"Good Morning!" he said to no one in particular, as the guy on NPR announced that at the tone, the time would be three o'clock

Yeah.

Went to the Spiegel last night, thinking that the "dress code strictly enforced" would make it a wee bit more palatable. Alas, the dress code seems to include print cotton shirts, jeans, and (inevitably) sneakers. I shooed off a few admirers by responding to the question "How ya doing tonight?" with "I'm missing the LURE a lot" and looking at them pointedly.

There were a few other men in full leather in the room. Some of whom I knew. Some of whom I was glad I didn't know. And one of whom whisked me back to his Times Square hotel room. Which was great, except for the fact that the ruckus we raised didn't get going until about 4:30 a.m. I left my car outside the Spiegel, and had to be back there to collect it and drive home before 8 am, at which point it would be ticketed or towed.

It was way cool. He was from Chicago, in town on business. We sort of did a fucking scene. Now what's that supposed to mean? Well, we fucked (as in he fucked me), but he was really really good at it. Really good. And so he kind of took me on a great scene journey with his dick up my ass replacing his whips on my back or his ropes binding my limbs. It wasn't just nukka-nukka-nukka-nukka-nukka-BOOM-done-"Hey thanks Buddy that was great". It was "now I'm gonna work your prostate" and "now I want you with your ass over the end of the bed". Just like in a scene, cumming was beside the point. Although we did that.

So I slept for about an hour next to him. "Slept" doesn't seem to be the appropriate verb. "Passed out from exhaustion" hits the mark a little bit better. I had the presence of mind to request a wake up call at 6:09 a.m. for 7:20 a.m. When it went off, I put my clothes on, scribbled my name and email address on a hotel-issued note pad, and caught a cab over to my Jeep Liberty outside of the Spiegel. I drove home, walked the dog, and crawled into bed, just as my building super began the task of replacing the floorboards in the hallway. Luckily, I can sleep through anything. Except, of course, when I can't. But this wasn't one of those times.

And now, I'm embarking on the Great Closing Out of the Books for GMSMA Project. Before I turn them over to the new Treasurer when my term ends (Brothers and Sisters, Let me hear you say "Hallalujah!") in a couple of weeks, I want them to be flawless. So I'm preparing a master spreadsheet, with all the entries from the bank statements, the budget spreadsheets, and the checkbook side-by-side so that I'll be able to find any discrepancies and correct any errors. The only other things on my agenda this weekend will be volunteering at the Tom of Finland Erotic Art Fair at the Center and my date with Alabam on Saturday night. I'm scheduled to play softball tomorrow, but the weather report--surprise, surprise--is calling for rain and thundershowers, so it's looking unlikely that I'll be suiting up and taking the field tomorrow.

I was supposed to meet up with Punchpig on Saturday night, but he had complications involving his mother's health and had to reschedule. That means I won't be showing up bruised and beaten for my date with Alabam. Probably a good thing. I bought a mouthguard yesterday at Paragon Sporting Goods. The boxing stuff is in the attic. I lingered as long as I could looking at the boxing gloves and such, but my car was sitting at a meter. And, I really don't have the money right now. But something tells me that before too long, a pair of training gloves is going to be hanging on the wall next to my whips and floggers. Because Punching is the Next Big Thing.

Also had a session with my therapist yesterday. It was brief, as I was delayed getting there by dropping the Baron von Philadelphia off at Penn Station in midday traffic, but we talked about this falling in love thing I've been doing. I fell in love with Suessesschwein, I've fallen in love with Punchpig (particularly after he sent me a link to a beautiful essay he wrote on the film Gray Gardens), I'm pretty smitten with Alabam, and there are a few slave candidates from the Shakespearean Green World known as the Internet that I guess I'm in love with, too. It's not a mooning high-schooley falling in love. It's more an openness, letting another person's being just flood over me, but not wash me away. In part, I feel it as a need. I need strong arms to hold me right now. But at the same time, I sense that I'm doing this because I can. I usually approach romance like an English tourist venturing into the Bazaar at Marakesh: Careful, you're gonna get rooked; nothing is what it seems; best to look and listen and smile and move on. In part, I'm graced with some truly amazing men entering my life. Suessesschwein and Punchpig are both men of depth, goodness, strength, wisdom... and dick-hardening intellect and maculinity. But at the same time, with all (or most) of the men in my life, I feel able to be amazed.

Well, to the books.

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