Hiccups

As I sit here in Fort Lauderdale airport, early for my flight home to NYC, I think I have the hiccups. As I snuck into the comments to my last blog post, I had a glass half full result on my exam. Passed the state part and flubbed the national part. Thus, I must retake the national part and pass it come July in order to bask in the sunshine of a new state license. Hiccup.

My lovely little loft apartment? The one with the private patio in the back that Ms. Mahwah Kiss offered to grow basil in? Well when the broker showed it to me it had an air conditioner in the upstairs bedroom. When I attached a rider to the sublease asking the owner to warrant that the appliances actually worked, the broker said she was "forced" to tell me the a/c unit was improperly installed and could not be used. Ever. How was the place cooled in July? By ice blocks? Hiccup.

On two successive nights after my exam result I had the most intense bdsm sex dreams I've ever had. In the first, I was at a debauched party in a glitzy but dilapidated hotel. I was there with one of my favorite pro dommes of all time. She still works and we occassionally email, but I've not actually seen her in a few years. Anyway, she and I were together when all of a sudden two angular, tattooed, pierced, and gorgeous creatures with tits and cocks grabbed me and threw me on a table. As one yanked my pants and underwear down and the other readied to take the plunge, I called out to my old domme to please come watch. As if on cue, she turned her back on me, entered an elevator, and left - not even looking at my predicament as the doors slid closed. Hiccup.

In the second I bottomed to a middle-aged woman and a middle-aged man in two separate and distinct dream sequences. You know the dreams, right? The ones where the people are different but it's obvious to the audience that they're your mother and father. Anyway, in the first scene I was being rhythmically flogged by a lanky brunette. All about the back and shoulders her powerfully wielded, multi-strand cat inspired little red nicks to blossom perfectly and profusely. In act two I was watching an outdoor sporting event while sitting next to an older and physically imposing man. The guy put his arm around my shoulder as if to pal around and then began brawnily dragging me close. He reached across my chest and tried to pinch my left nipple. Though I was uncomfortably aroused, I tried vainly to pull and strain away from his burly bear hug. Hiccup!!

As I wait for my JetBlue flight back to LaGuardia I think I'm gonna hold my breath. Or maybe I'll drink a few quarts of water. Quick! Somebody scare me!

Hey Veronica, this one's for you. For Sam I'll make an exception to my ridiculously OCD rule that my music video selections must have performance.

Baby Steps or One Giant Leap?

So maybe I've found an apartment. West Villagey-Chelsea-ish; cool first floor, one bedroom loft with my very own little outdoor patio. In an only in New York real estate sort of deal, despite the fact that I'd only be signing a one year lease, I have to get passed by the coop board. So I've spent the weekend compiling every last little bit of financial flailing and ghost writing personal recommendations. And tomorrow I hear about my examination exertion. Nothing like the judgment of others that will have a dramatic affect on what my life will look like over the next year.

I saw the apartment this past Tuesday evening and made an offer by text from the street five minutes after leaving. I went back on Thursday and wandered down the street, only to discover that there's a lingerie store on the block. I took a picture of the sign and emailed it to She.

I also emailed the link to the apartment listing to Ms. Mahwah Kiss. She emailed back that she'd come over and hang with me on the patio and grow basil. We'd had brunch last Sunday. Ms. Kiss had wickedly waved a pair of rubber, medical gloves at me when I picked her up in her Tribeca loft. I told her later that I'd wondered if she had a clue how purely erotic those gloves are for me. She said she figured it might make an impression. Later in the week Ms. Mahwah teased me by saying she'd bought a pair of leopard platforms and every guy in the store couldn't take their eyes off her feet. Tell me about it.

So when she offered to grow basil on my new patio, I emailed back that basil grows best when tended wearing rubber surgical gloves and leopard platforms.

I forgot to delete these emails from my Crackberry. Uh-oh...

And of course, on Friday night the wife and I had a rare, nasty, fight. We've been much more friendly recently, but this fight was bad enough that I fled the apartment to give us a much needed timeout. Didn't take the Blackberry. When I got back my wife demanded snarlingly if She-Who-Visits was "my whore" and she hoped that Ms. Kiss and I had lots of fun tending basil with her wearing rubber gloves and leopard print platforms.

Need I share that the wife had breeched the BB and emailed herself my emails.

So I did something I've never done before. I told her a bit of the truth about my kink life and have actually lived to write about it here. Mind you, I'll wake up dead if she ever finds this blog. But I told her I'd met She at a conference and we'd become very dear friends. I told her that She is in a kinky relationship with her husband and that she had helped me to feel better about who I really am. Without giving names or identifying information, I told her I had made real friends with guys who were kinky too. And I think she believes for the first time that Ms. Kiss and I are really just good friends.

And you know what? I think my wife had a bit of an epiphany. A modicum of an appreciation for what I've gone through and how much progress I've made in feeling good about myself. It's not going to save my marriage, but I think it made us better friends. Now who knows what will happen the next time she loses it, but for now I'm glad that one of my deepest secrets, my relationship with She, is revealed in a bit of its truth to my wife.

Now...about the basil. I have it on good authority that tending it in black, retro-lingerie while wearing rubber surgical gloves and leopard platforms makes the spice particularly pungent.

Or maybe something in a nice dommy cheerleader's outfit would make it zesty, peppery and piquant?

A Long Time Comin'

I have this routine in the morning. I'm an early riser. I'm up by 5:15am for a cock-crow run with the dogs through the park and by the river no matter the season or the weather. But before I go, I make coffee. I grind rich, dark, oily beans for a combination of a decaf and high-test drip brew along with a shot of espresso. These days I'm into Irving Farm beans. There's a couple of Irving Farm cafes in Manhattan and one in Millerton, a little Dutchess County berg with a great movie theater and the coolest sporting goods store around.

I was introduced to Irving Farm coffee by a pro-domme with whom I had a deliciously disasterous frolic. Sometimes, as I mill my perfect morning infusion, I'll absent mindedly and fondly flash on the frilly little red, yellow, and white apron we bought to accessorize my service that was hung on a hook in her kitchen and never used. Or her asking the Meatpacking waitress to top up my glass from the Voss bottle - tinged the faintest of golden. Or pleading with her to slash yet again and harder at my urgently offered upper thighs with the rough leather horse crop, as I deleriously wriggled on the polished pine strip floor of her Horatio Street studio in the throes of a two week stint of on-my-honor chastity.

I love a good cup of fine coffee in the morning.

But it's a ritual of process and transition, my morning routine. From sleep I spend fifteen minutes of labor over the literal daily grind. And this morning as I write these words I really have to remind myself that my life is in complete makeover mode. In a little over a week I learn my bar exam fate from the gods of grading. In four months I'll be in a new apartment. There's nothing like looking at real estate in Manhattan to make you feel like an inadequate slacker who has utterly failed to attain a remotely respectable level of financial firepower.

This week I was out at a work related meet and greet and met two attractive, divorced women. Despite a fun chemistry with one, my fet-detector told me she was clueless about kink. I woke up this morning festering that I'm just flat-out undatable. Who wants to deal with a workaholic, aging hipster of a submissive, who comes to a romantic little restaurant with a separation agreement, a domme in the Caribbean who he adores, and huge pile of debt. Oh come on! It'll be fun. You'll see.

But the french roast rites of an April dawn hold aromatic promise. After the grind, the exertion of the run; the stretches, crunches, pull-ups and downward dogs - I get my reward. I just have to keep the faith because ready or not - a change is gonna come.