South Of The Border

It used to be when the urge struck I'd turn up the heat. Ten days of onanistic, on-my-honor chastity would put an edge on any interaction I'd have with any attractive woman - the cute barrista at Starbucks, the prosecutor with the tight skirts, that hot, middle-aged blonde on the downtown Lex. By the two week mark I'd just be wild for a session and I'd dial-a-domme. Self imposed chastity has a mind-altering capability for me, kinda like drinking did. It's not until fairly recently that I've realized that for me, chastity is a drug to used in moderation, sparingly and with another I trust. Though I never did acid, I need a chastity playmate, a denial partner.

For all the progress I've made this year in being out with my kink, I'm still pretty closeted and isolated. Its been a couple of months since I've played. Maybe it's that a couple of really attractive, kinky women are visiting New York and I'm going to dine with them. Oh jeez, maybe I'm just horny. There's something about the week between Christmas and New Year's that just makes me wanna get my freak on.

Timothy Findley uses the phrase "The Rain of Onan" in his novel Not Wanted on the Voyage (1984). He writes, "it was now that the rain, having lost its translucence and its mauveness, began to take on an opaque milky look, and Noah said that what had been an "evil" rain was now a 'passionate' rain being poured from the sky-spent and wasted on the dying earth and this he called 'The Rain of Onan.'" Now, I'm just not all that literary, just a Wiki cheat ... but the quote feels way hot nevertheless. And my earth is dyin' and I'm tired of praying to Onan!!

So here's one New Year's resolution. More real time kinky friends, more munches, a class, a conference, a fetish party ... maybe even a private play party. Wait ... did I say one resolution. Sounds like a pack of 'em. Let's just say I resolve to have more real fun.

And tonight, real fun would be a chastity playmate who loves the intense tease of semi-prolonged denial. A dominant woman who liked to play in a hot, hot kitchen with me. One who lives in the same town I do. One who wants to be friends.

Or maybe a T&D lapdance in a bar ... I like to think Vanessa has dabbed a little Icy Hot on the business end of a CB-3000 and Kurt is at the three week mark of combined on-his-honor and device enforced chastity. Whew ... it gets hot south of my border.

Kink In A Christmas Table Cloth

Yesterday my wife and I had a bunch of friends over for Christmas. We had a wonderful day even in the dire straits of our time. As we prepped for guests I was assigned the task of ironing the massive, badly wrinkled red tablecloth which was to go on the holiday table. Now I don't do much ironing but in the spirit of the season and fancying myself an undercover, clandestine, service subbie, I plunged ahead with my task. As I struggled with fitting the awkward fabric on the board, applying enough pressure to the iron to get it smooth but not burn it and taking care not to re-wrinkle the ironed part, I reflected on submissive service for service's sake.

Now, in my vanilla-marriage I try (and sometimes succeed) to do my fair share of chores. Plus, I make all the money. But left to my own devices, I probably would not iron table cloths. It is, however, important to my wife, so in I pitched. I've written about the motivation for service on the Max Board and I got some really interesting responses. I think service for its own sake is a rare species. I, for one, often need either approval or appreciation, or dommy gaming. Yesterday, I got neither.

When I was almost done grunting and sweating away on smoothing the yuletide table topper, my wife came by and criticized my effort. Sometimes I have a thick skin but often I just do not take disapproval well. I long to please. But she was not pleased. So ... in a huff, I re-did the whole damn thing. She gave me some lavender ironing water and I re-grunted and re-sweated from tip to tail.

Meanwhile, in my perverted mind I pictured myself in nothing but a frilly apron and heels, wearing a CB-3000 and being told to redo the table cloth or else I'd wait until New Year's for my holiday money shot. Now, I'm pretty sure that even in a lifestyle D/s relationship couples don't always power exchange loading the dishwasher. But yesterday I longed for someone who at least got that I crave domination - happily wrapped around her little finger for her service and corrective pleasure.

But I decided to just suck it up. The New Year will bring enough opportunity for new kink journeys. Besides, Christmas ain't the time for breakin' each other's hearts.

Merry, merry, merry!!!

I want to wish everyone who drops by my blog here a Merry Christmas. I'm erring on the politically incorrect side. I also wish all happy holidays but I am a total Christmas freak in the most pop culture, pagan sense of that term, so I just like saying "Merry Christmas".

This blog has been a wonderful way for me to express myself, connect, learn and share. I really treasure every comment and have heard through the grapevine that even if you aren't commenting you're reading and sometimes even liking. So thanks to all!!

I leave you with a completely inappropriate seasonal ditty. While I'll be havin' a sober silent night, this guy's got a good freak on! Have a merry!

Just A Castaway ...

This holiday season is just so emotionally supercharged. I search for hope and inspiration in a constant parade of bad news and difficulty. I know I'm not alone at feeling alone and frightened. I take deep comfort in this. But amidst all this, the past couple of days have been very sweet. My domme friend - the one "who-lives-far-away-but-sometimes-visits" - sent along a care package of gifts with a friend who is visiting here. She included a gift to play Santa Claus with, some cards ... and a gift all for me and my very own holiday card. This was a first.

She also asked me to hunt and gather some items which are hard for her to find on the island paradise where she now lives. So I've spent chunks of the last couple of days searching for make-up. Maybelline, turbo-boosted, brownish black, must be waterproof. Revlon "Raspberry Rush"??? I think I found a guy on E-Bay who has stock piled this color, but I searched high and low and just could not find it anywhere in Manhattan! Do you know that no Duane Reade, CVS, Rite-Aid, chain store on my island paradise carries Cover Girl nail polish. I finally found it in a K-Mart near Macy's ... but did they have "Classic Red"?? Noooooo!!

So anyway ... this morning I put together my little care package. Make-up, her late birthday present, a little Christmas gift and a card. In the sleety grey of this Sunday before, I made my way to the hotel where her friend is staying. I made the switcheroo - my package for hers. When I got back underground while waiting for my train, I greedily tore open my card from the one I love.

On the outside of the card is a 50's-ish photo of a housewife saying, "If by 'happy' you mean trapped with no means of escape ...?" On the inside is written, "...then yes, I'm happy."

Among other things in her little note to me she wrote, "[You are] happily free in your bond to me." And I truly am. It was great to hunt and gather and think about how much closer she and I have become this year. Even though we talk reqularly on the phone, text each other and email some, I felt this morning when I left my gifts for her at the hotel desk that I had cast my bottle on the sea hoping it washes up on her shores. The nice thing is ... I think we are each other's message in a bottle.

At Least I'm Consistent

So today I was having a holiday lunch with colleagues in a downtown restaurant which is something of a courthouse hot spot. One of my lunch companions spotted an old friend of hers and remarked to me that there she was and didn't she look great. Now, I happen to know this woman too from a time when she was an adversary. In fact the last big case I had against her involved my representation of a remorseless, wind-up killer who had been employed by a very successful drug crew. I told my lunch mate that indeed I too knew Ms. Former Prosecutrix and we both agreed we should go over and say hi.

