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

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

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

That's the song that one blackbird is singing.

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

That's a second blackbird singing.

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

A third blackbird. A third song.

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

Another blackbird singing his song.

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

I hear the song of this blackbird, too.

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