'Tis A Season ...

There's so much to write about I don't know where to begin. And there's just much too little time these days to write about it. The apartment sale collapsed, the employee search continues, and I scrimp, scrabble and scrape for study time as the operating account bounces along like a gas gauge needle kissing empty.

The wife and I are getting along better. But tonight she's away and for the first time in about a month I feel excited by the potential of opening doors. My mood just sort of brightened despite all the danger in the shoals I pass each day.

One day I shall return to focusing on the blog. I swear.

My muted kink. A pale, distant, wispy shade of obscure winter grey.

Ms. Veronica finished her interview with me a week or so ago. She's such a smart chat and an insightful questioner. We got off in the weeds of a riff on how I think a chunk of my kink is anchored in my sexualization of my mother's inappropriate behavior toward me. She was so interested and curious about all the stuff I'd struggled with over the years on my shrink's couch. I went on and on about the characteristics of incest survivors. Encouraged by her interest I found a study on line and sent her the link.

Later that night she sent me back an excerpt from the study about how male incest survivors often compensate for their feelings of inadequacy by taking up very macho hobbies. Hence my tweet about playing football as a teen and taking up bird hunting in my adolescent middle age. She seemed genuinely surprised that I was a jock in prep school, which all fits with the whole overcompensation thing.

Her interview was a happy reminder that my knowing other smart, sensitive, sharp kinky people is so important. Her engaged inquiry and her easy friendship put an emphatic exclamation point on all my blood, sweat, tears of fighting to understand who I am. She just flat out seemed to like how fucked up I'd been and how much insight into it I had developed. It was all okay. Even fun and intellectually interesting.

In this difficult, emotional dry tinder of a holiday season occassioned by the visation of unrelenting change it was really nice to have the fires of self doubt quieted. Made me feel like when I pull through all this I'm gonna go out and run this town one night. How's that for overcompensation?

Takin' My Frito To Tito

"You're going to die," said my dear friend Ms. Mahwah Kiss. "One day your penis won't work anymore."

I guess it's been awhile since I wrote, huh? Been busy. And crazy. Selling my home, leaving my wife, studying for the bar exam, hiring new people. Am I kinky? I forget. Such change is hard. One minute I'm an elated, grandiose dreamer and the next I'm a despondent little fourteen year old being dragged from my house next door into the home of my step father by my long departed Mommie Dearest. Mostly, I just don't know which end is up.

But it's all for the best. Never had to make a soul shattering decision so driven by money. It's looking good though. If it all comes through, I'll be out of debt for the first time in two years, moved into a new place in the FiDi, with a lower nut and lots of dreams. Really, when I let myself own what I'm about to accomplish I'm truly and deeply amazed.

The wife and I are generally on much better terms. Just before I saw She in Miami this last time, my wife snooped in the CrackBerry and found a pretty innocuous email to She. After a scene, I've actually had a couple of conversations with the wife about She, in as vanilla a way as possible, and I'm still alive to tell the tale. And today we ran into Ms. Mahwah's sister on the street in Tribeca. That, of course, set off a little Duane Street tiff, but as I feel my body for knife or bullet wounds, I'm still here, blabbering on my blog about it.

So, dear readers, Advo is alive and well. Dreaming some Sunshine State dreams as I learn all over again about the privileges and immunities clause. But to all who wonder if I'm leaving town for palm trees and Lincoln Road, I'm here to tell you - I'm in an Empire State of Mind.

Loss & Gain

There's just been too much of it lately. Favorite employee of all time goes home. Other employee goes home with husband. Accepted offer means selling my home. Too much loss.

But with it comes possibility. Closing and opening doors. New employees to hire, new neighborhood to learn about. The Miami adventure becomes more real. A separate but new relationship with my wife. Waves of sadness give way to excitement about a new future. Gains inside of loss. Life goes on.

Can't You Hear The Thunder?

Kibbles & Bits

“Thoughtless sprinkles! Yum. That’s it, shake them all over.”

She was really getting completely into this torture. I lay on the floor, on my increasingly troublesome stomach which was making some extremely disturbing noises. Right in front of my face, where She had just set them out, sat a bowl full of, you guessed it – prunes. I was adding the zest of the little white email orbs I had torn, rolled and offered as a vain penance. I had done so many of them that my left thumb had seized up on me.

“Now clean your plate for me and don’t forget to mix in your brainless little email balls.”

She was wearing one of her tight little bath wrap dresses. The ones that ride up her strong swimmer’s thighs. The ones that every now and then just completely malfunction and expose some delicious body part or another. I was gazing at her armpit in olfactory lust.

“What are you looking at?” She mocked. “My armpit? Are you thinking you’d like to lick?” she teased. “Here, wash the lovely little garnish down with some nice, tasty juice.”

She had explained that not long ago she had eaten a few too many prunes herself. She’d been spearing them with a toothpick and they tasted so good she lost count. All of sudden she had grabbed her stomach and made a mad dash for the toilet. There she’d spent the rest of the night sweating, groaning and expelling. She said when she read my email it made her feel the same way.

“Can you feel it yet?” she gleefully grilled.

“Yesssss!” I moaned, as a completely involuntary groan left my throat.

“Good. I want you to feel what I felt,” She explained rationally.

There was nothing rational about how I felt. My insides were spinning and reeling like a Coney Island Tilt-A-Whirl. My brain was a broken circuit. But my dick? My dick was hard as a rock, baby. She made me eat all the prunes and email sprinkles in the bowl. Then she poured prune juice into the wine glass, soaking my little shriveled white balls throughly.

"Drink it up like good little plaything," she directed encouragingly.

I drank and ate until it was all gone.

"Come sit by the end of the bed and rub my footsies. Didn't you buy me some special heel cream?" She cooed seductively.

I stroked and caressed the tanned and gorgeous feet I so love but had no grunt and groan control. My moan was my massage. The vicious knots in my stomach flowed up through my core and out into the air in a desperate whimpering whine for relief.

I know She let me go. She allowed nature to take it's course. But it all became a haze. She sat in her bath and laughed at me. At one point she made me close the bathroom door and she slid another two emails under it on the floor.

"Use these. At least they're good for something", she commanded. As I rubbed the letter sized xerox paper together to soften it, I had an intense flashback to my mother. She grew up very poor and when she was a kid her family could not afford soft toilet paper. Even as an adult she would rub her Charmin to ease non-existant chafe. I called out to She that I was having a flashback.

"About your mother?" she uncannily crystal balled. "You know how inappropriate it is that you know she used to do that, don't you? You know what a wonderful, cute, little pervert you are, don't you?"

I loved She's punishment. I didn't do anything wrong by asking her to come visit. But She wanted me to suffer because she wanted me to feel what she felt. I'm sorry I made her stomach heart. But I'm not sorry I needed her. And I loved that She loves me enough to punish me.

Expiation

It was Your idea. Has anyone been so dedicated and in love with You that they went 62 days ...? You started this. It's a beautiful thing. Come to Miami to celebrate us! You know You want to! Just say yes! You and the husband have plenty of holiday bonding time coming up. But this 62 days is special. We should be together for it!

Instead of continuing the high and selfless road to approval, in a moment of need I broke down and wrote these words to She. As she struggled and wrestled to work out whether to stay home with her husband for his unexpected long weekend as he'd requested or visit me in Miami She read these words. I knew I was in trouble when she informed me by email she was disappointed. She knows I long to please her. It hurts me like nothing else to disappoint.

She made me suffer for a day before she told me she'd decided to split the weekend and come to Miami for the first part and spend the second part at home. But ominously she delivered instructions.

"You are to bring five copies of the email you sent me and present them to me in the room when you see me."

Her arrival in Miami was Day 66 on the money. The airport has become an old friend. I know where to park, where to wait, what stores there are and where to buy a Starbucks. Her plane arrived on time.

We hugged then she handed over her luggage. I zipped her back downtown in the same little Audi TT I'd rented in October to our room where I had gotten all her special requests. I know she likes extra pillows, an extra blanket, a fan and wine glasses. At her request, in the midst of a crazy busy day, I had even booked her a massage in the room. Such a good little subbie I am.