My co-luncher leaned into the booth first and Ms. Former Prosecutrix was just delighted to see her. They exchanged air kisses, remarking how long it had been since they'd seen each other. All of a sudden my former enemy saw me and just brightened like summer sunshine after a thundershower. "Advo", she exclaimed, "How are you? Oh my gosh when was the last time I saw you!!"

Now my once sworn nemesis turned to her lunch pal, a noted city official, and said, "You know, I'll just always love Advo. We were once before Judge Tactless who was berating me for taking this tough position. The judge said, 'You know, you'll never meet a man and get married if you continue to be so controlling ..."

"Can you imagine?", she said. "But without missing a beat, Advo said, 'But Judge, I like controlling women'."

At least I'm consistent.

So, come on you controlling women, hit me with your best shot!

This Time Last Year

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Those People

Make no mistake about it ... we are those people. To so much of the world we are bizarre, freaky, weird and dangerous. The New York Post carried a story today of a sensational murder/suicide. An obviously disturbed submissive man shot to death another submissive man ostensibly because he was obsessed by the victim's pro-domme girlfriend. The shooter then kidnapped the poor domme and drove her around until she persuaded him to let her go. She got away and called the cops who tracked the deranged man down. The unhinged submissive, who had stalked the domme for months, held off the police for hours and finally shot himself in the head. I'm not going to link to the story. It is typical prurient Post pulp.

But it made the front page, replete with salacious pictures and lewd, lubricious copy for all to read. Of course the rag trampled over any shred of privacy the family of the murdered man might hope for and made a mockery out of the woman's grieving process. News-wise, I cover all bases in the morning and have the Times, WSJ and Post delivered for a speed read over coffee. My wife saw the story and immediately said, "So, look what happens when you start getting involved with those people". Of course I said these incidents are by no means limited to Scene people. Crazy stalkers come in all stripes.

But the whole thing made me sad and angry at the same time. Deeply sad for this couple. I have no clue who they are, but they both seemed really sweet and nice from the read-between-the-lines description. It made me very angry at the tabloid treatment of terrible loss and grief.

I'm proud to be "those people". We are those people. I am those people. We're real people who care and love and die when we're shot. Who wrench in unimaginable grief when we lose a loved one in so senseless and violent a way. But I'm poignantly reminded that a good chunk of the world sees us as exaggerated stereotypes and when something bad happens it ends up on the front page of the Post 'cos it sells papers. My heart goes out to everyone involved in this horrible tragedy.

I Want the World To Know ... or at least a select few.

So I've been telling some people that I'm kinky. More than just joking how I really like Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman. Er ... actually it's Julie Newmar I'm hopelessly horn doggie over. But really, I've been truly sharing for the first time in my life that I'm a perv with a select few friends. I don't tell 'em everything as there's the ubiquitous "ick factor" with some stuff. But I've been telling them more than enough that they get I'm a submissive man who wants to be with a dominant woman.

Generally, this process has been going very well and I'm feeling liberated and supported. But I had lunch this week with a vanilla woman friend who I've been randy over for some time. She of the Mahwah Kiss. She's definitely a "top" in the street. Smart, bossy, sexy, and hot. Anyway, I tell her I'm having problems in my marriage and she says, "I don't want to pry but what's going on? In other words, I'm prying." So I tell her in a nutshell the main issue is we don't have sex. Upon hearing this, my oh-so-hot friend goes off and says, "Come on, men need sex!! That's part of the marriage vow. You get a vagina to play with."

Okay ... but not wanting to misrepresent myself or my situation I say there's a bit more to it. Like? Well, I say, I've got some pretty kinky sexual tastes. Like? Well, I say, I like to bottom to a woman top. And she says ... "That's not so kinky ... you want to be on the bottom and have her on top?"

Now, I had been totally admiring her high heels, tight black skirt, form fitting wrap blouse and most of all, the tell tale gathering of her black stockings at her ankles which bespoke the real deal instead of the less enticing pantyhose. So I was a little taken aback at her complete naïveté. "Well, it's a little more involved.", I confessed. "I like the dominatrix thing." I blurted.

"You mean like whips and crops?", she so innocently inquires.

And just like that my sexual attraction quotient dropped like the Dow Jones Industrials Average. We chatted a little more about it. She was cool but so not interested. "Whatever turns you on." "As long as it doesn't involve children and animals." Sheesh!!

I gotta figure out a better litmus test to avoid the canned analysis about how it's all due to my domineering mom and the sexualization of losing TV privileges. But on the total upside, I really thought for the first time that I was looking for someone who truly shared my interest in kink instead of trying to chase and mold a "vanilla-top-on-the-street-bottom-in-the-sheets" kinda girl into my perfect domme. That's really been my lifelong mistake.

So even though it's a bit of a cliched anthem, I leave you with this, dear reader. Don't 'cha think her gloves are waaay dommy?

I Wanna Live in the World

Despite my best and persistent efforts to fashion a working compromise in my marriage, things just seem to be getting worse. For me, I've been able to envision a way that we could stay together, embrace the deep comfort of a twenty year relationship, and still get various needs met outside our marriage. I've been very careful to be explicit enough to have something to work toward but not so "honest" that I'm cruel. But for her, it all just feels like rejection and humiliation. I don't mean it to be. I love her very much. But I can't go back to surreptitious subsistence.

In ways other than kink we are very different. Who knows why after so many years of a life together it just seems to be unraveling. It's not just my increasing comfort with my perviness. It's not just my draw to flirtation and sexual attraction outside our union. It's not just her shame at our increasingly precarious financial situation. Maybe it's hitting a limit on how much we can share each other's lives and our respective dreams for a path into the future. Maybe we need some room to figure out just how much we can be together.

While it is deeply sad, I can't help but feel slightly giddy with hope. The freedom to make new friends and craft a life without all the lying and sneaking around has a cleanly captivating allure. I don't kid myself. At my age, the likelihood that I'll find Mistress Right and live happily ever after is pretty remote. But as a connoisseur of the greyer shade of grey in human interaction, maybe I don't need Mistress Right to be happy.

Maybe right now, like Jackson says, it's enough to hear a voice calling the prisoner inside who's the captive of my doubt, a voice which feeds all my dreams of breaking out ... and taking my chances - alive in the world.

Pro vs. Pampered Lifestyler

In chatting about her upcoming travels on the Max Board, the iconic, extraordinarily lovely, and oh-so-funny Domina M drew a distinction between the professional and the "pampered lifestyler". She posited she'd be "okay" - or on the sunnyside of legal - if she had her submissive pay for her hotel and played with him at her leisure. She seemed to define this form of interaction as "pampered lifestyle". I love this term. FWIW - and it is not worth legal advice - I agree with M that she's unlikely to get jammed up if her "compensation" is a nice corner room at the Marriott.

