Hello, Thrill Seekers!

Here's a cool article from the NY Times emailed me by Diabolique. If you enjoy taking personality tests--I know I do!--then here's a link where you can take one to determine just how much of a thrill-seeker you are.

Enjoy! And keep those dopamine levels elevated!

The New York Times

June 20, 2005

What's the Lure of the Edge?

By RICHARD A. FRIEDMAN, M.D.

DURING a vacation last winter, I took a zip-line canopy tour of the
Costa Rican rain forest. Strapped into a harness 100 feet above the jungle
floor, I was flying through the air, with the toucans and parrots,
attached to a steel cable strung between two platforms. I was having far
too much fun to think that this could be dangerous. At first it was pretty
thrilling, but by the 10th zip line I felt it was losing its charge.

On the last and highest platform, a guy just in front of me began to
hyperventilate. Being a psychiatrist, I realized he was having a panic
attack. I got him to relax with some deep breathing and then asked him
whether he had had this problem before. "Oh, yes," he said. "I thought
this would be a way to conquer my fear of heights."

Why was he terrified by what was beginning to bore me? We were both
members of the sex that studies and more informal surveys indicate is more
drawn to thrill seeking (for better or worse - more men than women have
orbited the earth, while men are two to three more times likely to be
pathological gamblers). But this man and I seemed to be on opposite ends
of the thrill-seeking spectrum.

On an individual level, the difference seems to be hard-wired in our
brains, scientists have begun to discover. What is more surprising is that
thrill seeking appears to be enjoyed not just by an elite - or, as some
think, aberrant - bunch of people who put their lives at peril for a jolt
of excitement.

The focus of research on a relatively small, though dramatic, group of
unsavory characters like psychopaths and drug addicts can give the
impression that thrill is only for the mentally unbalanced. Far from it.
Thrill seeking in one form or another is so widespread that it has
practically become institutionalized in the culture. From reality TV shows
like "Fear Factor," shot through with danger and risk, to the growing
popularity of extreme sports, there is something to suit everyone's taste.

The root of the thrill-seeking experience lies in an ancient neural
circuit buried deep inside the brain that is intimately involved in
pleasure, reward and novelty seeking. This system, which connects our
thinking cortex with our more primitive limbic emotional center, runs on
dopamine, a neurotransmitter. Many of life's greatest pleasures feel good
because, in the end, they cause the release of dopamine from the brain's
reward pathway. Sex, food and recreational drugs all flood the brain with
dopamine - and so does thrill seeking.

Like just about every other human attribute, there is great variation
in individual taste for novelty and thrill seeking, much of it rooted in
the brain. For example, Dr. Nora Volkow at the National Institute on Drug
Abuse has shown that response to euphoria-producing drugs is related to
the levels of brain dopamine receptors.

In one experiment, she gave normal male controls intravenous Ritalin,
which releases dopamine, and found that those who experienced the drug as
pleasant had significantly fewer dopamine receptors than participants who
reported unpleasant effects. Those with more dopamine receptors at
baseline are probably less likely to abuse drugs or seek any thrill
because their brains already have more dopamine activity to start with. In
fact, these guys are likely to be thrill-averse, like that fellow I met on
the zip line.

For the chronically underaroused, a simple bike ride or jog in the
park doesn't do the trick; it would take something more intense like
diving 50 feet into a gorge or snorting cocaine to provide them with
enough dopamine for them to feel excited.

An entire industry has emerged in the last decade to satisfy such
voracious appetites for thrills. Rich Hopkins, an inveterate surfer,
stuntman and extreme sportsman, is president of ThrillSeekers Unlimited, a
company he founded in 1992. Clients try anything from skydiving, bungee
jumping and paragliding to zip-line or stunt driving. They will even give
you the "fire burn," where you are set safely on fire, like a real
stuntman. "When we started, we had around 50 to 75 customers that first
year," Mr. Hopkins said. "Now, we routinely take out several hundred
people in just one adventure."

Who are these thrill seekers? About 80 percent are men, Mr. Hopkins
said. But the big surprise is that some of the largest clients are
corporations and that many participants are men well into their 50's and
60's. "Instead of a golf holiday, they are sending their employees for an
extreme sports adventure and they love it," Mr. Hopkins said.

Charles Edwards has been chasing tornadoes in Oklahoma ever since he
studied meteorology in college. "I've been obsessed with tornadoes for the
last 15 years," he said. "Every storm is completely different, and you
just get this adrenaline rush and try to get as close as possible to them.
I've seen houses getting blown apart and cows tossed aside. Just awesome."

Mr. Edwards was so hooked by the thrill of chasing storms that he
created his own company, Cloud 9 Tours, to support his habit, as he called
it. "We take people out during the tornado season here in Oklahoma, from
April through August. These guys come back again and again."

But what about thrill-averse guys? Can they learn to enjoy a little
more excitement? If so, would thrilling activity itself change their
neural circuitry to make them more like thrill lovers?

Probably not, judging from studies of Dr. Jerome Kagan at Harvard, who
has shown that certain temperamental traits you are born with are pretty
stable. Using M.R.I. brain scanning, Dr. Carl Schwartz at Harvard recently
found that these anxious adults showed greater responses in the amygdala,
a brain region that processes fearful and threatening stimuli, to faces of
strangers than to familiar faces. In other words, people who like novelty
have biologically different brains than cautious folks, and no one knows
if experience changes this.

Of course, the surge of dopamine that thrill seekers search out can
literally be addicting. The reason is that anything that activates our
reward system, whether it's a natural reinforcer like sex, food or a
thrilling act, is seen by the brain as something that should be repeated -
over and over. And despite how smart we think we are, our brain can't
really distinguish among the activating effects of drugs, thrill or useful
behaviors. Even worse, for some people, drugs and thrill are more
powerfully self-reinforcing than even food and sex. So the very design of
our brain that promotes survival also makes us vulnerable.

Alain Robert, a k a Spiderman, is known for climbing skyscrapers
without special equipment or a safety net. He recently climbed the Taipei
101 Tower in Taiwan, which, standing at 1,670 feet, is the world's tallest
building. "The euphoria when I reach the summit maybe lasts a few hours or
days at the most, and then I have to have it again," he said. "I enjoy the
risk and to be in control of my fear and have to do it again and again. I
cannot stop climbing."

Not all men get their thrills in such physically spectacular ways as
Mr. Robert; some get it from their work.

James Cramer, a founder of TheStreet

.com and a financial commentator, used to manage a hedge fund. "I
craved the risk," he said. "I would come to work and if by midday I hadn't
made a serious bet, I'd be miserable. The bigger the bet, the better."

"I got such energy and felt so alive," he added, "I was ecstatic on a
daily basis."

For some, though, there may be more to thrill than only a dopamine
rush. "Guys like extreme sports not just because it's exciting, but
because it makes them feel accomplished and more self-confident," Mr.
Hopkins said.

John Bardes, a freshman at Carleton College in Northfield, Minn., who
enjoys scaling 50-foot walls, echoed this. "The wall is a genuine test of
your ability and if your muscles can't make it, you fall. It's a way of
finding your limits and seeing how far you can push yourself."

Mr. Bardes, however, is not fearless. "At first I was nervous, and the
higher I went the more anxious I became," he said. "But I got over that.
Up there, I feel like I'm alone in my own world and it clears my head."

Thrill has a dark side, too. In the sexual arena, it can literally be
fatal. Men with a strong taste for sexual novelty in the form of multiple
partners are at high risk of both getting and spreading H.I.V. and other
sexually transmitted diseases as they move from one encounter to the next.

But few forms of thrill are as insidiously destructive as gambling.

Recently, scientists have peered into the brain while people are
playing a game that simulates gambling. Dr. Hans Breiter at Harvard had
subjects play a computer game of chance in which they either won or lost
money, and monitored their brain activity. He found that the prospect of
winning money activates the same dopamine reward pathway in the brain as
recreational drugs like cocaine do. No wonder gambling is so compelling.
This also helps explain why gamblers, like drug addicts, often seem
helpless to resist an impulse that brings intense pleasure but can ruin
their lives.

Curiously, winning the prize is not what seems to make gambling so
thrilling and addictive. Dr. David Zald at Vanderbilt University measured
dopamine release in a group of subjects who played a computer game in two
different conditions. In the first, subjects selected one of four cards
and knew they might win a $1 reward, but didn't know when it might occur.
In the second, subjects knew ahead that they were guaranteed to win $1
with every fourth card.

Dr. Zald found a large increase in dopamine activity when winning was
unpredictable, but not when the subjects knew what was coming. The
implication is that gambling is powerfully addictive precisely because the
outcome is uncertain.

Believe it or not, thrill seeking is pretty much a modern phenomenon.
Our hominid ancestors did not bungee jump or do any of the silly things
that we do these days for thrill. Life back on the savannah was exciting
enough on its own, with ferocious predators and an overall lack of
amenities.

Nowadays, where the basics like food or a sexual partner are a mouse
click away, we don't really need our reward circuit for survival; we are
free to use it just for pleasure. (To determine your risk comfort level,
you can try a test adapted from the Zuckerman-Kuhlman Personality
Questionnaire at nytimes.com/menshealth.)

With few exceptions, like 9/11, modern life has become so safe and
controlled that you have to work at finding a little excitement. In fact,
one might predict that as life becomes more predictable, riskier forms of
excitement will emerge. Hang gliding off Mount Everest? Antarctic
triathlon? There's no telling what's next.

---

Life With Father, Part LCXXXIV

So I get home this evening in a black mood. How black? Well, I sat in my jeep in the driveway for a good half hour bellowing, first from anguish, and then with rage.

Pour quoi?

One thing I won't go into. For... certain reasons. But, I realized that the numbers don't add up and I won't be able to drive down to Florida the first week of July to visit my brother and a bunch of my leather brothers along the way. I just can't afford it. Not on $10 an hour.

Poverty = Sucks.

And then, of course, there's my dad. "Why can't he be different?" was the basic gist. (jist?)