But after we returned from the local wine shop with her choice for the evening she asked for the emails. She ordered me to strip naked and kneel in front of her.

"Do you know what kind of emotional turmoil your stupid email caused me?", she asked sweetly, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry", I pathetically blurted.

"My guts were wrenched out. Do I spend the weekend with my husband who I love and who tells me we need to connect? Or do I fly to Miami to be with my lackey who I adore?"

As she mused she reached for a large tupperware container.

"Do you like prunes?" she almost giggled.

"Actually, I really like them."

"Well, you are in luck then", she chuckled, "Because that's your dinner. I'm having lamb and risotto. You are having prunes ... lots of prunes. In fact, how about an amuse bouche?"

She fed me prune after prune. When we got to twenty, room service arrived and she began to eat her delectible meal. Every now and again she'd point to the tupperware container and urge me to have another.

Then she poured me a big glass of prune juice. I drank. And another. I knocked it back with florish. She had finished her succulent dinner and I ate twelve more prunes.

The door bell rang. She told me to get into a robe and answer it. When I swung the door open it revealed her amazingly hot masseuse, dressed in tight jeans, a tank top, and six inch heels. The woman toted the table that She would lie on naked to get oiled up and rubbed. Ms. Hot Hands was early. I asked the gorgeous woman to wait a moment and went back to She.

"Okay", she declared, "I'm going to take a quick shower. Let her set up in the bedroom and tell her I'll be right there. Excuse yourself and tell her you're going out and will be back. Close the door. But I want you in the wardrobe, right here. She opened the door and quickly had me try it. I fit.

"While you are in there you are to rip your five emails into bite sized little balls and put them in this wine glass."

She set them on the floor of the wardrobe and put her hands on her hips.

"You'd better finish each and every one of those wretched things."

"Yes Ma'am." I stammered. The thought of being right next door to these two hot women all lotioned and potioned up was too much to bear.

"And if you have to use the bathroom, you have to come past us."

So for the next hour and half I was holed up on the floor of our room's large wardrobe, ripping my emails into little spitball sized offerings while Ms. Hot Hands was kneading She flesh. Eventually, the masseuse left.

Finally, after completely ignoring me for a time, the door opened. I had transformed five pages into little nuggets which filled a large wine glass.

"Good boy!", she exclaimed, "You must be parched poor thing. Here, have a nice tall glass of prune juice."

I gulped it down. I felt my stomach gurgle ...

To be continued ...

And Then Again ...

"And I was just feeling so guilty because you had been holding out so long", she said.

"It's Day 60."

"Really, yeah, well it was one of the major reasons I was feeling so badly about having to not see you," she gushed.

"Well, it was your idea", I said matter of factly.

"I know."

Silence.

"What if I flew up for the day, early in the morning; let you get off in my presence, and then took a night flight back?"

"Awww, you are sooo sweet. But wouldn't you want to stay the night?", I greedily grubbed.

"We'll see," she teased, "We'll see."

It Is What It Is...

So... How do you like the GrooveShark widget? I've been on Pandora alot and someone told me about GrooveShark. Compulsive playlisting. Music OCD heaven. When I saw the widget option it was so easy I couldn't resist. Old school hip hop. I'll change it up from time to time. Let me know if you like it...

A lunchtime email from She...uh oh.

Captital letters at the bottom. That's bad. She was going to buy her ticket but ...

Oh wait...

Only two days ago she'd ordered a crinolene skirt and a retro garter belt from Secrets In Lace. Part of a tease plan. She'd told me to line up stores in Miami that sold vintage lingerie. My favorite. At Day 58 it makes my knees buckle. I'd asked on the weekend if she could to give me an idea of when she'd arrive so I could plan meetings...but if she couldn't it was all good. Waay T&D. Heard nothing...

Until today.

Mr. She got an unexpected long weekend, she wrote, and had asked that they spend the found time together. She was stressing on the him or me. Said they'd talk tonight to divide the weekend, but I should come to her.

So I wrote back she shouldn't stress. There was only one answer and I would understandingly ride the backseat. As for coming to her, there's a very good reason I just can't. I've explained this many times. Believe me, if I could - I'd be there in a heartbeat.

So...Friday makes Day 60 and I have an absent keyholder. Funnily enough, I got over the shock pretty quickly. But whence chastity as a mutual bond? Do I ask...am I free? Do I wait for her to ask and focus? Maybe tomorrow will bring some new twist.

I'm an emotionally single, needy, play starved subbie. But I'm a married, emotionally single, needy play starved subbie. The wife thinks I'm going to Miami to meet some dominatrix. Meanwhile, my domme is going to spend our weekend with her husband.

Isn't life just a beautifully frustrating adventure? I guess it's all just dead-end roads and warning signs. Frustration surrounds me...solution bid farewell? Sedation, what the hell.

Nah ... I'm a writer. Such great grist for the mill.

An Ungrateful Kvetch

It is so unbecoming to whine. One should just suck it up. No muttered, grumbling asides. No sniveling simper-fests. But look. It's my blog and if I feel like yammering and yawping you all are going to get an earful. So give this offering a wide berth if you believe in the stiff upper lip. But if you like a little pout every now and again, then join me while I stamp my feet and squawk.

It's Day 53 of on my honor chastity. It's been years since since I've lasted this long. It's definitely an altered state of consciousness. I find I have more energy and need less sleep. While I'm not insanely horny all the time - sometimes I am deliciously out of my mind. Stir in that practically every aspect of my cozy, familiar life is in a serious state of flux and I end up wanting just a little tending.

I think a domme has a responsibility to check in on the chasened. When She couldn't come to Miami last month She asked me to wait. Until Day 66. So now, at her urging, I'm less than two weeks away from the goal line. She and I are bound up together in this process. It was not my idea and I'm not wanting to be ungrateful that she asked me to do this. But as is often the case with her, I'm feeling ignored and sorry for myself. It feels like weeks since she even asked how the chastity is going. Is it too much to want a little encouragement?

Yesterday after just missing me on the phone, She left a voice mail asking if I knew off the top of my head whether there was a fetish store in town that sold latex sheets. Not for her, but for Mr. D. Mr. D is the subbie hubbie of Ms. D - She's predecessor in her vanilla job. Ms. D is a domme. Now what are the chances of that? Of all the gin joints in the world... There on her perfect little Carribean Island, She has a nice kinky coffee klatch whenever the mood hits.

So I called Leatherman and had a fun chat with the sales guy about their Mind Fetish and Nasty Pig rubber fitted sheet offerings. I sent her website links, prices and of course offered to pick up the preferred bedding choice.

At her further request, I sent her flight information. Her exact words were she needed to make her reservations before it was too late and it just didn't make sense. So far as I know, She has not made her reservations yet. Nor has she dispatched me to do bedding shopping.

So She is teasing...right?

I'm not going to push or ask. When I do that She just gets mad. Either she'll book her flight for our weekend or she won't. If she doesn't, I'm sure I'll have another great time on my own down there. If she does come, I know it will be heaven. But come what may shouldn't I get at least a little pat on the head for making it through my days. I don't require much. Just occassional acknowledgement. I am learning I need an engaged keyholder. I suppose I could just sexualize being ignored but it seems too lonely.

While She is enjoying her weekend in the Caribbean sun - I'm a lonely, hurty, horny mess. And on top of it all, Alisa at Kink in Exile, thinks I'm a downright offensive, presumptive, submissive who doesn't see women as "holistic beings" and is unable to find a single sucker of a girl who will have even the most rudimentary of conversations about kinky sex ("or sex of any kind") with disrespectful, nasty, ill behaved old me.

Hey, I told you it was a pity party. Go way...it's my pity party and I'll cry if I want to.

Caveat Venditor

So the wife and I have the co-op on the market in the tough buyer terrain of recession ruptured New York City. My shrink had suggested a broker we worked with briefly last year before the crash and burn when we were flirting with a downsize. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Oh well, we live in challenging times.

