Lunar Pennsylvania
'Member a couple of weeks ago when I was whining about how sick I was? Well guess who spent the week battling a bad cold?
Unbelievable.
For the past three days, when I wasn't working, I was sleeping. And sleeping and sleeping and sleeping. For no reason I can think of, I'm not doing much in the way of medicating these days. And my bed just felt so right. I still have the winter flannel sheets on, and on top the Warmest Down Comforter In The World. Ask Alpha when you see him! It was way too warm for him. Feverish as I was, it was mighty toasty in there. I felt like I was sleeping in a warm fuzzy cloud. And sleep I did. I actually skipped Starbucks and skipped church on Wednesday night (I. Skipped. Starbucks. I. Skipped. Church. You read it right) and just came home straight from work and went to bed. And slept in an hour the next morning, making me late for work, but they were lucky I was there at all. If'n I worked for a place that offered paid sick days, I wouldn't have been.
Misery! Misery! Misery!
Okay. Here's the good part.
Last night, at 4:30 a.m., I was suddenly wide awake. And I immediately realized I felt good. I guess it had broke.
And my mind was just behaving like the school of Athens or something. It was all so clear.
I guess my body had been working overtime fighting the infection. And suddenly, the battle was over. My lymphocytes had won. And all that psychic energy became surplus in an instant.
I came up with all these ideas for work--the new job at work and all. Some of it was twenty-twenty hindsight, along the lines of "what I should have said" and therefore useless, but a lot of it was good. (I'm doing really well with the new job at work.)
But here's the really cool thing: I started thinking about the moon.
The moon. Living here iin the Howling Wilderness, I'm aware of the moon. Every night, when I walk Faithful Companion, down the driveway, left onto Tollgate Road, down to the Rock By The Phone Pole where F.C. invariably turns around, crossing from the pee side of the road to the poop side of the road (F.C. is sooooo particular about these things), then back again, stopping so my boy-boy can make, up the driveway, and home... there's the moon. Or not. Sometimes, when it's only a sliver, it's obscured by clouds. Or a new moon. Then it's really dark. But more often than not, there it is, hanging high in the sky, riding through the Zodiac signs. The moon. When it's full, it's bright as daylight out here. My shadow is clear on the road under my feet. The milky light even sparkles with F.C.'s little stream of piss. ("Atta boy!" I always offer encouragingly.)
The moon.
And then, last night, I had this idea.
That isn't the moon riding overhead, it's the earth. Somehow, I'm on the moon.
It was such a strong impression. Like I had solved some great mystery.
Right! That's it! I'm on the moon.
All that stuff... The men I'd date, running the needle exchange, long weekends away, the front room of my apartment with the St. Andrew's Cross in front of the brick fireplace, that was back on earth. Not here. Not here on the moon.
Now, oddly, I see only by the light reflected from the earth. Now, there's less gravity. Less to hold me down. I head off in one direction, and my feet tend to leave the ground, tethered only by my slender air hose. And at this point, I've been breathing that canned air, brought somehow from earth, for so long, I don't even notice it anymore.
Life on the moon.
When I was a little kid, there was a show I loved on television. It was a british sci-fi thing, in syndication, called "Space: 1999" The premise was simple. On the moon, the United Kingdom had built something called 'Moonbase Alpha.' It must have been the UK, because everyone there seemed to have BBC accents. Before the action of the show, a catastrophe had occurred. On the far side of the moon, a repository for nuclear waste had been established. There was some kind of a mishap, and an explosion, and a chain reaction, so that the force of the explosion was great enough to propel the moon out of earth's orbit. And Moonbase Alpha along with it. And in that startrekian way, space is not endless empty void, but every week, they'd be encountering some new thing out there.
I was fascinated with the show. My lifelong hobby--drawing floorplans and elevations--for a while became drawing layouts and elevations of Moonbase Alpha, envisioning it as it was portrayed in the show, as "New London," a sort of model city in geodesic domes, as earth of course, had become an unsavory place because they didn't recycle way back then in the '70s or something.
But I think the thing that really intrigued me about "Space: 1999" was that they dealt. It was like, Okay, the earth is gone, who knows what we're going to encounter out there, what's for lunch?
Here on the moon, it's different, but you make due.
And, I get to make trips back earth. Why, I'll be there tomorrow for softball practice. And it's an important practice. I'll be spending the day on the pitcher's mound. First time ever. I'll be the pitcher.
And then I'll come back here to the moon.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Score!
Well. This weekend sure was better than last weekend. One hundred percent Norovirus free!! And... And... I remain the undisputed chicken roasting champion of... um... Plumstead Township at least.
On Saturday night, I had a sleepover date. With a man we'll call Jersey Guy. Jersey Guy is this built, inked, bushy-bearded man. He's an amazing kisser, and he throws a great f*ck. But all that I knew. What I didn't know was that he's great to talk to, and great to spend time with. And he even said the magic words: "I'm an Episcopalian."
*sigh*
And Jersey Guy says he likes my mind.
Having a sleepover party with Jersey Guy rocked. How wonderful to curl up next to another man all night long, to feel his body next to mine.
I love the bodies of men. Just the heft of them. The physical presence that they have. So solid and real. So there. And there's something so sublime about having one in bed next to you. Especially after the two of you have done your level best to spend your passionate desire for one another. That just makes it so nice.
Jersey Guy and I have the potential to go places together.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And this week at work went gangbusters, too. I have this new job at my job. I'm coordinating the production of all of the miscellaneous stuff we make. Let's say that during installation of a kitchen, the door on one of the cabinets cracks. (Hey. It happens. It's wood. We don't grow the trees, y'know.) We've got to make a replacement door. The order comes into the shop, and it gets passed over to me. And I'm responsible for making sure that it gets made, sanded, finished, drilled for hardware, packed and shipped. Got it?
I inherited this job when the guy who had been doing it left suddenly. He worked off of this cumbersome spreadsheet. A list of all the miscellaneous jobs underway. About fifty in total.
Keeping track of these was sort of maddening. And so, I decided to make this new job a little easier. I reformatted the spreadsheet, so that now, you know what's going on and where everything is at a glance. And all the various departments know exactly what I'm hoping for out of them every day when they arrive at the shop. All I have to do is take some time at the end of the day and update everything. Which takes about a half an hour.
So in away, I got this new job, and made it not a job. I mean, anybody could do this in their spare moments.
There are other aspects of the departed guy's position that I'll be taking on. Receiving the raw materials, helping with the QC of stuff before it goes out. But all that I'll pretty much take in stride. And I get to learn how to drive a forklift.
And I'm thrilled about that. Next time I head to the Bike Stop, I want to be wearing a tshirt that says, "Hi. I'm a licensed forklift operator. And of course that means I'm great in bed." Cuz it does, right?
When the time comes for me to sit down with the powers what be and talk about a pay increase for this new job, I'm gonna be asking for an additional $2.00 an hour. Hey: I bring value to Wuperior Soodcraft! I'm great at this elegant and simple systems stuff. Piece of cake for me. I can make a whole lot of things better. But I want to get paid for doing it.
Hopefully, I won't drive the forklift into a wall before that conversation goes down.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Even if I get the additional $2.00 an hour, I'm still gonna be looking for another job. If you think that will put me on easy street, be aware that it will bring my annual income up to about $25,000. Which is still chicken feed. And not enough to allow me to do stuff like SmokeOut in Las Vegas and CLAW at the end of April.
I heard from one of the two cool jobs that I'd be perfect for, and it wasn't good news. But, I sent email to the folks at the other cool job that I'd be perfect for, reiterating my interest in the position and stressing once again that I'd be perfect for it, and got a chipper email back saying that the process is still ongoing. So I still have a shot there.
You all do me a favor and keep your fingers crossed, 'kay?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And, finally, this may well be the week that sees some warmer weather. As in, sitting on the porch of Starbucks enjoying a cigar with my latté. That would be most welcome. And hopefully in the not too distant future, I'll be putting my kayak in the water.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That whipping scene I'm hoping is in my future? 'Member that?
Well, out of the blue, I got this email from this verrrrry hot musclebear in Tennessee. He explained, briefly, that he's a Top, but lately has felt a desire to be whipped. And, he was wondering if I might be the man to do it. He asked me to tell him something about myself, and to give him an idea of how I go about whipping a man.
Here's what I said in my reply email...
"Several years ago, I was mentored into the whipping scene. Until I first cracked a whip, I didn't think it was for me. Seemed so extreme, and it hurt so bad. But the man who brought me along described to me how the man you're whipping goes through an incredible experience, endorphins get pumping, and one by one, ego defenses are stripped away, and you get to the core of a man. It's the responsibility of the Top to be there, holding him, as he puts himself back together, Andrew told me.
With a lot of practice, I got good enough to use my whip on a human back (as opposed to shrubbery and such that I use for practice). And it was an incredible experience. The guy very quickly got this big happy grin on his face. He was flying, hooting and hollering with every crack. After several more great experiences, Andrew suggested to me that I ought to 'go down,' get a taste of what I dished out. So we made an appointment for him to whip me.
When I woke up that morning, my first conscious thought was: "Call it off. Just call Andrew, tell him you can't go through with it." But I talked myself in off the ledge. If I only stand up for a couple of hits, at least I can say I did it. And I've had oral surgery, so it's not like I won't survive it. That night, we met up. Andrew secured my hands and wrists to a St. Andrew's Cross, and started in on me. Going very light and easy at first, so I could get my blood up. And these feelings just started welling up in me. I was laughing, I was crying, I was making a noise that was both and neither. Afterwards--for weeks afterwards--I felt like a dam had broken somewhere within me. I was living a new life, feeling things more deeply, letting myself be moved by friends, by food, by movies, by music... Just getting carried away. I had this feeling I had never had before, like nothing could hurt me now, like I knew that I had strength deep down inside I could draw on that could get me through it all.
Almost three years ago now, my stepmother died, and I left my life in New York City and moved back here to Pennsylvania to look after my father. It was a rough transition. I have a job I like a lot, a great relationship with my dad, and a lot of good going on, but it gets really lonely.
Every September, I head to southeast Michigan for a BDSM event called Inferno. In advance this past year, I decided that it was time, once again, for me to go down. I proposed to a buddy of mine from San Diego who goes by 'Roadkill' that he have the honors, and he was happy to oblige.
This time, it was different. Almost from the first, I was crying, weeping, sobbing, screaming. Roadkill kept at it. My friend John, who is Roadkill's ex, came and stood at the other side of the cross I was lashed to, whispering to me, offering me words of encouragement. But it didn't do a lot of good. I was howling from the pain. Roadkill let me know that he wanted three more out of me, and we counted them down, three, two, one. After the last one, it was like I broke. John told me, "It's okay, it's over, you made it." "Oh John," I answered, "Now it's worse. I'm still afraid, but now I don't know what I'm afraid of." And the bottom dropped out of my world. I just went right to hell. All the pain, all the grief, all the loneliness I'd been stuffing away so I could deal with everything I had to deal with just came pouring out of me. It was a dam break alright. A fuckin deluge.
But after that, I have a clarity I didn't have before. I know I'm hurting, I know I'm in pain, I know I'm lonely. But it's alright. Because my eyes are open to everything I do have. And it's all good.
So that's a little bit about the role that whipping has had in my life.
As to how I'd handle you, we'd meet, we'd talk, have a meal together, spend some time. Make sure that you're comfortable with me, and that I'm comfortable with you. That there's a connection there. Back at my place, you'd meet my dad (sorry, ya gotta, but he's a good guy; he'll want to tell you all about what he did in World War II, that kind of thing). Relax some. Both of us unwind, then we'd go out to the garage. I'd light some candles, put on some music, get limbered up, you'd take off your shirt, let me take a look at your back, then I'd put you up against the cross. And then we'd start in.
At that point, I don't know what to tell you. Because I don't know--and maybe you don't know--what's in your heart. So where the journey takes us from there is up to the gods. But ultimately, it'll be a good place."
He wrote back to say... basically, that he's in. That he doesn't think he could do better.
Even though I haven't met him, and even though I'm only whipping very special men these days, men I fall in love with, men I can hold in my heart before, during, and after without reservation, I think I'm in, too. If he makes the trip up here from Tennessee. Ya never know about these things.
But gosh, I feel so competent in that department lately. The 'holding in my heart' department. I feel... very... --how to express this?-- very compassionate. That's the great Buddhist virtue, isn't it? Compassion.
This beating heart of mine just seems to be beating in sync with some deeper rhythm.
Maybe because it's Lent.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Howard's got a girlfriend! Howard's got a girlfriend!
Well, not really.
Howard, of course, would be my dad.
Every Wednesday night at church they're having these programs during Lent. We start off with Evening prayer (which I miss, I'm not wild about that service), then Mass, then we all head to the Parish Hall for a light supper (and they've been excellent), and then there's a program. (In the programs, we're talking about Death. We discussed spiritual aspects of death, had a presentation from a woman who works for a hospice program, and last week, a lawyer came and talked to us about living wills and directives and medical power of attorney and stuff. And then we go back to church and say the Stations of the Cross (my favorite is the 'scourging at the pillar, of course), and then we say Compline.
Compline totally rocks. Compline, a.k.a. "Night Prayer" is the best. It's pure poetry. "Let we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life find rest in Thy eternal changelessness." Isn't that great?
Anyway, attendance at these wednesday evenings... ...it's pretty much me and a bunch of old people. And one of the old people is this really great woman. Her mother was my Sunday School teacher, who first taught me "I will sing a song of the saints of God." Among other things, she does volunteer work at the local prison. Anyway, for Lent, she's decided to visit all the shut-ins in the parish. And that meant my dad. And it went down on Friday night.
When I asked my father how the visit went when I got home, he was all kinds of bubbly! Bubbly, that is, for my dad. He worried that he had talked her ear off ("No! You? I can't believe that!") and peppered me with questions about her. Although I don't know much.
Self-consciousness? Curiousity?
Now what's that stand like>
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Anyway, that's it for tonight. I'm tired. Another week awaits.
Well. This weekend sure was better than last weekend. One hundred percent Norovirus free!! And... And... I remain the undisputed chicken roasting champion of... um... Plumstead Township at least.
On Saturday night, I had a sleepover date. With a man we'll call Jersey Guy. Jersey Guy is this built, inked, bushy-bearded man. He's an amazing kisser, and he throws a great f*ck. But all that I knew. What I didn't know was that he's great to talk to, and great to spend time with. And he even said the magic words: "I'm an Episcopalian."
*sigh*
And Jersey Guy says he likes my mind.
Having a sleepover party with Jersey Guy rocked. How wonderful to curl up next to another man all night long, to feel his body next to mine.
I love the bodies of men. Just the heft of them. The physical presence that they have. So solid and real. So there. And there's something so sublime about having one in bed next to you. Especially after the two of you have done your level best to spend your passionate desire for one another. That just makes it so nice.
Jersey Guy and I have the potential to go places together.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And this week at work went gangbusters, too. I have this new job at my job. I'm coordinating the production of all of the miscellaneous stuff we make. Let's say that during installation of a kitchen, the door on one of the cabinets cracks. (Hey. It happens. It's wood. We don't grow the trees, y'know.) We've got to make a replacement door. The order comes into the shop, and it gets passed over to me. And I'm responsible for making sure that it gets made, sanded, finished, drilled for hardware, packed and shipped. Got it?