So after I had exercised myself some, the first order of business was to take the groceries inside, and take Faithful Companion for a walk.

The sky was beautiful. Everything is so lush and green. So much in bloom. Beautiful.

Then, I went back and relayed the days events to my father. And then I fixed him dinner (Monday means ham and eggs).

And then...

Well, more correctly, and now...

He and I are sitting here smoking cigars, flipping the channel back and forth betweent the Red Sox-Indians game (Go Bosox! Dave Wells on the mound! Yesss!) and Swan Lake, Tchaikovsky's ballet, Tchaikovsky being my father's second favorite composer after Hector Berlioz.

So I'm still miffed about the cancelled vacation, but overall, things are better.

---

Been Busy Today

Yo. Check this out...

So tomorrow, at Folsom Street East, all these guys will be like "Dang! Look at your boots? They are sick! They are phat! Who you got blackin' for ya out there in howling wilderness?"

And I'll be like, "Yo. This is my work."

And they be like, "Yo. No way. You got the excellent services of cubby j. sherwood working on your boots, right?"

And I'll be like, "Dig. I was makin' with the saddle soap and makin' with the Huberts. This is my work."

And they'll be like, "Yo! Dawg! Can't touch that."

So, y'know, it should be good.

Tragically, it's going to be cold. San Francisco cold. Like mid 70s. (Brrrrrr...) But I'll do my best to show up my ink work.

See ya there!

---

Dose Of Reality

I am an absolute sucker for reality tv. (I'm really upset about how all my favorite castaways keep losing the contests on The Real Gilligan's Island.) Fan as I am of the genre, I've thought some about how about BDSM could serve as the basis of a reality show. I mean, the possibilities for contests are endless. But what could the overall scheme be?

Well, it looks like VH1 is a few steps ahead of me.

Check out Kept.

Okay okay okay. So it's not overtly about BDSM.

Here's what it is about...

Jerry Hall, the former Mrs. Mick Jagger, is seeking a kept man. A troop of hot, stupid, and narciscistic American boys are flown to London to compete for the honor. All the guys just don't get it. At all.

Like, they're constantly saying things like, "I wish I could get some time alone with Jerry cuz I'm sure we'd have a romantic connection." And Jerry is constantly saying things like, "My kept man must no how to handle himself in a variety of social situations as I won't have him embarrassing me. Ever."

Uh huh.

And what's that "kept man" thing about anyway?

Well, the winner gets to be Jerry's escort of sorts, and will receive a six figure "allowance" for one year. Doing what Jerry wants him to do, wearing what Jerry wants him to wear, looking the way Jerry wants him to look.

And Jerry is constantly saying things like, "What a great opportunity to take this raw material and create from it my ideal kept man."

In the episode I saw, the guys got a lesson in etiquette (how many times have I heard that etiquette is the key component of a good boy?), and for an art lesson, had to strip and pose naked with spears, shields, and such.

How humiliating, huh?

(Yeah. I'm grinning.)

So what we're talking about is one of these hot, clueless, men competing to spend a year as the boy of Jerry Hall.

boy, my bags. boy, amuse me. boy, I'll have a massage now.

I mean, can't you just see it dawning on the guy what he's gotten himself into? Like maybe Jerry, after a long day of shopping, will use him as a footstool, and he'll realize that the "romantic connection" he was hoping for isn't going to transpire anytime soon.

Sweeeet.

My choice for a boy... oh excuse me "kept man" was tragically eliminated in the art contest. But I think he's a hot one.

Long live power imbalance relationships!

---

I Am gps

Whoa!

Kick in the stomach!

What was that weirdness with the hot bear from New Hampshire I met at the Salt Ash Inn? Been wondering and wondering. I've been wanting some action between the sheets, and here was hot action with a hot man, so why couldn't I get my head together?

Now I get it.

This sounds sort of extreme and dramatic, but here goes. Remember that LA guy who had me all hot and bothered? Well, I thought I was over him, worked my way through, but guess what... He's spoiled me for all other men.

Trust.

It was just so good with him. So good. I couldn't ask for more. And I'm trying to find a viable alternative. One that's just like him.

Damn.

Not that I blame him. At all. It's just that he was designed by the Creator to be able to reach to the very depths of my soul and satisfy all of my deepest desires. It would be like blaming cuban cigars. Like blaming single malt scotch. Like blaming Joe Wheeler's whips. So they're unbelievably great. Not their fault, just a fact.

But of course, there's that fact that I'm in the same boat as Adam. Of Genesis fame. Evicted from paradise.

But don't be dismayed. I'm not. My story with the guy from LA isn't over. And the search for other terrific scenes and men continues. I'll do whatever it takes.

It just kinda hurts sometimes.

Wish he'd call me.

---

I Say We Go For It

Seen this? Kinda cool...

Dear Red States,

We're ticked off at the way you've treated California, and we've decided we're leaving. We intend to form our own country, and we're taking the other Blue States with us.

In case you aren't aware, that includes Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois and all the Northeast. We believe this split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to the people of the new country of New California.

To sum up briefly: You get Texas, Oklahoma and all the slave states. We get stem cell research and the best beaches. We get Elliot Spitzer. You get Ken Lay.

We get the Statue of Liberty. You get OpryLand. We get Intel and Microsoft. You get WorldCom. We get Harvard. You get Ole' Miss.

We get 85 percent of America's venture capital and entrepreneurs. You get Alabama. We get two-thirds of the tax revenue, you get to make the red states pay their fair share.

Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than the Christian Coalition's,we get a bunch of happy families. You get a bunch of single moms.

Please be aware that Nuevo California will be pro-choice and anti-war, and we're going to want all our citizens back from Iraq at once. If you need people to fight, ask your evangelicals. They have kids they're apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and they don't care if you don't show pictures of their children's
caskets coming home. We do wish you success in Iraq, and hope that the WMDs turn up, but we're not willing to spend our resources in Bush's Quagmire.


With the Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80 percent of the country's fresh water, more than 90 percent of the pineapple and lettuce, 92 percent of the nation's fresh fruit, 95 percent of America's
quality wines (you can serve French wines at state dinners) 90 percent of all cheese, 90 percent of the high tech industry, most of the U.S. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods, sequoias and condors, all the Ivy and
Seven Sister schools, plus Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Cal Tech and MIT.


With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88 percent of all obese Americans (and their projected health care costs), 92 percent of all U.S. mosquitoes, nearly 100 percent of the tornadoes, 90 percent of the hurricanes, 99 percent of all Southern Baptists, virtually 100 percent of all televangelists, Rush Limbaugh, Bob Jones University, Clemson and the University of Georgia.


We get Hollywood and Yosemite, thank you.


Additionally, 38 percent of those in the Red states believe Jonah was actually swallowed by a whale, 62 percent believe life is sacred unless we're discussing the death penalty or gun laws, 44 percent say that evolution is only a theory, 53 percent that Saddam was involved in 9/11 and 61 percent of you crazy bastards believe you are people with higher morals then we lefties.


By the way, we're taking the good pot, too. You can have that dirt weed they grow in Mexico.


Sincerely,
Author Unknown in New California

---

Quote Unquote

All dogs will look up to you. All cats will look down on you. Only the pig will look at you as an equal.

-Winston Churchill


Huh.

Yeah.

---

Green Mountain Adventures

Yo!

You never know!

This weekend, I joined CigarBiker and his babyboy for a stay at the Salt Ash Inn in Plymouth, Vermont.

Now, Plymouth is 300 miles away from me. A long, long drive. I was making that long, long drive because I always enjoy the company of CigarBiker and babyboy. I envisioned the Salt Ash Inn as being something like the sad and tragic Rainbow Mountain Resort that Sir and I visited back in December. Namely, a weird wee outpost of homo-ness in an otherwise hetero wilderness.

Can you say... Wrong!

I mean, the place was great!

The men were Hot! Like, way hot! And they were all Tops! (Thank the leathergods for my newfound versatility!) the hosts, Jonathan and Jordan, are really great guys. The place was nice, but not fussy. The room rates are entirely reasonable, and the dungeon space was kickass. (Love the Rustic Country Dungeon!)

And, they have a hot tub.

I had planned to head up on Friday night. Unfortunately, I had to do a service call for work on Friday. I was assured that I'd be back at 5 pm, in time to cash my paycheck, stock up on cigars, and head out on the road.

I got back to the shop at 8:15.

So, I had to head up on Saturday. And it was a long drive. Although a beautiful one. If you're ever in Hoosic, New York, be sure to visit Helvi's BBQ on Route 7. If the barbequed beef I had is any indication, the pulled pork, which they were out of, is amazing. And beautiful Vermont offers road signs bearing quaint names like "Wooten Pond" and "Hoopletonville" and the like. But eventually, at 7:30 pm, I got there.

I said my hellos and hit the hot tub. Every seven hour drive should have a hot tub at the other end.

Especially when it's a hot tub filled with gropey men.

Hot gropey men.

I exited the hot tub when I had to piss, and whaddyaknow, there was a watersports party going on! So I headed for the Rustic Country Dungeon. Hardly in the door, and no sooner had I relieved myself into babyboy's rubber waders, than I was set upon by two hot tops, who treated me to some CBT and TT, which I took like a trooper!

After I had all I could take (my tits are still sore) (love that), I grabbed a sandwich for dinner, and went to cruise the pub room. More hot men were arriving every minute.

And here's another surprising thing: the level of play was fairly sophisticated. We're talking sounds, scrotal inflation, fisting... And, I witnessed a really creative and innovative scene wherein one of the numerous Tops sprayed the back of a few men with a shower of sparks from a grinder held against a hunk of stainless steel. (Kudos! Reminded me of welding! And verrrry dramatic to watch. Like fireworks.)

I awed all present (aw shucks) by showing off my flogging and singletail prowess.

That felt good.

But, alas, no rose without thorns, no earthly paradise without a serpent slithering somewhere. Things started to get piggy. And, as readers know, I needed some of that. So I paired off with the hot bear who had worked my balls so well.