But more than legal niceties, her term "pampered lifestyle" seemed so accurately descriptive of the relationship I have with the domme I love. For each of her visits during the past year I've sprung for her hotel. I've loved doing this as it allows her to stay in town, have a base of operations, and I get to be told to strip naked so I don't wrinkle my suit when I bring her coffee in the morning. We also have romantic dinners from heaven and at the end of our lovely evenings I pick up the tab. That's just Chivalrous Dating 101. I'd been searching for a characterization of our thing together. Normally I don't pay for my friends hotel stays when they visit from out-of-town, but paying the bill at Kink Hilton didn't really seem like green in the tribute pouch either. The reaction on Maxville to this relationship concept was, as usual, facinating.

So thanks M for defining what has slightly perplexed me for the past year. Long live the pampered lifestyle!

Plea Bargains With Pain

She's visiting again ... the domme I love. It's so wonderful and intense. There's something about her physical presence in my life that provides a natural anchor to my submissive sexuality. So many of my "shortcomings" in my relationships with vanilla, non-dominant women are explainable when I'm with her. We just seem to fit and the natural order of things seems so clear. My penchant for service is appreciated, encouraged and sometimes rewarded. My lifelong reticence to "put the moves on" is actually an asset. She's the dominant and makes the first move because that's what she likes to do. Being with her is proof positive that I'm a submissive, kinky guy. I'm proud of that in a way I've never been prouder before.

But I have to say goodbye to her. It just breaks my heart in a million pieces and I feel so lost. No anchor to hold me, appreciate me and encourage me. Our connection is strong but I never know when I'm going to see her again. I bargain with my pain ... we'll plan our next romantic liason. Maybe she'll move back to the States next year. Maybe I'll figure a way to be more consistently close to her.

I try to live in the now and be with her up to the last minute. To revel in our being truly together and not let the pain interfere. It's hard but I'm getting better at it. I know we'll have that one more cup of coffee I fetch her before she goes ...

The Mahwah Kiss

No, I'm not talkin' about the town in New Jersey... Jersey gets enough of a bad rap as it is. I'm talkin' about the kiss where she either air kisses ya or kisses your cheek and then makes a sound. A sound like the town in Jersey. A sound that probably should be phonetically spelled like "mmmooooowah". You know the kiss. I really hate that kiss.

I had dinner last night with a very hot vanilla woman friend of mine in an effort to put myself in harm's way. Now I value this woman's friendship immensely. She's single, attractive, smart, and extremely flirtatious. Ultimately, however, she is safe as she is on a mission to marry and procreate. She is completely uninterested in scenic detours with kinky married men in sexless unions who for some mysterious reason are being drawn like butter to vanilla sex.

So last night we had a late dinner and I walked her home. At the corner, dressed in jeans and a light jacket, she shivered and complained about how quickly autumn had arrived. In a completely selfless and chivalrous show of gentlemanly concern I put my arms around her and drew her close, rubbing her shoulders to create a little heat. We walked arm in arm to her door and said goodnight. But then she double kissed my cheeks ending with the dreaded "mmmmoooowah kiss" or "Mahwah Kiss" as I like to think of it. Now, I'm sure it's wise that I don't further complicate my already complicated life by weaseling my way into a little vanilla nookie with my otherwise valued friend. But to give me the goddamn Mahwah Kiss ... I mean the mayor of Mahwah actually committed suicide ... I wonder if it was over a Mahwah Kiss? Take me home to kinkland ... this vanilla stuff is way too hard.

Oh well ... I guess from now on I'm just gonna have to steal my kisses.

I'm All About The Cow Wow Wow

Ever since she left I'm just so needy and horny. I mean, every morning I was naked in her hotel room ... smelling her workout clothes she scattered on the floor for me as she showered. I'm sayin' I was eatin' dinner off the glass coffee table top on the floor at her feet as she spat it out just for me. I was walkin' behind her down the street ... her beige pencil skirt fittin' so right and so tight ... the black back seam on her beige stockings so straight and true ... me turnin' a beautiful blue. And now ... she's gone. What's a guy to do?

I'm all hot for vanilla sex.

WTF?

Where's that at? How'd I get from the most wonderful kink week of my life to being all hot and bothered for vanilla sex? I spent the weekend trying to scheme to get close to this way hot woman I've known for awhile. Artsy, foreign, sexy accent. We had drinks on Saturday night and I followed the advice of friends. Flattery will get you everywhere and don't be a creepster were my guiding principles. And it guided me to a late dinner by myself and an early night. I guess just because I want her doesn't mean she wants me.

And then today I was supposed to have coffee with a very flirty friend who I definitely harbor carnal design upon. And don't cha know ... she was sick. Sheesh ... this is difficult. Oh yeah, and there's the little thing about me being married and them knowing that ... and me being honest about that.

Besides ... it's been so embarassingly long I'm pretty sure I've forgotten what to do.

Ahhhhh ... I'm just butterflyin' about ... and everything starts to bend. I guess it's just a personality crisis that's bound to end.

Cheeseburger At The Little Gem Diner

What is a munch anyway? I'd heard about 'em. I even wrote that I was thinking of going to one. Really ... I had no clue. But, not to fear. Sir Viktor of DSF answers my burning question ...

"What is a munch? A munch is a low-pressure social gathering for people involved in or interested in BDSM. A munch is usually held in a restaurant."

Ahhh ... okay ... now we're talkin'. But not any old restaurant. The DSF munch is held in a diner. Indeed, it is venued at the famous, kink-friendly Moonstruck Diner on 23rd Street and Ninth Avenue in Manhattan. Little did I know that for years -- no decades -- the Moonstruck has been the place for kinksters to meet and greet and scarf down cheeseburgers, or in my case, a chicken caesar salad.

My dear friend Scarlett did a great Max board post entitled, "So how are you going to support the scene?" And so, heart thump-thumping like a little snare drum on meth, I suggested we meet up for the munch at the Moonstruck. Now, I gotta tell ya, I'm a little socially phobic at the best of times. All those second form dances in prep school with "Cherish" playin', everyone except me doin' the double clutch ... I go back to standing in the corner all lonely and miserable in a heartbeat. But in true submissive man style, I've been able to overcome my social fears with discipline and training so I'm actually asking this smart, hot, oh-so-nice, kick-ass domme to meet me at the Moonstruck.

And munch we did. Our host Viktor had this uncanny way of making everyone feel at home. It was such a fun, easy, mind-expanding way to meet other people who are into kink. Guy doms married to women dommes, submissive guys with dommy women talking about how to be in a bdsm relationship. I'm not real up on all the various nooks and crannies of the scene, but it was so nice and fun. I had a wonderful time.

Most left for Paddles. I stayed and chatted with three way cool dommes and a great sub-guy. Drinkin' decaf and savoring community in the face of the Salem-style witch hunt that has beset our city. And there I was -- out -- feeling normal-kinky, doing what I could to support our thing.

