Got in yesterday evening at about 9 pm. What a great weekend. What a perfect weekend. For once, I did everything right. Driving rather than flying was a good way to go. Staying at the apartment of a man we'll call Suessesschwein was likewise a good way to go. I had a great time at the IML clubhouse, and I didn't spend an inordinate amount of money that I don't happen to have.
When I realized that I would be unable to blog during my time at IML, I thought first of buying a notebook and keeping a journal. Then I thought better. Amidst the hullaballoo, I would never be able to keep that up, and would end up with one entry, the first and only, and a lot of blank pages.
In the alternative, I spent the spare moments on the train and sitting in restaurants and shaving my head and such composing haiku.
So here they are, the Singletails IML Haiku collection...
In the Lobby
breating smoke filled air
are a dozen Colt models
and the rest of us
In the Vendor Area
three times our eyes met
twice we smiled and said hello
third time we suck face
Taking Care
I'm living on love
because I'm sure not getting
enough food or sleep
Shopping
I wonder how long
I'll wish I'd bought that flogger
a very long time
Big Rubberman
his sweat matted hair
under his green latex shirt:
grass in a koi pool
Californian Probably
he shaved his gut smooth
but left a treasure trail.
not a good effect.
Untitled
I want to beat you
not because I don't like you
but because I do
Injustice
why is that hot boy
wearing that asshole's collar
when he could wear mine?
Funny...
Why is it you seemed
so much more intelligent
not wearing a shirt?
International Mr. Leather 2003
I'm beating a man
and hear the news second hand:
Mr. Hoist wins it
those men aren't fighting;
they're making love with their fists.
it's the Next Big Thing!
And was there play? Indeed there was. I spent Saturday night and Sunday night at the Chicago Hellfire Club clubhouse. On Saturday night, I did a whipping scene with a full member. I just wanted it to go on and on and on forever. I took my time with every aspect. The kinestetic value of throwing the floggers and whips alone just had me in heaven. Accentuated, no doubt, by being there in the CHC clubhouse, among all those amazing men. The man I whipped had a hide like a rhino. I wasn't sure whether or not my whip was connecting, or if I needed to move closer, and only knew by the little white lines that would appear briefly and fade again like fireworks on his red back. The next morning he had no marks. And he told me that anything less than a six foot whip was unlikely to draw blood. There's always next time. And I'm confident there will be a next time.
Sunday night was a little S/M sitcom episode of sorts. Earlier in the day, I had talked to a guy I know from Detroit. He asked if I would be at the clubhouse that night, and suggested that we play. He indicated that it was a while since he had been whipped, but he might be up for it. I told him that I was on duty, working the door, from 11 pm to 12:30, but to look for me afterwards. As I had the night before, I started in on my door shift. First sign of trouble: I asked who my relief was as I had a date scheduled when I got off at 12:30; there was no one who had signed up after me. Second sign of trouble: my date came through about midnight, apologizing that he would have to take a raincheck as he could barely keep his eyes open. I made the huge mistake of announcing to those assembled that I no longer had a play date. So, at 12:30, I said I could give twenty more minutes. The guy in charge said he'd find someone to relieve me and disappeared down the stairs. At 1:30, someone wandered up the stairs and chatted for a bit. I asked him to find the guy in charge and find out how he was doing in finding someone to relieve me. He went exploring, and came back to report that he had found the guy in charge, but he was hogtied and giving a blowjob, so he wasn't in any position to be quizzed about volunteers to work the door. But, this kind man said that he would relieve me. At this point, it was 2 am, and the clubhouse--sparse at this point--closed at 3 am. Things were not looking good for our hero! I went downstairs, wasted some piss on a porcelain urinal, got myself a Coke, and surveyed my prospects. Everyone seemed to be in a post scene (as in, "sorry, played already") kind of peaceful easy feelin'.
But wait! What's this! Who is that guy at the bar?
I sat next to him, and overheard him talking about someone I knew in San Diego. I jumped into conversation. Liked him a lot. He was movie star good looking, with very sad and soulful eyes, and entertained kidnapping fantasies. At 2:15, he said he'd be available to play.
That didn't leave us a lot of time. So I took him upstairs, padlocked his wrists and bound his ankles so his feet were spread and beat him. I used my hands, my booted feet, and my polycarbonate nightstick.
I'm really liking beating. Most of the time I was working on him, I had just about full body contact. I was right there, whispering in his ear. it really was making love with my fists.
And, I think that it's the Next Big Thing. Whilst enjoying my vodka and cranberry at the CHC party on Sunday afternoon, there was punching going on everywhere in the room. And it was just like boys play: "C'mon, take your best shot."
Oh. And how am I doing? I'm doing great. Just great. I feel within myself this increased capacity to fall in love. Not... y'know... seriously. I'm not gonna be stalking anyone any time soon. It's more an exercise of my imaginative faculties. Men are capturing my imagination. And, I sense a certain openness; a faith and a trust. I think I could readily fall in love and change my life. Or fall in love and change my day. Either one. I'm a hard-minded realist at my core. As I observed to Baron von Philadelphia last night, I don't let anyone get too close. Or at least I haven't so far.
But I've met some amazing men over the past few weeks. Punchpig absolutely. And my gracious host who made my trip to Chicago possible, Suessesschwein.
On my final day in Chicago, getting my gear together and readying myself to vacate Suessesschwein's apartment to head out on the road, I was inspired to write a poem. I wrote Suessesschwein a poem.
And, last night, it was great spending time with the Baron. We talked a lot about me being a writer. Here's what that will involve: Risk. Risk is the thing I don't do well. I'm way too attached to security. Heretofore, I'd rather have some horrible tedious office job than take a risk, cursing the darkness rather than lighting the candle, because my fingers might get burned.
Oh. Update on the relocation situation. My dad called me when I was on the road. He had been talking to the guy who's living in the house I'm moving into. The guy casually mentioned that he'll probably be there through August. So it's not June 30th, it's not July 31st, it's August 30th. There exists the distinct possibility that this time next year, I'll be sitting here saying, "and it's looking like in a couple of months I'll be moving to Bucks County." A few things could happen. It could finally work out and I move. Or, after several months of getting by subsidized by unemployment and my Dad, something will work out for me here in NYC.
Here's the problem with that situation: it leaves me hanging in limbo. Should I work hard to get a job here in NYC? Well, if I do that, than I'll be foregoing the green paradise of Bucks County that I want to go to, where I can "finally write my book." I mean, I was thinking the other day that I really ought to get some paint and gussie up the place some. Nah. What's the point? I'll be moving in a few months. See how it works? I'm in suspended animation. That could prove problematic.
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