And wouldn't you know it, I just got sucked up into my head. My cerebral cortex just would not stop. Totally chatty cathy.

Mostly concerning the HIV thing. Damn my precious HIV-negative sero-status anyway. Had to keep reminding myself: hate doctors, hate pills, hate doctors, hate pills, hate doctors, hate pills...

Dealing with all that, and trying to keep a hardon to show this way hot bear how appreciative I was of his intentions resulted in a splitting headache.

Which further complicated things.

But all turned out well. He messaged me to let me know he had the best time with limp-dicked non-pig me that he's had in ten years. I guess that's the plight of being a Top in Vermont, the only state in the Union where Tops out number bottoms by about 30 to 1.

But don't let my crappy head space fool you! The Salt Ash Inn is well worth the trip. They have two more of what they bill as "men's parties" this summer, the last weekend of July and August respectively. July I'll be playing softball, but I'm hoping to make the August party. What could be sweeter than a sultry summer weekend in that beautiful corner of the world?

And, if'n you need a weekend getaway, the Salt Ash Inn comes highly recommended by me.

Onwards and upwards!

---

In The Midst Of Life...

So today at work, my partner turns to me and asks, "What do you want out of life?"

I thought for a minute, and replied, "To enjoy friendship, to love, and to leave the world better than I found it."

I realized that I was getting close to The Place...

The Place?

Okay. You at home can play along. I sprang this on my partner.

Sit back. Get comfy.

Now think about this: What do you want to do before you die? What will make your time on this earth complete?

Try to think of at least three things. But by all means, keep going beyond three.

Take your time.

Right.

Now, imagine that your phone rings. It's your doctor. He has some bad news for you. It seems you've got about three days to live. You won't feel any pain until the very end. But pretty much, your number's up.

How are you going to spend those three days? What are you going to do with yourself?

Here's the life transforming part: why are the answers to those two questions that you just came up with so different? I posed the same question twice. The only thing different was the time frame.

When this gumball for the mind was first presented to me, I was a junior in college, at a conference for campus leaders or something. It was at a workshop on "time management." I went in expecting to hear about how to be more productive by breaking your day into fifteen minute increments or something. What I got was the two questions.

My answer to the first one was something along the lines of, "Get a novel published, spend a year living abroad, own a great house, find a job I enjoy, get my PhD., etc. My answer to the second one was, I'd go to the beach, and bring with me all the people I love and care about. We'd splash in the waves during the day, and sit around a campfire listening to the surf and telling stories at night."

And today, the question from my partner was pretty much the grace of the moment. No matter how he had framed the question, my answer would be the same. Having the same answer to either question is being in The Place.

As in, the good place. The right place. The place where you're supposed to be. The place you want to be. Not the place where you ought to be, or where people think you should be, but the place you are because it's your place.

You're home.

Speaking of being places, I'll be in Vermont this weekend. At the Salt Ash Inn. It's some kind of a dungeon party I've been invited to. At an inn with a hot tub. I don't think I could ask for much more.

Well, okay, it's a five and a half hour drive for me to get there. I could ask for somewhere closer.

But wherever I am, I'm in The Place.

---

Just A Thought...

You'll find 'Monogamy' in the dictionary...

...between 'Misery' and 'Murder."

Just a thought.

---

Remember Sex?

I can. But just barely. It's been months. Maybe a year or more.

What am I talking about here? Not SM. Since I got my garage cleared out, I could spend every waking minute chaining up, flogging, and whipping a seemingly endless array of willing men out there. And I'm not talking about anonymous blow jobs at El Mirage.

I'm talking about consumating mutual physical attraction. I'm talking the Missionary Position. I'm talking no negotiation beforehand, no safe words, no toybags, no group sitiations. Just two guys, in bed, going at it.

"Whaddya like? Yeah, you like that? Like it when I do it like this? Oh yeah. That's sweet. That feels soooo good."

Whatever happened to that?

They still have it on television. And in the movies.

It seems to me that there used to be a lot more of it going on.

And I may be wrong, but I don't think it's just me. I mean, given all the men banging on the door of my garage, I seem to be some gay men's idea of reasonably good looking. But getting laid has become just about impossible.

Maybe it's the internet. After all, the World Wide Internet has sure made masturbation a lot more interesting. Even great. And if you and your laptop can work it out, you don't really need somebody else there, do you?

And I think we can ascribe blame to the whole Gay Marriage thing. By elevating the issue in importance, it's made those committedlifelongmonogamous relationships normative. If you're not in one, you're probably asking yourself why not. But, as we all know, after the first six months or so, no one in a committedlifelongmonogamous relationship has sex. Companionship? Yes. Someone to fight with about whose fault it is that you're out of toilet paper? Yes. Sex? Uh uh.

And, loathe as I am to admit this, but the movement of SM out of the Mineshaft and into just about every suburban livingroom in all the Blue States (and probably more than a few Red States, too) probably has something to do with that, too. I mean, yeah, it's erotic, but there's all kinds of things you have to be good at, and you have to run up a hefty balance on your credit card, too.

And, of course, there's HIV. Oh man, is there ever. I'm old enough to remember when what is now called "unsafe sex" or "barebacking" was just simply referred to as "sex." Now, there's a small and elite group that seems to be having all the fun--seems, in fact, to have cornered the market on sex--by having that which has come to be known as "pig sex." Which is just sex, but because of that persnickity virus, it's now all kinds of transgressive to have it. And, when you do it, you're Making A Statement, so it must be like being the first African American to not ride in the back of the bus in Birmingham, or being the first woman admitted to the Citadel, or being the first openly gay politician elected to the U.S. Congress. I mean... imgagine the pressure!

And maybe it's the fact that the advertising industry has discovered gay men, and just like they did to women for all those decades, has bombarded us with images of perfect men with perfect bodies that none of we mere mortals measure up to and so we're all feeling inadequate.

And then there's the whole crystal meth thing. Apparently just having good old toweling-off-after-twenty-minutes sex isn't good enough any more. Now it's got to go on for hours and days at a time and involve acts that would set world records.

I mean, I used to go out to a bar every Saturday night and find some man to have sex with. (I swear! I'm not making that up!) On those rare occassions when it didn't work out that way, I'd go home, listen to Morrissey, wonder what was the matter with me, etc. etc., but that would last exactly six days, until the next weekend, when I'd be able to have sex again. If I had to wait that long.

Sometimes it was bad sex, but at least it was sex.

So what about you? Are you having sex? Are there still pockets of resistance out there? Is there a bar left in the world where, "Can I buy you a beer?" is unambiguously taken to mean, "Would you like to come back with me to my nearby apartment where I live alone and have sex with me?"?

Please tell me I'm wrong.

---

Oh Yes They Called It The Streak

Starbucks is abuzz!

Last weekend, on Friday and Saturday nights, there appeared on the genteel streets of Doylestown, Pennsylvania, a man naked except for sneakers and a Zorro mask. He approached and harrassed a few women.

Our local police force, for whom I have zero respect, turned the apartment of one of my fellow Starbucks regulars upside down, but didn't find a Zorro mask. Now, it's common knowledge at Starbucks who the culprit is here. And even though the guy is considered to be a freak, no one is going to drop a dime on him. Why? Because the general consensus is that it makes life in this burg a wee bit more colorful.

So streak on, I say!

---

Cool!

It's one of my favorite Queer Eye episodes! The straight guy is kinky! When Carson, Kyan, Thom, Ted, and Jai are rampaging through his apartment, they find tit clamps, ben-wah balls, a leash and collar, and handcuffs attached to the headboard of the bed.

We are everywhere!

And I really like the fact that the straight guy, who dreams of being a sports caster on New York 1, is totally unabashed about the whole thing.

---

A Tale Of Two Coffee Dates, Or, There Is A God!

So on AOL several days ago, this guy flags me down. Likes my profile. Calls me Sir. All hot to trot. Let's meet up. He was a blond rugby player, lived not too far away. I suggested we meet up at Starbucks in Doylestown. To see if the connection was good for both of us, or whatever. As Lolita once told me, "The internet doesn't mean shit; you gotta smell'em."

And, it turns out that I didn't look at my schedule before making our Starbucks date. And I actually had to do some rearranging. But when I got there, on time, he was waiting for me.

Okay. So not immediately visually arresting. We got coffee and found an open table on the porch.

And it was torture. Just so awkward. Like our parents had set us up or something. I did my best to b e affable and pleasant--and I do really good affable and pleasant--but after about fifteen minutes, he said, "Oh, excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom."

When a half hour had passed, I decided that he had, in fact, fired me.

Yeah, well.

Of course, it was a stunning day at Starbucks, and all the hot Starbucks hangin' boys were out in force. All the straight Starbucks hangin' boys.

"Dang it!" I said as I drove home, "Why the hell can't there be just one gay man in the Delaware Valley who isn't one of those gussied up inebriates with elaborate hairdoos from the Raven?"

(Okay, not that they're all gussied up inebriates with elaborate hairdoos. Why just last night I chained up a man in my garage who definitely is not a gussied up inebriate with an elaborate hairdoo.)

Then today, I was hanging on AOL, chatting with one of my latest internet buddies, a Grand Poobah of the Leather World from SF who, it turns out, is a really warm, wise, and engaging man. And I get flagged down by this guy. His screen name was some unintelligible string of alphanumerics. k203r498ua or something.

He liked my profile. I checked his out. Huh. Military. That might be promising. We chat for a while. Seems like he can hold down his own in a conversation. So I suggest we meet up at Starbucks. He's down with that. But not the one in Doylestown. One down in Warrington, south of me. But I figure I can make it in a half an hour.

I get there fifteen minutes early, and sit in my car. And he gets there ten minutes early.

And... gosh... he's kinda got it going on.

He kayaks, too. In fact, I'm a punter compared to him. He's kayaked around the world. So I decided I'd drive him up and show him Lake Galena, where I do my kayaking. We talk.

