Typical Top: Pack Everything

It's not easy being a Top. Bottoms have no idea what we go through. Doing a really good scene is essentially like putting on a one act play, and you're the actor, director, stage manager, choreographer, sound man, conductor, stage hand, producer, and promoter. You need to think of everything. Do I have a water bottle with a squirt lid so I'll be able to give him a drink while he's all tied up? What CD do I want to play and at what point should I start the music? What if he insists on having his ass played with? Do I have everything I'll need for aftercare? It's one thing to do a scene in the comfort and convenience of your own dungeon, but when you play away from home, you need to pack up the toybag and think things through carefully in a advance, so nothing is left at home, and nothing is left to chance.

Bottoms, by and large, have no idea. Some men go to runs like Delta and Inferno with little more than a change of socks. Those would be the bottoms. Tops go to runs with their cars packed to capacity, like students returning to college dorms in September. Probably the first indication that little me would grow up to be a Top was my predilection for packing everything when I went away. When I was twelve or thirteen, I had minor surgery performed in a same-day trip to the hospital. I packed an overnight bag that included pictures of my family for the bedside table and a vase for flowers, should any of my family decide to be thoughtful in this way.

So now I'm awake after my nap, and getting ready to go to the Black Party.

"Gosh! What are you gonna wear?"

Here's what it's looking like. My Dehner boots (comfortable and offering lots of support), my Mephisto leather lace-up-the-sides leather pants (look good on me and have pockets), either the harness I got in Fort Lauderdale or my zip-up the front leather vest (I'll see which looks better, and decide how much ready access I want to give to my tits as my left piercing seems to have some minor infection), and my black leather belt with the grommets from the Leatherman.

Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. On the belt will be the following: a basic flogger, handcuffs in a case, a key-holder, a pouch wallet. I'm worried that with alll this dangling around my waist, I might get chafed on my hips, as happened once before. So, I'm going to bring a leather duffel bag containing a half-zip biking warm-up shirt that I can leave with coat check. If at any time I decide that it's too encumbering, I can retrieve the bag from coat check and drop stuff in there. All this sort of indicates wearing the harness rather than the vest, as I may be more comfortable wearing the pants low (because it will be more comfortable and because Ass-crack is the new Cleavage, just like Orange is the new Beige). (Note to self: make sure you bring plenty of ones to tip the coat check guy.)

Here's what I want to project: I'm serious about S/M. I'm here on business, not for fun. That could be problematic. I may decide at some point that I want to get my kitten punched, and I wouldn't want to scare away a potential kitten puncher by sending the wrong message. But, if that's getting int he way, I can just drop stuff off with the coat check.

Clearly, the coat check guys and I could be embarking on a long friendship as we'll be getting to know one another pretty well by the end of the night.

Earlier, I made plans with Past President. We're meeting up at the Lure and heading up from there. As I'll be in the neighborhood, I may be stopping in and visiting a party that Staffella is having as she is departing for Los Angeles with her screenwriter husband on Monday. Stuff will be going in the bag and left in the car if I decide to drop in on that vanilla and predominately hetero fete. No need to frighten the horses.

The things that I'm not packing, but I wish I was packing, are sixteen inch biceps, well developed pecs, thighs like trans-Atlantic cables, and a back that looks like a bag of pythons. I meant to go to the gym last night, albeit without Special Guy, but I decided that at this point, it was too late to be trying to get a body for the Black Party, and my interests would be better served by going home and getting a good night's sleep.

Okay. I'm off.

(Note to self: remember to bring El Mirage membership card if I feel the need for one last bit of nookie before I call it a night.)

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

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