Yeah ... diner ... my shiny, shiny love - you're all I'm thinkin' of ...

Save The Last Dance

Cuckolding falls into a category of bdsm play that is both edgy and humiliating. The idea of a gorgeous dominant woman having intimate and very sexual play with another because her primary submissive doesn't measure up gets some guys very hot and bothered ... including me. It is however, a very delicate balance, no? Deep down, I want desperately to please her. I want to succeed. I want to be rewarded. But some of us sing the melody of damaged lemons. Some of us have had real, painful failures in life that we must somehow deal with and overcome. We sexualize them to make them pleasurable. We seek stylized re-enactment. We seek redemption from the ghouls that haunt the closet.

Humiliation in bdsm play can be very unfulfilling. Someone whose blog has been sadly self-quarantined in the wake of the "Big Chill" in New York City wrote very eloquently about how, for her, humiliation fell into two catagories. I know I'm getting this wrong, but she said something to the effect that humiliation play was either "situational" (dress him in frilly pink panties and tarty red lipstick and call him a "girl") or "personal" (you're such a sloppy, fatty). Understandably, neither was acceptable for her.

"Forced crossdressing" as humiliation presented misogynistic, anti-feminist themes and caused her to feel bad. I totally get that and view this sort of shame-on-you play as hamfisted, cookie cutterish and wrong-headed. On the other hand, she'd say, telling an otherwise fit, trim, slender submissive that he is a skinny, scrawny, limp-dicked, excuse for man was just plain demeaning and was similarly unacceptable. So for her, humiliation was not a menu item. In favor of mutual empowerment, she eschewed providing the flavorful, savory taste of artfully baked humble pie. She did however recognize the inherent mortification of a barehanded beatdown or a deviously engineered afternoon of predicament bondage.

For me, sophisticated humiliation play and cuckolding fantasies in particular let me create pleasure from life's deep disappointments. I am at once unworthy of my dominant's bed. But if I endure, I am given a chance at deliverance and salvation. Ultimately I seek release - both literally and euphemistically. By literally I mean ... well ... you know what I mean. Euphemistically, her reward is my redemption.

All this takes a large measure of connection and trust. It takes an on-going relationship and, in my opinion, can't be created on demand two hours from now at the dungeon. But in a way that years of therapy has not, humiliation play and cuckolding fantasies, done for the amusement and fun of a handful of great dommes, have let me be free of the sense that I have sometimes failed miserably in life. With them, I am reborn a hale, happy, healthy guy. For me, this is a big reason why prodommes totally rock!

So when at the kinky sock hop, my most important safety rule of humiliation/cuckolding play is that she save the last dance for me.

A Proverbial Ham Sandwich

Sol Wachtler, the former Chief Judge of the New York State Court of Appeals, who had his own little run in with the law, famously said that prosecutors had so much unfettered control over grand juries that they could indict a ham sandwich. Grand juries are supposed to act as a buffer between the power of the state and its citizens. They are supposed to review evidence fairly and impartially and decide whether there is probable cause to accuse someone of a felony crime and return an indictment. But in reality, prosecutors control virtually every aspect of proceedings before grand juries.

In the State of New York, grand juries are composed of at least 16 and no more than 23 people. It takes a vote of a majority of a quorum of the grand jury to return an indictment. An indictment is a formal accusation of a felony crime. Grand jurors sit in a room and listen to testimony. Prosecutors have witnesses come into the room, swear to tell the truth, and then ask them questions. A stenographer is present, but grand jury proceedings are secret. It is illegal for prosecutors, grand jurors or other employees such as clerks and stenographers to release information about grand jury testimony.

Prosecutors issue grand jury subpoenas to individual witnesses they wish to have come in to testify in front of grand juries. Sometimes, people refuse to testify on the grounds it might incriminate them. They "Take Five" or exercise their rights under the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution. Even innocent people can take the Fifth. It is not the haven of the guilty.

However, prosecutors may grant witnesses who invoke their rights under the Fifth Amendment immunity from prosecution and thereby attempt to force their testimony. Once immunity is granted someone whose grand jury testimony is sought may either testify or face contempt charges and jailing.

Even if someone receives immunity, if they lie to the grand jury they can be prosecuted for perjury. Here are some interesting excerpts from New York State's Criminal Procedure Law;

§ 50.10 Compulsion of evidence by offer of immunity; definitions of terms

The following definitions are applicable to this article:

1. “Immunity.” A person who has been a witness in a legal proceeding, and who cannot, except as otherwise provided in this subdivision, be convicted of any offense or subjected to any penalty or forfeiture for or on account of any transaction, matter or thing concerning which he gave evidence therein, possesses “immunity” from any such conviction, penalty or forfeiture. A person who possesses such immunity may nevertheless be convicted of perjury as a result of having given false testimony in such legal proceeding, and may be convicted of or adjudged in contempt as a result of having contumaciously refused to give evidence therein.

2. “Legal proceeding” means a proceeding in or before any court or grand jury, or before any body, agency or person authorized by law to conduct the same and to administer the oath or to cause it to be administered.

3. “Give evidence” means to testify or produce physical evidence.

§ 190.40 Grand jury; witnesses, compulsion of evidence and immunity

1. Every witness in a grand jury proceeding must give any evidence legally requested of him regardless of any protest or belief on his part that it may tend to incriminate him.

2. A witness who gives evidence in a grand jury proceeding receives immunity unless:

(a) He has effectively waived such immunity pursuant to section 190.45; or

(b) Such evidence is not responsive to any inquiry and is gratuitously given or volunteered by the witness with knowledge that it is not responsive.

So ... what to do if you get a grand jury subpoena? Get a lawyer. What if you think you might be in danger of being viewed as a potential witness in a criminal case? Get a lawyer.

What does this have to do with kink? Unlike many of the other recent arrests and raids, the Rapture bust involved the execution of a search warrant and the seizure of various records and other items of evidence. Promoting prostitution is a felony. In order for a felony to be charged in New York, a case must be presented to a grand jury. In addition, if the New York County District Attorney's Office wants to add more charges like money laundering or tax evasion, or charge more people, they'd present evidence to a grand jury. Prosecutors issue subpoenas and put witnesses in front of grand juries and ask 'em questions. Witnesses could be both dommes who worked at Rapture and clients who sessioned there.

Again, my usual admonition that nothing here is legal advice. Ya can't rely on any a this submissive guy nonsense. And dommes, don't use yer clients fer yer lawyers. Guys, make 'em find non-client counsel, would'ja!

This could all just blow over. But ... isn't it better to hope for the best and plan for the worst? After all, I like to picture y'all rollin' ... not bein' ham salad.