And he's pretty great to talk to. Full of stories, and some interesting experiences for one so young. (He's 26.) Okay. And then he mentioned... that... he was... Russian.

We were off to the races. I was telling him all about my love of the Russian people, my time in Moscow, he was telling me about Russian generals he was working with in Bosnia telling him they liked him even though he was "on the wrong team."

We had a great time. It was blah blah blah blah blah. The whole time. And I really like the guy.

We ended up back in the parking lot of Starbucks, in agreement that we had to get together again.

Gosh. A hot, butch, hunky little Russian bear cub. Wouldn't he be fun to show off down at MAL. ("And this is my boy...") And go to the beach with. And go kayaking with. And take him to the Leatherman to get him his first vest. And... and there's a Russian banya down in Southampton PA!

Okay okay okay. Way ahead of the game.

But a solid possibility of a hot boy I can spend time with who lives a half an hour away from me...

Whoa.

---

Perchance To Dream

What have I been up to lately?

Well, softball this Saturday. And it was a grim affair. We were scheduled for two back-to-back games against the Saints, a team new to the league. I stayed in on Friday night, as our first game was at 10 am. That meant I had to get to NYC at 8 am. That meant I had to leave home at 6 am. That meant I had to get out of bed at 5 am.

(Commitment!)

And I did. We were pretty ebullient. All set to kick some Saint butt.

In the first game, it was pretty competitive. They scored some runs early on, and we clawed and scraped our way out of a hole to gain the lead by two runs. But, then there was the final inning. And the Saints seemed to fly around the bases at a dizzying speed. And we lost.

During the interim, we compared notes. They had great hitters. Their infield was amazing. Their outfield was amazing. We... we... we were outmatched.

Second game. First inning. They scored six runs. No Ballbreakers crossed home plate. And after that, we all sort of fell apart. Phoned it in. They beat us by a score of something like 328-4. We got bitter pretty quickly. Blaming each other. Blaming the league. Blaming ourselves.

It totally put me in a foul mood.

Back at the bar, we griped some more about everything under the sun. I complained about my performance to one of my team mates. Specifically, my hitting. I couldn't hit the damn ball out of the infield. Which was bad news for whoever was in the lineup ahead of me. Y'see, he'd get on first, and then I'd come up. I'd hit the ball in the general vicinity of the second baseman. And the poor guy would be tagged out. Except the time I flied out.

"Well," responded my teammate, "look at it this way: you're hitting the ball."

Huh.

That's true. I'm hitting the ball. And that wasn't always the case, now was it?

Anyway. I gathered up what was left of my self esteem, grabbed an iced venti quad one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte, and headed north on the West Side Highway.

Y'see, I had a date.

Back up a minute. The West Side Highway. Perhaps you heard on the news about the landslide that shut down the West Side Highway. And you would be correct in assuming that landslide would be right in my path. No matter, I gave myself plenty of extra time. And I wanted some time to get my head together.

Because my date was with a guy with whom I had come in contact via America On Line. (Never a good sign.) And his scene was KO. As in, Knock Out. As in, putting me out cold.

Well now that's kind of dangerous, right?

Right.

Especially given the fact that the whacko factor on AOL is just off the spectrum.

Oh. And did I mention that we were meeting at a hotel in Danbury, Connecticutt? An anonymous hotel.

Nothing like an inherently dangerous scene with a stranger, right?

So what's up with that?

Okay. I'd checked the guy out as much as I possibly could. He had coherent answers to every question I posed. And I felt I needed something like an adventure. Plus, I don't know anybody who has ever done that scene, so that would give me some bragging rights. And, Top that I am, I love it when I'm the heaviest bottom in the room. (Okay! Okay! Selectively heavy!)

Whatever.

So there I was, sitting in the parking lot of the Ethan Allen Hotel in Danbury, Connecticutt, calling Mr. Sleepytime on my cell phone to let him know I had arrived. He gave me the number of the room he had rented, and he ran over his instructions to me one more time. I was to knock on the door and he'd pass the key under the door. I count to twenty, then come into the room. I strip, and take a shower. After the shower, I put on the pair of undies he left out for me, and go lie down on the bed.

Stuffing my second thoughts, I found the room, knocked, counted, entered, stripped, and jumped in the shower. While I was in the shower, behind the opaque shower curtain, I heard the door creak open.

Oh very cool.

But nothing happened.

I finished up in the shower and pulled back the curtain. The bathroom was empty. And there were the undies. They were a cheesy acetate affair with a Christmas motif, reading something like "Jingle Balls!". And about three sizes too small. Verrrry slutty.

Okay. Deep breath.

The suite was dark except for a television in the bedroom. Everybody Loves Raymond was on with the volume turned low.

Another deep breath.

I crossed the suite to the bed. I heard movement behind me. His arm was round my neck. A rag was forced over my mouth and nose. A weird perfumey but not unpleasant smell. Chloroform.

Cool.

I did some nominal struggling. Held my breath for a bit, but then took a good deep breath. Nada. Another deep breath. And I felt it.

It was strange. Like my perceptions--sight, sound, sensation--were limited by a spotlight that got smaller and smaller and smaller with me at the center. Till then there was blackness.

I came too. I got put out again. I came too. I got put out again.

At one point, I came too, and Mr. Sleepytime was counting change or something. I curled up. Hugged the pillow. And went off to sleep without assistance.

I woke up and the clock read midnight. And I was alone in the suite. There was a note.

"Dear Seth, Sorry I couldn't stay. Had a great time. I rented the room for the night, so you can stay here. Just please check out before 11 am tomorrow."

Okay. Here's the part where I critique the Top.

First off, my name's not Seth. That's a pretty important detail. Secondly, where the hell did he go? Thirdly, I would toss out a line like, "You'll take good care of your boy while he's out, right, Sir?" and he'd be like, "Yeah, whatever, out you go!" Now that's hardly fodder for fond memories and recollections useful for jerking off, right? Right.

But the overall synopsis is... I have no idea what to think about all that. I mean, it's weird. I feel like the scene went on without me. I'm not sure what contribution I made. Although, I think I made a significant contribution. Specifically, I think I was really brave! Maybe the boys are lined up for this dude. Maybe he got my name wrong because last weekend he did three Seths.

But somehow I don't think so.

I got up on Sunday, had breakfast, found cheap gas, and headed home. I imagined that Mr. Sleepytime and I would have breakfast together after a good-morning bang, bidding a fond farewell. But no, it was a solitary egg sandwich at Mr. Bagel of Danbury, Connecticutt.

*sigh*

Later that evening, I felt as though the weekend had sort of gone by and I had... I dunno... slept through it.

So I headed down to the Raven to have a beer and a cigar before doing the grocery shopping.

And guess what! It was the final event of New Hope's Pride Parade!

NEWS ITEM: New Hope celebrates L/G/B/T Pride! Leather Community severly under-represented! Inebriate gay men with elaborate hairstyles and mall clothes out in force!

But I chatted with some new guys. And it was a good cigar.

Monday was a typical work day. Followed by Starbucks. Followed by the gym. (It was a bit chilly for kayaking.)

Then today, I rushed home after work so my dad and I could go vote. (Primary day here in Pennsylvania.) Then I hit Starbucks. I had a date. Some AOL guy wanted to meet up with me, so I invited him for a latte at the Starbucks in Doylestown. He was waiting when I showed up. Decent looking guy. And then we started talking.

How do you say... Awkward?

Oh. My. God.

Like pulling teeth.

After about fifteen minutes, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. After waiting ten minutes for him to get back, I opened my book. Forty five minutes later, I finished up another chapter, and I headed for home.

KO scenes in my future?

To quote my saintly white-haired grandmother, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

---

Brace Yourselves

This may well be the weirdest thing you've ever read here on SingleTails.

It's not about my sick and twisted fantasy life. It's not about pooping my pants in the supermarket in Plumsteadville. It's not about wearing my stepmother's panties to her funeral. (Nothing new in any of those, right?)

This is about a messy divorce.

You see, I have recently realized that my Ex from the seven-and-a-half-year relationship dug up the remains of my beloved cat, Ned, dumped them in a hefty bag with some of my clothes and books that I couldn't take with me when I left, and had them delivered by the movers I hired.

"Realized"? What's up with that?

I was sitting with a guy at Starbucks recently, and he told me about how his dog had died over the winter. He and a friend of his snuck into a local park at night, and he buried his dog in the woods where they would frequently walk.

Such a sweet story, huh? I was thinking about it later, driving home, and it dawned on me. My Ex dug up my beloved cat Ned, and...

Okay. Here are the facts.

1. It was an argument about my beloved cat Ned's cremains that made me decide to leave. Y'see, the year before, while we were on vacation in New Mexico that I got a phone call from Pennsylvania. My sister had died. Her death was not unexpected. But still. We flew home a day early. I found Ned in the laundry room downstairs, lying on his side. We rushed him to the vet. He had a blood clot. The same thing my sister had died of. We took him to the vets. A day later, the phone call came. Ned had died. A month later, the vet sent his cremains. "So," asked my Ex, what do you want to do with them?" I told him how I wanted to bury them in the back yard. Ned loved that yard. He'd be out there, sunning himself, stalking bugs and birds, quite the New World for a city cat. I liked the idea of Ned out there frolicking in the moonlight for all eternity.

And my Ex exploded. "I do all the work out there! I'm the one who waters it every day!" I was used to his anger and his yelling, but a month after my sister had died, at a moment like this... It was too much. I decided that that was enough. I wouldn't try to make it work any more. I was outta there. And in a year, I was.

2. So then, after I left, there was the issue of all the stuff I hadn't been able to fit in my jeep when I said goodbye to Brooklyn and him. We decided that he would pack up everything, and I would hire movers to bring it to my new place in Beautiful Downtown Jersey City. We were discussing this on the phone, and he said, ominously, "Be very careful when you're going through the bags. There's something important I don't want you to miss."

