Saturday, June 27, 2009

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.


Her Majesty's Plaything said...

Hi Advo:

You know at first when you said "Golden Pond" my imagination flashed to something else! :-P

Once in early sobriety I missed a meeting in midtown only to have my friend tell me that Steven Tyler had qualified!!!! GAH!!! That taught me me not to miss meetings I can tell you!!! :-( He was supposedly very warm, genuine and inspirational when he spoke.

My wood hasn't gone soft yet but it sure doesn't need as much varnishing as it used to!:-p I remember when the worst thing I could imagine a girl being was a cock teaser. Now I actively seek them out. I can easily forgo an orgasm these days and usually only have one about twice a week. Used to be once every half an hour! :-O

I told D. about this and she replied; "WHAT??? You??? Finally slowing down??? You were the only person I ever knew who literally needed to have sex every single day!!!!!!" Ah for the glory days of my youth! ;-)

Good luck in your quest my friend. Have you started on that novel yet? ;-)



advochasty said...

I used to go to a meeting on the Westside where Peter Tork came regularly. While The Monkees were not exactly the "Bad Boys From Boston", the Sex Pistols did cover "I'm Not Your Stepping Stone".

Actually, I wanna be her stepping stone...

While my wood needs less varnish, I'm thinking it wants a good shellacing!! ;-P

I do kind of like that I'm less ruled by the glory days of youth, though strong echoes are known to resonate at about the two week mark of on-my-honor-keep-yer-hands-to-yourselfness.

Wrestling and agonizing with novel...all my "inadequacies" reveal.

Extended work I'm calling it.

Her Majesty's Plaything said...

Ha ha ha! Yes I heard about Peter Tork going to the Manhattan meetings! Love the Sex Pistols cover! ;-)

As for "hands off on my honor chastity" I can make it for about 5 days! :-p

Word verification is "equally" as in "Advo and HMP are equally perverted!" ;-)

advochasty said...

I once confessed my 82 day on-my-honor chastity record to She. She looked at me quizzically and asked, "Why?". I really didn't have an altogether good answer.


Sometimes it just is what it is.

Sometimes it's sexualizing a failed sex life.

I prefer to look at it as good, clean fun. But three weeks is my outside these days.

Oh to have a metaphoric key gracing a delicate but purposeful neck.

Mistress Crimson said...

Faded jeans? Really?


advochasty said...

Yes faded jeans. Women are soooo literal. It's an artistic personality image. Sheesh.

It's probably also an homage to my misspent, 60's - 70's hipster youth. I have to show you the picture of me in my 20's eating a gallon of ice cream.

Double yikes!!