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.
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