Pirates and Perverts and Play ... Oh My! (Or ... Advo goes to Paddles)

So ... finally I'm getting around to writing about my outing to Paddles. I know for many this is not a particularly momentous thing ... but fer lil' ol' me ... it was major! I was invited by my dear friend and I got to wear my collar in public. Thrilling stuff. We went on the Friday night of Labor Day weekend so the club was pretty quiet. It was "Pirates of the Carribean" night. I maintained that my medium black, Gap T-shirt gave me a certain Keith Richards, I'll-walk-the-plank-for-you, cool. But she chastised my choice of size and reminded me we were not going to a barbeque.

Paddles was oddly homey. Lots of very nice people who knew one another. There was some play going on. Mostly guy tops with women bottoms. It was a first for me to actually see this play. It was discordant. A familiar melody played slightly off key. She looked at me and said, "It just always seems unnatural to me."

Then there were the lurkers. At once both pathetic and sympathetic. We were in one of the dark, back rooms. In a corner she was beautifully perched on a wall bench. I was happily kneeling. Her chocolate service - opening and holding. The lurker appeared out of nowhere and just sat right next to her without so much as an introduction. Wanted to know if she was "working". Claimed to be into public humiliation like I was. She politely drove him off. Public humiliation ... pleeeze! I was a proud candy caddy.

But on another night. Without her and pining for some community, I might feel like him if I was in a corner at a party or club all alone. But then again, I'd never just presumptuously plop down next to a beautiful domme and ask if she's working. Little did he know it was our last night together ... little did he care.

Then there was the friendly guy we met at the bar. TES member ... very cool. Offered to introduce me around if I made it to a meeting. I'm gonna make it one of these days. When the stars align or I can negotiate with the wife for open friend time. It was great fun to be in public with her and chat with another nice person. Kinky, normal, nice.

Then she led us both upstairs. It all seemed weirdly natural. Two of us serve her. He on her left foot, me on her right. Me as her backrest, he worships her feet. I smell her hair, she leans into me ... and hooks her tanned leg around his neck. Another lurker seated in the room watches. The TV - not us.

I'd definitely go back with friends. Alone I'd feel too lurker like. But Paddles had a great feel and was very friendly. I'll for sure go back. 'Cos there's love in that club.

Busted!!

I learned today from a combination of reading Max and the NY Post and Daily News on line that Rapture has been raided. The Daily News story, done by experienced crime beat reporters, says that cops returned after the initial arrests with a search warrant. Apparently, business records and payroll records were seized.

I have never sessioned at Rapture, nor do I know anyone personally who worked there. However, having been an active Hang poster for the past four or five months I'd have to have been brain dead not to know a bit about Rapture. I'm very sorry this has happened and prostitution laws are ridiculous and antiquated.

Again, this is a blog and not a law office. I am not dispensing legal advice, just sharing the scramble of my submissive mind. You can't rely on anything I'm saying here as legal advice.

However, if the report is accurate that a search warrant was executed and records were seized - if people are traceable the cops will come looking and asking questions. Y'all should lawyer-up quick. Here's my post about bdsm and the law. Good luck and be careful out there!! IMO ... FWIW ...

The Red Corset

Two years ago, just before what would turn out to be our last "tributed" session, she told me I was expected to buy her a gift. A couple of weeks earlier, under her watchful eye and at her direction I had bought myself a CB-3000. Despite my need to conserve capital for the start-up of my own business, she allowed as to how if I could afford a chastity device for myself I could certainly afford to buy her a little gifty.

She provided ample warning, but the day before our session she let me know I was to be ready to purchase her present. This caught me flatfooted. I had not been piggy banking enough scratch to cover my tribute and the pressie. But I was desperate not to disappoint her. A trip to the ATM was out of the question, but like a cornered rat I realized I had massive amounts of change laying around my office and my apartment. I became a quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies rolling machine. After working feverishly, I came up with close to my hourly rate, but had to drag some rolled coins along with me when I met her as I had not made it to the bank to exchange all my shrapnel for skrilla.

We went to Purple Passion. There, she picked out a bright, beautiful, Asian design corset with ornate silver hooks in the front and serious tight-lacing action up the back. She tried it on in the store over her clothing - the salesperson tugging mightily on the laces. She just looked stunningly gorgeous. She loved that I paid for it partly with rolled coinage. She laughed and said I'd no doubt pulled my bequeathing money from between sofa cushions. I forked over the dough eagerly and couldn't wait to see "my gift to her" in the dungeon! However, she had other plans.

When she appeared in our room for playtime, she was wearing black retro lingerie. Absolutely a fave but it was not the oh-so-red-hot corset I had just purchased for "her". She scoffed at my question about whether she was going to wear it and said she was saving it for a real man. She proceeded to describe just what she planned to do with the not-me-guy in lusty, nasty detail, faning my cuckolding fire. I never asked about the corset again.

Four months later she left New York on her great adventure. During her preparation to leave she described for me how she'd given away great pile loads of clothing. Blouse after skirt after lingerie set - gifts - most with the tags still on. Then, almost everything she wanted to keep went into one of those pods. When she left town she'd pared down to bare essentials for the intrepid journey.

Two weeks ago, during her visit to New York, she bought me a collar. A beautiful, wide, black leather band with a smaller red strip attached for the buckle eyes. She surprised me with it. I had so much wanted her collar. I had asked to be hers and she'd said yes. She attached the leather around my neck and described how she'd fussed and obsessed to get the length just so and make sure it had a doo-hickey for a lock. Once she had it on me ever so precisely she stepped back and smiled. She said it would match the corset I had given her perfectly for our night out at Paddles. She just slayed me ... totally off the chain.

My eyes tear up as I write this. It's hard for her to tell me how much I like to hope she loves me. But that right there ... that do show somethin'.

She asked me back to her room after our trip to Paddles. I was so happy ... 'cos I feel fractured from the fall and I just wanna go home ... with her.

Fencing In The Rainbow

Our wonderful week together is over. It just seemed to rush by like so much out of control flood water. Her absence has always left a hole in my heart that I've tried to fill. These efforts have ranged from near disasterous to disappointing to an unfair press of others for an imagined connection in a misguided effort to replace her.

So this week I asked to be hers and she said yes. It was such a wonderful feeling ... she calmed and completed my stubornly searching submissive soul. She made me a happy man.

I know when the pain of separation subsides there will be a new sense of calm. I'm hers now. She bought me a collar. She's it's keeper and the key holder of my heart. Now, maybe I can go on and make new friends. Maybe even play a little without constantly trying to remake the experience into some nouveau her.

There's a great thread on Max about boundries and expectations. The thought is that our very personal and powerful interactions in play need to be managed - fenced in if you will - for fear of raising expectations. Now, don't get me wrong, I do my fair share of management and try to be realistic about how far my relationship with her can go. But we deal with raw emotion in the dungeon, during intense playtime or during an intimate shared moment. Management is laudable - but in the end - illusory. At least it is for me.

Today, I hurt. Today I just want to be with her always. Today ... I just wanna tear down the fences. Because sometimes ... sometimes dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.

