A thought occurs to me. I wonder if my 'fantasy' was too extreme. Talking about grilling Bruce Willis on a spit, abducting Tobey Maguire, and torturing Sylvester Stallone with a cattle prod in the middle of the desert.

Huh. Y'think?

I guess that doesn't reflect the best principles of 'Safe Sane and Consensual.'

But in most of my fantasies, those principles aren't in effect. That's why they're fantasies. When I realize a fantasy, it is all about Safe Sane and Consensual. But for Gosh sakes, I'm a Sadist!

I did this consciously, now that I think about it. I once was talking to a buddy of mine about contests. He hated contests. When he was 17 years old, growing up in Brooklyn, he read in the paper that the Mineshaft was scheduled to close. He didn't know what the Mineshaft was, but he knew he had to get there to see it before it closed. And he did. He's been in the scene and playing hard (he's way into piss and scat) for most of his life, although he's only my age. "Who the hell are these guys?" he'd ask. "I've never even seen them out. They went into the Leatherman and bought a pair of chaps and now they're entering a contest? That's bullshit."

So part of what I was doing was frightening the horses. Or trying to.

Perhaps it worked.

Or, perhaps it was just lame.

I'll never know.

Now, the morning after the night before, it all has a dream-like quality. Did I really do that? Well there's the enormous gift basket of ID lube in all sorts of rebarbative flavors to prove that in fact I did.

Anyway, gotta get a move on. I'm loading up that truck for Leather Pride Night. Last I heard, I'll be working the flea market. Stop by and say hello. And y'know, I think you'd look really good in these chaps... Oh. My. God. Yes! They'd look great on you! Try them on. See? It's like they were made for you.

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