This time around the broker came from the bride's side. I figure, let the wife control this decision and in the clinches, the broker is her's. I know for sure if the agent was mine I'd take heat. So about six weeks ago I met this woman and she seemed incredibly knowledgeable. An attractive, late 40's-ish woman who is billed as one of this agency's top producers - she is striking, sharp and completely relentless. I even felt a little tingle, but dismissed it immediately. At their most excellent, brokers are all about the deal. Since they're making money off any potential pact, they are, in their best incarnation, shepherds of the sale. At worst they are snakes in the grass who lie, cheat, and steal. I've worked with a few over the years, and have even represented a handful who faced time in the pokey. While Ms. B seemed honest, ethical, caring, and good - a cut above the rest - I just never trust a broker.

As well, Broker Lady knows we're separating because I confessed when my wife and I first met her. I thought it was important she know we are going to rent separate apartments and, with a little help from her, walk away with enough of a chunk-a-ca-ching to ease the pain of transition. Lots of dwelling agents deal in the muck of separation and divorce. Indeed, the prominence of real estate in the annals of Manhattan Splitsville is iconic. Ms. Broker Babe done been around this block before.

Anyway, without revealing too much detail, I made a bit of a risque comment in an email to Ms. Broker. We were talking about the origin of her email name and she said that instead of her current one she had considered insisting that her email name be "ASS" as she'd spent her life convincing people she wasn't one. However, upon reflection, she'd decided to go with the more upscale choice. I replied that although it was clearly the right pick, for some at least, there was a certain down and dirty charm to the road not taken. A bit suggestive perhaps but perfectly within tasteful bounds, no?

So today, without boring you with all the juicy market intrigue of useless, flaccid, soft offers and vainly trying to manipulate a bidding war, we were considering a price drop. At a hurried three way conference call my wife lost her highly vaunted temper and started cursing the absent interested buyers and berating our broker. She's such a top in the street and a bottom in the sheets, the wife. Later, when she and I spoke alone, my splenetic spouse proposed we essentially throw in the country home, like a flat screen TV, to sweeten the pot and motivate these attracted buyers. Since we've seen no interest in our country place despite a year on the market, the wife reasoned, it was a way to simply unload it in order to stimulate an ante. She was calling Ms. Sells Alot with the suggestion and that's all there was to it.

So Ms. Broker emails me and says the wife wants to dump the coop and throw the country home, the dogs and me into the deal to any single, straight woman who'd take the bait. I write to Ms. Broker and ask what she'd bid for me and was she looking for a chauffeur, a secretary, and a willing gofer as I was available. Then I called her to discuss the price drop and asked;

"So, don't you want to bid on me?"

She laughs a real, throaty, genuinely appreciative laugh.

"I can't afford you!"

"Come on! Sell our apartment and you could," I wheedle. "Besides, I look great in a chauffeur outfit."

"Well," she leers suggestively, "there are a few outfits I'd like to dress you up in."

"Whoa." I blurt.

"So now I'm talkin' your language, huh?", she smirked.

I was rendered dumbstruck and, tail momentarily between my legs, stammered back to our price drop chat.

So that was hot, huh? What do you think? Is she just a reptilian broker, not to be trusted and looking for any edge and angle? Or is she a hot, smart, attractive, age appropriate kinky girl? I think I'm gonna think up some more suggestive little come ons to test whether I have Mistress Broker on my hands. Hey, worst comes to worst, I sell my apartment and move into a one bedroom in the East Village.

Best case? She visits me there and we play a little dress up. Because baby, you know I'm a sharp dressed man.

Harsh My Mellow

I rented the sexy little Audi TT convertible She said she'd love to try. Wanted to see how it felt to have her stiletto hit the pavement from the hot little car, she said. I stuffed a substantial duffle bag full of goodies for her. I pack muled her internet shopping spree. I hauled her skirts, her blouses, and her 15 pounds of protein shakes. I made two, count them two, little outfits to serve her in. Collars and cuffs cut from shirts that I had especially tailored to fit bow ties. Matching cuff links or woven cuff buttons, of course. I even had the tailor sew in velcro so the cuffs would stay. I bought a cock cane. I bought two lycra masks with the eyes and the mouth cut out. I bought an adjustable blindfold with faux fur on the eyes.

I bought eye care products for her friend. I bought She and her friend StriVectin Anti Oxident face cream. I brought my very own soft green nylon rope from RopeShare to give to She to tie up Mr. She. My gift to them as they'd been going through a rough patch and, at least in part from my urging, She had made a significant effort to reconnect. He loves to be tied up. I figure we're a three legged stool. One leg decays and it's bye, bye bench.

I even made her a mix tape with all the songs from all the posts I've ever written here on "Client Nine" about her.

And you know what? You can see it coming, can't you? She's not coming. It can't be helped. It's not her fault. Immigration and work permit hassles on her island paradise. Poor advice from lawyers she believed when they told her she could leave and come back no problem. I can't be mad at her. But it was completely last minute.

I'm just such a bummed out pervert. Day 31 and no She. No chance of She until November 5th. She asked me to go until then. Which would be 66 days. My personal best is 82. I can't even get into the thought. I just really wanted to spend the weekend with her.

Well...okay. At least tonight I won't jerk it out.

En Mi Coche Esta Noche

Miami bachata with She this week. The city infuses with a sexy bilingual spice of Spanish. Check out Cycle from Madrid. The lead singer, La China Patino, is achingly hot!

The song is entitled En El Aszensor (In The Elevator).

There was this elevator ride. The rattling, grungy, old, industrial one at Arena. Between floors, ordered to my knees; She raised her skirt and pulled away her panties. I gently kissed her ass.

"No! Not like that! Like you mean it! Get your nose up there...all the way in between...harder! That's better."

Suddenly, the elevator stopped before our floor to pick up residents. We hurriedly adjust and smile.

I love elevator rides.

"In The Elevator"

The Art Of Baking Humble Pie

So what's on your menu? That was essentially the focus of my recent interview with the lovely, obviously talented, and oh-so-smart certain someone who shall remain anonymous until she gives me permission to share her identity. As we virtual chatted about the origins and manifestations of my kink, her very attentive and perceptive questions honed in on what it is I really like and why. While I've ruminated, analyzed, and pondered this stuff for sometime now, I'd never really had someone inquire and follow the thread of from whence my desires issue in quite the same consistently thoughtful way. Save for my shrink - and I've known her since I was two - or so it sometimes feels.

So when the certain now nameless someone began to ask me about my thing for humiliation I was really challenged to deconstruct and elucidate a deep, erotic drive that is, in so many ways, the essence of what makes my kinky second hand sweep. For me, the image of the snarly domme, barking and spitting about my flimsy, flaccid, farce of an excuse for wood is just so much ill informed hamfisting. It's the mainstream media archetype. It conjures images of a cowering, embarrassed, weak, submissive who craves feeling bad about himself.

Now, if that's your thing, more power to you. But for me, my need for a humiliatrix is all about love, romance, sex, empowerment, redemption and transcendence. I've done an awful lot of sexualizing difficult situations in order to feel good about bad stuff. From mother stuff, to a classically unhappy adolescence, to a completely failed vanilla sex life - I've eroticized the emotional malfunction of mommy dearest's disparagement and life's disappointments in general.

Why, you may ask, if I understand this can't I get the cure and just be normal. Well, being a pervert is much more interesting, it feels way hot, and it just plain is who I am. It is by seeking the replication of disapproval and transcending it that I am redeemed. My domme values my need because it permits her sadism. Together we fit perfectly and it is there in that pain space that I am capable of tremendous intimacy and romance. It's pretty counter-intuitive but I know surely in my heart that it is true for me.

On a breezier note, we chatted about my thing for vintage lingerie. Give me a nice black Rago Shapette open bottomed girdle and a long line bullet bra over leather any day of the week. Not that there's a problem with leather. There's just something about lycra and support circling when baby's got back that sets my heart aflutter. Just what did Katie do, anyhow?

Linger On

It's Day Twenty Two and all I can think of are her pale blue eyes.

All I can muster are lyrics...

"Thought of you as my mountain top,
Thought of you as my peak.
Thought of you as everything,
I've had but couldn't keep."