Hyperbolic Whining

I think sometimes I whine for effect. I go on about wantin' to be friends with dommes, oh-I'm-so-"high maintenance", can't get no satisfaction, wife doesn't get me ... buncha blah, blah, blah.

A veritable bdsm bleater.

But tonight I'm appreciative of all the nice things that have happened for me since I've been back on my kinky trek. Sometimes, I just feel kinda lost.

But tonight ... tonight I have a wife I love very much, business is doin' well, and my dear friend arrives for her "New York State of Mind" week on Sunday. And I have all these new pals who share their advice, jokes, and slaps upside the head - all of which I really need.

Tonight ... I feel rich indeed. And very grateful.

Golly gee, I just wanna be well ...

Scenes from a Vanilla Marriage

Why, you may rightfully ask, am I talkin' about my marriage on a kink blog? I don't play in my marriage. I don't even have sex. No kinda sex. Not even an itty bitty handjob ...

But it strikes me that alot of clients of prodommes have got to be at least a little like me. Married, love their wives but play with prodommes. I suppose some are completely cool with that dichotomy and integrate it seamlessly into their lives.

>cough<

Maybe others have an "understanding". Bdsm playtime ... it's not really sex. No kissing, caressing, canoodling, making out - and no intercourse. So, okay honey, go see your little leather wearing friend who whips you once a month as long as our sex thing is cool.

My situation is a bit different, but I'm sure far from uncommon. For years I just slunk out when the urge to session hit. I was a sneaky, world class, secret agent of kink. So what if I felt guilty and ashamed. For many years I was completely isolated. I kept the secret all by myself. While I rationalized my need, the feelings of deep ignominy were sometimes overpowering. But gradually I became a bit more comfortable. For a time I saw a truly great domme who was just this sweet, nice, normal seeming person after our hot, nasty, dirty-sexy sessions.

Then I got caught ... oops. I took a long break which included two years of couple therapy with my wife. I've never completely confessed to my kinkified shenanegans and don't intend to, since it would just cause too much pain. But since I've been back exploring my kink again I feel pretty completely unashamed and am pretty guiltless. I realize that it's not really possible for me to be completely "out", but I'm working hard at some measure of integration and less compartmentalization.

I talk with my wife about the possibility of us finding sexual satisfaction outside our relationship but remaining married. There's just too much baggage - veritable steamer trunks full - to expect any meaningful sexual connection between us at this stage. I'm trying hard to be nice and supportive and physically affectionate with her and while it ain't happening over night, it seems to be working.

How I'd react to her having a lover is altogether unclear. I do have cuckolding fantasies and what's good for this goose has to be okay for the gander. We shall see.

Some of my buddies on Max suggested service. Bring her this, do that, rub her feet, carry her bags. She can't stop the fantasy that's playing in your head, advo. Try it, you'll like it.

But I do all that. There's a big difference between even a little spark of dominant mischief in your partner and none at all. There is no spark in this process and I can't manipulate it - she's got to want to offer it and it just isn't there.

Maybe, because I honestly want to meet kinky people and make kinky friends, I can negotiate for event attendance rights. That way, I could go to a Cat O' Nine party, a TES meeting or a munch without fear of being "caught". That way I could have more kinky friends, integrate the process into my marriage and feel less like a lurky, covert, creeper up to all manner of masochistic tomfoolery.

Then, really swinging for the fences, my wife and I could have a more sexually open relationship and I could meet a dominant woman who understood all this, really liked me and wanted to play, all hot and nasty, with little old me. A guy can dream, can't he?

Then again, I'll truly miss all that sneaking around. No more swingin' on the Riviera one day and layin' in a Bombay alley next day ...

Me, my kink life & 7up.

In my never ending quest to equate my deepest and most serious feelings about my kink life with iconic pop culture advertising, I'm reminded of 7up when I think of where I'm at these days. In the 60's, 70's and 80's 7up was locked in a dual for the useless caloric intake of America with Coke. 7up became the "uncola". Geoffrey Holder extolled the virtues of larger and jucier "uncola nuts" in the process of making the sickly sweet drink. For a chastity guy, larger and jucier nuts are quite appealing. But, despite the catchy ad campaign, I was always a Coca-Cola guy and 7up has really faded.

However, in reflecting on how much I like having kinky friends and how complicating the "client" relationship is to a shared dinner with a domme, I'm reminded of 7up. Despite the name of my blog, I think for the time being I'm swearing off the role of client. I like making friends too much. So ... hi there... I'm advochasty, Client Nine and a Half, the "unclient".

And, dear reader, instead of our usual musical interlude, here's a banned 7up commercial for your prurient pleasure. My kinda girl ... I think I'm in love.

Waiting

She's coming to visit. The one I've fallen in love with. The one who changed my life entirely - made it richer and infinitely more complex. She'll be here for a week. She's staying in a hotel near my office. I'll bring her coffee in the morning and we'll have dinners together at night. She'll have been in the dungeon at work and I'll get to ask, "How was your day, honey?" She'll call me ferret face in such a loving way that my heart will burst with joy. I'm pretty sure she'll rifle through my wallet and steal my Starbucks card. She'll laugh at my jokes and call me her "mealticket" in a voice that is the sexiest melange of honeyed gravel ever heard.

I'm planning to give her a special gift. I've conspired with a friend of hers. Trust her to have found and charmed the nicest jeweler in the Diamond District. She knows I'm up to something. Lord knows I couldn't negotiate a deal on decoder ring from a Crackerjack box on 47th Street and not get taken without serious help.

I just wanna be here always for her to come back to so she still has a home here. A home in my heart. And just maybe ... if I offer - I have this little plea in suplication planned see - and if ... if she says yes ...

Maybe I'll find peace and be able to let go and stop tryin' so hard to replace her. And be happy that I have her in my life. And be open to new people, new friends and a real kink life now.

Because the night belongs to lovers ... the night .. belongs to love ...

The Sock Hop

Last night I almost went out to a fetish party. Almost ... I mean, when it comes to going to fetish parties, does almost count for anything? Does it count that I'm thinking more about it? Does it count that I'm writing here about almost getting off the couch to actually show up? It's not that I'm worried about being seen. I figure that if I run into someone I know it would be a "So ... you too?" sort of thing. It has something to do with it being pretty late on a Sunday night when I have to work the next day. I mean, isn't Monday rough enough?

But mostly it's the feeling I had at the dance when I was fourteen years old. Nervous the girls won't like me. Worried I'll stand in the corner all night and nobody will talk to me. Concerned about what I should wear, will I be cool, will I be a complete dork? In response to a post I did on the Max board about going to parties someone said I should stop being the "color commentator of my life" and just go to the party. Come on. I like my gig as the talking head of my life. But, I suppose I could continue to be my very own kinky Cosell and go the party as well.

Ahhhh ... there's always a next time ... when there's no one else in sight, on a crowded lonely night ...

