my car and headed to my parents. *sigh* My stepmother's health (she has congestive heart failure) continues to deteriorate. There's little she can do with herself at this point. Because insufficient oxygen is getting to her brain, she has no short term memory. She forgets what she's doing as she's doing it. My father has rallied somewhat in order to take care of her, but he isn't in great shape either. They had practicallly no food in the house. My plan for Sunday was to leave in the morning, get back to New York, attend a fundraiser for a buddy of mine who is the reigning Mr. Northeast Leather Sir so he can go down to Florida and compete to become Mr. Leather Sir Period, and also go to my church for the Feast of St. Francis Blessing of the Beasts to get my beast blessed. These plans had to be scrapped. I went shopping for my parents, and made chicken cutlets, enough to last them a week. I left after we ate and I cleaned up the kitchen. I called Sir in Atlanta and we talked on my way home. I went deeper and deeper.

I told him that my plans for the evening included going to Beer Blast at the Dugout. "Remember, boy, you're my property. No one touches you. I want you to be aware of that at every second. Feel the weight of the collar around your neck."

"Yes, Sir. Understood, Sir."

I went to the Dugout. Oddly, I knew no one there, although it was packed as always. I wore my motorcycle leathers that I bought at Inferno. It's one piece, zipping up the front, and it has no pockets. I was flagging neither left nor right. I can easily picture myself bound securely with chains and padlocks wearing it. No one touched me. After the Dugout, I got some dinner, and I stopped into Ty's to see San Francisco beat Atlanta (yes!) in the National League series. I got home about 12:45am, got naked, got into position, and called Sir. He ordered me to stay in position and naked until he called me back. I remained there until 1:30. Then, I had to get to bed as tomorrow (today) is a work day. With phone by my side, I brushed my teeth, swabbed out my piercings with bactine, and got into bed.

I started to reflect. No phone call came in. So he had essentially ordered me to do something that he knew I'd be incapable of doing. (I imagine that I'd still be there, as my phone still hasn't rung.) Was that punishment for calling him later than he had anticipated? Or for going to the Dugout at all? Whatever the case, it was irresponsible. I, as a Top, would never do something like that. It's unfair. Submission is all about trust, and that was a betrayal of trust.

An idea occcurred to me. I did a Google search and found the National Police Memorial website. On it are listed the names of all police officers nationwide who died in the line of duty. There has only been one law enforcement officer named Jason in New York who died in the line of duty. He was with the Tuxedo Falls Police Department. Sir hadn't been telling me the truth about this.

"Oh gosh!" you're saying. "What a shocker! Someone being not entirely upfront on AOL." Yeah yeah yeah. But usually I'm (keenly) aware of that. And use it to my advantage. I mean, if it's obviously all fantasy for the guy you're communicating with, then it's license for you to fantasize right back. "On the internet, nobody knows you're a dog."

But I took this guy for real, and I was real for him, and what he kindled in me was real. Except that it wasn't.

So now, what? And where did this come from? Why now?

I woke up this morning at 6:15 am, about four hours after I finally got to sleep last night. I was thinking, "I'll go on line, and find out what programs are offered at the University of Miami. I'll move down to Fort Lauderdale, be a student again. I want to get out of New York." At the Dugout last night, I felt sort of sad.

Now, it's probably not coincidence that this episode was a bookmark to a planned trip to see my parents. And something else, too. When I was going to bed last night, I tried to get it together for a masturbatory fantasy. It was like reaching into an empty box. Sir was suddenly not there. I ran through the inventory of hot men at the Dugout and Ty's (and there were several). Finally, I settled on one. In my fantasy, he was chained up and helpless while I beat him around some. Afterwards, while cleaning up, I realized something: I miss the Special Guy. I miss him. I wish he was still my boyfriend.