I inherited this job when the guy who had been doing it left suddenly. He worked off of this cumbersome spreadsheet. A list of all the miscellaneous jobs underway. About fifty in total.
Keeping track of these was sort of maddening. And so, I decided to make this new job a little easier. I reformatted the spreadsheet, so that now, you know what's going on and where everything is at a glance. And all the various departments know exactly what I'm hoping for out of them every day when they arrive at the shop. All I have to do is take some time at the end of the day and update everything. Which takes about a half an hour.
So in away, I got this new job, and made it not a job. I mean, anybody could do this in their spare moments.
There are other aspects of the departed guy's position that I'll be taking on. Receiving the raw materials, helping with the QC of stuff before it goes out. But all that I'll pretty much take in stride. And I get to learn how to drive a forklift.
And I'm thrilled about that. Next time I head to the Bike Stop, I want to be wearing a tshirt that says, "Hi. I'm a licensed forklift operator. And of course that means I'm great in bed." Cuz it does, right?
When the time comes for me to sit down with the powers what be and talk about a pay increase for this new job, I'm gonna be asking for an additional $2.00 an hour. Hey: I bring value to Wuperior Soodcraft! I'm great at this elegant and simple systems stuff. Piece of cake for me. I can make a whole lot of things better. But I want to get paid for doing it.
Hopefully, I won't drive the forklift into a wall before that conversation goes down.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Even if I get the additional $2.00 an hour, I'm still gonna be looking for another job. If you think that will put me on easy street, be aware that it will bring my annual income up to about $25,000. Which is still chicken feed. And not enough to allow me to do stuff like SmokeOut in Las Vegas and CLAW at the end of April.
I heard from one of the two cool jobs that I'd be perfect for, and it wasn't good news. But, I sent email to the folks at the other cool job that I'd be perfect for, reiterating my interest in the position and stressing once again that I'd be perfect for it, and got a chipper email back saying that the process is still ongoing. So I still have a shot there.
You all do me a favor and keep your fingers crossed, 'kay?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And, finally, this may well be the week that sees some warmer weather. As in, sitting on the porch of Starbucks enjoying a cigar with my latté. That would be most welcome. And hopefully in the not too distant future, I'll be putting my kayak in the water.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That whipping scene I'm hoping is in my future? 'Member that?
Well, out of the blue, I got this email from this verrrrry hot musclebear in Tennessee. He explained, briefly, that he's a Top, but lately has felt a desire to be whipped. And, he was wondering if I might be the man to do it. He asked me to tell him something about myself, and to give him an idea of how I go about whipping a man.
Here's what I said in my reply email...
"Several years ago, I was mentored into the whipping scene. Until I first cracked a whip, I didn't think it was for me. Seemed so extreme, and it hurt so bad. But the man who brought me along described to me how the man you're whipping goes through an incredible experience, endorphins get pumping, and one by one, ego defenses are stripped away, and you get to the core of a man. It's the responsibility of the Top to be there, holding him, as he puts himself back together, Andrew told me.
With a lot of practice, I got good enough to use my whip on a human back (as opposed to shrubbery and such that I use for practice). And it was an incredible experience. The guy very quickly got this big happy grin on his face. He was flying, hooting and hollering with every crack. After several more great experiences, Andrew suggested to me that I ought to 'go down,' get a taste of what I dished out. So we made an appointment for him to whip me.
When I woke up that morning, my first conscious thought was: "Call it off. Just call Andrew, tell him you can't go through with it." But I talked myself in off the ledge. If I only stand up for a couple of hits, at least I can say I did it. And I've had oral surgery, so it's not like I won't survive it. That night, we met up. Andrew secured my hands and wrists to a St. Andrew's Cross, and started in on me. Going very light and easy at first, so I could get my blood up. And these feelings just started welling up in me. I was laughing, I was crying, I was making a noise that was both and neither. Afterwards--for weeks afterwards--I felt like a dam had broken somewhere within me. I was living a new life, feeling things more deeply, letting myself be moved by friends, by food, by movies, by music... Just getting carried away. I had this feeling I had never had before, like nothing could hurt me now, like I knew that I had strength deep down inside I could draw on that could get me through it all.
Almost three years ago now, my stepmother died, and I left my life in New York City and moved back here to Pennsylvania to look after my father. It was a rough transition. I have a job I like a lot, a great relationship with my dad, and a lot of good going on, but it gets really lonely.
Every September, I head to southeast Michigan for a BDSM event called Inferno. In advance this past year, I decided that it was time, once again, for me to go down. I proposed to a buddy of mine from San Diego who goes by 'Roadkill' that he have the honors, and he was happy to oblige.
This time, it was different. Almost from the first, I was crying, weeping, sobbing, screaming. Roadkill kept at it. My friend John, who is Roadkill's ex, came and stood at the other side of the cross I was lashed to, whispering to me, offering me words of encouragement. But it didn't do a lot of good. I was howling from the pain. Roadkill let me know that he wanted three more out of me, and we counted them down, three, two, one. After the last one, it was like I broke. John told me, "It's okay, it's over, you made it." "Oh John," I answered, "Now it's worse. I'm still afraid, but now I don't know what I'm afraid of." And the bottom dropped out of my world. I just went right to hell. All the pain, all the grief, all the loneliness I'd been stuffing away so I could deal with everything I had to deal with just came pouring out of me. It was a dam break alright. A fuckin deluge.
But after that, I have a clarity I didn't have before. I know I'm hurting, I know I'm in pain, I know I'm lonely. But it's alright. Because my eyes are open to everything I do have. And it's all good.
So that's a little bit about the role that whipping has had in my life
As to how I'd handle you, we'd meet, we'd talk, have a meal together, spend some time. Make sure that you're comfortable with me, and that I'm comfortable with you. That there's a connection there. Back at my place, you'd meet my dad (sorry, ya gotta, but he's a good guy; he'll want to tell you all about what he did in World War II, that kind of thing). Relax some. Both of us unwind, then we'd go out to the garage. I'd light some candles, put on some music, get limbered up, you'd take off your shirt, let me take a look at your back, then I'd put you up against the cross. And then we'd start in.
At that point, I don't know what to tell you. Because I don't know--and maybe you don't know--what's in your heart. So where the journey takes us from there is up to the gods. But ultimately, it'll be a good place."
He wrote back to say... basically, that he's in. That he doesn't think he could do better.
Even though I haven't met him, and even though I'm only whipping very special men these days, men I fall in love with, men I can hold in my heart before, during, and after without reservation, I think I'm in, too. If he makes the trip up here from Tennessee. Ya never know about these things.
But gosh, I feel so competent in that department lately. The 'holding in my heart' department. I feel... very... --how to express this?-- very compassionate. That's the great Buddhist virtue, isn't it? Compassion.
This beating heart of mine just seems to be beating in sync with some deeper rhythm.
Maybe because it's Lent.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Howard's got a girlfriend! Howard's got a girlfriend!
Well, not really.
Howard, of course, would be my dad.
Every Wednesday night at church they're having these programs during Lent. We start off with Evening prayer (which I miss, I'm not wild about that service), then Mass, then we all head to the Parish Hall for a light supper (and they've been excellent), and then there's a program. (In the programs, we're talking about Death. We discussed spiritual aspects of death, had a presentation from a woman who works for a hospice program, and last week, a lawyer came and talked to us about living wills and directives and medical power of attorney and stuff. And then we go back to church and say the Stations of the Cross (my favorite is the 'scourging at the pillar, of course), and then we say Compline.
Compline totally rocks. Compline, a.k.a. "Night Prayer" is the best. It's pure poetry. "Let we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life find rest in Thy eternal changelessness." Isn't that great?
Anyway, attendance at these wednesday evenings... ...it's pretty much me and a bunch of old people. And one of the old people is this really great woman. Her mother was my Sunday School teacher, who first taught me "I will sing a song of the saints of God." Among other things, she does volunteer work at the local prison. Anyway, for Lent, she's decided to visit all the shut-ins in the parish. And that meant my dad. And it went down on Friday night.
When I asked my father how the visit went when I got home, he was all kinds of bubbly! Bubbly, that is, for my dad. He worried that he had talked her ear off ("No! You? I can't believe that!") and peppered me with questions about her. Although I don't know much.
Self-consciousness? Curiousity?
Now what's that stand like>
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Anyway, that's it for tonight. I'm tired. Another week awaits.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Uh...
Okay. That's interesting.
I opened the window because I was going to post about how when my dad had a Spring training game on while we were having lunch I discovered that Joe Girardi was now the manager of the Florida Marlins. Joe Girardi used to be the catcher for the Yankees, back when I rooted for the Yankees (Yes! True! I admit it!). And that man has the finest ass I've ever seen. You could stand three beer mugs on Joe Girardi's ass. And as catcher, we got to see a lot of it. When I went to games, I always evaluated how good the seats were based on the view I had of Joe Girardi's ass.
But anyway.
I just remembered something.
Something from years ago.
Back when I was in therapy.
I was once observing to my therapist that I came off as distant and aloof to people. And how so often, when I'd be in a situation with a lot of people who knew each other well, they'd all be like hugging and talking and such, and I'd sort of be off to the side. People wouldn't engage me. "Why," I asked, "don't people engage me?"
"Well that's obvious," she answered. She explained that if you want to be "engaged," all you had to do was engage.
And, for awhile, I did that. When I was glad to see someone, I'd give a warm welcome, and throw open my arms in greeting. And the change was remarkable.
Now, I think when I moved back here to Bucks County, I lost some of that. Okay. Maybe a lot of that. Perhaps because no longer being a known quantity, I was overly cautious. Oh. And also, I didn't know anybody here. And hugging strangers just gets you legal problems.
But my life is a little bit colder now. Yes it is.
Huh. Funny to think about. So much more human warmth when I lived in New York City! So I'll think about that. Being warmer. More engaging. What the world always needs.
Anyway. Do I really need to go on some more about Joe Girardi's ass?
Oh, and by the way, Vin Diesel has a new movie out. You know what you have to do.
Okay. That's interesting.
I opened the window because I was going to post about how when my dad had a Spring training game on while we were having lunch I discovered that Joe Girardi was now the manager of the Florida Marlins. Joe Girardi used to be the catcher for the Yankees, back when I rooted for the Yankees (Yes! True! I admit it!). And that man has the finest ass I've ever seen. You could stand three beer mugs on Joe Girardi's ass. And as catcher, we got to see a lot of it. When I went to games, I always evaluated how good the seats were based on the view I had of Joe Girardi's ass.
But anyway.
I just remembered something.
Something from years ago.
Back when I was in therapy.
I was once observing to my therapist that I came off as distant and aloof to people. And how so often, when I'd be in a situation with a lot of people who knew each other well, they'd all be like hugging and talking and such, and I'd sort of be off to the side. People wouldn't engage me. "Why," I asked, "don't people engage me?"
"Well that's obvious," she answered. She explained that if you want to be "engaged," all you had to do was engage.
And, for awhile, I did that. When I was glad to see someone, I'd give a warm welcome, and throw open my arms in greeting. And the change was remarkable.
Now, I think when I moved back here to Bucks County, I lost some of that. Okay. Maybe a lot of that. Perhaps because no longer being a known quantity, I was overly cautious. Oh. And also, I didn't know anybody here. And hugging strangers just gets you legal problems.
But my life is a little bit colder now. Yes it is.
Huh. Funny to think about. So much more human warmth when I lived in New York City! So I'll think about that. Being warmer. More engaging. What the world always needs.
Anyway. Do I really need to go on some more about Joe Girardi's ass?
Oh, and by the way, Vin Diesel has a new movie out. You know what you have to do.
Phwew!
The number of the bus that hit me? That would be a Norovirus. And it was sure a doozie.
Saturday, had a wee touch of the runs around noon. Otherwise, I felt fine, and as it was too cold for softball practice, I was looking forward to a trip down to Philadelphia to visit the Bike Stop, before softball takes over My Whole Life in a few weeks and makes that impossible until August. I made an early dinner for my father and I, and not too long after dinner, it hit. Whammo. Rather than spending a Saturday night bellying up to the bar at my favorite little Quince Street boîte, I was making an hourly dash to the bathroom where harsh liquids were shooting out of either end of me with staggering force. I did my best to take wee sips of water to avoid becoming dehydrated, but then and all day Sunday, the thought of introducing anything into my gastrointestinal track was frightening.
And so exhausting. Sunday and yesterday, I was either lying down on my bed, on the sofa, or on the lay-z-boy recliner in the livingroom. Everything was way too much effort. I couldn't read, I couldn't watch television (it's okay to forgo a fast due to illness), I was incapable of doing anything.
Which left a lot of room for all of that... there must be a word for it in German. The french offer us malaise, I guess. Y'know what I mean? Y'know how when you're sick, it's sick to your core. It transforms your whole view of the world, and of yourself. Everything is smeared, bleared, feckless, wrecked and wrong.
"I ruin everything I touch." "I am alone, friendless, loveless, incapable, forgotten." "There's no hope. I can't do anything. I've wasted every opportunity I've ever been given."
Luckily, instead of sending me right off the deep end, I was graced with a Zen awareness that these were mere thoughts, echoing through the caverns and crannies of my fevered brain.
But just like when I had the flu several years ago, I would thing, "Gosh! I think I'm feeling a little bit better!" and then I'd take Faithful Companion out for a walk, and come back feeling like I had just run an ironman triathalon. And have to go back to bed for a few hours.
And my dad. Last night, monday night, I was almost feeling confident that if I put something in my mouth, it would behave. But what? Soup seemed like the obvious choice. We had several varieties on hand. My Dad opted for Campbell's Hearty Steak And Noodles, and I was looking at Progresso Chicken And Barley. I put my Dad's on the stove first, and just watching it come to a boil seemed to convince me that I had nothing resembling an appetite. "Well," I rationalized, "eating isn't all it's cracked up to be anyway."
(Of course this would happen just when I manage to break 190 on the scale at the gym. Lord knows how long it will take me to climb back up that mountain.)
Well, my dad was having none of it. "Where's yours?" he asked.
The can of Progresso soup to me looked like a twenty gallon drum. Way beyond what I was capable of.
Me: I'll have something later.
Dad: No. Now. While I'm sitting here.
Me: I saw a can of pineapple, I'll have that.
Dad: No. Soup. Soup gives you what you need when you're sick.
Me: But I can't eat all that!
Dad: Yes you can. I'm going to sit right here while you do.
Really?
Yeah. Really. He was serious. Here I am, forty-one years old, and my father was not letting me get up from the table till I cleaned my plate.
Thinking fast, I substituted a smaller can of Campbell's Chicken Noodle for the Progresso. (Nutritionally, I probably would have been better off with the pineapple, all that sodium in the chicken noodle, but I could probably stand a little protein).
As though facing doom itself, I heated the chicken noodle and poured it into a bowl. Spoonful by arduous spoonful went down beneath my father's watchful gaze. Finally (Finally!), all the solid stuff was gone, and there was just the broth. I slurped it down, lifting the bowl, and displayed the emptiness for my father. And then, of course, I cleared the table, loaded up the dishwasher, and had to lay down.