-The Velvet Underground-

Just Like The Old Man In That Book By Nabokov

The wife is away for ten days or so and I am off the leash. Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny day with a hint of fall in the soft September air. I've found over the years that back-to-school weather always excites the perv in me. Or maybe it's just Day Twenty of on-my-honor chastity that has me itching for a little of the old kinky slap and tickle. At any rate, loose in the dog run of life that is autumn in New York, I decided to make a trip to Purple Passion, a venerable Manhattan bdsm/fetish store.

I've been to PP a few times but yesterday just seemed so natural and fun. Like going to Whole Foods to see if they have the Louisiana-made chicory coffee I drink sometimes. It was a treat. Some years back on the rare occassion I went into a sex store, I used to feel like I was unshowered, wearing a stained raincoat over my dirty, naked body and aching to shout in a gnawing declaration of guilt - I'm a demented pervert. Yesterday I was a demented pervert and very proud of it, thank you very much.

I had a virtual laundry list of kinky nick nacks to acquire. I was after solid rings for my CB-3000, the new Birdlocked chastity device, some kind of CBT toy with teeth, a prostate massager, a cock whip, and some nipple clamps. Don't imagine She-Who-Visits might think I'm topping from the bottom now, do we? While she's been much more connected these days, she's understandably not kinky cataloguing just for me. Like a greedy little schoolboy in a sneaker store, I'm doing depraved wish listing all on my lonesome.

So anyway, I arrived at the store and cheerily asked the young guy at the register whether they had solid ring sets for the CB-3000. No stuff for the CB series at all, he responded. Maybe a shipment next week. What, there's been a run on chastity supplies? Maybe every other twisted money shot denial fiend in the city is locking up in honor of the start of classes. Let's see, pencils...check; notebooks...check; chastity device...check.

Well, do you have the Birdlocked, I asked hopefully? A quizzical, stumped look came over the guy's face and he confessed he had no clue what I was talking about. This totally floored me. Since when have I become more knowledgeable than venerable fetish store employees about chastity devices? We proceeded to have a perfectly nice chat about the features of the Birdlocked, on-line reviews of the thing, and his promise to check it all out.

Finally, I said I was looking for something in a nice cock whip. He showed me their "impact play" collection. Nice, but all were serious, full-sized, flat-out floggers. Save for one little wimpy, floppy, rubbery thing. Doesn't really inspire attention to teacher, now does it? But suddenly, he brightened and blurted, "Wait, I got it!". He rushed up to the register and pulled out a minature cane from an obscured countertop storage cannister. A snappy, turned black rubber handle gave way to a pretty, perky, blonde wood shaft. It had style, heft, and was about a foot long. I smacked my erect index finger with it a few times.

Now this has some serious potential.

And for $3.58 it was a fetish recessionary, blue-light, K-Mart special score. Sold American! After paying, I went outside on the street, publicly brandished my newfound toy and took a BlackBerry picture of it. I immediately emailed it to She to share my frugal find. So far, no responding comment. Oh well, what's an enterprising independant study oriented student to do?

And so, as fall inspires me to be true to my rock-'n-roll high school, I'm thinking that while I don't need no education and I don't need no thought control; this back to school feeling of hope and potential connects me to the universal human condition that we all just want to be happy, have friends, and suck up to teacher - especially if she's hot. Hey, in the process I might just learn something new!

When First We Practice To Deceive

Yesterday was my nineteenth wedding anniversary. I tried to do right. I really did. I ordered flowers, I cancelled appointments and took off work. We went out to a nice local restaurant in the country. I tried to do it right. But in the middle of dinner the wife says,

"So, have you heard from you friend Ms. Blah-Blah?"

Now, Ms. Blah Blah is a real estate agent who happens to have the same first name as my friend Ms. Mahwah Kiss. Stupidly, without seeking a point of clarification I answered.

"She started her own firm."

"Oh, I didn't mean your "special friend" Blah-Blah, I meant real estate Blah-Blah", she snarled.

And we were off to the races. I tried to suggest that it was our anniversary. Perhaps our last one. To no avail. She kept pushing and digging. Had I seen Ms. Mahwah? Lunched, dined, or drank with Mr. Mahwah? Had she been by the office? Had I not even emailed or texted her since her return to NYC?

The funny thing is, if you're a reader of the advochasty chronicles, Ms. Mahwah is not at the top of my hit parade as a love interest to say the least. She is a good, fun, dear friend. But I'm out as a perv with her and there's no sexual circuit breaking going on there.

My wife thinks that I have the hots for Ms. Mahwah because on my first "date" with Crimson friends of ours spotted us and I was later outted unintentionally to my wife. It was one of those comical scenes if you weren't living through it.

I was getting off the train in the country and spotted Dan, one of a couple we know from weekends.

"Hey, Advo, Stevie and I saw you out at Vegan Heaven on Wednesday with a very hot looking babe. We were trying to get your attention, but you seemed pretty engrossed."

Uh-oh. Stevie was meeting Dan at the station and was telling my wife this story as I was de-training. Of course, I had told my wife I was out at a boring, rubber chicken fest of a professional function. With only moments to spare, I decided I would tell my wife that I had been out with Ms. Mahwah Kiss.

Ms. Mahwah Kiss and I are good friends. So are Crimson and I. I'm not running away with either of them. Neither of them threaten my marriage. I suppose I understand that my wife feels vulnerable and unwanted because we don't have sex. She feels completely dependant on me, The Lying Liar, because I make all the money - such as that is these days.

But last night, as I told the dirty, rotten lies of lying liardom and repeatedly denied seeing Ms. Kiss despite our lunches, chats and texts; I longed to stop weaving tangled webs of deceit. I wanted to say that when Ms. Kiss returned from the West she was devastated for reasons I won't share here. I sent her to my shrink who she loved and she's on her feet and okay. I wanted to say I was actually out that night last year with Crimson; an incredible, brilliant, nice, facinating prodomme, who is my wonderful friend and has helped me feel good about myself.

But I can't. It would be cruel. She'd never understand. And on my nineteenth anniversary; despite flowers, making time, and a nice, romantic country restaurant - this was the reason that all this deception just needs to end. My marriage cannot accomodate my life.

Fears & Wishes

Did you ever get writer's block because it all just feels bottled up? All the things you want to say about an experience just crowd at your heart or stick in your throat or gum up your soul. They want out but something keeps them from forming. Without hurting, you want to illuminate. Without sounding trite or glib you reach to capture the detail of a moment and it stops - held like a constantly repeating busy signal - until you let it go. When you try again, it's just another rental car on the highway instead of a magical ship on the way to a beautiful island for a weekend of discovery.

At sunset we walked on the beach. As the world darkened She looked at the ocean and told me she could hear it breath. It was so alive for her. As She and I wandered, her deep red toenails pointed at a little shell in the wet sand here and a bigger shell in the dry sand there. I scooped them all up and put them like treasure in the little plastic bucket I carried, always trailing slightly behind her.

"Imagine if we'd met when we were single," she said softly. "And you were twenty years younger."
---------------

Out of the blue on the phone one day she had told me to wait. It was a first. I had not asked even though I desperately wanted it. I had not begun it on my own as I often do. Her instruction was unadulerated by any request or action of mine. It was now Day Twenty Four. I had honored her on each in a tour of chastity She exacted from me. I ached for her.

Lunch was late after seashell servitude. I had bought my own fins this time at her direction. The sea by our beach was calm, but her scaley riches were fewer and further between than they'd been on our last visit. We worked hard for them. Then the black clouds and rain chased us off and it was late afternoon. I was hungry. For food and for She.

In the kitchy little restaurant, She ordered a seafood salad and an open faced sandwich with some kind of meat in it. It came with french fries. Greedily, she ate. She relished each bite - slowly, as she watched me lust for her food. She gave me a crust of bread and a french fry. Sauce clung to her lip and she took a last sip of wine.

In the touristy shell shop across the street I held her blue plastic shopping basket as she loaded it full of pretty, store bought welks and fighting conch.

"I feel dirty and cheap," she moaned. "I can't believe they sell these for two dollars." She went on and on about how she'd work so hard to find hers and clean them and put clear laquer on them to make them nice and shiny.