Of Apologies & Apologia

Over the past few days it has come to my attention that some of my writing has been disrespectful, angry, and passive aggressive. An effort at humor is mean spirited. A reach for a well turned phrase simply turns off. A personal exposé is impertinent, insolent and contemptuous. I have no excuse for this. I, more than many, know the power of the word. People who have been friendly, nice, and welcoming have been alienated and estranged. I'm so very sorry. From the bottom of my heart I never in a million years meant to do this. I sincerely apologize.

By way of apologia, I am new at blogging, new at commenting and such a rookie at being anywhere near out with my kink it is truly embarrassing. I'm sincere, decent, nice, and funny - that is when I'm not busy being disrespectful and passive aggressive. This kink journey of ours is a complicated one. We're all human, most of all me. I love the journey and wanna keep on keepin' on. I hope y'all will stick with me. And if I could just get me some wings ... maybe I'll fly.

Parlor Games

It's so important to be straightforward about your kink. In my constant process of self evaluation and introspection I've learned that honesty is truly the best policy. Confess and ye shall be free! So ...

I just hate board games. If ya really wanna torture me make me play Scrabble or Boggle or Pictionary. It's not just that I don't like 'em. I despise 'em. It's weirdly phobic. Like my fear of heights. It's like I'm back in eighth grade gettin' called on in math class to recite some formula I can't cram into my head. The whole deal. Sweaty palms, short little breathes, furtive and darty eyes. Jeez it's tough!!

I should be made to face my fears like I did on the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island. Made to grip the letter tray in abject terror, cowering at your superior word smithing ability. Humiliated by your deft use of obscure three letter mots made entirely of useless consonants as you score a triple word slam dunk.

You'll make me keep score. You'll laugh and ask, "What's the count again, I forget." You eye me with a mix of sympathy and glee.

Because you know when it comes to Scrabble ... baby I'm born to lose.

Respect

I'd like to think I'm a decent, basically honest, respectful guy. I'm for sure prone to running off at the mouth at bit and I definitely lead with my emotional chin sometimes without always thinking through all the collateral consequences of what I seek. But I don't see myself as a fundementally disrespectful submissive man.

What is respect within the pardigm of the client/prodomme relationship? Sure, no two relationships are the same and respect can mean different things to different subs and dommes. But are there some basic rules of the toll road to heaven? Still smarting from MTO's good natured, well meaning, completely deserved public flogging I happily suffered on my "High Maintenance" post, I pose this question to you, my reader.

We clients have personal limits. No marks, no harsh humiliation, don't call me at home, no this that or the other. We mercy out. We compartmentalize.

You dommes post limits on websites, run a business, suffer endless time wasters and insincerity. Despite it all you take us to magical places we might never, ever see without your skill, sensitivity and dedication. So are there basic rules of respect?

• Respect her time.
• Respect her limits whatever they may be.
• Respect her privacy.
• Respect and appreciate where she takes me as long as we both choose to interact.
• Respect her no and her yes.

But is it really disrespectful to desire and want if you don't demand? Is it truly disrespectful to want "friend time" if you don't ask for it? To want an emotional connection if you don't pester and plead?

Back in the day... they used ta say, "Take the sheet off your face boy, it's a brand new day"!

Bonnie & Clyde

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Amends

I've been a client for such a long time with enough different dommes that I would be well and truly fulla shit if I said I've been perfect. I've become friends with a few prodommes in the past couple of years and more than ever I've realized that I've often been a pretty jerky client. The Maxville board, with all its crazy problems, has been great for me to see how poor behavior on the part of sub-guys affects dommes in such an unwarranted, negative way.

I was never much for the protocol thing in my AA 12 Step program when I went, but I carry the Steps with me in my wallet. I remain sober and have been for over twenty-five years, but haven't been to a meeting in a long, long time. Just haven't wanted or needed it. But remembering all the times I was a jerk to a prodomme made me think of the "amends" steps - mostly Step 8.

Step 8 reads, "Made a list of all persons we harmed and became willing to make amends to them all."

Now, I'm not namin' names. Just a list of the crap I pulled which I'm sorry about. This is pretty lame but it'll have to do.

• I called and wasted your time.
• I called repeatedly and certainly qualified as a "wanker".
• I made appointments that I didn't keep.
• I wrote waaaay too many emails.
• I was overly dramatic. (Still am ...)
• My lists were way too long and controlling.
• I begged and whined and pleaded and when you finally gave me exactly what I'd been simpering for I didn't have the balls to go through with it.
• I broke my chastity vow without permission.
• I asked to be your friend before I ever even met you.

There ... told ya! I'm a jerk!! ... But I was never boring.

High Maintenance

I've decided I must be a high maintenance client. It's not that my taste in play is particularly extreme. I can't ever remember asking to be suspended from the ceiling by fish hooks and dental floss. I certainly don't come to the dungeon with a script in one hand and a megaphone in another trying to do my best Cecil B. DeMille imitation. And I never ever try and cajole her into doing something she isn't into. In fact, these days, after she gets to know me a little, I like to pretty much leave the scene up to her.

But nevertheless, I think I'm a high maintenance kinda guy. It's not that I ask this upfront, but if our thing's gonna work, I want to be my domme's friend. I want to get to know her. I want to spend time with her outside the dungeon. The rub is that I prefer that time to be untributed. Now, I appreciate that prodommes are professionals and that means it's a pay-to-play kind of deal. I understand that and am a fairly generous guy both with tribute and gifts. But, if she really likes me, doesn't she want to get to know me as a person? Shouldn't that want translate into time spent off the clock? I know, I know ... this has to happen organically. It simply doesn't work to ask, "Will you be my friend?", on the preferences checklist I fill out before we get down to the matter at hand in the dungeon. But an emotional connection is key.

Plus, I want it to be okay that I'm married. I love my wife and while things aren't perfect (otherwise, I wouldn't be Client Nine and a Half now would I?), I'd like to talk about the wife now and again because she's a big part of my life. I'm trying to figure out how, in a very limited way, to incorporate kink into my marriage. Maybe my domme can help.

In addition, I like correspondence. I remember writing to PO boxes, in ink, with a pen, by snail mail. Before the days of email and blogs and googletalk, I used to write letters to dommes. I like getting replies. I'm a bit compulsive when it comes to writing, but sometimes I turn a nice phrase. I admit to being a bit OCD. I know she has a practice and a life. But I like to write and get answers.

I think this all makes for a high maintenance kind of thing. Or does it?

Come on ... we could go out and do the twist ...

Freak Show

Yesterday, I took a trip to Coney Island with my new friend Mistress Crimson. We rode the B&D train from Soho where she was shopping at AP for retro bras. She let me carry her packages. I had been appointed to reconnoiter the outing as at an earlier dinner she was bereft that the Freak Show had disbanded. But in true urban scout fashion, I discovered the city had granted a one year reprieve from whatever the new plan is to raze all that gorgeous grit of a carnival-by-the-sea. So we made a date. Just getting there was delicious as I have this thing for trains, see.