As my father headed back for his after dinner cigar, I said, "Thanks, Dad."
"Well," he answered, "you're more important to me than I am to you." Which is my father's cockeyed way of letting me know he cares about me.
And later, the Baron called! He had called the night before, and I think I croaked 'let's talk again sometime not feeling well here' and then went back to bed, worn out from the exertion of answering the phone.
Thank you Baron von Philadelphia! That phone call was such a life-saver. We chatted briefly, the Baron reminding me that Spring had arrived, and my recovery will be accompanied by daffodils.
Nice.
So today, I think I'm truly on the mend. Look at this! I actually have the energy to heave open my laptop, click on the Safari icon, and type this entry! Like... Go me!!.
And, of course, there was some bad news in my email In Box: one of the two perfect-for-me jobs I applied for sent me an email to let me know that in their opinion, I was not, in fact, perfect for them.
But y'know what, if you've got solid stool, you've got so much! So I'm cool.
The number of the bus that hit me? That would be a Norovirus. And it was sure a doozie.
Saturday, had a wee touch of the runs around noon. Otherwise, I felt fine, and as it was too cold for softball practice, I was looking forward to a trip down to Philadelphia to visit the Bike Stop, before softball takes over My Whole Life in a few weeks and makes that impossible until August. I made an early dinner for my father and I, and not too long after dinner, it hit. Whammo. Rather than spending a Saturday night bellying up to the bar at my favorite little Quince Street boîte, I was making an hourly dash to the bathroom where harsh liquids were shooting out of either end of me with staggering force. I did my best to take wee sips of water to avoid becoming dehydrated, but then and all day Sunday, the thought of introducing anything into my gastrointestinal track was frightening.
And so exhausting. Sunday and yesterday, I was either lying down on my bed, on the sofa, or on the lay-z-boy recliner in the livingroom. Everything was way too much effort. I couldn't read, I couldn't watch television (it's okay to forgo a fast due to illness), I was incapable of doing anything.
Which left a lot of room for all of that... there must be a word for it in German. The french offer us malaise, I guess. Y'know what I mean? Y'know how when you're sick, it's sick to your core. It transforms your whole view of the world, and of yourself. Everything is smeared, bleared, feckless, wrecked and wrong.
"I ruin everything I touch." "I am alone, friendless, loveless, incapable, forgotten." "There's no hope. I can't do anything. I've wasted every opportunity I've ever been given."
Luckily, instead of sending me right off the deep end, I was graced with a Zen awareness that these were mere thoughts, echoing through the caverns and crannies of my fevered brain.
But just like when I had the flu several years ago, I would thing, "Gosh! I think I'm feeling a little bit better!" and then I'd take Faithful Companion out for a walk, and come back feeling like I had just run an ironman triathalon. And have to go back to bed for a few hours.
And my dad. Last night, monday night, I was almost feeling confident that if I put something in my mouth, it would behave. But what? Soup seemed like the obvious choice. We had several varieties on hand. My Dad opted for Campbell's Hearty Steak And Noodles, and I was looking at Progresso Chicken And Barley. I put my Dad's on the stove first, and just watching it come to a boil seemed to convince me that I had nothing resembling an appetite. "Well," I rationalized, "eating isn't all it's cracked up to be anyway."
(Of course this would happen just when I manage to break 190 on the scale at the gym. Lord knows how long it will take me to climb back up that mountain.)
Well, my dad was having none of it. "Where's yours?" he asked.
The can of Progresso soup to me looked like a twenty gallon drum. Way beyond what I was capable of.
Me: I'll have something later.
Dad: No. Now. While I'm sitting here.
Me: I saw a can of pineapple, I'll have that.
Dad: No. Soup. Soup gives you what you need when you're sick.
Me: But I can't eat all that!
Dad: Yes you can. I'm going to sit right here while you do.
Really?
Yeah. Really. He was serious. Here I am, forty-one years old, and my father was not letting me get up from the table till I cleaned my plate.
Thinking fast, I substituted a smaller can of Campbell's Chicken Noodle for the Progresso. (Nutritionally, I probably would have been better off with the pineapple, all that sodium in the chicken noodle, but I could probably stand a little protein).
As though facing doom itself, I heated the chicken noodle and poured it into a bowl. Spoonful by arduous spoonful went down beneath my father's watchful gaze. Finally (Finally!), all the solid stuff was gone, and there was just the broth. I slurped it down, lifting the bowl, and displayed the emptiness for my father. And then, of course, I cleared the table, loaded up the dishwasher, and had to lay down.
As my father headed back for his after dinner cigar, I said, "Thanks, Dad."
"Well," he answered, "you're more important to me than I am to you." Which is my father's cockeyed way of letting me know he cares about me.
And later, the Baron called! He had called the night before, and I think I croaked 'let's talk again sometime not feeling well here' and then went back to bed, worn out from the exertion of answering the phone.
Thank you Baron von Philadelphia! That phone call was such a life-saver. We chatted briefly, the Baron reminding me that Spring had arrived, and my recovery will be accompanied by daffodils.
Nice.
So today, I think I'm truly on the mend. Look at this! I actually have the energy to heave open my laptop, click on the Safari icon, and type this entry! Like... Go me!!.
And, of course, there was some bad news in my email In Box: one of the two perfect-for-me jobs I applied for sent me an email to let me know that in their opinion, I was not, in fact, perfect for them.
But y'know what, if you've got solid stool, you've got so much! So I'm cool.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Rattled
Okay. So here's the scene. Time for me to leave Starbucks. Gotta get home early to take my dad to do his taxes.
On the porch, I run into Actor Guy. ('Member him? He's beautiful. Blond, strong chin, piercing blue eyes, built like a prizefighter? Takes acting classes in NYC and hopes to be the next Brad Pitt?) We greet each other warmly. And he's like, "Yo! It's the whip cracker!"
I had told him about how I might be asked by some theater group at Princeton U. to teach them how to crack a whip for a production of Waiting For Godot they're doing. We talked about whip throwing and the theater, the whole thing about Harrison Ford having a scar on his chin from when he was learning for Indiana Jones, how Michelle Pfeiffer turned out to be a natural and still keeps up with it from her Catwoman role.
Actor Guy's buddy was like, "Wha...?" So Actor Guy explained about me and whips. And then Actor Guy was like, "So you cracking much lately?" I told him that I got a new whip (seven foot bullwhip, not including the fall and the handle) a couple of months ago that I'm breaking in.
"Whoa!" declares Actor Guy, "I'd love to see that."
"Well," I answered, I've got it in my jeep. I'll show it to you."
(Oh. Right. That's why I've been carrying my new bullwhip around in my jeep with me.)
I quickly fetched it. Actor Guy was awed. "And you can crack this?" he asked with child-like wonder?"
Like I needed even that much of an invitation.
I did a graceful and leisurely overhand throw, right there in the parking lot of Starbucks. And got out of it the best crack to date.
Actor Guy was orgasmic. On the porch, I just saw open mouths. All eyes were on me. Two cops who were hanging on the porch among the onlookers. "Yo! Indiana! Where's your Temple of Doom?" I heard. One of the cops (the younger one with the apple cheeks) said, "Man, don't come within twenty feet of me with that thing!"
"Don't turn your back on me when I'm talking to you," I said with a grin.
Then my attention focused on Actor Guy. His eyes were bright. His face was a mask of adoration.
"Oh man! That's incredible! Damn! You can cut skin with that, right?"
"I can cut a beer can with that," I corrected.
"I saw once where Johnny Knoxville got whipped bareback. Damn! What would that be like?"
I was speechless. Was Actor Guy asking me to...?
The image came up so clearly in my mind's eye: Actor Guy, stripped naked. His beautiful, muscular body stretched out, roped between two trees. I throw the whip almost casually, and Actor Guy bellows, with agony and ecstasy. Again and again, my whip rains down on his bleeding back. I am intent. I want to break him. Want him to be reduced to a weeping little boy. Then hold him, soaking my shirt with his blood as I do. "I've got you buddy. I've got you. I'm right here. Just let it out, buddy. Let it all come."
Like there was someone chasing me, without a word of goodbye even, I coiled my whip, jumped in my jeep, backed out, and sped off. Totally rattled.
All the way home, I couldn't get the idea of whipping Actor Guy out of my head.
Still can't.
I'm hoping, really hoping, that the leathergods give ma an amazing man to whip sometime soon. I'll wait. I'll be patient. But oh man, I'm looking forward to it.
Okay. So here's the scene. Time for me to leave Starbucks. Gotta get home early to take my dad to do his taxes.
On the porch, I run into Actor Guy. ('Member him? He's beautiful. Blond, strong chin, piercing blue eyes, built like a prizefighter? Takes acting classes in NYC and hopes to be the next Brad Pitt?) We greet each other warmly. And he's like, "Yo! It's the whip cracker!"
I had told him about how I might be asked by some theater group at Princeton U. to teach them how to crack a whip for a production of Waiting For Godot they're doing. We talked about whip throwing and the theater, the whole thing about Harrison Ford having a scar on his chin from when he was learning for Indiana Jones, how Michelle Pfeiffer turned out to be a natural and still keeps up with it from her Catwoman role.
Actor Guy's buddy was like, "Wha...?" So Actor Guy explained about me and whips. And then Actor Guy was like, "So you cracking much lately?" I told him that I got a new whip (seven foot bullwhip, not including the fall and the handle) a couple of months ago that I'm breaking in.
"Whoa!" declares Actor Guy, "I'd love to see that."
"Well," I answered, I've got it in my jeep. I'll show it to you."
(Oh. Right. That's why I've been carrying my new bullwhip around in my jeep with me.)
I quickly fetched it. Actor Guy was awed. "And you can crack this?" he asked with child-like wonder?"
Like I needed even that much of an invitation.
I did a graceful and leisurely overhand throw, right there in the parking lot of Starbucks. And got out of it the best crack to date.
Actor Guy was orgasmic. On the porch, I just saw open mouths. All eyes were on me. Two cops who were hanging on the porch among the onlookers. "Yo! Indiana! Where's your Temple of Doom?" I heard. One of the cops (the younger one with the apple cheeks) said, "Man, don't come within twenty feet of me with that thing!"
"Don't turn your back on me when I'm talking to you," I said with a grin.
Then my attention focused on Actor Guy. His eyes were bright. His face was a mask of adoration.
"Oh man! That's incredible! Damn! You can cut skin with that, right?"
"I can cut a beer can with that," I corrected.
"I saw once where Johnny Knoxville got whipped bareback. Damn! What would that be like?"
I was speechless. Was Actor Guy asking me to...?
The image came up so clearly in my mind's eye: Actor Guy, stripped naked. His beautiful, muscular body stretched out, roped between two trees. I throw the whip almost casually, and Actor Guy bellows, with agony and ecstasy. Again and again, my whip rains down on his bleeding back. I am intent. I want to break him. Want him to be reduced to a weeping little boy. Then hold him, soaking my shirt with his blood as I do. "I've got you buddy. I've got you. I'm right here. Just let it out, buddy. Let it all come."
Like there was someone chasing me, without a word of goodbye even, I coiled my whip, jumped in my jeep, backed out, and sped off. Totally rattled.
All the way home, I couldn't get the idea of whipping Actor Guy out of my head.
Still can't.
I'm hoping, really hoping, that the leathergods give ma an amazing man to whip sometime soon. I'll wait. I'll be patient. But oh man, I'm looking forward to it.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Pure
I'm troubled.
How can I get hold of $ 5,450,000.00? How how how?
If I had $ 5,450,000.00, then I'd be able to move into one of the units of Richard Meier's 165 Charles Street. Exclusive of the monthly maintenance.
But if I lived there, I'd be happy all the time! I swear!
And imagine the thrill of getting whipped by me while strung up, arms akimbo, beholding the sunset over Hoboken!
Sublime, huh?
A picture, as they say, is worth a thousand words. So here are some from last weekends sortie.
And here's UnFortunate! Enjoying the view. I told him he should use this photo when connecting on the internet. Y'know... "Here's my pic, relaxing at home. Why don't you stop over? Looks like it will be a beautiful sunset."
And here are a couple of me. Seated, and swooning.
Oh. And the date. I'll just say this: he's even hotter in person than he is on the World Wide Internet. How often does that happen. This coming weekend, we're planning a sleepover.
I'm troubled.
How can I get hold of $ 5,450,000.00? How how how?
If I had $ 5,450,000.00, then I'd be able to move into one of the units of Richard Meier's 165 Charles Street. Exclusive of the monthly maintenance.
But if I lived there, I'd be happy all the time! I swear!
And imagine the thrill of getting whipped by me while strung up, arms akimbo, beholding the sunset over Hoboken!
Sublime, huh?
A picture, as they say, is worth a thousand words. So here are some from last weekends sortie.
And here's UnFortunate! Enjoying the view. I told him he should use this photo when connecting on the internet. Y'know... "Here's my pic, relaxing at home. Why don't you stop over? Looks like it will be a beautiful sunset."
And here are a couple of me. Seated, and swooning.
Oh. And the date. I'll just say this: he's even hotter in person than he is on the World Wide Internet. How often does that happen. This coming weekend, we're planning a sleepover.
Friday, March 10, 2006
More Good Things
Go here now.
This gives a good idea of what I'm in for tomorrow. I didn't know that Richard Meier was essentially doing what I long to do: design and build his own house. I don't doubt, based on that, that he's poured his heart and soul into it. I think it's gonna be powerful. Like... SM kinda powerful.
That's tomorrow when I make that trip. Tonight, I feel like a kid on Christmas eve. Don't think I'll be sleeping well tonight.
And another thing. Last night it happened: I stepped on the scale at the gym and it read 191.4. Tonight, I got 191.5. For the first time in five years, and for the second time in my entire life, I broke 190. Interestingly, last night's scale reading took place after my first session of Ashtanga Yoga at my gym. (Really nice.) So maybe the additional pounds are attributable to Chi or something.
Sunday is our first practice of the season. "Our" meaning the Ballbreakers. And that means that I'll be pitching.
I. Will. Be. Pitching.
What can be better than that? Not too much. Especially since I'm a lousy fielder.
Huh. With sex, as with softball. There are few intimacies I enjoy less than giving head. But I love taking it up the butt and given the tight hole I have, I'm given to understand that giving it to me up the butt rocks. So life offers its little compensations.
And another thing. My resume is out with two employers. Two really great jobs. Neither of which is a Director of Development position. (Lord be thankee.)
And another thing. Were you outside today? Wasn't it great? Guess who had a cigar with his latte on the porch of Starbucks! Did you guess me? You would be right. And it gets better. Tonight, when I got home, I get out of my car and I heard, for the first time since I don't know when, Spring peepers. Night sounds. Generated by amphibians. Although it's probably a postern of global warming doom hearing them this early, it sure was music to my ears.
Okay. Now the other one. Don't tell the Baron! Not a word!