3. So there I was, unpacking it all. I found all this ash in one bag. I assumed that it was incense that we used to burn.

I am positive that... well, that my Ex dug up the cremains of my beloved cat, Ned, and sent them to me in a Hefty bag.

In a way, I'm surprised. I never gave him much credit in the Diabolically Vindictive Ingenuity department.

I haven't spoken to him since we split, but if and when our paths cross again, I sure know what I'll be saying to him.

---

Eighty Times Around The Sun

Rock On!

It was perfect! All those hours of watching Queer Eye paid off in spades! (Don't forget flowers!)

Okay. So maybe not flawless. I forgot to get beer, and we ran out of ice. But other than that...

•They loved my food! Passing around the plates of rumaki (an evil concoction of chicken liver wrapped in bacon and smothered in barbeque sauce) was like tossing fish to seals! Snap snap snap! Ditto the shrimp cocktail and the pigs in blanket! I was a huge hit with the old people. At one point, discussion turned to Mother's Day, which would be today, and I realized why. The old ladies were all laughing about how maybe they'll get a card. Or a phone call. Or whatever. Alas, they should have birthed gay sons. Cuz we know all about how to do a Thing.

•Lucky for me, there was enough infirmity on the guest list that the size of the crowd was manageable. We didn't run out of anything, and there were enough chairs to go around. And the weather more than cooperated, serving up a wonderful warm but not hot Spring day. So we all crowded onto the porch.

•I took the bright orange gerbera daisies I got, cut their little heads off ("You look like Morticia Addams!" observed the Baron von Philadelphia), and floated them in clear glass bowls, adding some may apple tops I gathered in the back forty.

•The surprise visit from my brother and his wife went great. They called him on their cell phone from the driveway, and were going on about 'toweling off after a dip in the pool' as they walked in the room. My father continued talking on the phone for a full fourteen seconds before he realized that they weren't apparititions, but there in the flesh.

•Slowly, slowly my father caught on, first I went and picked up the Baron at the train station in Doylestown, then my brother and sister-in-law show up, and then, at four o'clock, car load by car load, the front porch filled up with old people. Everyone was commenting about how it's been years and years and years since they were all together. Everybody had a great time, but my father was absolutely bowled over.

•The Baron and sister-in-law rose to the occasion, and were incredibly helpful. I have almost no work to do cleaning up today. The whole day went so smooth. I am grateful.

And here's the kicker... My father was grateful! And demonstrative! He's thanked me several times! I am not without my flaws, but heck, I sure have my good points.

And I had a realization yesterday, too.

This is my life.

I've been looking at this as taking a break from my life. Like when you pull off the interstate on your way to somewhere to grab a latte at one of those blessed rest stops that feature a Starbucks.

But that's not it.

I've got my eyes open. I'm growing as a person, as they used to say in those movies-made-for-television back in the fabled 1970s.

I have learned, for instance, that sometimes, you do without. Sometimes, even though you want something really bad, you just can't afford it, of make it happen for logistical reasons right now. And you get by without it.

I have learned, furthermore, that it's never about him, or her, or them. It's just about you. You can't look to other people to get your needs met. Because it's not about them. If you're not getting your needs met, getting the affirmation you need, or the solace, or the consideration, or the tender loving care, then it's never his, her, or their fault. It's up to you to figure out how to make that happen. Or else it doesn't happen at all. When he, she, or they step up to the plate and do offer some of that, well then that's gravy. And be really grateful for it. But don't come to rely on it. Because ultimately, you are not, in fact, the reason that God put him, her, or them on the planet. Back in the days of the seven-and-a-half year relationship, it was always his fault when I felt shitty or lonely or sad or angry or whatever. Nope. Wrong-o. It's never about him, or her, or them.

I have learned, perhaps, to play the hand I'm dealt. Not to be thinking in terms of, "I know! I'll go to grad school and learn to be a radiologisit! And then I can have all the things I want and everything will be perfect and I'll be happy all the time!" This is where I live. This is my job. This is the car I drive. This is my dog. This is what I do with my weekends. "Dese," as Mr. Durante observed, "is da circumstances what prevails." This is the big clap pot of red lentils I have been served, and it may or may not contain a few rubies of joy. "Find your bliss" is not a call to sling your bag over your shoulder and head off on the open road. Finding your bliss means looking at the things right in front of you, the tattered stuff picked up at the rag and bone shop sitting there in your lap.

Anyway. Today is another beautiful day here in Bucks County. I'm sitting on the porch, goosebumps raised by the sweet, cool Spring breeze. Faithful Companion alert to bugs and birds and squirrels. Waiting for this skinhead boy from Philadelphia to show up to help me clear out the garage. I plan on exploiting his strong back to tackle the filing cabinet, the refrigerator, and the table saw.

Tomorrow, the wheel of the work week starts to spin again. And next weekend, I'll be in NYC for the New York City Tattoo Convention. And softball with the Ballbreakers. (Akshully, I won't be attending the tattoo convention. Can't afford it. But I will be making the social at the Eagle hosted by Gay Men Into Extreme Tattooing or whatever the unwieldy name is of that group I belong to.) And Saturday night, I'm heading to a motel room in Connecticut because this kind man has offered to show me how to do a sleeper hold. (Sounds risky? Hope so!)

And, y'know, hopefully staying awake.

---

The Big Day!

Howard is awash in birthday greetings! He has even received some cards from people he knows! He and I both extend our sincere thank-yous for everyone who took the time to send a card.

I met my brother, up from Florida, tan and (newly) buff at Starbucks for coffee. I told my father that in fact I wouldn't be going up to NYC to play softball tomorrow, but I'd be staying here with him, and he was actually grateful for that.

Now, all I have to do is get ready for the forty old people who will be showing up at 4 pm tomorrow. This means cleaning the house, and the yard, and making all the food.

For the food, I've decided to go with hors d'oeuvres that harken back to the early 70s, when these folks were young and spry and entertaining. I'm making pigs-in-the-blanket, rumaki (remember rumaki? It's chicken liver wrapped in bacon, doused with barbeque sauce, and cooked in a hot oven), shrimp cocktail, roasted vegetables en brochette, and a cheese board. In deference to my vegan sister-in-law, I'm also having humous. Since at least half the room will be Baptists (my father's senior citizens group meets at the local Baptist church; when I was little we used to go down and watch them do submersions in the Delaware River), I'm serving some iced tea along with the California Zinfandel I picked out.

Oh.

And I wanted some flowers. Lilacs! I love lilacs! They're my favorites. When I was working at the needle exchange, I would bring in a bunch this time of year and put them on the counter. The latin name for lilac is 'Syringa,' so I thought that was appropriate.

Anyways, I stopped at a florist, so-called, in Doylestown. Not only did the florist, so-called, not have any lilacs, but she told me that "they aren't in season yet; maybe we'll have them in a few weeks."

Uh huh.

I picked out some orange gerbera daisies and drove home with my booty, passing probably a dozen lilac bushes in full flower as I went the eight miles to the Humble Abode.

And now, at the late late hour of ten o'clock, I'm headed to bed. I have a verrrrry full day tomorrow. First I've got to clean this place, then I've got to make all that food. I'll be way too frazzled to do much in the way of socializing, so I'll busy myself passing around trays of rumaki and the like.

I think my father will be pleased. Especially when all the little old ladies present him with fudge and such.

And then it will be over. Praise be to God!

For the next decade, I should be able to make due with just baking a cake.

Hope for the best, folks!

And thanks again for the cards.

---

Email Problems

I don't know what the problem is.

Okay. Actually I do. My account with .Mac ran out, and I took my old sweet time renewing it. And I couldn't get the krrrush email address up and going again.

So, I'll have to spend countless hours on the phone with chirpy tech support people to solve that problem.

In the mean time, if'n you want to contact me, you can do so at raisedbywolves-at-mac-dot-com.

Cool?

Sorry about that.

---

Hit By A Truck

"The point of life," reads a profile on WorldLeathermen, "is not to arrive at your grave intact, but to slide in leaving a trail of your own sweat and blood, screaming, 'Holy Fuck! What a great ride!'"

I would be much closer to approximating that Dionysian ideal if every weekend of my life was like this weekend. And, probably, the 'sliding into the grave' would go down a lot quicker, too.

First, the context. I have to be at work at 7 am. That means, I get up around 5:30 am. After work, I hit Starbucks, hit the gym, and go grocery shopping. Sometimes picking up a video at Lackluster. I get home around 8 pm, get dinner on the table for my father, and finally get to bed around 11:30. So, monday through friday is all about Sleep Deprivation, and I do my best to make up for that on the weekends. I tend to avoid making plans for Friday night, because by the time 11 pm rolls around, I'm yawning like Carlsbad Cavern. But, I opted to make an exception to this rule of thumb.

Y'see, on Thursday, I was invited to Dine Out For Life. (The name of this apparently national fundraising event for AIDS organizations hits my ears as though it was a sentence passed down on someone who has recklessly abused the kitchen in his home... "You are hereby sentenced to Dine Out For Life!!!" Considering the lives of many New Yorkers I know, it's almost the standard.) Anyway, the deal is that you go out to a restaurant, and a portion of your tab goes to local organizations doing good work in the fight against HIV/AIDS.

The kind and wonderful men who thought of poor li'l ol' me, alone and barely stirring from my hearth in the Howling Wilderness of Bucks County, were two guys I know slightly, one from Inferno, and his boyfriend, a recent import to Philadelphia from the West Coast. They were planning on having their Dining Out For Life (...for Life!!!) experience up here in New Hope, and invited me to join them.

So, after work, I ran home, got my father all set with dinner, and headed down to meet them at the Starbucks in New Hope. The drive down the river was wonderful. Bucks County is all but unbearably gorgeous this time of year. The dogwoods and the cherry trees and apple trees and daffodils and everything are in bloom, and I was treated to breathtaking displays of bucolic beauty in the gathering dusk all the way there. We wandered the town for a while, unfortunately finding that Le Chateau Exotique (oops! gender agreement problems in that nomenclature!) shuttered for the night. Then, we repaired to the Raven.

