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.