Y'see, there's this smokin' hot man who lives in New Jersey. Great face. Nape cleavage. Beautiful ink. Lots of fur. Beautiful eyes. And I get to have sex with him this Sunday after my softball practice. I'm just totally beside myself about this one. Thinking all kinds of inappropriate thoughts. As in, Special Guy kind of thoughts.
(Why "don't tell the Baron? Because the Baron is very tired hearing me talk about men.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but we'll see.
Go here now.
This gives a good idea of what I'm in for tomorrow. I didn't know that Richard Meier was essentially doing what I long to do: design and build his own house. I don't doubt, based on that, that he's poured his heart and soul into it. I think it's gonna be powerful. Like... SM kinda powerful.
That's tomorrow when I make that trip. Tonight, I feel like a kid on Christmas eve. Don't think I'll be sleeping well tonight.
And another thing. Last night it happened: I stepped on the scale at the gym and it read 191.4. Tonight, I got 191.5. For the first time in five years, and for the second time in my entire life, I broke 190. Interestingly, last night's scale reading took place after my first session of Ashtanga Yoga at my gym. (Really nice.) So maybe the additional pounds are attributable to Chi or something.
Sunday is our first practice of the season. "Our" meaning the Ballbreakers. And that means that I'll be pitching.
I. Will. Be. Pitching.
What can be better than that? Not too much. Especially since I'm a lousy fielder.
Huh. With sex, as with softball. There are few intimacies I enjoy less than giving head. But I love taking it up the butt and given the tight hole I have, I'm given to understand that giving it to me up the butt rocks. So life offers its little compensations.
And another thing. My resume is out with two employers. Two really great jobs. Neither of which is a Director of Development position. (Lord be thankee.)
And another thing. Were you outside today? Wasn't it great? Guess who had a cigar with his latte on the porch of Starbucks! Did you guess me? You would be right. And it gets better. Tonight, when I got home, I get out of my car and I heard, for the first time since I don't know when, Spring peepers. Night sounds. Generated by amphibians. Although it's probably a postern of global warming doom hearing them this early, it sure was music to my ears.
Okay. Now the other one. Don't tell the Baron! Not a word!
Y'see, there's this smokin' hot man who lives in New Jersey. Great face. Nape cleavage. Beautiful ink. Lots of fur. Beautiful eyes. And I get to have sex with him this Sunday after my softball practice. I'm just totally beside myself about this one. Thinking all kinds of inappropriate thoughts. As in, Special Guy kind of thoughts.
(Why "don't tell the Baron? Because the Baron is very tired hearing me talk about men.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but we'll see.
Monday, March 06, 2006
I Believe In Love
So I've been thinking about that children's book of mine that I rewrote.
Essentially, it's a love story. I wrote it for my boyfriend, for his birthday, when I was in my early twenties. It's basically the idea that you meet a guy, and you just know, and he's the one that completes you. He's the one that makes it possible for you to be your best self. Together, the two of you can go to places and do things that you can't do on your own.
So basically it's about what goes by the name of "co-dependency" these days.
*sigh*
What happened? I mean, that idea has been around since at least Socrates. How is it that in American society in the Twenty-First century, the whole deal has fell into such disfavor? These days, if you expressed such ardor and passion about someone you just met, most likely your friends would be giving you numbers of good therapists, right? C'mon! You just met him! You have no idea what he's like.
It's that 'romantic comedy' version of love that I hold in such low regard. They meet, and the music swells, they look into each other's eyes, suddenly they're both bashful, stuttering, but then they're separated. Something goes terribly, terribly wrong. He screws up. She's angry and refuses to see him again. He asks his best buddy if he should just forget all about her, and best buddy tells him, "Dude, she's the one for you," so he gets on a plane or something and makes an idiot out of himself or defeats the terrorists or explains what happened and she agrees to marry him right there on the spot. Right. And then there's the part you don't see, where she finds out he declared bankruptcy two years ago so it will be five before he can get a mortgage, or he says he wants a big family with six kids, and she wants a dog and that's it, and it gets awkward and they go their separate ways.
But wait a minute. Why is Brokeback Mountain so compelling? Not just to me, but apparently to people across the country? A story about two people who weren't expecting it, and in the case of Ennis Del Mar, really didn't want it to happen, but there they were, head over heels for the next couple of decades.
And just why was it that I thought about this story after fifteen years?
Why was that?
Perhaps there's a baby lying out there with the bathwater. Perhaps something in me wanted to break into my conscious mind with a message... something along the lines of, "It's not too late, idiot!"
Ah, but there's another issue. Is it too late? Romeo and Juliet were barely into their teens. Is it possible for a man in his forties to fall in love? By this time, all of us have been burned, severely, any number of times. Things are going great, and then you look across the breakfast table and wonder, "Who is this guy?"
Curiouser and curiouser.
And yet, and yet...
Let's go back to the source.
In December, 1989, with the Baron, we went up to NYC from Philadelphia, where I was living, to take part in an ACT UP demonstration. The demonstration was exhilarating. That night, we ended up at Chip Ducket's Mars Needs Men party. It was packed. To the gills. I had barely entered the place when I saw this guy staring at me. Well built, olive skinned, huge dark intense eyes, neat buzz cut, black tshirt, black jeans, jump boots. He approached. He was totally nervous. Stammering. He said that he had seen me at the demonstration, and when the ragtag remnants, lead by the East Village anarchists (remember them?) had lead some of us downtown to Tompkins Square Park, he had dogged my steps. He had told his friend Sue that he had never seen such a beautiful man before (meaning me). I went back with him to his apartment. We spent the night together. He lit candles. He played a recording of theMozart's 'Queen of the Night' aria that he loved while we lay in each other's arms. That was Sunday night, so I called in sick at work. (Usually when we went to Mars, the Baron and I would take a 4:30 am train back to Philadelphia, and I would run home, shower, change clothes, and go to work. Those were the days... Trying something like that now would land me in intensive care.) We had breakfast at Polonia, a greasy polish diner on First Avenue. We wandered around the city. He couldn't keep his eyes off me. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. We talked. We told each other about our lives. We kissed deeply and passionately in public several times.
We fell in love.
I started getting cards and letters from him. He was all I could talk about. He would come to Philadelphia on weekends, or I would go up to New York. We spent New Year's Eve 1990 on a jetty surrounded by the ocean in East Hampton. Six months later, I found a job and moved up there with him. Me and my cat, Ned. He was alergic to my cat.
He turned out to be a verrrry jealous guy. He didn't like my kinky tendencies. He had trouble finding a job. I worked to suppport us both, and my job paid not so much. I did all the cooking. He was a vegetarian. I became a vegetarian because he was a vegetarian. I would get pepperoni pizza on my lunch break. The sex started to be not so great. Then the sex stopped. I moved out. One night he made a huge scene, coming over to my new apartment and ringing my doorbell, calling me repeatedly from the payphone on the corner. I decided I wanted to be single. I wanted to date a leatherman. And be a leatherman. I would go to the Spike on Friday nights, and across the street to the Tunnel bar. We went to counseling with Dr. Charles Silverstein, who bilked my insurance company. (Yes, that Dr. Charles Silverstein.) One night in therapy, Dr. Charles asked me if I wanted to get back together with him. I said I didn't. Dr. Charles asked him, "Did you hear that?" He said he did. Dr. Charles asked me to leave so they could talk about that. That was the last time we spoke until we had lunch together after a chance meeting after I left NYC. We still email back and forth now and then.
So. What did falling in love with that dark eyed beautiful man get me? I moved to New York, and made the city my home. I came to a deeper understanding of who I was, and what was important to me. I had some wonderful times, that resonate still. I wrote him a children's book for his birthday. There was heartache and turmoil, but I have to work harder--a lot harder--to remind myself of that.
If I had to do it all over again...?
That's an impossible question to answer.
But what would I give, to meet a man who confessed to being all but overwhelmed with desire for me, to not quite be able to comprehend this, because he's so hot, he could have anybody. To have my days and nights filled with silly wonderful romantic little gestures. Cards and flowers. To lie awake in bed, listening to him sleeping beside me, feel his heart beat, watch his closed eyelids flutter, and wish I could die right there because it's all so perfect. To fall in love.
I am older, and, I hope, wiser now.
What would I do differently?
Recently, I was introduced to a term in psychology: unconditional positive regard. It describes what (Erikson felt?) a therapist should feel for his or her patient. Not love, just unconditional positive regard. A sort of radical buddhist acceptance, I think. He is who he is, and who he is, is good. Yeah so he gets bent out of shape over things that you consider to be trivial. Yeah he gets moody. Yeah he makes some bad decisions. He is who he is, and who he is, is good.
I think after your dopamine and norepinephrine levels start to return to normal, after that initial craziness, that's what has to fall into place.
And who knows. Maybe it's possible to spend the rest of your days, or at least several years after that, finding ways, again and again, to fall head over heels in love.
Huh.
Huh.
I wonder.
So I've been thinking about that children's book of mine that I rewrote.
Essentially, it's a love story. I wrote it for my boyfriend, for his birthday, when I was in my early twenties. It's basically the idea that you meet a guy, and you just know, and he's the one that completes you. He's the one that makes it possible for you to be your best self. Together, the two of you can go to places and do things that you can't do on your own.
So basically it's about what goes by the name of "co-dependency" these days.
*sigh*
What happened? I mean, that idea has been around since at least Socrates. How is it that in American society in the Twenty-First century, the whole deal has fell into such disfavor? These days, if you expressed such ardor and passion about someone you just met, most likely your friends would be giving you numbers of good therapists, right? C'mon! You just met him! You have no idea what he's like.
It's that 'romantic comedy' version of love that I hold in such low regard. They meet, and the music swells, they look into each other's eyes, suddenly they're both bashful, stuttering, but then they're separated. Something goes terribly, terribly wrong. He screws up. She's angry and refuses to see him again. He asks his best buddy if he should just forget all about her, and best buddy tells him, "Dude, she's the one for you," so he gets on a plane or something and makes an idiot out of himself or defeats the terrorists or explains what happened and she agrees to marry him right there on the spot. Right. And then there's the part you don't see, where she finds out he declared bankruptcy two years ago so it will be five before he can get a mortgage, or he says he wants a big family with six kids, and she wants a dog and that's it, and it gets awkward and they go their separate ways.
But wait a minute. Why is Brokeback Mountain so compelling? Not just to me, but apparently to people across the country? A story about two people who weren't expecting it, and in the case of Ennis Del Mar, really didn't want it to happen, but there they were, head over heels for the next couple of decades.
And just why was it that I thought about this story after fifteen years?
Why was that?
Perhaps there's a baby lying out there with the bathwater. Perhaps something in me wanted to break into my conscious mind with a message... something along the lines of, "It's not too late, idiot!"
Ah, but there's another issue. Is it too late? Romeo and Juliet were barely into their teens. Is it possible for a man in his forties to fall in love? By this time, all of us have been burned, severely, any number of times. Things are going great, and then you look across the breakfast table and wonder, "Who is this guy?"
Curiouser and curiouser.
And yet, and yet...
Let's go back to the source.
In December, 1989, with the Baron, we went up to NYC from Philadelphia, where I was living, to take part in an ACT UP demonstration. The demonstration was exhilarating. That night, we ended up at Chip Ducket's Mars Needs Men party. It was packed. To the gills. I had barely entered the place when I saw this guy staring at me. Well built, olive skinned, huge dark intense eyes, neat buzz cut, black tshirt, black jeans, jump boots. He approached. He was totally nervous. Stammering. He said that he had seen me at the demonstration, and when the ragtag remnants, lead by the East Village anarchists (remember them?) had lead some of us downtown to Tompkins Square Park, he had dogged my steps. He had told his friend Sue that he had never seen such a beautiful man before (meaning me). I went back with him to his apartment. We spent the night together. He lit candles. He played a recording of theMozart's 'Queen of the Night' aria that he loved while we lay in each other's arms. That was Sunday night, so I called in sick at work. (Usually when we went to Mars, the Baron and I would take a 4:30 am train back to Philadelphia, and I would run home, shower, change clothes, and go to work. Those were the days... Trying something like that now would land me in intensive care.) We had breakfast at Polonia, a greasy polish diner on First Avenue. We wandered around the city. He couldn't keep his eyes off me. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. We talked. We told each other about our lives. We kissed deeply and passionately in public several times.
We fell in love.
I started getting cards and letters from him. He was all I could talk about. He would come to Philadelphia on weekends, or I would go up to New York. We spent New Year's Eve 1990 on a jetty surrounded by the ocean in East Hampton. Six months later, I found a job and moved up there with him. Me and my cat, Ned. He was alergic to my cat.
He turned out to be a verrrry jealous guy. He didn't like my kinky tendencies. He had trouble finding a job. I worked to suppport us both, and my job paid not so much. I did all the cooking. He was a vegetarian. I became a vegetarian because he was a vegetarian. I would get pepperoni pizza on my lunch break. The sex started to be not so great. Then the sex stopped. I moved out. One night he made a huge scene, coming over to my new apartment and ringing my doorbell, calling me repeatedly from the payphone on the corner. I decided I wanted to be single. I wanted to date a leatherman. And be a leatherman. I would go to the Spike on Friday nights, and across the street to the Tunnel bar. We went to counseling with Dr. Charles Silverstein, who bilked my insurance company. (Yes, that Dr. Charles Silverstein.) One night in therapy, Dr. Charles asked me if I wanted to get back together with him. I said I didn't. Dr. Charles asked him, "Did you hear that?" He said he did. Dr. Charles asked me to leave so they could talk about that. That was the last time we spoke until we had lunch together after a chance meeting after I left NYC. We still email back and forth now and then.
So. What did falling in love with that dark eyed beautiful man get me? I moved to New York, and made the city my home. I came to a deeper understanding of who I was, and what was important to me. I had some wonderful times, that resonate still. I wrote him a children's book for his birthday. There was heartache and turmoil, but I have to work harder--a lot harder--to remind myself of that.
If I had to do it all over again...?
That's an impossible question to answer.
But what would I give, to meet a man who confessed to being all but overwhelmed with desire for me, to not quite be able to comprehend this, because he's so hot, he could have anybody. To have my days and nights filled with silly wonderful romantic little gestures. Cards and flowers. To lie awake in bed, listening to him sleeping beside me, feel his heart beat, watch his closed eyelids flutter, and wish I could die right there because it's all so perfect. To fall in love.
I am older, and, I hope, wiser now.
What would I do differently?
Recently, I was introduced to a term in psychology: unconditional positive regard. It describes what (Erikson felt?) a therapist should feel for his or her patient. Not love, just unconditional positive regard. A sort of radical buddhist acceptance, I think. He is who he is, and who he is, is good. Yeah so he gets bent out of shape over things that you consider to be trivial. Yeah he gets moody. Yeah he makes some bad decisions. He is who he is, and who he is, is good.
I think after your dopamine and norepinephrine levels start to return to normal, after that initial craziness, that's what has to fall into place.
And who knows. Maybe it's possible to spend the rest of your days, or at least several years after that, finding ways, again and again, to fall head over heels in love.
Huh.
Huh.
I wonder.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Theory Of Crash
What the hell happened there, huh?
Okay. Remember in high school when the yearbook was full of pictures of people that signed up for the yearbook committee?
Right?