"I can't believe I'm paying for shells."
------------------------

Sometimes when I write I feel like I'm just talking to myself in my living room. I forget that I write about real feelings and people's lives and I just give it up to the words that seem to flow. Tonight the words are stuck. The right phrase is just out of reach. Two lives intersected and entangled for three amazing days. Then they separate and go on. The memory stalls like a bank of thunderclouds. I wait for rain, but nothing comes.

Tonight I feel fear inside each wish I harbor. But my fears are full of wonderful, unthinkable wishes. Oh to be single and twenty years younger.

What's A Little Ironing Among Friends

I must have She brain. My wonderful friend Crimson was here last week and all I write about is She. I suppose it's understandable. It's Day Sixteen of on my honor chastity. I'm lucky I remember my own name. I pulled out the CB-3000 last night, but the damn hinge ring is just so bloody uncomfortable I put it away like an old pair of jeans that used to fit, that you want to have fit, but the butt isn't doing what yer mind wants it to.

Anyway, I was supposed to pick Crimson up at LaGuardia but her plane was rain delayed and I didn't get to see her until Friday morning. She was staying in a nice East Side hotel that has a great rep, but she said was a bit of a dowager. She had invited me to have breakfast. She also offered to let me do her ironing for her. I mean what's a poor, out-of-town girl to do? Maidless, she was faced with the unimaginable prospect of doing her own ironing. Out of the question. She told me it had been years since she touched an ironing board, to say nothing of spray starch.

So, with She's permission, I agreed to help a girl out. I wrote about ironing in a post last year entitled "Kink In A Christmas Table Cloth". This was the A-side of the record. It was way fun. I ironed in my suit. Well, I did take my jacket off. But she was lying on the bed, her corset was hanging in the closet, and I got to iron a number of silky little nothings, including the pretty summer dress she wore the next day to our oh-so-organic, tofutti, Saturday morning brunch in the East Village.

My friend Crimson is so hot. She's now a strawberry blonde and despite a grueling work schedule, she was looking very Joan Holloway curvy. I love that we are friends. She's really been a key person in my feeling great about being a submissive man. I told her I had some pictures to show her. She sort of froze and asked if they were going to ruin her breakfast. I told her I hoped not. Well, she allowed, often the pictures guys showed her were not best viewed before eggs, or in her case some weird but healthy vegan concoction.

I told her the pictures were chronological. The second was more dramatic than the first and the first might rob the second of some its impact. I suggested she view the later picture first. She braced bravely. I handed her the framed photo. It was me at twenty five. She brightened, visibly relieved.

"Oh ... oh i definitely would have hit on you", she laughed.

I sit in an old, damask upolstered, Victorian chair; one leg crossed at the ankle over the knee of the other. I wear a pair of tight roll legged jeans; a loose river driver shirt, open at the neck; black high top Chucks; and a very goofy grin. In my lap is a gallon of ice cream. With hair tied back from my shoulders, a scruffy goatee, and spoon in hand; I attack my sweet quarry. A seventies hipster, alt-rockeresque vision of a dude in need of a bath.

We had a great time talking, laughing and conspiring. She might move here. I really hope she does. I love Crimson. I have a real scene friend.

As we hugged goodbye the next day, she said she'd always want to see me when she came to town. She told me I was delightful. Fancy that, a hot domme thinks I'm delightful. Well, she's delight-fuller.

Here's some Joan for ya Crimson, I miss ya girl.

She Sells Seashells

I never got her thing about shells. Then She posted some pictures of the shells we gathered. Exquisite. She knew all the names. Arranged them by size, and type, and style. Kaleidoscopic Crustacea.

I had watched her dive, gone for minutes at a time.
Then, to the surface she rose with her treasures.

She dragged them all back to her island paradise.

And made this.

This morning I sent her the old familiar tougue twister:

She sells seashells by the seashore.
The shells she sells are surely seashells.
So if she sells shells on the seashore,
I'm sure she sells seashore shells.

I inquired, "Hey, lady! Wanna sell me some shells??"

She replied simply, "My shells are not for sale."

From Tucson to Tucumcari

Etienne wrote a comment about personal relationships with prodommes on Wynter's blog in response to her post about her own relationship. He said:

So it can happen. You do have to really want it though, and be willing to see the Lady as more than just fantasy fulfillment. In the immortal words of Delbert McClinton:

"The upkeep on a woman like that will give an old poor boy the blues."

I don't mean financially, just that being a prodomme requires a certain degree of (being honest) self-centeredness that requires both good personal boundaries and true joy in service. We don't love them because they're low-maintenance, after all!

I thought that was just one of the most insightful observations I've ever read on a submissive man's committment to a dominant woman. He seemed to have such a well-grounded outlook about his own relationship. It was particularly on target for me since in my last post I was moaning about all the stuff that She had me doing for her. Whiney little subbie was all bent outta shape because he was hauling a few blouses down to Florida. Poor, put upon advo.

But Etienne really brought into sharp relief for me what seemed to be an essential truth about She and perhaps about dominant women in general. Enthrallingly or annoyingly they are in varying degrees kinda self-centered. They believe we are here to serve them. We crave that service. But day-in-day-out if the attitude that you deserve service is not just a role, but a personality trait, it does, as Etienne observed, require a dollop of self centeredness on the domme's part.

And upon reflection, I truly wouldn't have it any other way. So this week I surrendered to service. I made lists of all the stuff that had arrived from She's shop fest. Printed order forms and tracking numbers and lists. I updated her on progress. I went out to a local discount emporium, "where educated consumers are their best customers" and bought a fine, ballistic cloth, roller bag the size of a steamer trunk for a fraction of its retail price. No dumb shopper, I! And I packed it to the gills.

And as I haul this montrosity from Manhattan to Florida I'll cherish that she chose me to serve her.

After all, I didn't choose her because she's low maintenance. I'm still...willin'. As long as the damn thing fits into the rental Mustang.

Frank Zappa threw Lowell out of Mothers for these lyrics.
Okay, okay ... I'll pass on the weed, whites, and wine.
But a guy's gotta keep a few vices, no?

Mr. She

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Yeah I Wanna Touch

I was out last night with a woman. Young, smart, beautiful - an artist with a killer accent. We've been friends for three years or so. She did the art for my office, helped with design ideas, and has graced my fantasies with her wicked body and her slightly off-kilter smile. It was a beautiful night. My plan to take her to the Rise Bar at the Ritz Carlton on the tippy toe of Manhattan was foiled by its change in status to a private event venue. Undettered, right across the street was nice little Italian with outdoor seating overlooking Mistress Liberty and the massive body of water that has made New York, New York . An amazing sunset was ours.

My friend knows my wife. I had told her before our "date" that we were probably separating but when I began to talk about it she was just devastated. What a classic move on my part, no? Tell the alluring young artist you're the sensitive, well-meaning sex starved victim of a dying marriage and hope for mercy nookie. Sometimes I'm just a middle-aged cliche.

But my wife and I were somehow my friend's paradigm of perfection. Go figure. She became visibly upset when I began to tell her my version of the maritial meltdown. My wife on the other hand has snidely suggested that among my controversial women friends, this one was most likely to be a tie-me-up-tie-me-down kinda girl. Hmmmm...let's see.

So I described our precarious fisc as a contributing factor to our discord and confessed that sex had been a long term problem. I told my very hot Russian artiste and pretend paramour that although I had provided my wife, prior to the "I do" thing, with full knowledge and notice that I was as kinky as a very cheap garden hose, she and I had become enemy combatants over this issue. My friend laughed appreciately at my plagiarized, on-the-money descripition of my sexuality. Thanks, Elihu!

But as I gave a highly edited history of "client nineness" it became absolutely clear that the woman I've lusted after for sometime, written about in posts , and had all to myself for a gorgeous mid-summer sunset had no clue whatsoever about what makes me tick. Explaining bdsm to attractive, clueless women is a total downer. It's just complete social saltpeter. My horniness quotient, which was pretty high, went from a 9.5 to less than zero.