Now, back in December, my Sir and I ate at the Raven when we made our tour of Pennsylvania. The meal we had then was absolutely extraordinary. My venison was outstanding. It was truly a meal to write home about. The Raven is now under new management, and it seems that there's been some kind of turnover in the kitchen staff. I had a corn chowder with bacon and halibut with Spring vegetables. The corn chowder was a disaster. Y'see, when soups made with cream sit too long, they "break," taking on the flavor and consistency of wallpaper paste. And this chowder had defenitely passed that point. And the halibut was nothing special. And the vegetables were undercooked. Alas.

But, the company and the conversation was wonderful. Absolutely nothing old or pastey there. And how cool to hang with other leathermen, just enjoying one another's company.

After dinner, go home, go to bed, get up at 5:30, go to work, work all day, go tearing outta there when the bell rang at 3:30... because I was driving down to Philadelphia to meet up with Icarus, a longtime internet correspondent who was in Philadelphia for the weekend to do some family stuff.

I packed a toybag, and I've been thinking all week about how I might make Icarus' trip to the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection a memorable one. I had all my chains in the back of the jeep, and threw my padlocks and boxing gloves in the bag.

Icarus and I met up at Milennium Coffee. And it worked kinda well. I got there first, ordered up my latte, and then asked for the key to the bathroom. Like the bathroom pass in high school, Milennium attaches the key to something big and bulky, to minimize the chances that you'll slip their bathroom key in your pocket and walk off into the night with it. In this case, it's a wooden stick, about 1 3/8" in diameter, and maybe eighteen inches long. When I emerged from the bathroom, there was a man I took to be Icarus standing at the counter. As he was engrossed in ordering his coffee (and probably wondering how disappointing that was going to be so far from Seattle), I walked behind him and gave his firm, luscious rump a good thwack with the bathroom key stick. And then we greeted each other warmly.

Icarus and I had met, briefly, years and years ago, when I spent a sublime night in the cage of Master Aubrey Sparks. As I remember it, while I was passing through the kitchen on my way down to the basement dungeon, Aubrey briefly introduced us. Icarus, as I recall, was bareass naked, standing there fixing himself a snack or something.

Icarus and I plunged right in to conversation. Blah blah blah blah blah. His keen intellectual acumen, spirited pessimism, omnivorous quest for Things To Know, and filthy filthy mind made him an interlocutory feast.

What Ho! Who should wander past Milennium while we were sitting talking but my Dining Out For Life ("...for Life!!!") companions from the previous evening!

Both being hungry, Icarus and I headed to the restaurant I had in mind, El Vez. But alas, El Vez had the Philadelphia equivalent of Bright Young Things spilling out onto the sidewalk. So we headed to a really good place called Villani, on Spruce Street. The food is good, and the crowd tends to be on the Bright Young Things end of the spectrum, but I've never had to wait more than a few minutes for a table.

And the food was sooooo much better than at the Raven. I had the cuban bread salad, which I've had before, and when I finish it, I have to fight down the urge to order up a second helping right away, and the a fish dish with Pacific rim spices that I also couldn't get enough of. And we split a chocolate pôt de crème for desert.

And, of course, much more of the blah-blah-blah. I couldn't get enough of Icarus and his thoughts and ideas. Such a great guy. Such great connection. I'll offer this one wee tidbit: at one point, it occured to me that SM presents the possibility of holding the Dionysian and Appollonian aspects of the erotic in perfect balance, so that neither one can subsume the other one. Sure beats yacking about Bush's plans to gut Social Security, huh?

But, alas, when I checked my watch as we were leaving, I was dismayed to realize that the hour was late. I would not have time to chain up Icarus and beat him senseless, as much as I dearly wanted to do that. I had to get in my jeep and drive home. I made this announcement, which was received with dismay equal to mine.

But... But... Icarus will be at Infernon this year! And although I'm flying rather than driving, so I won't have my chains with me, I got a raincheck and I'll make sure to cook up something special for him there.

And a side note, how much am I totally looking forward to going to Inferno??? Alpha will be there! Edge Play Guy from LA will be there! Mountain Climbing Guy will be there! And Icarus will be there! It looks like my dance card is full, and I haven't even sent in my check yet.

Fighting sleep on the way home wasn't too much of an issue. Thank the Lord for Rosenberger's Iced Tea! And all the singalong songs on my iPod.

The next morning, Saturday, was all about softball.

Last weekend, my father convinced me that since my enemies at the Weather Channel were predicting rain, there would be no softball, so I ended up staying home. Meanwhile, my team, the Ballbreakers, were playing and winning two games. Albeit in the rain. So this weekend, I told my father that even if the Weather Channel was predicting sleet, thunderstorms, and hailstones the size of canned hams, I was going to NYC to play softball.

Luckily, the games we were scheduled to play were at noon and 1:30, so I didn't have to leave the house until 8:30 instead of the crack of dawn, as is the case when we have 10 am games. The ride up through the drizzle, under grey skies, went smoothely. I didn't make it in time to meet up with the Ballbreakers outside the Dugout at 10:30, but I got to the fields at the East River Park about the same time they did.

Ah... the first softball game of the season.

Y'know, I have to admit, that faced with the prospect of getting up at an ungodly early hour on saturdays and driving two hours up and two hours back from now through August, I am tempted to just hang up my spikes and bat and glove and pack it in. But all it takes is some time spent on the field of dreams, and I'm committted again.

We had two games yesterday against the Wings. Not only are they sponsored by that pathetic excuse for a leatherbar called the Eagle, but they're kind of our arch rivals. Y'see, they're sort of the 1980 World Series Toronto Blue Jays, and we're the 1980 World Series Phillies. They have practice during the week. They have Team Meetings. They do Drills. And we're sort of a pudgey bunch of unkempt loveable wrecks with our shirt tails hanging out. And we have this knack for beating the pants off them. So it's not so much that we hate them, it's more like, they hate us and we hate them back. And, being the Ballbreakers, we do it with panache that they can't hope to aspire to.

Okay. First game. First inning. We win the coin toss and get to be the visiting team (last at-bat). I'm playing right field. The first guy up at bat hits the ball, a beautiful line drive, right at me. And the ball sails right by me. By the time I retrieved it, he had crossed home plate.

I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself!

I have no business playing softball! I suck! Can't hit, can't throw, can't catch. I suck suck suck suck suck.

Luckily, I was taken out of the field and became EP after that debacle. So I'd just be batting. Hopefully I wouldn't be making the out that loses the game for us at the plate. The Wings scored 4 in the first inning. We were demoralized.

At one point, we were down 9 to 3. Things were looking bad.

But then, we got our heads in the game, and started playing good ball.

Okay. So my first at-bat. We had two outs and hadn't scored in the inning. Their pitcher was inconsistent. She walked a few of our guys. So everybody up at bat would take at least one strike before looking for one that looked pretty. However, she seemed to find her stuff with me. I think I got one ball on her, before she sent one right over the plate. S-s-s-strike!!! Panicky, I went for the next one. I fouled. Strike two. So she was way ahead of me in the count.

Here comes the ball. Looks good. No-it-doesn't-yes-it-does. I swing. Crack. Solid connection. I hit easily get to first base. And after that, our bats come alive. I round the bases and cross home plate, and so do two more Ballbreakers. It's a two-out rally.

Cool.

And I did pretty well in my subsequent at-bats, too.

So in the first game, we managed to claw our way back from a 9-3 deficit. We're only one down. Final inning of the game. They're up by two. Winning the game. I come up at bat. Again, I get down in the count. Two strikes on me.

I could lose the game for the Ballbreakers.

Here comes the ball. I swing. Crack! I fly down the line to first base. Broken ankle and all. I'm on base, and I'm the tying run. The guy after me gets a hit. I advance to second. He's on first. So the tying run and the get-ahead run are now on base. Next batter gets an out. It's make or break. Our next guy hits a beauty. Finds the hole. I head for home. The runner behind me follows me around the bases.

We've won the game.

But wait! What's this? It seems that our third base coach, who totally knows better, touched the runner, the guy behind me, when he was crossing third. That means the runner doesn't score. That means it's a tie game.

Oh hell.

So, we won, but we didn't win. I know I know I know. Almost only counts in horseshoes. But still. What a great goddamn game it was!

Second game, once again, we had to fight back from losing in the early innings, but we ended up solidly beating the Wings by 13-7. And making some amazing plays along the way.

Oh. And you gotta hear this.

Our coach pulled a muscle in his calf. He needed a courtesy runner. This was in the first game. So at one point, while everybody else is on the field, I offered to massage his calf for him. He gratefully accepted. So my magic fingers are going to work on his calf.

"No, a little to the right. No, wait, back to the left! Agh! Yeah! Right there! Oh man yeah! Right there! Oh that really hurts!"

"Yeah?" I said, with an evil glint in my eye, "I'm making you hurt? Tell me about how I'm making you hurt?"

Although in agony, he laughed, and got right into it. And so did I. "Yeah... You wanna hurt for me, buddy? You wanna take some hurtin' from me, huh? Yeah, tell me how you want to hurt for me."

So after that, whenever I was up at bat, to cheer me on, my coach would be yelling out, "It hurts! It hurts! Oh you're hurting me!"

And considering my performance at bat, it seemed to do the trick.

And another great thing happened yesterday. Y'see, we're big on nicknames. One of our guys, very early on the first season we played, somehow got the incongruous appelation of "Filthy Whore." Whenever he's up at bat, we start in with his personal cheer: "Fill Thee Whore! Fill Thee Whore!" This always serves to totally psyche out the other team. Gosh, if that's how they treat their own guys, what are we in for? And there's Oompah (from the Oompah Loompahs), and one of our number who had a drug problem was Dana Plato for awhile, after the star of Diff'rent Strokes who was arrested robbing a liquor store so she could get money for crack, and Eve for a newcomer who aspired to strip a player from the original Ballbreakers of his position of catcher, and Gilligan and Skipper for a couple who... uh... bear an eerie resemblance.