Same deal.
Crash. As Jon Stewart put it, "Will everybody who wasn't in Crash please raise your hand? A bunch of industry types sitting around in LA decided, let's make a really hard hitting movie... About a really relevant social issue... Maybe... Racism! Yeah! Let's make a movie confronting America about racism! (Notice that everybody who made the movie and wrote the movie was white?) We'll put everybody who hasn't found work this year in it. Everybody gets a part! Everybody gets paid! Cool?
I know I'm right about this.
And the strategy worked. Since everybody in the Academy probably knew somebody who was in Crash, they got the votes.
And oh yeah, as the current City Council Speaker in NYC observed to me when out lesbian Karen Burnstein lost the New York Attorny General race to the brain dead nobody disaster Dennis Vacco, "People really don't like to vote for gays."
But if Capote or Syriana or Goodnight And Good Luck had won Best Picture, I would have been okay. Because it would have been like the Academy saying, "You didn't see this movie, but you really should." But Crash came out last February, so it's not like anybody else is going to even have the opportunity to see it.
But not Crash, which from everything I've heard is ponderous, clunky, and punctuated with hit-them-over-the-head-with-it messages.
We was robbed.
What the hell happened there, huh?
Okay. Remember in high school when the yearbook was full of pictures of people that signed up for the yearbook committee?
Right?
Same deal.
Crash. As Jon Stewart put it, "Will everybody who wasn't in Crash please raise your hand? A bunch of industry types sitting around in LA decided, let's make a really hard hitting movie... About a really relevant social issue... Maybe... Racism! Yeah! Let's make a movie confronting America about racism! (Notice that everybody who made the movie and wrote the movie was white?) We'll put everybody who hasn't found work this year in it. Everybody gets a part! Everybody gets paid! Cool?
I know I'm right about this.
And the strategy worked. Since everybody in the Academy probably knew somebody who was in Crash, they got the votes.
And oh yeah, as the current City Council Speaker in NYC observed to me when out lesbian Karen Burnstein lost the New York Attorny General race to the brain dead nobody disaster Dennis Vacco, "People really don't like to vote for gays."
But if Capote or Syriana or Goodnight And Good Luck had won Best Picture, I would have been okay. Because it would have been like the Academy saying, "You didn't see this movie, but you really should." But Crash came out last February, so it's not like anybody else is going to even have the opportunity to see it.
But not Crash, which from everything I've heard is ponderous, clunky, and punctuated with hit-them-over-the-head-with-it messages.
We was robbed.
Bloggin' The Oscars!
Cool day. I picked up the Baron at the train station in Doylestown. We had Faithful Companion in tow, because Faithful Companion let it be known In No Uncertain Terms that he was looking forward to a trip to the bark park this weekend. So off we went. We stopped at the drive-thru Starbucks and then hit the park. Where, of course, Faithful Companion was a hit. As always. My boy knows how to work a room. Or a fenced enclosure as the case may be.
Then, we stopped at the supermarket of the smokin' hot men, Clemons Market in Plumsteadville, to pick up stuff for dinner. At the door I gave the Baron a choice for dinner: chili con carne or beef stew. (I wanted to make it vaguely Brokeback. I wasn't gonna make beans. Or soup.)
The beef stew was sensational. (Tossed it with lemon zest and deglazed with balsamic vinegar.) I served it over slices of french bread slathered with danish bleu cheese.)
And here we are watching the Oscars.
First off, John Stewart is doing an amazing job. He is a total pleasure to watch. And it's just snorter after snorter.
The Baron feels that something has been lost with keeping the acceptance speeches so short so they can keep on track. After all, it was fun when you had no idea what was going to happen. Hearing the winner for best sound mixing or whatever have a melt down.
Boring clothes so far this year, huh?
Huh. So far King Kong is the winningest movie of the year.
The Baron and I enjoyed working up this whole thing about Will Smith. Mister "I Can't Kiss A Guy Cuz That's Not How I Am." (Funny, I thought that was called "acting.") Anyway, we decided that it was like what my old friend George Catravas said when I asked him if he ever had done drag: "No. Because I'm worried that if I ever got into a dress, I'd never get out of a dress." If Will Smith ever kissed a guy... By the way, Will, seen Brokeback Mountain? Think that was a good career move for Heath and Jake?
Yay! Phillip Seymour Hoffman! Yay!!! My favorite Truman Capote story. Tru was going out on the town with a friend of his. When he picked her up at her apartment, she said she neede another minute to get ready, so he amused himself by bouncing a ball for her greyhound to catch and retrieve. He gave a good bounce to it, and it went out onto the balcony and over the railing. And so did the dog. On the fourteenth floor. "I'm ready!" his friend announced. "Okay. Let's go," answered Truman. As they were leaving the building, there was a crowd gathered with people looking up. "Oh God," said Capote, "Don't look. I think it's a suicide!"
Awww, Felicity didn't get it. But I'm thrilled for Reese. If I remember correctly, her father is a proctologist in Nashville, who treated my Awful Ex for something. So Reese Witherspoon's father examined a butthole that I know pretty well. (Six degrees of something there, huh?) Joachim Phoenix is soooooo dreamy. He's no Vin Diesel, but he's not bad. I bet he's a great kisser. Although I bet he's gets pouty.
Dustin Hoffman! True story! Didja all know that the house that the Weather Underground blew up accidentally in the West Village on West Eleventh Street was right next door to Dustin Hoffman's house? And that because he was outed as a neighbor in the reportage, he had to move?
C'mon Brokeback. C'mon Brokeback!
Yesssss! Brokeback get it for Best Screenplay! Yesssss! And I love these guys.
That's so cool what Larry McMurtry said. "The culture of books." And did you catch the Andrew Marvell reference? "Rough strife?" Nice.
Best Original Screenplay is a tough call! Oh. Crash got it. I haven't seen that yet. Hasn't come to the County Theater.
Directing! C'mon Ang Lee! We're lovin' Ang Lee! Since I saw The Ice Storm I loved him. I even loved what he did to The Hulk. *sigh* The greatness of love itself. I'm down with that.
(Yesterday, when I got together with the Ball Breakers yesterday, the question was posed while four of us were walking down the street who was Carrie, who was Miranda, who was Charlotte, and who was . I'm Carrie, I said. Who's Mr. Big? I was asked. Special Guy. Special Guy is my Mr. Big. What's it mean that he's your Mr. Big. "It means," I answered, "that in the ups and downs of my love life, at the back of my mind is the knowledge that I had something great, and that maybe it will work around to us finding each other again."
What! Crash! No! No no no no NO! I hate Crash. I refuse to see Crash. We was so robbed.
Damn.
Okay. Not only was Brokeback Mountain the best movie I saw last year. It was the best movie I've seen ever.
Damn.
The Baron is being philosophical. I'm not. I'm being bitter. I want to lash out.
Anyway.
'Night.
Cool day. I picked up the Baron at the train station in Doylestown. We had Faithful Companion in tow, because Faithful Companion let it be known In No Uncertain Terms that he was looking forward to a trip to the bark park this weekend. So off we went. We stopped at the drive-thru Starbucks and then hit the park. Where, of course, Faithful Companion was a hit. As always. My boy knows how to work a room. Or a fenced enclosure as the case may be.
Then, we stopped at the supermarket of the smokin' hot men, Clemons Market in Plumsteadville, to pick up stuff for dinner. At the door I gave the Baron a choice for dinner: chili con carne or beef stew. (I wanted to make it vaguely Brokeback. I wasn't gonna make beans. Or soup.)
The beef stew was sensational. (Tossed it with lemon zest and deglazed with balsamic vinegar.) I served it over slices of french bread slathered with danish bleu cheese.)
And here we are watching the Oscars.
First off, John Stewart is doing an amazing job. He is a total pleasure to watch. And it's just snorter after snorter.
The Baron feels that something has been lost with keeping the acceptance speeches so short so they can keep on track. After all, it was fun when you had no idea what was going to happen. Hearing the winner for best sound mixing or whatever have a melt down.
Boring clothes so far this year, huh?
Huh. So far King Kong is the winningest movie of the year.
The Baron and I enjoyed working up this whole thing about Will Smith. Mister "I Can't Kiss A Guy Cuz That's Not How I Am." (Funny, I thought that was called "acting.") Anyway, we decided that it was like what my old friend George Catravas said when I asked him if he ever had done drag: "No. Because I'm worried that if I ever got into a dress, I'd never get out of a dress." If Will Smith ever kissed a guy... By the way, Will, seen Brokeback Mountain? Think that was a good career move for Heath and Jake?
Yay! Phillip Seymour Hoffman! Yay!!! My favorite Truman Capote story. Tru was going out on the town with a friend of his. When he picked her up at her apartment, she said she neede another minute to get ready, so he amused himself by bouncing a ball for her greyhound to catch and retrieve. He gave a good bounce to it, and it went out onto the balcony and over the railing. And so did the dog. On the fourteenth floor. "I'm ready!" his friend announced. "Okay. Let's go," answered Truman. As they were leaving the building, there was a crowd gathered with people looking up. "Oh God," said Capote, "Don't look. I think it's a suicide!"
Awww, Felicity didn't get it. But I'm thrilled for Reese. If I remember correctly, her father is a proctologist in Nashville, who treated my Awful Ex for something. So Reese Witherspoon's father examined a butthole that I know pretty well. (Six degrees of something there, huh?) Joachim Phoenix is soooooo dreamy. He's no Vin Diesel, but he's not bad. I bet he's a great kisser. Although I bet he's gets pouty.
Dustin Hoffman! True story! Didja all know that the house that the Weather Underground blew up accidentally in the West Village on West Eleventh Street was right next door to Dustin Hoffman's house? And that because he was outed as a neighbor in the reportage, he had to move?
C'mon Brokeback. C'mon Brokeback!
Yesssss! Brokeback get it for Best Screenplay! Yesssss! And I love these guys.
That's so cool what Larry McMurtry said. "The culture of books." And did you catch the Andrew Marvell reference? "Rough strife?" Nice.
Best Original Screenplay is a tough call! Oh. Crash got it. I haven't seen that yet. Hasn't come to the County Theater.
Directing! C'mon Ang Lee! We're lovin' Ang Lee! Since I saw The Ice Storm I loved him. I even loved what he did to The Hulk. *sigh* The greatness of love itself. I'm down with that.
(Yesterday, when I got together with the Ball Breakers yesterday, the question was posed while four of us were walking down the street who was Carrie, who was Miranda, who was Charlotte, and who was . I'm Carrie, I said. Who's Mr. Big? I was asked. Special Guy. Special Guy is my Mr. Big. What's it mean that he's your Mr. Big. "It means," I answered, "that in the ups and downs of my love life, at the back of my mind is the knowledge that I had something great, and that maybe it will work around to us finding each other again."
What! Crash! No! No no no no NO! I hate Crash. I refuse to see Crash. We was so robbed.
Damn.
Okay. Not only was Brokeback Mountain the best movie I saw last year. It was the best movie I've seen ever.
Damn.
The Baron is being philosophical. I'm not. I'm being bitter. I want to lash out.
Anyway.
'Night.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Some Good Things Going On
1. Over fifteen years ago, I wrote a children's book. More along the lines of 'The Little Prince' than Uncle Wiggly. I wrote it as a birthday present to my then boyfriend. He loved it. Everyone I showed it to loved it. At the time, I was encouraged to see about getting it published. I looked into that, and found out that if your book isn't illustrated, it's just about impossible. I didn't know any illustrators, so I largely forgot about it. Yesterday in the shower, I remembered my book. And it came to mind that I work with two artists. I asked them yesterday if they'd be interested in illustrating, and they were enthusiastic.
2. There's this job. I'd be perfect for the job. The job would be perfect for me. I'm agonizing over putting together a resume and cover letter. Sure would be welcome!
3. Tomorrow, I head up to NYC for the first meeting of the season with the Ball Breakers, my softball team. I am truly looking forward to the season.
4. Next weekend, I'm again heading up to NYC. Get this. Yesterday in the NY Times, I read that a gallery has put some upscale modern furniture in five of the condos in the Richard Meier building at 165 Charles Street. It's open to the public, but you gotta have a reservation. Immediately, I called my friend and fellow fan of the Richard Meier buildings, UnFortunate, asking if he was in. He was at work, so I had to leave a message. (It comforts me to know someone who can't pick up his cell phone on the job like me.) He text messaged me this morning to let me know that we were wait-listed for next Saturday. I told him to immediately set to work finding out who was on the list and begin leaving rollerskates on front steps. Today, he called to let me know that next Saturday, at 3 p.m., he and I will be riding up in the elevator at the 165 Charles Street building. I hope they realize that we won't be able to take the tour without touching ourselves. Like, a lot.
5. At the gym tonight, I weighed in at 189.8. That's the most I've weighed in about five years. Time to take some nudie pictures of myself, right? Right.
6. After a long silence, PunchPig sent me a verrrry hot pic of a verrrry hot boxer guy with a verrrrry hot shiner. Thanks for that, PunchPig!
7. On Monday, I took the day off work so I can head up to Jersey City to pay the parking ticket from three years ago that got me banned in New Jersey. Hopefully, I will again, soon, be legal in the Garden State.
Anyway, hope things are going well with all of you, too.
1. Over fifteen years ago, I wrote a children's book. More along the lines of 'The Little Prince' than Uncle Wiggly. I wrote it as a birthday present to my then boyfriend. He loved it. Everyone I showed it to loved it. At the time, I was encouraged to see about getting it published. I looked into that, and found out that if your book isn't illustrated, it's just about impossible. I didn't know any illustrators, so I largely forgot about it. Yesterday in the shower, I remembered my book. And it came to mind that I work with two artists. I asked them yesterday if they'd be interested in illustrating, and they were enthusiastic.
2. There's this job. I'd be perfect for the job. The job would be perfect for me. I'm agonizing over putting together a resume and cover letter. Sure would be welcome!
3. Tomorrow, I head up to NYC for the first meeting of the season with the Ball Breakers, my softball team. I am truly looking forward to the season.
4. Next weekend, I'm again heading up to NYC. Get this. Yesterday in the NY Times, I read that a gallery has put some upscale modern furniture in five of the condos in the Richard Meier building at 165 Charles Street. It's open to the public, but you gotta have a reservation. Immediately, I called my friend and fellow fan of the Richard Meier buildings, UnFortunate, asking if he was in. He was at work, so I had to leave a message. (It comforts me to know someone who can't pick up his cell phone on the job like me.) He text messaged me this morning to let me know that we were wait-listed for next Saturday. I told him to immediately set to work finding out who was on the list and begin leaving rollerskates on front steps. Today, he called to let me know that next Saturday, at 3 p.m., he and I will be riding up in the elevator at the 165 Charles Street building. I hope they realize that we won't be able to take the tour without touching ourselves. Like, a lot.
5. At the gym tonight, I weighed in at 189.8. That's the most I've weighed in about five years. Time to take some nudie pictures of myself, right? Right.
6. After a long silence, PunchPig sent me a verrrry hot pic of a verrrry hot boxer guy with a verrrrry hot shiner. Thanks for that, PunchPig!