I guess I just needs me a domme.

But last night it was nice to own. I was remembering when I was single and would tell a girl I was into that I liked lingerie and maybe a little restraint? I would hope against hope for a positive response. These days, if a woman demonstrates no appreciation for the Scene, kink in general or isn't intensely curious about the whole deal my attitude is ... next. It's not that I won't be friends. I really like the Russian artist hottie. But I'm a submissive and I'm proud of it. I'm not looking for crumbs. I want me some cake, baby. With your permission only, of course!

Guess I'll just have to date kinky. Do I wanna touch?

And Yo, HMP, insteada that Joan song, how 'bout ... Joanie does Iggy - from me to you!

I like Joanie Blonde!!

Alluring Mystery or The Beautifully Flawed?

Mistress Wynter wrote this week about how she thought revealing too much in a blog post ruined mystery and undercut her dominant power in session. I guess that's right for a prodomme who depends upon her ability to create a beautiful choreograph of kink to sweep a client off into, what my friend HMP likes to refer to as, "subbie-Shagri La". Guys want to escape reality in the dungeon. Certainly there was a time I wanted to go AWOL from my life and off into sub-space orbit. These days I seek the here and now. I long for the beautifully flawed and initimately annoying.

She also wrote that certain revelations fell under the catagory of too much information. Whining ruins the allure of glamourous, inscrutable magnetism. She said she liked reading sub-guy blogs for insight into our souls. I liked reading that. I'm all about soulful retching. But core insights require revelation. Sometimes I fear I may reveal too much in my writing, but really I think what is important is trying to be courageous enough to be real and even emotionally raw, without giving some crazy lurker my name and address. A week ago I had a drink with a new sub-guy friend and out of the blue he asked, "What do you do for a living?" I thought to myself, isn't it obvious? Do ya read my blog?? Even from my pseudonym I give clues to the real and the kinky?

Wynter went on to say;

Mistress Wynter cannot be flawed, annoying, overly verbose or in any other way an unattractive human being. She cannot be insecure or facing real life issues. Sadism is to be enjoyed, but other flaws must be hidden.

That just seemed like an awful lot of pressure. Probably necessary for the marketplace, but stressful nevertheless. Her post has me reflecting that I truly seek the real connection of the so-called lifestyle relationship. I am drawn to the flawed, verbose, annoying and real. Well, okay, up to a point. As long as it comes with the occassional Louboutin pump licking.

I'm apartment hunting. My wife and I are separating and selling our coop and our country home. I want to keep enough money to buy a deal-of-a-lifetime condo in Miami. Thar's crime in them thar hills and I can be closer to my lovely friend She. I'm not leaving town, just trying to get a foot hold in the Miami market for business and pleasure. Two for the price of one is attractive in these recessionary times. To be closer to my dear friend, in all her flawed, imperfect glory would be heaven - or if it's Monday and she's in a shitty mood - hell. Hey, maybe Wynter has something after all. This reality show I'm building is way hard.

I alternate between giddy excitement at new beginnings and the terrible gut wrenching pain of loss. But my wife and I need space. Who knows where this highway leads? But for now, my excitement that it may lead to I-95 in my 1983 gold RX-7 and a one bedroom in Brickell or the Beach buoys me enough to offset some of the heartbreak. Alone, in the throes of insomnia at 2 o'clock in the morning I know I've tried my best to make this work. It just isn't working.

My shrink told me a sweet story of a transgendered acquaintance who had asked her to speak at an event her organization was having. "Staci" had been married to Emma for fifteen years, separated for ten, and remarried for another eleven. Just before the event was to begin "Staci", who is 70 years old, asked Emma if her necklace looked okay. Emma critically told her that she had warned her it just did't go with the dress. Staci re-accessorized.

Maybe one day, my wife will critically tell me she can't understand why the munch has to meet in a diner when there are plenty of reasonably priced restaurants with tablecloths around town.

Hey, a guy can dream can't he?

The Kings are one of Little Steven's faves!

Seashell Servitude

Miami International's Concourse E for overseas arrivals is thrumming on Friday afternoon at four. A kaleidoscopic melange of humanity. Did I just see chickens and goats? I had raced to the airport from a morning of looking at condos in Miami Beach and downtown on Brickell Avenue. Buyer's market doesn't begin to describe it. GPS guided me and my rented Sebring convertible without a hitch and I had plenty of time to indulge my passion for waiting. Waiting for She who visits me.

I found a little gift for her in one of the cookie cutter concourse shops and took up watch just where she would walk out. Security guards kept shooing me away as people toting luggage swarmed out and long snaking lines of shiny metal pushcart carriers were guided back toward baggage claim. I bobbed and weaved like a nervous flyweight stretching on the turnbuckle for a first glimpse of her.

My ringtone, the Ramones "I Wanna Be Sedated", sounds and I'm on it like a quick little bird dog.

"Just cleared customs", she announces cheerily.

"Walk straight out, no turns and you'll run right into me." I chirp hopefully.

Of course I see her first. She's wearing a light blue, short sleeved cotton blouse and a pleated white skirt. Her shoes are pointy toed little flat beige numbers with gold hasps on the vamps. Straight from the office to the plane.

She spots me, veers my way quickly and gives me the sweetest hug ever.

I had snuck upstairs minutes before and gotten her little gift. This rendez-vous had been like giving birth. I'd picked one of those plastic tags the size and heft of a light switch cover that distinquish your bag from all the other black, ballistic-nylon ones. Hers was lime green and it said - "Are We There Yet?". I presented it.

"Awww ... you couldn't get it in pink?"

----------

Our very sexy, hip hotel on Ocean Drive in SoBe had all sorts of intimate little nooks and crannys to it. A veritable canoodlers heaven. Despite my 1-800-HOTELS cheapskate booking, Marisol the very lovely concierge had upgraded me my first night to a deluxe, ocean view room. Trouble was, I was right next to the AC which made an awful and erratic grinding noise all night long. "She" has problems with insomnia and I knew it wouldn't work. So the next morning, a day before her arrival, I begged to be moved.

"My wife, who I haven't seen in months will kill me if she has to bear that noise."

Voila! I am given a suite for no extra charge!

She and I arrive from the airport and I am told to draw her bath. In the marble spa-like wing of our opulent weekend abode is a massive, overflow jacuzzi tub with a view of the beach.

"Get naked and make my bath hot!", she commands as she strips off her innocent little office uniform.

I fiddle with the temperature as she slips in. I'm on day fifteen of on-my-honor chastity. It fills with an oft corrected blend - a perfect mix of hot and cold.

"Okay, you can come in if you take up only a tiny, little corner of my bath."

We spend what seems like hours talking and laughing until the room is lit only by street light.

----------

The next morning we leave early, top down. Sanibel Island, She's holy grail of a shrimp-shaped shelling atoll, is 3 hours from South Beach. I really couldn't quite get why she was so fixated on making a day trip there. I'd been before and liked it okay, but it isn't sexy, sultry Miami.

The ride is a veritable straight shot from the Atlantic to the Gulf of Mexico across the entire state on the ribbon of I-75. It's just so easy and fun spending time together. I'm a contented chauffeur. Once there we drive across the Sanibel Causeway which connects the island to the subprime decimated Fort Myers sprawl. We hit the visitors center then go directly on to the beach.

Sporting her red flower bikini and toting two sets of masks and snorkels but only one set of her serious diver fins, She initiates me into seashell servitude. I'm a pasty white New Yorker and She is a sun hardened island girl. Feigning resentment, she slathers my back with Banana Boat 30 sunblock. Into the water we go. It's been years since I've been in the sea. I grew up a Philly boy and summered at the Jersey shore. I love the ocean but I've never been a great swimmer. As She fins powerfully out toward a buoy in the distance, I gamely follow.

Sanibel Island draws vistors the world over for the large amount of shells washed up on its shores. It's a barrier island which acts like a shelf for masses of clustering seacritter carcasses. For six straight hours She single handedly attempts to substantially deplete the shell population of the island. Okay, I helped a bit too. But, it's a wonder just to watch her. She's a master diver. Her fins point straight to the sky as she dives down 20 - 30 feet. She has amazing breath control and is gone from the surface for huge chunks of time. While I doggy paddle in the kiddie pool shallows, She retrieves from the deep one amazing huge conch shell, after perfect colorful lightening welk, after delicate white sand dollar.

