Underneath It All

I suppose I just should have been flattered that the lunkhead, twenties-ish, rental apartment broker chose a fifth floor walk-up as the first apartment in the West Village he'd show me to be my new single-guy home. Nothing like a dark, dirty, postage stamp sized, fifth floor walk-up in the Village for $3500 a month to make you want to move to Miami. I figured he was doing a bullshit broker bachata - letting me see dreck to soften me up for a kill shot in the fancy full service building at four stacks a month.

At the urging of friends and shrink I've expanded the search for my aging kink-boy bachelor pad to include neighborhoods other than the FiDi. While I'd love to walk to work and I've found a great building, the Wall Street area does button up early and, save for the tourists, is pretty dead on the weekend. So I'm having to put up with broker shennanigans. Spare me.

To boot, I've decided not to go see She. I may not have shared that She lives on the same balmy beautiful island where twenty years ago this fall, my wife and I ran away and were married at sunset, on the beach, with our bare feet planted firmly in the sand. I figure at this stage, the downside risk of being caught is just too great. If I can manage to get one of these snake oil selling brokers to get me a decent apartment, in a few months I can go visit She with a clearer conscience and less chance that I'll turn an amicable separation into the battle for Bastogne

But I'm really sad I'm not going. These days I'm either sad that I'm separating or sad that I haven't seen She in going on five months. Plus, other than her unexpected and totally sweet invite, She is in the throes of what I've come to think of as seasonal disconnective disorder. Sunday will be a month since we've spoken. It's hard to do anything but email her as she's always shooing me away from g-chat or a quick phone conversation while she's working. One would think she is the executive assistant to POTUS. Mr. She's car is permanently kaput so they're car pooling in the morning and She can't call me. She doesn't do email or text much and has said it makes her uncomfortable if I call when Mr. She is around.

I guess the thing is I've been here before with her need to disengage. It seems if I just suck it up and focus on other things, She cycles back. Try as I might though, underneath it all, my little insecurities begin to croak and bleet like a chorus of spring tree frogs until they reach this unbearable cacophonous, crescendo of doubt and need.

But I abruptly shake myself and say, "Snap out of it, fool." Life is good. Just around the corner the loutish purveyor of rooms for rent will show me the coolest one bedroom loft with a little terrace on the Lower East Side. I'll pick my way through early morning tenement streets lined with hip restaurants and hot bars for a run along that other river. I'll find a little local coffee joint where they make my extra large red eye to mainline caffeine with my endorphins. And one day soon She will whisper something incredibly hot and dirty in my ear and all this festering puzzlement will be worth it.

Or maybe one night there will be a certain someone across the bar in that new little local joint I eat dinner in twice a week ... I know some real bad tricks and I'm in need of a little discipline.

Come On And Let Me Know

She-Who-Visits invited me to visit her. She's all alone on her island paradise and she asked me down next weekend. She was very cool about telling me that if I couldn't swing it I shouldn't stress. She knows me well and knows that I stress.

Why stress? I'll soon be living alone, foot loose and fancy free. This seems like an opportunity not to miss. The invite was "Want to come down and clean my apartment?" So hot! Then she allowed as to how she "kept a tidy home." More like OCD spotless.

But I love me in nothing but an apron being bossed about by Mistress Frogperson as I ineptly brandish Lysol and a toothbrush for all those hard to reach nooks and crannies.

Stay tuned. Will he stay or will he go?

The One

As the ordeal of examination gradually drifts into the past, the future stretches out like a lazy, calm river pool. Around the corner could be rapids leading to a precipitous waterfall, but right now I'm just floating along enjoying the scenery -- content not to be trying to figure out the riparian rights of the people I see waving to me from the banks.

Do I rent or do I buy? Will it be the FiDi, the UWS, or the East Village? Will I go visit the Sunshine State this month or next? Tough questions, but someone's gotta answer them. Ms. Kiss and I were sitting in the late winter sunshine yesterday talking about these pressing issues as I had sought her counsel about the rent or buy question. She's got a banker brain and I do not, thank you very much. We got snagged on property division.

"Your wife should not have a future interest in any apartment you buy. Are you crazy? You're getting divorced! When you meet someone and are living with her in your new place, how do you think she's going to feel when you have to give half of the apartment sale to your ex-wife?"

You know the catagory on Facebook or online dating services marked "It's complicated." I don't think Ms. Kiss gets that catagory. I've spent the past 30 odd years of my life in dedicated, long term relationships or marriages. I know alot about the clinches of committment. I suppose what I'm looking forward to most about my impending separation is my new single life. I know very little about being single. No doubt it will be an "it's complicated" bachelorhood. But that's the allure.

Unlike Ms. Kiss, who is and should be looking for Mr. Right -- I'm looking for a life. Part of the life I hope will be meeting new friends, some of whom will be kinky. I recently wrote to Yin and asked to be favorably considered for an upcoming "Writing Cage", which she'd advertised publicly on her blog. I don't want to have to lie and sneak around to read my writing at such a cool event if I get asked.

I'm not looking for the one. I'm looking for a life.

Well...maybe Ms. Kiss and I could visit Madame Ruth...

Come Down Off Your Throne

I finished my marathon study and test taking about ten days ago. It's nice not to be haunted by the compulsive need to memorize restrictive covenants, the Supremacy Clause, and servient estates. Wait...that sounds kinda kinky. I miss it. Oy...

Anyway, during my effort at becoming the poster boy for "the-more-you-know", my friend Ms. Mahwah Kiss was very supportive. I think she felt very guilty for saying that she was certain I'd flunk when I told her I was forcing my fifty-six year old brain to memorize the Rule Aganist Perpetuities again. After I finished the little two day, twelve hour, pop quiz; in a fit of generousity borne of remorse, she offered to do something "non-kosher" with me to celebrate. She made it clear that "non-kosher" meant kinky.

I think I've related here on "Client Nine" that Ms. Kiss is an example of my life long penchant for being overwhelmingly attracted to "tops-in-the-street-but-bottoms-in-the-sheets". She's whip smart, very snarky, really hot, and all about telling me just what she thinks I ought to do. But she doesn't have a real, honest to goodness, pervy bone in her very lovely body. She's at best, which is very good I must imagine, a spicy creme caramel. Or a scrumptious vanilla sundae with some chocolate sprinkles and Heath bar crunch mixed in.

I knew this was a bad idea, but I just could not resist sending her the link to yesterday's RopeShare event. I thought, "Okay Ms. Kiss. Let's see ya put yer money where yer big, sexy mouth is." Plus, if ever there was a non-threatening kinky thing for a non-pervert to enjoy, it's a RopeShare event. I love RopeShare.

I got an email response from her that just said, "Oy Vey!" I thought this incredibly fitting as the class was to be taught by Lolita Wolf, who calls herself "The Leather Yenta." It seemed somehow both politically and religiously correct.

However, when I saw Ms. Kiss this past week she was incredulous that I'd asked her if she might consider going. "A bondage workshop?? Are you crazy??", she practically gasped. "I'm worried I'll get all kinds of porn spam just for clicking on the link." I assured her she was safe from perverted spammers bent on forcible conversion to Semitic or, heaven forbid, goyisha kinkdom.

"Maybe a movie.", she whispered sotto voce.

"Have I got some movies for you!", I crowed.

"Oh I bet you do. On second thought, maybe I'll buy you a nice root beer float," she smirked.

With chocolate sprinkles on the ice cream, no doubt.

I think I'm just going to have to figure out how to date kinky in the upcoming months as I separate from wife and home. This conversion business is for the birds and besides...somebody holds the key.