7. On Monday, I took the day off work so I can head up to Jersey City to pay the parking ticket from three years ago that got me banned in New Jersey. Hopefully, I will again, soon, be legal in the Garden State.
Anyway, hope things are going well with all of you, too.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Ash Of Myself
It's Lent! Happy Lent everybody! Oops. No. That's wrong. Have a meaningful Lent. (And you thought it was just our Jewish brothers and sisters who had 'happy ones' and 'sad ones.')
St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown had a nice service this evening, with the imposition of ashes and all. And I've decided that for the first time in a long time, I'm giving up something for Lent. Namely: television.
For most of my adult life, I haven't owned a television. I never watched a Seinfeld episode until I moved back here. Not that television is awful or anything. Quite the reverse, I'd go so far as to say I find a lot of very high quality, thought provoking stuff on the tube. (I will definitely miss The Daily Show and the Colbert Report) But, I thought it would be a happy medium between giving up something that I would deeply regret every day (like Starbucks, or Tobacco), and something inconsequential (smoking crack) or something self-serving (vacuuming). And I'm giving myself a break this Sunday because the Baron is coming up so we can watch the Oscars together. Although I could get all cagey and say that the Baron will be watching television and I'll just be in the room.
Speaking of the Baron, he was hinting that maybe what I should give up for Lent is men. Hinting strongly. And it crossed my mind. But I couldn't get beyond the What If... What if a really great guy comes along and I have to say 'no' to his advances and ask him to hang out until Easter?
But that did get me thinking about sex. And my... uh... relationship with sex.
Maybe it's because I had abundant sex as a teenager. Lots of sex. Several times a week.
With whom, you might ask? Well, back in the day, the towpath along the canal was a veritable hotbed of homo coupling after dark seven nights a week from about May through October. (I know! Brrrrrrr!) And I took advantage of that every chance I got. Now during this time, my home life was awful, my stepmother always on my case and my father disappearing behind his newspaper without intervening. School brought lessons on a regular basis of things I couldn't do very well. I was awkward and unsure of myself. So, having sex brought excitement, risk, fun, and a lot of enjoyment into an otherwise dreary life. And, budding kinkster that I was, I really liked it when guys would ask (underage) me: What are you into? Because I would immediately reply, "I like to get tied up." And, I met a few who were verrrry happy to oblige. I had absolutely no bad experiences--pretty remarkable given the volume we're talking about--and not infrequently, the good ones were great. (There was the time that this boy with a beautiful name broke into a vacant house so we could "have some privacy," this hot fireman who really loved sucking my dick, and the list goes on and on. I remember it as being altogether joyous. College was a slow period, punctuated by trips to a dirty book store in Reading, Pennsylvania, which, I learned recently, still exists. After graduation, when I moved to Philadelphia, I did my best to make up for lost time. If a weekend went by and I didn't have sex, then I'd fret that something was really really wrong with the world. Or with me.
As I write this, faces out of the past come floating up in my mind.
Ah sex.
I've always liked it. A lot. The gods knew what they were doing when they gave us that particular gift.
As you well know if you've read anything here in Singletails beyond, say, this entry, things have slowed down a whole lot for me. It takes so much more work ("Okay, but you'll have to meet my dad."). Too, I'm on such an emotional and metaphysical rollercoaster that getting my head behind what I'm doing is often not very easy. I've probably gone for stretches of longer than 40 days in the past two years, but give up sex for Lent? I don't know that I'd be able to make that promise.
It's Lent! Happy Lent everybody! Oops. No. That's wrong. Have a meaningful Lent. (And you thought it was just our Jewish brothers and sisters who had 'happy ones' and 'sad ones.')
St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown had a nice service this evening, with the imposition of ashes and all. And I've decided that for the first time in a long time, I'm giving up something for Lent. Namely: television.
For most of my adult life, I haven't owned a television. I never watched a Seinfeld episode until I moved back here. Not that television is awful or anything. Quite the reverse, I'd go so far as to say I find a lot of very high quality, thought provoking stuff on the tube. (I will definitely miss The Daily Show and the Colbert Report) But, I thought it would be a happy medium between giving up something that I would deeply regret every day (like Starbucks, or Tobacco), and something inconsequential (smoking crack) or something self-serving (vacuuming). And I'm giving myself a break this Sunday because the Baron is coming up so we can watch the Oscars together. Although I could get all cagey and say that the Baron will be watching television and I'll just be in the room.
Speaking of the Baron, he was hinting that maybe what I should give up for Lent is men. Hinting strongly. And it crossed my mind. But I couldn't get beyond the What If... What if a really great guy comes along and I have to say 'no' to his advances and ask him to hang out until Easter?
But that did get me thinking about sex. And my... uh... relationship with sex.
Maybe it's because I had abundant sex as a teenager. Lots of sex. Several times a week.
With whom, you might ask? Well, back in the day, the towpath along the canal was a veritable hotbed of homo coupling after dark seven nights a week from about May through October. (I know! Brrrrrrr!) And I took advantage of that every chance I got. Now during this time, my home life was awful, my stepmother always on my case and my father disappearing behind his newspaper without intervening. School brought lessons on a regular basis of things I couldn't do very well. I was awkward and unsure of myself. So, having sex brought excitement, risk, fun, and a lot of enjoyment into an otherwise dreary life. And, budding kinkster that I was, I really liked it when guys would ask (underage) me: What are you into? Because I would immediately reply, "I like to get tied up." And, I met a few who were verrrry happy to oblige. I had absolutely no bad experiences--pretty remarkable given the volume we're talking about--and not infrequently, the good ones were great. (There was the time that this boy with a beautiful name broke into a vacant house so we could "have some privacy," this hot fireman who really loved sucking my dick, and the list goes on and on. I remember it as being altogether joyous. College was a slow period, punctuated by trips to a dirty book store in Reading, Pennsylvania, which, I learned recently, still exists. After graduation, when I moved to Philadelphia, I did my best to make up for lost time. If a weekend went by and I didn't have sex, then I'd fret that something was really really wrong with the world. Or with me.
As I write this, faces out of the past come floating up in my mind.
Ah sex.
I've always liked it. A lot. The gods knew what they were doing when they gave us that particular gift.
As you well know if you've read anything here in Singletails beyond, say, this entry, things have slowed down a whole lot for me. It takes so much more work ("Okay, but you'll have to meet my dad."). Too, I'm on such an emotional and metaphysical rollercoaster that getting my head behind what I'm doing is often not very easy. I've probably gone for stretches of longer than 40 days in the past two years, but give up sex for Lent? I don't know that I'd be able to make that promise.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
It Is Finished. It Is Begun.
All this week, I worked on the sanding table at my job. Sanding is second nature to me at this point. So as I smooth out the wood, removing all the chatter marks and checking, my mind wanders free.
On Friday, two thoughts collided in my mind, like sailboats on a glassy lake. Simultaneously it seemed, I thought, "These guys keep dumping me," and, "I don't get calls from the resumes I send out." Neither of them was particularly new. And neither was accompanied by any hand-wringing or lamentation. Just things I already knew.
But coming together, a new idea took shape: I think I lost it.
"It" would be... what exactly? My charm. My sparkle. My charisma. My blessed life. The sure knowledge that all I had to do was knock and the door would open. The lights would always turn green. Things would go my way. I have good bone structure, captivating eyes, a way with words, tall stature and erect bearing, a good sense of humor and a quick wit. The world has always been my oyster. Ultimately.
But now, now...
Had this somehow departed? Has everyone seen my act too many times for it to have an impact? Have the lines become stale? What's up?
And, more importantly, what happens now?
I guess, if this is true, there are three possible alternatives.
1. I'll keep plugging away at it, trying all my old tricks, although with increasing desparation, doing my best to make them more and more dramatic, and watching with alarm as onlookers faces are frozen in a rictus smile, their eyes betraying how pathetic they think my performance is. End up bitter and alone, nursing my grudges, replaying the scenes that I didn't manage to bring off again and again and again in my head. We'll call this the "Nora Desmond Option." [g]
2. I'll reinvent myself! This is America, after all. Find some new game, some new persona to replace the old one. A brand, spanking new Twenty-First Century Me! I'm seeing tight rayon shirts and low-riding leather jeans, chunky boots with lots of straps, and a big chunky belt buckle that spells out the words BULLY. And maybe some more ink work.
(Although it has it's allure: I don't think so. Once you realize it's all a game, it's tough to continue to play the game.)
3. Perhaps it's time to put aside games and personae, to just strip myself naked. Know that I am only the breath that moves in and out of my lungs. Some flesh clinging to a bony armature.
On Wednesday, I'll take my place in line, hearing the murmuring of the priest in front of me, and when I get to the front, he'll dip is thumb in a crucible of ash, and with it, make the sign of the cross on my forehead, saying as he does so, "Remember O Man, that thou art dust, and to the dust thou shall return."
Perhaps something pure. Something solitary. Getting off the carousel for a time.
My life here in the Howling Wilderness is dissatisfactory in many ways. I'm lonely. I don't have money. I want so bad to get on a plane and go somewhere warm, lie on a beach or by a pool and let the sun bake me. Somewhere with a leather bar, where I can go out at night, meet men, and find someplace to f*ck.
But one thing is sure: I have my eyes open. I'm seeing things. Just seeing. Clearly.
That's one of the good things about winter: the leaves are off the trees. The colors are washed away to shades of gray and brown. The trees outside the window where I sit and write this are all vertical lines, some thick, some scrawny, but so dense they all but obscure the pale golden fallow field beyond.
And the sky is blue and cloudless today.
And I am me. Just me. Just a guy.
My sense of myself has been getting more and more vague. My leather was almost a skin that I slip into, as if it were complete with a face and voice and mind. The opportunities and inclination to don my leathers are farther and farther apart.
I work, I go to Starbucks, I hit the gym, I walk my dog, I make dinner for me and my father, I go to see movies, I do stuff around the house, I drive down to Philadelphia to see whose at the Bike Stop.
But my eyes are open. I see. I watch.
I don't know what's going to become of me. Where I'm going to go. Who I'm going to be. And for me, that's always been a very good thing. Being able to see myself far into the future has always made me squirrely.
Ash Wednesday.
What might rise out of the ashes?
All this week, I worked on the sanding table at my job. Sanding is second nature to me at this point. So as I smooth out the wood, removing all the chatter marks and checking, my mind wanders free.
On Friday, two thoughts collided in my mind, like sailboats on a glassy lake. Simultaneously it seemed, I thought, "These guys keep dumping me," and, "I don't get calls from the resumes I send out." Neither of them was particularly new. And neither was accompanied by any hand-wringing or lamentation. Just things I already knew.
But coming together, a new idea took shape: I think I lost it.
"It" would be... what exactly? My charm. My sparkle. My charisma. My blessed life. The sure knowledge that all I had to do was knock and the door would open. The lights would always turn green. Things would go my way. I have good bone structure, captivating eyes, a way with words, tall stature and erect bearing, a good sense of humor and a quick wit. The world has always been my oyster. Ultimately.
But now, now...
Had this somehow departed? Has everyone seen my act too many times for it to have an impact? Have the lines become stale? What's up?
And, more importantly, what happens now?
I guess, if this is true, there are three possible alternatives.
1. I'll keep plugging away at it, trying all my old tricks, although with increasing desparation, doing my best to make them more and more dramatic, and watching with alarm as onlookers faces are frozen in a rictus smile, their eyes betraying how pathetic they think my performance is. End up bitter and alone, nursing my grudges, replaying the scenes that I didn't manage to bring off again and again and again in my head. We'll call this the "Nora Desmond Option." [g]
2. I'll reinvent myself! This is America, after all. Find some new game, some new persona to replace the old one. A brand, spanking new Twenty-First Century Me! I'm seeing tight rayon shirts and low-riding leather jeans, chunky boots with lots of straps, and a big chunky belt buckle that spells out the words BULLY. And maybe some more ink work.
(Although it has it's allure: I don't think so. Once you realize it's all a game, it's tough to continue to play the game.)
3. Perhaps it's time to put aside games and personae, to just strip myself naked. Know that I am only the breath that moves in and out of my lungs. Some flesh clinging to a bony armature.
On Wednesday, I'll take my place in line, hearing the murmuring of the priest in front of me, and when I get to the front, he'll dip is thumb in a crucible of ash, and with it, make the sign of the cross on my forehead, saying as he does so, "Remember O Man, that thou art dust, and to the dust thou shall return."
Perhaps something pure. Something solitary. Getting off the carousel for a time.
My life here in the Howling Wilderness is dissatisfactory in many ways. I'm lonely. I don't have money. I want so bad to get on a plane and go somewhere warm, lie on a beach or by a pool and let the sun bake me. Somewhere with a leather bar, where I can go out at night, meet men, and find someplace to f*ck.
But one thing is sure: I have my eyes open. I'm seeing things. Just seeing. Clearly.
That's one of the good things about winter: the leaves are off the trees. The colors are washed away to shades of gray and brown. The trees outside the window where I sit and write this are all vertical lines, some thick, some scrawny, but so dense they all but obscure the pale golden fallow field beyond.
And the sky is blue and cloudless today.
And I am me. Just me. Just a guy.
My sense of myself has been getting more and more vague. My leather was almost a skin that I slip into, as if it were complete with a face and voice and mind. The opportunities and inclination to don my leathers are farther and farther apart.
I work, I go to Starbucks, I hit the gym, I walk my dog, I make dinner for me and my father, I go to see movies, I do stuff around the house, I drive down to Philadelphia to see whose at the Bike Stop.
But my eyes are open. I see. I watch.
I don't know what's going to become of me. Where I'm going to go. Who I'm going to be. And for me, that's always been a very good thing. Being able to see myself far into the future has always made me squirrely.
Ash Wednesday.
What might rise out of the ashes?
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Why Can't We Be Friends?
Y'know what irks me? When people make mention of close personal friends who happen to be celebrities.
The most egregious was when, years ago at one of the goofy political things I had to go to, a speaker actually spoke the words, "Just the other night on the phone, Stockard Channing said to me..." I forget what Stockard said, but for the benefit of my table, I completed the thought "I don't know how you got this number but if you ever call here again I'll have you arrested."
And then there's the guy from LA. Should you meet him, after about fifteen minutes of conversation, you're sure to learn that he's friends with Rita Moreno.
When Rita was over for dinner... When Rita and I were in London... It was so great having Rita there as my date...
Okay. Why does this get to me?
Today I think I figured it out.
The next time LA Guy mentions his friend Rita Moreno, if'n I have the guts, I'm gonna say, "So tell me, how does Rita make herself vulnerable to you? And how do you make yourself vulnerable to Rita?"
Because I think that's what friendship is all about. Vulnerability. Bearing your breast to someone and handing them the knife. No one can hurt you like a friend can. And no one can put the knife down and kiss your quivering pecs like a friend can. That's it in a nutshell. Absent vulnerability, it's just people using each other.
Y'know what irks me? When people make mention of close personal friends who happen to be celebrities.
The most egregious was when, years ago at one of the goofy political things I had to go to, a speaker actually spoke the words, "Just the other night on the phone, Stockard Channing said to me..." I forget what Stockard said, but for the benefit of my table, I completed the thought "I don't know how you got this number but if you ever call here again I'll have you arrested."