We smelled the sea breezes, walked on the hot summer boardwalk, ate corn from Nathan's (which totally sucked - not what it used to be), munched pink cotton candy and she watched me, appalled, as I slurped a dozen cherrystones with hot sauce, lemon and horseradish. (everything I hoped it would be) We rode the Wonder Wheel on a stationary car; I clutched the cage as I suffer a touch of vertigo. I think she really liked seeing my hand grip the antique, cross hatched metal in real fear.

We talked all afternoon. I loved it. Out with a domme in the light of day. She said she liked being outdoors. Then we went to the Freak Show.

The MC, Dony Vomit, was a very hot, young, slender guy in a pair of brown, tan and orange stripped suit pants, matching waist coat and snakeskin boots. He sported a bowler hat and a handle bar moustache with curly cue ends. His head was shaved. He gave virtuoso carny patter.

He drove a nail into his nose with a hammer he swung while leering perfectly at us gawkers in the gallery. He brandished a power drill which he screwed deeply into that very same nasal cavity. He recited a poem he'd composed about a mouse trap and ended by triggering the trap on his tongue. We both clapped wildly at his skill and effervescent showmanship. He was big fun!

My other fave was Angelica , aka Insectivora, the fire eater. Her hair was a dreadlock tangle. Blue tatoos marked the right side of her beautiful, sweet face and cascaded down her body. She was dressed like a fire swept mermaid. She worked three kerosine torches and alternately swallowed their flame and lit them again with her fingers. She threw her head back with abandon and a hot tongue blazed from her full lips. I was in love.

As we left I said goodbye to this wonderful relic. It will be gone for good come September to be replaced by some santitized echo of Luna and Steeplechase Parks. I have a thing for old amusement parks, trains, clams and a boardwalk by the sea. And ... I have a thing for my new friend Crimson. We're friends. I'm that half step better with her.

Wicked Game

Miss Troy Orleans has a very thought provoking post on Max about chastity. I'm so glad she has posted. When I first joined Max I looked forward to getting to know her and loved reading her posts. Then she kinda stopped. The Max board has been a truly wonderful place for me, despite all its problems, and when she stopped I felt her absence though I didn't even know her. I've met her briefly and pretty religiously read her blog Whipsmart. She's got such a gorgeously hot vocabulary!

Anyway, while I responded to her post, it got me thinking more about the complexity of chastity as it is the core of my bdsm self. No ropes, no leather, no whacking ... just a committed bond with my "keyholder". For me, the "key" has been largely metaphoric. I've done most of my stints in chastity without a device.

Sometimes, I've done self-imposed chastity. I'll deny myself for two or three weeks at a time. It's a bit lonely and incomplete. No one to honor and please. No one to taunt me and tease me. No one to seduce and deny me. But going there reminds me of how much I love the taste of that full frontal romanti-submission. It is mind altering and consciousness bending. It is drug like.

The dark side of chastity for me is how much it's like getting intoxicated. I get completely shitfaced on my need for release and the counter-weight of chivalrous integrity in service of her desire to keep me chaste. These days I'm pretty scared of chastity. I can get pretty hammered and trashed at the two week mark of on-my-honor purity. Does it affect my life? Must I deny myself the essence of my kink? Should I develop other passionate bdsm interests? Should I just say no?

Then again, maybe I just need the right guide. My very own Chastity Director? Maybe that's a fine reason to remain Client Nine and a Half ...

'Cos I do so love the wicked game.

The Door

I crave the door.

I need it ... I gotta have it. No matter what, it has the same heat everytime. All just builds to that door opening. The door always opens the same. Like there's nobody there. It's because she's dressed. She doesn't want the neighbors to see. I know she's behind that door when it opens. I know she opens it ... but everytime, every single time, it just seems so magical. The door opening by itself - behind it - heaven.

Behind the door is my domme. She takes me away. She lets me be who I am to my core. The door opens. She's behind the door dressed in black with a hint of a smile.

I crave the door.

I've Got A Secret.

Secrets ... everybody has 'em. Some are bigger than others. Some are innocent and some are just downright evil. There are secrets that are just piddly little nothings and there are secrets so powerful they affect your life in on-going dramatic ways.

My life as a client of prodommes has been a pretty secret affair. My shrink and the prodommes I've seen know. The vanilla women I've had long term relationships have known I've seen prodommes but I've kept from them that I sneak off to the dungeon during my relationship with them. I've always done this. Thus, I've always had a secret.

Without going all Freudian on your ass, this kind of sexual secret has been a powerful force in my life. I have lots of the personality traits of an incest survivor, though I never actually did it with Mommy Dearest. So I've spent lots of time in therapy talking about the power of this supercharged sexual secret. For me, secret sex is the hottest, dirtiest most erotically exciting kind of sex imaginable. While I can't say I've never ever had intercourse with a woman who has called herself a prodomme, the best sex I've ever had has been secret, non-intercourse nasties with highly reputable, ethical, beautiful, wonderful prodommes.

So, I've got a secret. A very powerful secret. A marriage ruining secret. A career damaging secret. Is it a hot healthy secret to be indulged and enjoyed? Is it a crippling secret to be dissected and exposed? Or does it lie somewhere in between because it simply is what it is? And how do I shed a little light on the subject without being a danger to myself and others in the process?

Yadda, yadda, yadda. Sometimes if you can safely share a secret it can lose its power. I loved reading the secrets of others this morning. It was a relief.

Nothin' Like a Little Inspiration.

It's funny but Elliot Spitzer was the inspiration for my being more out with my kink and for the name of this blog. Really ... I'm just like him. In the cold, hard light of the early unforgiving dawn, I'm just like him. Or at least I was for so many years. It's just that I'm a half step better, a half step more connected and a half step less self righteous. So here's to you Elliot for inspiring me. Thanks, buddy.

I've been a client of prodommes for almost thirty years. I'm an accomplished sneak. I double, triple and quadruple cross check my stories. I squirrel away tribute like a hungry scavenger on a cold sunny November day. I delete, delete, delete my history ... on the computer ... on the PDA ... on the cell. I remember when pay phones gave me a powerful sexual charge. I used to live for the cloak and daggerness of it all.

For the past three months, I've been a baby step more out. I post on Max, I comment on some very, very cool blogs and I've started a couple of complicated friendships with dommes. I'm weighing play parties, classes and munches. I've even had lunch with the only other sub-guy I've ever (knowingly) in my life talked to in person. So, while it's all pretty exciting, I've got me a long, long ways to go.

I love the written word but am a terminally lazy reader unless I'm compelled by the subject. I'm a wordsmith at heart, hammering and hacking a phrase or an image until it resonates just right. This blog seems a natural thing.

So I'm advochasty ... Client Nine and a Half. I wanna talk about life as a client and my half a step away from that deep dark secret toward the scary light of day.

And hey ... I'm just around the corner from the light of day.