Again and again I hyperventilate and hold, struggle mightly to the sandy floor and desperately grab a shell. After I collect an offering I find her. We meet suspended under water and I open my hands. She inspects each shell and either accepts it into her large lingerie bag or summarily rejects it back to the bottom. It thrills me when She keeps my briny little submissions.

We do this all day, Mistress Frogperson and me.

-----------

Our drive back to Miami in the pitch black night is punctuated by fierce lightening storms in the distance. Our talk fits with the comfortable and natural ease of old friends.

SoBe in it's Saturday night, throbbing, house music glory. We make it past the first velvet rope at the entrance to our hotel, but the guy at the second checkpoint inside stops us until one of the workers recognizes me as a guest. We are immediately motioned through. The catwalk for the hot fashion show ends right in front of the elevator. Two models dressed like futuristic dommes strut their fetishy stuff.

"Are we in the right place or what?" I burst.

"Upstairs with you, shell boy!" she leers.

She takes up in the glass encased shower stall and cleans thirty pounds of multi-hued shells. I'm told to put towels on the floor of the adjacent toilet and bidet paddock.

"Lay out the shells to dry but leave me a pathway." she says as she compulsively scrubs clean her haul.

-----------

The next morning as she sits and blow drys her hair in front of the enormous mirror, I furiously worship her sand chaffed red toes and her well tanned feet while I lay prone, grinding my aching cock on the cool marble floor.

"Give me your hand!"

She squirts out a huge dollop of sunblock which splats heavily onto my palm.

"You'll never think of Banana Boat in the same way again," she laughs, as I greedily end my streak at sixteen in a frenzied and grateful hand humping pathos of pure pleasure.

------------

I drop her curbside at the Caribbean departure concourse and lift her heavy shell bag from the car trunk. As taxis and travelers whirl around us we hold each other and she kisses me lightly.

"You know I sort of love you too." she whispers confessionally.

Abruptly she walks off purposefully into the skycaps and the outdoor check-in stands. Her pink and lime green bag heavily laden with her treasures is slung effortlessly from her shoulder. My gift, attached to one of its straps, swings easily as she walks. We were there. There indeed.

-------------

With Lil' Wayne blaring his extraterrestrial brand of hip-hop, I gun the rental Sebring up I-95 to Fort Lauderdale, to my JetBlue return, to the sorrow and sadness of my disintegrating marriage.

Here I Am

Miami in July is summer with a capital S. Hot and humid it just brings out the do something down and dirty in me. I'm on a business prospecting trip. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. But who says ya can't mix a little business with big fun.

Had lunch with fellow blogger and kink voyager Aarkey. Like my lunch in Manhattan with HMP/KBB we are all three truly brothers-in-arms and the Musketeers of kink. Straight off the street, or actually off Florida's Turnpike and out of the convertible (Sebring not the Mustang - drat), we had a grand time just talking about this, that and the other thing. My two pals are real guys into variations on the theme that I for so many years kept secret - stuffed away in a cold, dark closet. Now in the light of a Manhattan summer and the South Florida heat it's just a private matter among true friends instead of some deepest darkest taboo. Our blogs connect an important community of sharing. Meeting Aarkey and KBB has been one of the great things of my life.

And She has bought a ticket. She arrives today! An airport rendez-vous. A finnagled SoBe hotel upgrade to a suite will I hope impress. I'll get to bring her Starbucks in bed. Play personal shopper for a VS bra run. I'll be her chauffeur, sixteen days into on-my-honorness, for a trip she is laser focussed on taking. Forced shell collection. A brand new fetish. And brother, I deserve this one. I do indeed!

So here I am, baby! Come and take me!!

A Man's Man?

I was never a man's man or a guy among guys. Never really been one of the boys or hung with all the young dudes. Not that I'm a wuss mind you. I hold my own. But I was a shy, awkward, discomfited kid. I was painfully quiet and mostly felt like I was always the new one - from that boring, uninteresting, non-descript town. To compensate I tried to play sports. I was obsessed with football. Surely I had NFL potential in all my 5'9" and 120lb Heisman bound dreams of glory. I had horrible acne which I slathered with Clearasil; kinky, curly hair which I tried constantly to straighten; and I was so nervous and tongue tied around girls it was a true agony.

At twelve, like an obscure bit of character color in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, I snuck little medicine bottles full of bourbon into my preppie dance classes. That got me noticed by the cool kids and until I limped into an AA meeting at 29 years old, my life hanging by a thread, I did a terrible tango with alcohol. Mostly alone, not in bars until all hours of a bloodshot boys night out.

But I picked a part of a profession that's still predominantly male, decidedly macho, and very vocal. I make my money shooting off my mouth and I've gotten pretty good at the whole deal. Some of my hobbies reek embarrassingly of Hemingway or Teddy Roosevelt as I suppose I've tried to overcompensate for the unflinching, small-minded nag of a voice that says I'm not a guy's kind of guy.

I've always confided in women and had them as friends. Somehow it's safer and more comfortable. Women always seem less threatening and not so judgemental. They're more empathetic and supportive. But always hard to put the moves on and seduce. The sex dance has been endlessly puzzling to me. They like me alright, but I just don't have that "seal the deal" gene. It's why I love dominant women.

And now, I'm a sub-guy's guy. If all the congratulations on my blogoversary are a sign, I'm definitely one of the boys - one of the sub-boys. A bottom dude. One of those sincere and fetish-proud guys who long to serve Mistress Right. It has been one of the truly unexpected pleasures of this blog to have connected in such a positive way with other submissive men. Thanks guys! We rock!!

As the Godfather of Soul said, while it's a man's world - it wouldn't be nothing without a woman or a girl. Especially this girl who just nails JB and the whole "it's-a-man's-world-thing" to the wall.

I Can't Help Myself

Today is the one year anniversary of "Client Nine and a Half". It has been an amazing and wonderful journey. While I can grouse and moan about not making enough "progress", this writing has connected me to many wonderful and amazing people. It has been a way to take some of the frustrating, terrifying, painful, exciting, and astonishingly fullfilling experiences I've had and create something. That some of you actually seem to come back post after post and read me has been so gratifying I cannot begin to thank you enough.

Writing has inspired me to try to be honest about who I am and where I want to go. Sometimes I think it's all just an indulgent "dear diary" extreme sports event. Then one of you will comment on my most recent e-scrivener offering and say something funny or smart or sad or confrontational - and in a revelatory instant I know I'm a charter member of an incredible community. In a way that I've never experienced, "Client Nine" has hitched me to each of you out there in an effort to illuminate, entertain and understand. Thank you all so much for sharing it with me.

Well, I booked four days in a hotel in South Beach and "She-Who-Visits" might join me. Then again, she might not. Ah ... the exquisite tension. A friend told me to give up my idea of writing The Great Kinky Romance Novel because my wife would literally kill me if I published it in my real name. Will I ever move out? Will I ever meet Mistress Right? Will I ever graduate to the intermediate class at RopeShare or attend another munch? Will this year see me attend my first ever fetish party? What will I wear? Is Motown the quintessential bdsm romance music?

The saga continues ... "I Can't Help Myself" is about on-my-honor chastity, right?

"When you snap your fingers
Or wink your eye
I come a running to you.
I'm tied to your apron strings
And there's nothing that I can do."

This Ain't No On Golden Pond

I read this morning that the only drug in sight in Steven Tyler's dressing room during the current Aerosmith tour was Gaviscon. With a birthday coming up I love reading stuff like this. While my own recreational prescription for Levitra sits prim and chaste, still stapled into its pharmaceutical frock and locked away inside my office desk, She-Who-Visits reassured me that everything is still in working order during her recent stopover. After a couple of glasses of wine, even She - who loves a "belittle-me" style banter - allowed as to how I was rather richly awarded in this department. A comforting compliment as I prepare to throw myself headlong into the backyard slip 'n slide toward my sixth decade. All guys of a certain age worry about their wood. And I'll always have our parking lot goodbye.