And then there's the guy from LA. Should you meet him, after about fifteen minutes of conversation, you're sure to learn that he's friends with Rita Moreno.
When Rita was over for dinner... When Rita and I were in London... It was so great having Rita there as my date...
Okay. Why does this get to me?
Today I think I figured it out.
The next time LA Guy mentions his friend Rita Moreno, if'n I have the guts, I'm gonna say, "So tell me, how does Rita make herself vulnerable to you? And how do you make yourself vulnerable to Rita?"
Because I think that's what friendship is all about. Vulnerability. Bearing your breast to someone and handing them the knife. No one can hurt you like a friend can. And no one can put the knife down and kiss your quivering pecs like a friend can. That's it in a nutshell. Absent vulnerability, it's just people using each other.
Monday, February 20, 2006
About Last Night
I love three day weekends! And I was determined to make the most of this one. I made a foray down to Philadelphia to visit the Bike Stop. I spent most of the evening talking to a verrrrry hot man from Orange County, but there were those logistics issues that always come up, since I live all the way the hell up in Bucks County, and he was staying at a hotel out in Valley Forge, and how were we supposed to make that happen? But the ride home was not filled with whining and self-recrimination for a change, because I had a plan for Sunday night.
Last night, the Sunday night in question, I did something I've never done before in my life: an internet hookup! He checked out my profile, I checked out his, and we got together to have sex. Now, I've arranged scenes before, but never straight up sex. Kinda nice not having to pack a toy bag, just bring my own sweet self.
I had high hopes, and they were not dashed. Just about across the board, they were fulfilled.
Y'see, the man that I chose for my first internet hookup seemed to be a little off. The pictures of himself that he offered were grainy, and his description of himself was far briefer than I could ever manage. I put more into the "Any comments you'd like to share?" part of surveys than he put into his profile. From time to time I'd get instant messages from him along the lines of "Im so horny Ive got precum thinking about you." Andrew Marvell he is not. In short, he didn't seem to me to be the kind of guy that I could have a conversation with.
But that was fine. Because this was going to be all about sex.
So last night, I drove down to the unfamiliar tractless expanses of Lower Bucks County and that part of Philadelphia known (sarcastically in my opinion) as "the Greater Northeast." He was waiting for me at the door, and before I could even say "Great color on your accent wall!" (And it was!) he was all over me, and I was all over him. Pretty quickly we moved upstairs to the bedroom, shucked our clothes, and without lighting candles or anything, went at it.
Here's the kicker: he kept his baseball cap on the entire time.
Here's the total kicker: he's a cop.
Nothing really exceptional about the sex. Nothing elaborate went down. He didn't even take out his handcuffs. Just two guys going at it and getting all sweaty.
When it was over, I got dressed, we agreed to make it happen again, he gave me directions to get to Center City Philadelphia from there, and it was done.
How cool is that?
And it was so satisfying! No imagining a future life together. No animadversion (look that word up on dictionary.com, it's a great word). No plan. No strings. Just meeting up to spill our seed.
And I love that he kept his baseball cap on the whole time.
I love three day weekends! And I was determined to make the most of this one. I made a foray down to Philadelphia to visit the Bike Stop. I spent most of the evening talking to a verrrrry hot man from Orange County, but there were those logistics issues that always come up, since I live all the way the hell up in Bucks County, and he was staying at a hotel out in Valley Forge, and how were we supposed to make that happen? But the ride home was not filled with whining and self-recrimination for a change, because I had a plan for Sunday night.
Last night, the Sunday night in question, I did something I've never done before in my life: an internet hookup! He checked out my profile, I checked out his, and we got together to have sex. Now, I've arranged scenes before, but never straight up sex. Kinda nice not having to pack a toy bag, just bring my own sweet self.
I had high hopes, and they were not dashed. Just about across the board, they were fulfilled.
Y'see, the man that I chose for my first internet hookup seemed to be a little off. The pictures of himself that he offered were grainy, and his description of himself was far briefer than I could ever manage. I put more into the "Any comments you'd like to share?" part of surveys than he put into his profile. From time to time I'd get instant messages from him along the lines of "Im so horny Ive got precum thinking about you." Andrew Marvell he is not. In short, he didn't seem to me to be the kind of guy that I could have a conversation with.
But that was fine. Because this was going to be all about sex.
So last night, I drove down to the unfamiliar tractless expanses of Lower Bucks County and that part of Philadelphia known (sarcastically in my opinion) as "the Greater Northeast." He was waiting for me at the door, and before I could even say "Great color on your accent wall!" (And it was!) he was all over me, and I was all over him. Pretty quickly we moved upstairs to the bedroom, shucked our clothes, and without lighting candles or anything, went at it.
Here's the kicker: he kept his baseball cap on the entire time.
Here's the total kicker: he's a cop.
Nothing really exceptional about the sex. Nothing elaborate went down. He didn't even take out his handcuffs. Just two guys going at it and getting all sweaty.
When it was over, I got dressed, we agreed to make it happen again, he gave me directions to get to Center City Philadelphia from there, and it was done.
How cool is that?
And it was so satisfying! No imagining a future life together. No animadversion (look that word up on dictionary.com, it's a great word). No plan. No strings. Just meeting up to spill our seed.
And I love that he kept his baseball cap on the whole time.
Edge Play Under Attack!
A friend, the August Founder of several groups that are household names to people with floggers hanging in their bedrooms and clothespins which have never seen a clothesline, is going to be the keynote speaker at an upcoming leather event. He sent to me, and to several other worthies, the text of his talk, and asked for feedback. It is, of course, excellent. I found crafting a response to be thought provoking. And I wanted to share my thoughts with all of you here on the humble SingleTails. Given the byzantine rules of anonymity that I apply to myself when writing here, editing my email to August Founder is something of a challenge, but I'll give it a whirl. I'll try my best to provide a cushion of deniability for the folks mentioned ("I have no idea what he was talking about on his silly weblog and that sure wasn't me!"), but in some cases, I have to admit there isn't a lot of stuffing in that cushion. But here goes...
You're going to come under fire for this speech (surprise!), but not, perhaps, for reasons that have occurred to you.
A couple of years ago, I got into a tiff with a noted Barber, late of New York City, now of San Francisco. Through the wonders of the internet, we've never actually spoken to each other, although once when I was visiting San Francisco, Mr. Barber crossed the street to avoid me. Or maybe not.
It all started when I read in Bob and Austin's online publication, All-American Kink or whatever, an interview with Mr. Barber. In it, he was condemning of Inferno, an event I love deeply. Something along the lines of "too many rules! you can't push the envelope!" This, of course, is claptrap. If Diabolique's whipping at the hands of the Man from Munich, or any of several scenes I've seen contrived by the deceptively amiable Mind Bender are the stuff of schoolroom shenanigans, than I quiver at the prospect of entering that schoolroom. (All of us are candyasses when it comes to something. For me it's the sight of my own blood, and items other than food I like and the occasional stream of piss from the tap in my mouth. Cigar ashes are beyond the pale.)
Mr. Barber stated that to prove his point, he had organized his own event at Fort Troff in Atlanta. At which there would be No Rules (!). By way of example, he sited a scene in which he smoked a cigar while a boy gave him a blow job. The boy was gagging on Mr. Barber's cock, and at one point, turned aside and vomited, but then continued the blow job. (Eeewwwwww!)
Okay. This all struck me as silly. In my humble weblog, I crafted what I thought was an amusing and not-too-meanspirited response, which I titled 'Wayne's Dungeon.' I used the characters created by Mike Myers and Dana Carvey on Saturday Night Live, where a couple of heavy metal enthusiasts sit around in somebody's finished basement being awed by mediocrity. In Wayne's Dungeon, two renegade leathermen congratulated each other and their guest for being truly Hard Core.
Well. Word reached me that Mr. Barber was really upset by that. I wondered if I had gone too far, insulting a fellow leatherman's idiosyncratic pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. Reflecting on it, I came to the conclusion that to the extent that I had let my baser self get the better of me, it was about high school. In high school, and therefore for the rest of my life, I was not cool. I aspired to be cool, but in every attempt I made to emulate the kids who were cool, it seemed they changed the rules on me as soon as I was able to limn and follow them. I was always two steps behind cool. The girl in the yellow dress that Virginia Wolf wrote about in a short story.
Here's my point. (I do have one!) Edge Play is the current flavor of cool. Those among us who consider themselves to be cool aren't getting the same charge out of being kinky as they once did, because now you've got tons and tons of people who are kinky. (I wonder if there's an age element in all of this? I think the TNG phenomenon is really interesting. We now live in a world where 24 year olds are accomplished whipsmen and whipswomen--No really! Some of these kids are really good!--and that's lowered the value of being an elder considerably. So, maybe we who are getting on in years just want something to set ourselves above the masses, especially the fresh-faced masses.) Now that kink is in every living room in America, and pervasive on the internet, it's natural that some among us would yawn behind fanned fingers at the mention of rope bondage and flogging, because they're into something that's really Out There.
And here comes poor August Founder, delivering an excellent keynote address at... uh... A Big Leather Event In The Reddest Of All Red States. And in it, he seems to be doing for Edge Play what he did for SM when he founded GMSMA: making something dark, mysterious, and forbidding into something accessible and understandable. And, dare I say, fun for everyone!
Oh man. Are you in for it.
Now what are you going to force the Noted Barbers of the world to resort to? Scenes involving live panthers and heavy duty farming equipment demanding a venue the size of Shea Stadium?
Prepare yourself for the backlash.
A friend, the August Founder of several groups that are household names to people with floggers hanging in their bedrooms and clothespins which have never seen a clothesline, is going to be the keynote speaker at an upcoming leather event. He sent to me, and to several other worthies, the text of his talk, and asked for feedback. It is, of course, excellent. I found crafting a response to be thought provoking. And I wanted to share my thoughts with all of you here on the humble SingleTails. Given the byzantine rules of anonymity that I apply to myself when writing here, editing my email to August Founder is something of a challenge, but I'll give it a whirl. I'll try my best to provide a cushion of deniability for the folks mentioned ("I have no idea what he was talking about on his silly weblog and that sure wasn't me!"), but in some cases, I have to admit there isn't a lot of stuffing in that cushion. But here goes...
You're going to come under fire for this speech (surprise!), but not, perhaps, for reasons that have occurred to you.
A couple of years ago, I got into a tiff with a noted Barber, late of New York City, now of San Francisco. Through the wonders of the internet, we've never actually spoken to each other, although once when I was visiting San Francisco, Mr. Barber crossed the street to avoid me. Or maybe not.
It all started when I read in Bob and Austin's online publication, All-American Kink or whatever, an interview with Mr. Barber. In it, he was condemning of Inferno, an event I love deeply. Something along the lines of "too many rules! you can't push the envelope!" This, of course, is claptrap. If Diabolique's whipping at the hands of the Man from Munich, or any of several scenes I've seen contrived by the deceptively amiable Mind Bender are the stuff of schoolroom shenanigans, than I quiver at the prospect of entering that schoolroom. (All of us are candyasses when it comes to something. For me it's the sight of my own blood, and items other than food I like and the occasional stream of piss from the tap in my mouth. Cigar ashes are beyond the pale.)
Mr. Barber stated that to prove his point, he had organized his own event at Fort Troff in Atlanta. At which there would be No Rules (!). By way of example, he sited a scene in which he smoked a cigar while a boy gave him a blow job. The boy was gagging on Mr. Barber's cock, and at one point, turned aside and vomited, but then continued the blow job. (Eeewwwwww!)
Okay. This all struck me as silly. In my humble weblog, I crafted what I thought was an amusing and not-too-meanspirited response, which I titled 'Wayne's Dungeon.' I used the characters created by Mike Myers and Dana Carvey on Saturday Night Live, where a couple of heavy metal enthusiasts sit around in somebody's finished basement being awed by mediocrity. In Wayne's Dungeon, two renegade leathermen congratulated each other and their guest for being truly Hard Core.
Well. Word reached me that Mr. Barber was really upset by that. I wondered if I had gone too far, insulting a fellow leatherman's idiosyncratic pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. Reflecting on it, I came to the conclusion that to the extent that I had let my baser self get the better of me, it was about high school. In high school, and therefore for the rest of my life, I was not cool. I aspired to be cool, but in every attempt I made to emulate the kids who were cool, it seemed they changed the rules on me as soon as I was able to limn and follow them. I was always two steps behind cool. The girl in the yellow dress that Virginia Wolf wrote about in a short story.
Here's my point. (I do have one!) Edge Play is the current flavor of cool. Those among us who consider themselves to be cool aren't getting the same charge out of being kinky as they once did, because now you've got tons and tons of people who are kinky. (I wonder if there's an age element in all of this? I think the TNG phenomenon is really interesting. We now live in a world where 24 year olds are accomplished whipsmen and whipswomen--No really! Some of these kids are really good!--and that's lowered the value of being an elder considerably. So, maybe we who are getting on in years just want something to set ourselves above the masses, especially the fresh-faced masses.) Now that kink is in every living room in America, and pervasive on the internet, it's natural that some among us would yawn behind fanned fingers at the mention of rope bondage and flogging, because they're into something that's really Out There.
And here comes poor August Founder, delivering an excellent keynote address at... uh... A Big Leather Event In The Reddest Of All Red States. And in it, he seems to be doing for Edge Play what he did for SM when he founded GMSMA: making something dark, mysterious, and forbidding into something accessible and understandable. And, dare I say, fun for everyone!
Oh man. Are you in for it.
Now what are you going to force the Noted Barbers of the world to resort to? Scenes involving live panthers and heavy duty farming equipment demanding a venue the size of Shea Stadium?
Prepare yourself for the backlash.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Poetry 'N' Lotion
I don't quite know what to make of this, but I like it a lot. Sort of a "found poem," no?
(from a REAL profile of a REAL guy on a REAL website on the REAL internet, edited only to obscure identifying details)
* * * * *
I'm gwm, i'm neg, 45 OLD, delaware,
240lds, 55" c, tit
50"w, 7" dick, 5" head, 6" base, bull balls (dollar size) chew on love it alot, supper hairy cock, supper hairy ass hole also!
cumming ir U need more I give to U!
I have pic! NEW ONES TOO! I want them NOW put ur email there!! on there
I'll sent them type III BIG LETTER SO I CAN SEE!!
give nude massagers here!
love piss play !!
love playing alot with someone that can't get ever SEX!! don't care who see me any more!!
{I NEED A ROOM FOR MAL in jan! now!}
shave ur head dick ass hole alot!
Piss daily on u Up U!
give all the SEX U will ever Need or want!
Take it alot!
TIE U down alot in cuv I own! fuck U! RAW!!
I need U!!
U: 40 & UP!! old shaved head, dick, asshole OK!! must be will to start right NOW!!
[will travel here to delaware for a master}
(dc, del, md, nj, pa, ny, va, wv slave dog & ver too!]
I need alot of SEX don't care who see!
if U up to this email
live in a jock & collared!!
U live on Ur knees & hands too!
U need this Master now!
