Friday, July 31, 2009

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!

Friday, July 24, 2009

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.

Friday, July 17, 2009

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!!

Monday, July 6, 2009

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.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

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."