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;
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.
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.
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?