The Yellow Dress

Backwhen I was in high school, my English class read a short story by Virginia Woolf called 'The Yellow Dress.' It was stream of consciousness interior monologue, describing a young woman who goes to a party. She's wearing a yellow dress, made especially for the party in a style of a decade previous. She hoped it would be beautiful and fetching and such a Statement to go retro. But some other woman at tha party gives her a look or says something to her, and as a result, she spends the party trapped in her self-consciousness, a prisoner of self doubt, and has a terrible time at this party she's been looking forward to for months.

That's where I'm at today.

I'm invited to a dungeon party in Pennsylvania. And that's cool. I was invited last year, but Special Guy was not, so he was sort of cool to the idea of my going. So I didn't go. I was sorry to miss it. My Hosts apparently have quite the elaborate dungeon.

This morning, I got on line to download the directions I had been sent. One of my hosts was on line. I flagged him down and asked who else I know might be coming. He responded along the lines of "Well, the San Diego crew got in last night, and the San Francisco is getting here in a little while, and the Chicago group also got in a while ago..." and then he listed the people from NYC and I knew one of them.

Uh oh.

That brief message imparted the following information: this party is something of a Big Deal, on an international scale; I know one other person who will be there.

So I haven't even packed my tool bag, and here I am, wearing my yellow dress.

Last year, I went with Special Guy to a Muscle Bear Sex Party. It worked because I was there with Special Guy. In fact, we had a blast. But left to my own devices, I wonder if I would have had a good time.

It takes me a while to warm up to people and feel comfortable. Especially a room full of strangers. By and large, most people, when they meet me, find me aloof and stand-offish. Time and time again, I've heard, "Gosh, you're such a nice guy, but when I met you, I thought you were such an asshole."

As The Smiths put it, "Shyness is bad, and shyness can stop you from doing all the things in life you'd like to."

There's a gay cop on my softball team. We'll call him Pepper. (I'm willing to bet that no one among my readers can figure out the pop culture derivation of that name.) He likes Daddy Bears. There was mucho eye candy for everyone at the tournement yesterday. Anyway, Pepper had a ball he was fielding pop up and hit him catch him right on the cheekbone. He came out of the game, and sat there with his head throbbing what PunchPig would call a mouse rising below his right eye. When we had to move from the fields at the North Meadow to the fields at the Great Lawn, Pepper asked if I'd walk with him, to make sure he didn't pass out or something. And I said, "Sure." So on our way there, Pepper would spot some hot Daddy Bear, walk over, interrupting a guy in conversation at one point, and chat the guy up! I mean, he did this like four or five times as we made out way through Central Park. I was amazed. What balls! What chutzpah! Astounding.

So how will it turn out today? Will it be a bunch of guys, some of whom I know slightly, gathering in rural Pennsylvania to have a good time, and a great opportunity for some good play and to solidify some friendships? Or will I kind of meander around through a crowd of men who are all good friends and have known each other for years with a vague winsome smile on my face, looking at my watch and thinking about how the heat in my car parked on the lawn can't be good for my whips which sit in my toolbag in my car untouched.

And I'm going stag. So if I play, it will be because I get up the guts to approach some stranger and ask if he'd like to be flogged or whatever. And complicating that is the fact that basanos has some commitments today that he can't dodge, so he won't be there. And lately I'm in a mode of seeing only the possibilities of having a committed slave with whom I go deeper and deeper and deeper and have a perfect outlet for my sadistic imagination, and seeing other play possibilities pale in comparison.


No. This won't do. This won't do at all.

This is about S/M. This is like going to church. The men at the party will be fellow seekers. It will be good. This is no different than when I get ready to do a scene. I'll meet some boy, either socially in a bar or something or on the internet, and we'll talk for a while, and then one of us will say, "we should hook up sometime." And we set a date and time. My imagination kicks in. "What do I want to do with this man? What journey do I want to take him on?" Things will take shape in my mind. In preparing, setting the stage, I'll carefully lay out all of the gear that I'll need. I orchestrate and plan. And then I pray. I pray that God will give me the strength and intelligence that I'll need, that he'll guide my hands, and that I will be his instrument.

That's what it's all about. Faith and truth. And the grace of the moment.

Gotta get going. I'm leaving behind the yellow dress.

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