With another year almost gone and the next barreling in without even asking if I'm ready, I wonder if I shouldn't be pushing myself more to resolve the thorny issues in my life. I was out recently with an ex-girlfriend. One of the three significant relationships in my life. The bass player in my trio of dommy-girls-in-the-street-but-bottoms-in-the-sheets. She asked about my wife and I told her if business were better I'd be moved out. I told her I thought I had spent my life trying to convince attractive, smart, bossy, vanilla girls that my kink was cool. I said I couldn't do it anymore and wanted an honest-to-goodness kinky woman. She laughed and said if I just waited another ten years, it wouldn't matter. Objection, I grumbled. There are pills for that.

Yeah, and mine sit in a drawer softly moaning to be unbuttoned, unzipped, and unhooked.

As my fragmented and random thoughts produce scalped tickets at my gate and make a play for the box seats to pass for reflection, I'm truly convinced my process is necessary and vital. My marriage deserves respect and my wife is worthy of compassion. But in an often frantic free-for-all, my need for a dominant woman is dropped like a puck at center ice - and a fateful faceoff must occur. I hack and slash in vain without being in postion to really take a shot on goal.

I've got game in the intimate clinches and daily tribulations of a long-term relationship. My kinks don't drive me to hunger for extreme sport marathons in a beautiful Disneyland dungeon of wires, tubes, and leathered suspension predicaments. Pour me a pair of black patent stilettos and a high-waisted retro panty girdle peeking out the back of faded, form-fitting jeans and I'll stop dead in my tracks. Stir in a smart, snarky, sassy, sensibility and I'll follow you down any street. Garnish with a fondness for getting your way by imposing three week stints of on-my-honor chastity and you'll wrap me around your little finger forever.

In the end, there's just no pill to gulp and magically transform my romanticized and idealized vision of She-ness into a real domme girl who wants me. The doctor has ordered down and dirty life. Its chronic prescription - joyful terror and horrific elation. Sometimes I just need to remind myself to keep showing up in honor of all the She-ness I seek and the She-ness I already have.

But hey, I'm just biding my time, pining to audition on the casting couch for the subbie-guy lead in my very own kinky Elmore Leonard novel. You know the one - gracefully aging mean streets mouthpiece meets dominant femme fatale with the twenty-four karat heart. Maybe Steven Tyler, acid reflux in check, will make a cameo appearance.

Edie Athens and Chili Palmer - World's Coolest Couple.

Beautiful Menace

So I'm talking to my shrink. I share I really want to make progress on being more out with my kink. More friends, a connection, some play? She claims she's got an idea - so I'm game. She suggests I take my writing and do something with it in my own name. Join the inspiration of my pervy wordsmithing with something I pen for a public dawn.

What part of I want to play does she not get? Does she not understand that I'm wild for the nasty, dear, and intimate? But I humor her and think it over. I mention to my wife that I'm thinking about writing something and she becomes sneering skeptic. She just got a Kindle which she pours over all the time. Accuses me of never reading much of anything and where am I going to get the time to write anyway, she snorts derisively.

Wait a sec. I've been writing for a year. Regularly. Hey, maybe my shrink was onto something.

I decide for inspiration I'll read some short stories, so I grab a copy of some by Ernest Hemingway - a veritable role model for submissive men everywhere. I begin with "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber".

The story is about an American man in his thirties who, with his beautiful wife, goes big game hunting in Africa. Hemingway is the master of the sparce and direct. The story is about how the guy chickens out on a lion hunt. Me? I like my lions where I can admire them from afar - in the Bronx. Anyway, the great white hunter who serves as maitre 'd for endangered species murder is telling Francis about how the help needs discipline to keep them in line:

“What were you telling him?” Macomber asked.

“Nothing. Told him to look alive or I’d see he got about fifteen of the best.”

“What’s that? Lashes?”

“It’s quite illegal,” Wilson said. “You’re supposed to fine them.”

“Do you still have them whipped?”

“Oh, yes. They could raise a row if they chose to complain. But they don’t. They prefer it to the fines.”

“How strange!” said Macomber.

“Not strange, really,” Wilson said. “Which would you rather do? Take a good birching or lose your pay?”

Actually Papa, I prefer to part with my pay for a good birching!

I suppose I can find inspiration anywhere. Maybe I do have a beautiful, impassioned, kink-love story in me. Maybe I do...

But now, a word from our sponsor.

I Think I'm Goin' Off The Rails

I was in a meeting and my phone pulsed on my hip. I reflexively grabbed it and stole a peek. "She-Who-Visits" had caught me in mid-sentence. Grudgingly, I banished her to voice mail. Later, as I greedily listened to her cheerfully christen me useless for not being around when she calls, I learned she was here. In New York!! Did I want to have dinner!!! A couple of weeks ago she had mentioned that it was possible she'd be here for just a few days in June to visit her parents, but I had heard nothing. And you'd best believe I'd asked. Usually when she visits she gives me plenty of lead time so I can work myself up into a slavering frenzy.

I called her back. Did I want to have dinner tomorrow night? Up north by her? Get back to me, gotta finish shopping - go way!

"She" is very present tense focused. I was a day away - the mall was here and now. Her recent personal parsimony aside the sting just made me smile. I told myself she meant it with love. But over the next twenty four hours with each unanswered email, unreturned phone call, and ignored text I knew in my heart it was another excruciating exercise in the unrequited.

"I just need to be free", I muttered under my breath to nobody in particular. This just doesn't work for me. Finally, as the clock approached three in the afternoon, I called her yet again. An answer.

"Oh god, the cut is wrong. The color is awful. Auburn!! Can you imagine? It just makes my whole face look red. Dinner? Well, if you want to. Call the restaurant and see if you can get a reservation. And get the little table in the corner on the banquette. Can you be here by seven?"

I called, I cajoled, I reserved. I cleared decks, trimmed sails, and battened down hatches. At 5:15 I jumped into a black car on a corner near Wall Street and set off at the height of the nascent summer crush for Northern Westchester. An hour and change later we passed the George Washington Bridge. My phone rang.

"Are you almost here? No? Well I'm going to do an extra wash and rinse, maybe that will help this mess. Just thought I'd tell you. I might be late in case you were wondering where I was."

She's always late. A trait I adore since I love waiting - way T&D. From the Bridge my driver sprouted wings and flew. We were in the restaurant parking lot only five minutes late. I got my beloved anticipation. I sat and I decompressed, wondering if this trek was really worth it. The MIA, the hot and cold, the incommunicado. It all just sucked.

Then she walked in and it became an evening from heaven.

We've always done dinner in the most intimate and romantic fashion. Dinner with She is how I became more comfortable in my subbie guy skin. Dinner with She changed my life. We chatted about the banal and shared our deepest personal problems and concerns. Our eyes misted and we cracked each other up. We reminisced about our increasingly substantial past and conspired about our oh-so-priceless future. And in an intoxicating swirl from fried avocado with mango coulis to her favorite chocolate mousse souffle it was over. We held hands like teenagers. I caressed each graceful finger.

"I'm syphoning your fortune, one dinner at time", she smirked. "Time to go."

In the parking lot she leaned against her mother's car, drew me close and kissed me softly. I held her, never wanting to let go again.

"Move your hands down my back," she murmured.

I did.

"Put your hands on my ass," she sighed demandingly.

I did.

"Take your right hand and hike my dress up."

Boy did I!!

"That's it. Now put your hand on my ass."

I shook and buckled into her, breathing hard. She had no panties on.

"Put your hand in there, in between, in deep," her breath husky in my ear.

As I shyly probed a single digit, she reached around and thrust my index finger home, her hot whisper - I didn't wipe well.

"That's enough.", she cooed. "And don't touch me with that hand. And don't wash it. You can smell me for awhile longer."

I told her I was never washing my right hand again and was going to tape a plastic bag around it forever. She collapsed with a wonderful case of the giggles.

A final kiss and she drove away, into the suburban night. Gone.

Until again.