Now I've been called FistFest, which is the name my team has given to Inferno, although as I've explained, fisting is not a big thing for me there. And they called me Jeffrey Dahmer when we played in the tournement in Milwaukee, but quit it when they feared it would upset the locals.

So a few weeks ago, when it was announced that the Nickname Committee had come up with a Good One for one of our members who has put on some pounds in the off season (He's now Fat Actress), I opined that I feel I've been slighted by the efforts of the Nickname Committee. They've never quite come up with a nickname that suits me.

So yesterday, broken ankle and all, I hit the ball and fly down the baseline to first. I'm arguably the best base runner on our team. I can move. Fly! Fly like the wind! On many occasions, I have literally beaten the ball to first base. Watching me run from the dugout, one of my teammates said something like, 'Look at him run! Damn! He's like a gazelle! Like a deer!'

And thus was I christened Bambi.

And I love that!

Besides the innocent young fawn with the huge eyes of Disney fame, there's all of those Sex Kitten associations.

So Bambi it is.

Okay. So after winning the second game, we retired to Ty's on Christopher Street to celebrate.

And as I was walking from my jeep to the bar, my hurting set in. Oh man. All my parts hurt. My moustache hurt. But especially, my lower back, my ankle, and muscles I pulled in my thighs. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch. And sitting in the bar, I just started to stiffen up. So that when it was time to shift position or go and refill my plate with complementary hotwings, I would just about cry. Ouch ouch ouch ouch.

Uh oh.

Y'see, last night GMSMA held a dungeon demo. And I had a longstanding date to flog one of the founding members of that august organization, a man who is a member of my SM and Spirituality Discussion Group. And no matter how good you are, you just can't flog someone from a supine position. And I absolutely positively would not back out.

So what to do.

I hobbled down the street to the Factory Cafe and had a latte to think it over.

Walk it off. That'll help. Walk it off.

So I did. I walked up to Dave's Army Navy at 6th Ave and 16th Street. As I went, it got easier and easier to move. But it still hurt a lot. And at Dave's, which fortuitously was having a sale, when I would drop a shirt I was looking at on the floor, it would take some planning to negotiate how I was going to pick it up. But, I found three pairs of shorts at good prices. Then I walked back to my jeep.

I was still not sure if I would be able to pull this off. Ankle, thighs, and back were all giving me a lot of trouble. But I decided to persevere.

The GMSMA dungeon demo was being held at Paddles. After the LURE closed, GMSMA would hold them at the Eagle. This just didn't work. The space just didn't lend it'self to it. And the crowd of chelsea boys in flip-flops were much more interested in tossing back appletinis than they were in SM.

The big question about Paddles is that it's largely a het club. Would gay men turn out for it?

Well, lemme tell ya, if they don't they're fools. Paddles totally rocks. It's an amazing space. Great feel, great equipement, and you can get banana splits at their ice cream bar.

I greeted the men of GMSMA whom I knew, staked out a piece of equipment for the scene I was going to do, and then--with excrutiating pain--changed from my softball uniform into my leathers.

Well, when the doors opened, the place really started to fill up. Attendance was really good. There was a nice whipping scene, Diabolique did a great scene with a verrrry hot boy up in the loft, lots of good bondage, a really beautiful sculputre made with clothespins, candlewax, and a guy, and the like.

My partner for the evening, founder, arrived in due time. We had to wait for a bondage scene to conclude before we could start in, so we sat and talked. He is such a wonderful, wonderful man. When he asked me if I would flog him at the dungeon demo, I said yes without hesitation. When I first met him, I was pretty awed by him. Founder of GMSMA, founder of MAsT, author of an amazing book (I still haven't read the final chapter because I don't want it to end, to have to say goodbye to the characters) keynote speaker at the recent Leather Leadership Conference in Phoenix, he is one of the great minds of mondo BDSM.

Then, we started in on our journey together. founder has bad knees, so standing for that length of time wouldn't be an option. So, I found a nice piece of dungeon furniture that would allow him to sit, braced with some borrowed sofa pillows (I playfully batted him with the sofa pillows at the git go, suggesting that we do a scene that would confirm the suspicious of the critics of the ethos of Safe Sane and Consensual, which he had a hand in authoring), and restrained his wrists.

Okay. First off.

founder is not quite the regular gym goer.

But man oh man! The back on that man! This wonderful canvas for me! Brutish proportions! I was slavering! At the starting point of pure physical, animal flesh, this was definitely going to work.

My biorhythms must be peaking or something.

I had played some great softball that afternoon, and speaking as objectively and as humbly as I can, I gave a great flogging that evening. I just felt so on top of my game. Every stroke I laid was just where I wanted it, and with exactly the intensity that I was after. Because the light was dim, I asked founder to be vocal. And he was. All manner of moans and grunts and growls were coming out of him. Such wonderful poetry.

And we just went to this amazing place together. It was beautiful. I didn't want it to end. He just gave me so much. It was positively one of the best flogging experiences I have known.

When it was over, I caressed him, thanked him, and reluctantly removed my restraints from his wrists. And we returned the sofa pillows. He got to his knees, and thanked me properly, by kissing my boots.

And it was over. We had gone to that amazing place. Visited SM land, and jarringly came back to planet earth. At this point, the place was packed. Other scenes were wrapping up. The Paddles regulars were starting to come in.

Time to grab a quad venti latte before the Starbucks at 16th and 8th closed, and drive home.

My back was bothering me some on the drive home. When I got into the driveway, I could barely get out of the car.

"Bed!" I thought. "Bed."

Slowly shuffling, I managed to take Faithful Companion for his final walk of the night. "Please don't pull, buddy... okay? Daddy's hurting really bad when you do that..." I brushed my teeth, stiffled my groans and ows as I stripped, climbed into bed, and I was out like a light.

And so this morning.

I feel like I've been hit by a truck. Everything hurts. Ow ow ow ow ow!

But my head is filled with joyous images. The flowers of early Spring in Bucks County; big built Icarus smiling at me as we kissed goodbye in Philadelphia; the ball I hit sailing over the heads of the opposing players; my foot slapping home plate as I score; founder's wonderful back reddening under the ministrations of my floggers; the warm smiles of welcome from my fellow leathermen...

I'll welcome that truck turning down my street anytime.

---

Rebounding

Public Service Announcement: Absolutely there is still time to take part in my father's eightieth birthday festivities! My sincere thanks to everybody who has sent email with the subject line "I'm Not A Vicious Psychopath, I Swear" and received the mailing address in response! The email address is krrrush-at-mac-dot-com. And there's three r's in krrrush.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled SingleTails posting

I am feeling good!

Okay, first off, tonight at the gym, when I jumped on the scale, I all but gave a squeal when the digital read out said 190.1. All those months of hard work have been rewarded.

A big change I've made is keeping a training log. I have my routine all written out. In a grid, I keep track of the weights I use for each set. If I fail (and when you're lifting weights, failure is what you want to happen), I circle the number. If I get through the movement without any problem, I draw a little up arrow indicating that next time I want to up the weights. And the weights I'm lifting have gone up and up and up.

So that's cool.

But wait, there's more!

At work, one of my sandinista boys has spread his tiny wings and flown the coop! A few weeks ago, Zen boy came to me with the lastest idea of what he wants to do with the rest of his life. His plan was for him to go to restaurant school and be a chef. My advice to him was that restaurant work is really really tough work. And before he decided to make a career of it, he should get a job in a restaurant and see what it's like to do it for a living. And so he did! Oh man, I'm so proud of my little Zen boy.

...but that's not all!

What a great weekend I have coming up! On Thursday, I'm getting together with a guy I know from Inferno and his new boyfriend. We're going to have dinner at the Raven, which is participating in Dining Out For Life, to benefit local AIDS organizations. Then on Friday, this amazing man from Seattle, one of my favorite email correspondents, is going to be in Philadelphia. So I'm gonna go down and meet him, and then beat him! Saturday is softball with the Ballbreakers (we're playing at a reasonable hour, and in the fields in East River Park). That night, I'll be attending the GMSMA dungeon demo at Paddles (adieu, Spiegel!), and flogging a man who is... well, let's just say I'm awfully fond of the ground on which he walks.

...and if you think that's all, you're wrong!!!

So Saturday, my father convinced me that it was raining buckets in NYC and there was no point in me going up there to play softball. (Wrong!) But I took the opportunity to head down to the Bike Stop. And... And... I met this man! It was one of those we-talked-and-talked-and-talked experiences, totally hitting it off. He's absolutely impressive in the intelect department, and seriously kinky.

And hot?

Okay.

Deep breath.

Of all the men who have appeared on Sex In The City, my hands down favorite is Harry Goldenblatt. From his first appearance as Charlotte's divorce lawyer, I though he was all that. And this... this... Man totally reminds me of Harry. Although thankfully not as pale as Harry.

Okay. And here's the skinny. I feel myself once again to be comfortably in the driver's seat.

Maybe that's not the best thing for me in terms... y'know... of Growing As A Person or whatever, but I am not complaining.

Now don't go and get all excited. We just met. Is all. Who knows where it's gonna go.

Oh, and lest you're concerned about me breaking with tradition and getting interested in a man who lives close enough to me that I can get to him on a tank of gas or less, he's off to Sunny San Diego for the next six months.

So it's all good here.

Over and out.

---

Howard Is Eighty

Well, not yet.

On May 7th, my father will celebrate his eightieth birthday. And I'm planning a surprise birthday part for him. It should be pretty cool. My brother and his wife are coming up from Florida and will make a surprise visit. I've called all the folks from his senior citizens group, neighbors, friends who live in the area, and they'll all be coming by here around 4 pm.