I don't care who see, Master do what I need to do to slave dog! 24/7 SEX!!
where r the BOTTOM'S? GUYS!
where r the hungry guys?
when can U start realtime here?
what all U into?
do U have a face pic?
READY to play anytime NOW!!!!!!!!!
where u at? slave!
where r U? NOW!
i do have pic!
it not let master put up on here OK!!
IT's all about master need & want DOG!
be really!
GUYS IF U WANT TO PLAY "" CALL AFTER FEB 14TH OK""
[he really gives his phone number here, but I'm not gonna pass it on. -ed.] two times! be about realtime OK!if not here leave name & number OK 2 TIMES PLEASE
OK!!
* * * * * *
Okay. You know what to do!
I don't quite know what to make of this, but I like it a lot. Sort of a "found poem," no?
(from a REAL profile of a REAL guy on a REAL website on the REAL internet, edited only to obscure identifying details)
* * * * *
I'm gwm, i'm neg, 45 OLD, delaware,
240lds, 55" c, tit
50"w, 7" dick, 5" head, 6" base, bull balls (dollar size) chew on love it alot, supper hairy cock, supper hairy ass hole also!
cumming ir U need more I give to U!
I have pic! NEW ONES TOO! I want them NOW put ur email there!! on there
I'll sent them type III BIG LETTER SO I CAN SEE!!
give nude massagers here!
love piss play !!
love playing alot with someone that can't get ever SEX!! don't care who see me any more!!
{I NEED A ROOM FOR MAL in jan! now!}
shave ur head dick ass hole alot!
Piss daily on u Up U!
give all the SEX U will ever Need or want!
Take it alot!
TIE U down alot in cuv I own! fuck U! RAW!!
I need U!!
U: 40 & UP!! old shaved head, dick, asshole OK!! must be will to start right NOW!!
[will travel here to delaware for a master}
(dc, del, md, nj, pa, ny, va, wv slave dog & ver too!]
I need alot of SEX don't care who see!
if U up to this email
live in a jock & collared!!
U live on Ur knees & hands too!
U need this Master now!
I don't care who see, Master do what I need to do to slave dog! 24/7 SEX!!
where r the BOTTOM'S? GUYS!
where r the hungry guys?
when can U start realtime here?
what all U into?
do U have a face pic?
READY to play anytime NOW!!!!!!!!!
where u at? slave!
where r U? NOW!
i do have pic!
it not let master put up on here OK!!
IT's all about master need & want DOG!
be really!
GUYS IF U WANT TO PLAY "" CALL AFTER FEB 14TH OK""
[he really gives his phone number here, but I'm not gonna pass it on. -ed.] two times! be about realtime OK!if not here leave name & number OK 2 TIMES PLEASE
OK!!
* * * * * *
Okay. You know what to do!
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Who Writes This Stuff?
Yo. If'n you're a twisted f*cker like me, you might want to keep an eye out for the episode of that cheesy poor man's X Files called Supernatural entitled "Human Prey."
*sigh*
The two guys--whatever their names are--are investigating strange disappearances somewhere in the midwest. And whaddyaknow! It turns out that the perpetrators are a bunch of hillbillies with bad teeth who enjoy abducting men, keeping them caged, and then releasing them and hunting them down.
For real!
We're talking scenes of guys in cages. (And great cages, too! Steel i-beam frames and rebar. (Rebar! Brilliant!) And the hunt scenes worked for me, too. No intimations of any cannibalism gooing on though. But there was a scene of a jar of human teeth kept as trophies.
Oh! And when cage guys were trying to figure out what the deal was, one of them offered that they were in for a 'Ned Beatty action.' How cool is that?
There is something about abduction and caging that just gets my juices flowing.
And I can watch this stuff on television! What a wonderful world.
Yo. If'n you're a twisted f*cker like me, you might want to keep an eye out for the episode of that cheesy poor man's X Files called Supernatural entitled "Human Prey."
*sigh*
The two guys--whatever their names are--are investigating strange disappearances somewhere in the midwest. And whaddyaknow! It turns out that the perpetrators are a bunch of hillbillies with bad teeth who enjoy abducting men, keeping them caged, and then releasing them and hunting them down.
For real!
We're talking scenes of guys in cages. (And great cages, too! Steel i-beam frames and rebar. (Rebar! Brilliant!) And the hunt scenes worked for me, too. No intimations of any cannibalism gooing on though. But there was a scene of a jar of human teeth kept as trophies.
Oh! And when cage guys were trying to figure out what the deal was, one of them offered that they were in for a 'Ned Beatty action.' How cool is that?
There is something about abduction and caging that just gets my juices flowing.
And I can watch this stuff on television! What a wonderful world.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Men Don't Tell
In honor of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd give a little bit of unsolicited romantic advice. A valuable lesson I've learned (the hard way) that I thought I'd pass on. A misunderstood aspect of the male psyche that leads to untold heartache and angst in the world.
By way of example... So he finally has the guts to put it into words, you're fired, he's dumping you, and you sit there, dope that you are, and ask, "Why? I thought things were going so well with us? What's going on?" And he stutters and stammers and makes noises, but offers nothing in the way of a satisfying explanation. So of course you spend the next several months trying to fill in the blanks yourself, trying to figure out what you did wrong.
Am I right? I'm right, right? Of course I'm right.
So get this. Recent readings in neuroscience have brought to my awareness this salient fact: in most women's brains, the part of the brain where emotions arise is hardwired to the part of the brain where language is formed and processed, but in most men's brains, those two parts of the brain have little, if anything, to do with each other.
Truth!
(Or, y'know, it's the proposition that embraces most of the evidence and the phenomena identified and tested by the scientific method. Like that theory of evolution deal.)
Y'see?
Implications coming clear?
Men are always accused of not being in touch with their feelings, and not being able to express their feelings, and blah blah blah. Women, on the other hand, are all about, "I sensed a certain tentativeness in you when I was talking about my friend Merideth's baby, and that made me feel needy and alone, because I want children some day, and I'm frankly threatened by the fact that you're obviously pretty ambivalent in your feelings about children."
And the guy listening to this is like, "Duh.... Idaknow."
That's why he doesn't have an answer for you about why he's dumping you. He can't put it into words. Not to say he doesn't have reasons, but it's like a blind person being asked to explain what purple looks like.
And of course, when you get two men in a relationship, you have conversations that look like some weird kabuki theater: fist slammed on countertop, hand on chin, running fingers through hair... It's like nameless deamon's taking control of you.
(And I think it's just this insight, among others, that makes Brokeback Mountain so successful. Annie Proulx sure knows her neurochemistry! But I'm bringing up That Movie again, huh?)
So we all should learn not to press the men in our lives on these issues. It's not like he's not trying. It's not like he doesn't care, or doesn't feel. It's just the way God made him.
Happy Valentine's Day!
In honor of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd give a little bit of unsolicited romantic advice. A valuable lesson I've learned (the hard way) that I thought I'd pass on. A misunderstood aspect of the male psyche that leads to untold heartache and angst in the world.
By way of example... So he finally has the guts to put it into words, you're fired, he's dumping you, and you sit there, dope that you are, and ask, "Why? I thought things were going so well with us? What's going on?" And he stutters and stammers and makes noises, but offers nothing in the way of a satisfying explanation. So of course you spend the next several months trying to fill in the blanks yourself, trying to figure out what you did wrong.
Am I right? I'm right, right? Of course I'm right.
So get this. Recent readings in neuroscience have brought to my awareness this salient fact: in most women's brains, the part of the brain where emotions arise is hardwired to the part of the brain where language is formed and processed, but in most men's brains, those two parts of the brain have little, if anything, to do with each other.
Truth!
(Or, y'know, it's the proposition that embraces most of the evidence and the phenomena identified and tested by the scientific method. Like that theory of evolution deal.)
Y'see?
Implications coming clear?
Men are always accused of not being in touch with their feelings, and not being able to express their feelings, and blah blah blah. Women, on the other hand, are all about, "I sensed a certain tentativeness in you when I was talking about my friend Merideth's baby, and that made me feel needy and alone, because I want children some day, and I'm frankly threatened by the fact that you're obviously pretty ambivalent in your feelings about children."
And the guy listening to this is like, "Duh.... Idaknow."
That's why he doesn't have an answer for you about why he's dumping you. He can't put it into words. Not to say he doesn't have reasons, but it's like a blind person being asked to explain what purple looks like.
And of course, when you get two men in a relationship, you have conversations that look like some weird kabuki theater: fist slammed on countertop, hand on chin, running fingers through hair... It's like nameless deamon's taking control of you.
(And I think it's just this insight, among others, that makes Brokeback Mountain so successful. Annie Proulx sure knows her neurochemistry! But I'm bringing up That Movie again, huh?)
So we all should learn not to press the men in our lives on these issues. It's not like he's not trying. It's not like he doesn't care, or doesn't feel. It's just the way God made him.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Sunday, February 12, 2006
I'm Bound. Snow Bound
Yes we are! Easily over a foot here. But a good weekend nonetheless.
Anticipating Saturday being a nonstarter for travel, I thought that if I was going to darken the door of the Bike Stop this weekend, it would have to be Friday night. So after dinner, I headed south. And it was a good night. Wall to wall hot men. And they all seemed to be interested in each other, but not in me. Grrrr.
Now that's not entirely true. It was mostly me. The energy I was putting out. I was still in the throes of feeling pretty unhorny. And guys seemed to be so much work. And, I keep getting dumped! (What is up with that?) So maybe it was all about me feeling like damaged goods.
And, of course, I had a long time to think about it all on the drive home.
Saturday I had big plans. Really big plans. Since it's the Year of the Dog, I want to get Faithful Companion over to the Bark Park in Montgomeryville as often as possible. And we had a blast. At first, we had the place to ourselves. But then some other dogs--and owners--showed up. I chatted with a pleasant lesbian whose dog Cairo is an obsessive holedigger. And my boy-boy had a great time. I love seeing him so playful.
Then came grocery shopping, then home to treat my father to my reknowned roast chicken. (Served up with potatoes roasted in the pan and some of the sweet corn I put up last summer. Yeah! I put up sweet corn!) After an incredible dinner, I spent an evening watching the Olympics while the snow fell outside.
Lovely.
Today, of course, was all about shoveling snow. It was my fathers inclination that I should shovel out the driveway.
Say what?
Y'see, the guy who plows our driveway has chosen this week to head to Mexico for vacation.
Now, shoveling the driveway is pointless, right? My father doesn't go anywhere, I have four-wheel drive, so what's the point?
But then, but then, I suddenly developed a reason to leave the house. This Manhunt guy from Hamburg, PA. Jeff the Chef. Okay. With my father's fear of me driving in bad weather, how to make that work. Well, the points that I make from spending some time shoveling snow should get me out the door. So I started in. And that obsessive thing of mine kicked in. I figured, I'll just do the first ten feet, so that the guy that delivers our paper can back in to turn around. But then I developed this system, working in a (oddly satisfying) herringbone pattern. Further and further up the driveway I went.
(Oh. And I was wearing these performance outer garments. These black stretchy tights for pants that are made for skiers or something, and one of my Buck Rogers tops. I looked not unlike some snow-shoveling superhero out there. Passing salt trucks slowed down. Yo.)
Well, before you know it, there was no stopping me. All the snow had to be cleared from the driveway. And it was. And believe me, with all the snow we got... well... that was a lot of snow to shovel.
But my fiendish plan worked perfectly. Dad had no problem with me heading out for a couple of hours.
So we decided that the Starbucks in Quakertown would be a good meeting place. And off I headed. My newly retooled Jeep Liberty taking the ill-plowed roads beautifully. And there was the guy.
And he was smokin'. Just way hot. He had this long, lean body--like a greyhound--only instead of sleek, just covered in fur. Clearly, he was built for sex.
But of course, with both of us 45 minutes or more away from home, there was little we could do besides chat over lattes.
But it all did me a world of good. To have a hot man desire me, and desire him back.
The sun was down, the roads would be icing up, and I had to get home to make cock-a-leekie soup for my father.
Another good weekend. Can't wait for the next one.
Yes we are! Easily over a foot here. But a good weekend nonetheless.
Anticipating Saturday being a nonstarter for travel, I thought that if I was going to darken the door of the Bike Stop this weekend, it would have to be Friday night. So after dinner, I headed south. And it was a good night. Wall to wall hot men. And they all seemed to be interested in each other, but not in me. Grrrr.
Now that's not entirely true. It was mostly me. The energy I was putting out. I was still in the throes of feeling pretty unhorny. And guys seemed to be so much work. And, I keep getting dumped! (What is up with that?) So maybe it was all about me feeling like damaged goods.
And, of course, I had a long time to think about it all on the drive home.
Saturday I had big plans. Really big plans. Since it's the Year of the Dog, I want to get Faithful Companion over to the Bark Park in Montgomeryville as often as possible. And we had a blast. At first, we had the place to ourselves. But then some other dogs--and owners--showed up. I chatted with a pleasant lesbian whose dog Cairo is an obsessive holedigger. And my boy-boy had a great time. I love seeing him so playful.
Then came grocery shopping, then home to treat my father to my reknowned roast chicken. (Served up with potatoes roasted in the pan and some of the sweet corn I put up last summer. Yeah! I put up sweet corn!) After an incredible dinner, I spent an evening watching the Olympics while the snow fell outside.
Lovely.
Today, of course, was all about shoveling snow. It was my fathers inclination that I should shovel out the driveway.
Say what?
Y'see, the guy who plows our driveway has chosen this week to head to Mexico for vacation.
Now, shoveling the driveway is pointless, right? My father doesn't go anywhere, I have four-wheel drive, so what's the point?
But then, but then, I suddenly developed a reason to leave the house. This Manhunt guy from Hamburg, PA. Jeff the Chef. Okay. With my father's fear of me driving in bad weather, how to make that work. Well, the points that I make from spending some time shoveling snow should get me out the door. So I started in. And that obsessive thing of mine kicked in. I figured, I'll just do the first ten feet, so that the guy that delivers our paper can back in to turn around. But then I developed this system, working in a (oddly satisfying) herringbone pattern. Further and further up the driveway I went.
(Oh. And I was wearing these performance outer garments. These black stretchy tights for pants that are made for skiers or something, and one of my Buck Rogers tops. I looked not unlike some snow-shoveling superhero out there. Passing salt trucks slowed down. Yo.)
Well, before you know it, there was no stopping me. All the snow had to be cleared from the driveway. And it was. And believe me, with all the snow we got... well... that was a lot of snow to shovel.
But my fiendish plan worked perfectly. Dad had no problem with me heading out for a couple of hours.
So we decided that the Starbucks in Quakertown would be a good meeting place. And off I headed. My newly retooled Jeep Liberty taking the ill-plowed roads beautifully. And there was the guy.
And he was smokin'. Just way hot. He had this long, lean body--like a greyhound--only instead of sleek, just covered in fur. Clearly, he was built for sex.
But of course, with both of us 45 minutes or more away from home, there was little we could do besides chat over lattes.
But it all did me a world of good. To have a hot man desire me, and desire him back.
The sun was down, the roads would be icing up, and I had to get home to make cock-a-leekie soup for my father.
Another good weekend. Can't wait for the next one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