Thus far, the preparation has involved a lot of phone conversations with elderly people. Who just talk and talk and talk and talk. On and on. Blah blah blah blah blah. "Oh I haven't seen you since you were seven years old! Now I guess you would have been seven... Let's see now, when Jane your mother died... Oh she was a wonderful woman, I guess you never knew her really, why I remember once she..."

Although there was one interesting thing that came to light. Apparently, my mother, who died from cancer when I was three and a half, would tell me that she wouldn't be around to raise me. Things like, "Now I want you to finish all your peas, so you'll grow up big and strong, because after all, I'm not going to be around to see that."

Uh huh.

That's interesting on several levels.

For one thing, the long-time therapy goer in me wonders if that might have sewn the seeds for all kinds of abandonment issues. Or whatever.

For another, my parents made the decision not to let my brother and sister (fifteen and thirteen years my senior respectively) know that my mother was dying. They were just told that mother was "sick." My brother said he figured it out, but my sister didn't. Therefore, my mother's death was a huge shock to them. This lead to a sort of movie-made-for-television situation whereby in the last conversation that my sister had with my mother, my mother told her that she was a tramp and an embarrassment. And in the last conversation my brother had with my mother, she told him that no good son would disgrace his family by being a homosexual. And then, y'know, she up and died.

Traumatizing, no?

My sister ran away from home to go and live with a rock band on a commune (this was 1969), and my brother started this odd process of doing a census of the little village of our train set. He would spend hours down in the basement where it was set up, scrupulously recording the deaths and births and weddings and divorces of the imaginary families who lived in the little plastic houses served by the Lionel Train that whizzed around in an endless circle through their neighborhood. And once a week, every Saturday, he would clean his room, a process that involved taking every stick of furniture out of the room and stacking it up in the hallway, then vacuuming and sweeping and scrubbing, and then thoroughly cleaning the bed and dresser and chair and carpet and nightstand as he replaced them.

My father imported his parents to come and look after me. And my Nana and Pop proceeded to do their best to Spoil Me Rotten.

And most of these people that I'm inviting to the party haven't seen me since this wacky wacky period.

And here I am, all grown up, living here again, and serving up shrimp cocktail and pigs-in-blankets for them. (I want the party to have a sort of Early Seventies feel to it so I'm planning the hors d'oeuvres accordingly. Desert is gonna be jello cubes topped with a dollop of Cool-Whip®.)

And, I've got a hell of a lot of work to do in getting the house cleaned up. And, the yard. I'm worried that the "Shucks, We're Just Two Guys Batchin' It Here And We're Not Much Good With Housework" schtick will only cover so many sins.

Oh. Listen up. Here's where you come in, Dear Reader...

Y'see, my father loves to get mail. When someone sends him a postcard, I hear about it for the next three weeks. And birthday cards are just the greatest thing ever.

So I know it's a pain in the butt and all, and I know you've never met the man (and possibly never met me), but would you do me a favor and send a birthday card to my father?

My inclination would be to just post our mailing address here. Perhaps I'm being overly cautious, but this is the World Wide Internet afterall, and Lord knows what kind of viscious psychopaths might be lurking out there. (And if you're a single viscious psychopath who appreciates... Well, I'll save that for another time.) But I guess I ought to vet you all.

So we'll work it this way.

Step One: Send me an email to krrrush(at)mac.com (that's three r's in krrrush) and put "I Am Not A Viscious Psychopath, I Swear!" in the subject line.
Step Two: Wait for me to send you our mailing address by return email.
Step Three: On your next trip to the supermarket or the drug store, pick up a birthday card appropriate for an eighty year old man. Note that my father is heterosexual. So if you want to send one of those Zany Wacky Sexy cards with messages like, "I hope you have a Hot Time on your birthday!!!" that's fine, but make sure it's a scantily clad female rather than a male that's featured. We're serving cheesecake, not beefcake.
Step Four: Inscribe "Happy Birthday, Howard!" with the writing implement of your choice. Maybe adding something like "I understand that you hate it when your son goes away for the weekend, but I hope you appreciate how much I like to have him come visit, and after all, he is a forty year old man" or whatever.
Step Five: Slap a stamp on the envelope, write out the address, and drop it in the nearest mailbox.

I see a hand in the back. Is there a question?

"Uh yeah... Could I send an email bearing birthday greetings to your father?"

No. No that wouldn't work. You see, my father refers to my trusty laptop as "That Thing Of Yours" and is forever peppering me with questions about How Do Movies Get On That Thing Of Yours and How Much Does It Cost When You Send A Letter To Someone From That Thing Of Yours and Do You Have Problems With Getting A Lot Of Spiced Ham On That Thing Of Yours (investigation here revealed that my father had seen something on the news about "Spam." We're talking about a man who has never used an ATM card. Email would not be appropriate in this situation.

Oh. And Step Six: Earn my undying gratitude!

T'anks!

---

Blue Moon

In New York City, relationships are tricky things. I always used to say that the big problem in New York is that there's always someone standing behind you. A reasonably attractive gay man in possession of an income and a place to live must be in search of a partner. (Apologies to Jane Austen there.) So you go out and meet a guy who you like a lot, but wait... who's that standing behind him? Someone with a better body and a better job and a cooler apartment. And meanwhile, he's looking over your shoulder at the guy with the better body and the better job and the cooler apartment than you have, and so you just exchange "see ya around, be well"'s with each other and you're once again plunged into the maelstrom.

When I moved out here to the Howling Wilderness, I viewed with jaundiced eye the rural homo phenomenon of coupling. They're like oxygen atoms out here, always in dyads. But it's a matter of magnetic attraction. They come close to each other, and fffthoop they combine to form a couple. But as soon as a free radical comes to close, they part and a new coupling is formed.

Okay.

Perhaps I was a wee bit too free with my derision. (I know... Me??? Unbelievable.) Because what I've come to understand is that being single here in the Howling Wilderness is way way way different than being single in Gotham.

Y'see, it can be crushingly and excruciatingly lonely.

We're talking, No one to go to the movies with ever. Nobody to make dinner with. Nobody to go canoeing with. When you see friends and acquaintances, it's out at the local watering hole, and that's because you're all there hunting up the next Little Mister.

The obvious answer is to lower your standards. If he has a pulse, he's Mr. Right. But I spent way too much time as New Yorker to have that meet with much success. Be an asshole to our waiter or dis Starbucks and I'm punching my fists through the arms of my leather jacket as I head out the door.

And, I'm soooo leery of making an Unwise Choice. (Jane Austen again. I really ought to re-read some of her stuff. Or, y'know, watch some of thhe movie adaptations. Decision: Rent Clueless!) Things just seem so much more frought out here. I mean, in Gotham, you meet, you fuck, you date, you hang out, he mistreats a waiter or bemoans a Starbucks opening up on his block and you're gone. But out here, it would probably require A Conversation and stuff. And they're probably all about monogamy out here.

So, y'know, I have nobody to go to the movies with.

But I make due. I've got the krew at Starbucks, I've got trips to NYC for softball and such, I've got the Bike Stop down in Philadelphia. I've got a garage to clear out.

And I've got a Blockbuster membership card.

Remember the Carrie Bradshaw principle: "The most important relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And in the event that you find someone who appreciates everything about you that you do, then that's just fabulous."

---

Where The Hell Have I Been?

Okay.

Nothing cataclysmic has gone down here.

Be reassured, life is much the same. With a few new additions. Fr'instance, I now have a kayak. On hot summer days (and maybe this summer we'll have a couple of those), I'll be paddling around at nearby Lake Galena after a long, hard day at the unairconditioned woodshop. And maybe getting arms like anacondas and deltoids like cantaloup in the process.

And I am making a lot of progress cleaning out the garage. I've decided everything must go. And I'm pricing welding machines. And then I'll just have to take possession of my St. Andrew's Cross and my amazing cage--still in Providence, RI--and then I'll be all set up to whip local boys.

So.

Why the prolonged silence?

Okay. I'll spill.

There was the guy from LA that I met the last night of MAL. And we did this incredible, mind-roasting edge play scene. And then, a couple of months later, he was in NYC, so I went up, and we spent an incredible weekend together. More edge play. And I whipped him. And I just run out of superlatives and favorable adjectives describing that and don't manage to do it justice.

And about this time I made The Error. And what was The Error?

Simple.

Y'see, I mistook connection and intensity in the context of a scene with emotional availability.

In pretty short order, I was all kinds of obsessive. Things had that Life Is Elsewhere quality, so detrimental to peace of mind when you're living out here in this howling wilderness.

It was bleak, lemme tell ya. And I was hurtin'.

I was feeling disregarded, and unappreciated.

So I gave a call to Special Guy. Now living in San Francisco. My purpose in calling was to thank him. Because all the time we were together, and even still, Special Guy made me feel like I was something special.

So I offered that little pronouncement, and then Special Guy asked what was up. And I told him. And he had some words of wisdom to offer.

"Look at it from his point of view..." began those words of wisdom.

Oh. Right.

Imagine the boot was on the other foot.

Let's say it's a few years back. I've got this great, busy life going in NYC. And I meet a guy whom I like a lot at MAL. And he lives in... let's say a small town in Eastern Oregon. With his aged father. Whom he takes care of. And there he'll be for the next half decade or so.

I probably wouldn't be busying myself picking out patterns for the diamond plate to install in my relocated dungeon in Puyallup, OR, now would I?

I'd let the guy know I like him, and if further opportunities to get together present themselves, I'd jump at it, but I'd make sure that both of us were being realistic about expectations of where this is going. Cuz in the short run, it's not going much of anywhere.

With this in mind, reflecting back on my interactions with Edge Player, he's been nothing but perfect. Always honest, considerate, thoughtful, and filthy minded.

So now that things have snapped back into focus, now that I have a little bit of perspective, I'm ready to move on.

Clean out the garage and set up a dungeon and welding studio. Spend as much time as I can this summer on the water in my new kayak. Meet men. Tend my garden. Get krushes. Play softball.

And, post a little bit more frequently now that I'm not a whirling vortex of emotional turmoil!

---