Look Over Yonder

Here's another one of my new living room pictures. Can you guess?
My first domme.
Hunkered over the TV in 1967, I felt a common tingle shared by many a subbie bretheren at the sight of her.

An homage to the past. But the sun is a'rising, most definitely.

Celebration

I was antsy earlier in the week. Couldn't sit at the desk. So I called Ms. Mahwah Kiss for coffee and cookies. We sat in Duane Park in the baking sun eating mini choco-chips, me sucking down iced caffine.

"You have to celebrate", she proclaimed with absolute certainty. "Posters. Do you like posters?"

This goes on the wall. The living room wall. On a stretched canvass. Hell, I don't wanna grow up.

One For HMP

Because he said he liked my Popeye reference.

Hey, does Olive Oyl ever wear a black retro waist cincher and full fashion back seamed stockings?

Breathplay anyone?

Truth And Consequence

The truth is I'm just plain kinky. All kinds of specific kinky, but as Popeye is fond of saying, "I Yam What I Yam." Still, I sometimes wonder how I got here, perched on the precipice of a leap of faith so scary and uncertain that some days I'm either reduced to a rolled up little ball in the corner or a shuddering, sobbing mass of guilty regret. The truth is I'm kinky - but what are the consequences.

Friends and readers are excited for me. Lots of new adventure ahead. But thirty odd years ago when I had my first session with a pro domme, I never in a million years would have predicted where I am today. I suppose it's true about life in general. If we could chart a certain course it would be less nerve racking but a lot less exciting and adventuresome.

My solution for years, through three long term relationships - two marriages and a five year girlfriend - was to sneak out to pro dommes. It worked so well for such a long time. What changed? Why can't I just happily scrape together tribute and slip out for a heavenly night of tightly trussed fun?

The truth is I've changed. I've accepted my kinkiness in all it's infuriating beauty and frustrating splendor. The consequence is I just have to take this leap of faith. As painful and as scary as it is, it's all about free fall.

Sweet Dreams

As I once again submerge into constant study during most all available free time (whatever that is...) I also do little things to keep my eye on the prize. I take the little man down from the zoomer thingy in Google Maps and wander downtown Miami. I scan Craigslist ads to scope out the residential and commercial rental markets. I compare virtual office packages. Somebody said it was the modern day equivalent of a med student studying for the boards. A hundred times he writes; Dr. Advo, Dr. Advo, Dr. Advo. Wait a sec, that has a kind of catchy ring to it. Maybe more like a Spiderman villan though.

As for my kink dreams I'm thinking classes, munches, more active involvement in FetLife, and perhaps working on my creative writing some more. When I take my virtual Googlemap Man down from married life and drop him single and sort of available in a public play fetish party he feels very out of place. I suppose I still really want to go to a fetish party but can't imagine playing publicly. Someone once said to me that I wanted to go to a fetish party so badly because I'd never been to one. Dreams and reality diverge, she cautioned. But then she added she enjoyed them if she went with friends.

My kinky little GoogleMaps Man has some good friends now and wants to make some more. All in good time. Hey, everybody is looking for something.

Al & Tipper

So my shrink asked last week how the Al and Tipper break-up made me feel. Isn't it just so New York City that a perverted, bow tie wearing, seersucker be-suited, subbie-lawyer guy talks to his gay shrink about the Al and Tipper Gore bust-up and can relate it directly to his life? Al and Tipper comfort me. For real. On the outside didn't they just seem so perfect? A little oh-so-sacchrine sweet, but a picture of somebody's form of the ideal, don'cha think?

And today's Styles section article about long-term marriage? I was once talking to a way-uptight colleague at a professional cocktail function about Sunday Times reading habits and confessed to going straight for Styles. I fear I was immediately written off as a total lightweight. Anyway, the article talked about what makes long term marriages survive. The author posits that one of the hallmarks is an active involvement in each other's lives. Trying new things together cements the history of the past with an excitement about the future.

Made me think that the decision my wife and I have made to try a life apart is fundementally sound. We really have grown apart. We do very little together and her dreams for the future and mine do not spark with the entangled balm of mutuality. And yet this Friday we viewed each other's new apartments together. His in the West Village/Meatpacking District and hers on the Upper West Side. I'm jealous of her back yard. Always wanted private, urban, outdoor space. She said I could come over and smoke cigars - outside.

But as we walked together from my place in the neighborhood that raises my "cool factor" with its mere mention, we passed the Louboutin boutique just a scant two blocks away. All I said was, "Gotta love Christian!" when we passed a window display that makes this fetishist's heart race.

"I'm sure you'll meet some bimbo who will just love those things," she spat. "But you'll have to buy them for her as well as pay her hourly rate."

It was hot, humid, and hazy on Horatio. I was tired and ill-advisedly shot back.

"Why don't you just keep all your negative crap to yourself? Really, that's just totally disrespectful."

Now I begrudge nobody a hard-earned hourly rate and have happily paid my money down on more occassions than I care to add up in these challenging times of fiscal frustration. But I thought the moment captured where I am these days.

I really do look forward to a future where I'll stop at a window like that with a woman who will drag me from the street into the store and try on pair after pair whether we buy any or not because she loves them too. I mean you don't even have to want to lick a length of skyscraper heel to love Mr. Louboutin.

In the end, what's most reassuring about Al and Tipper is not that they are paddling the misery boat along with me in a river of broken dreams, but that they are optimistic enough to separate in their sixties after forty years of seemingly picture perfect marital bliss. Like my pal Aarkey, I choose optimism, baby.

You watch. One day I'll write about how I got dragged into CL's little corner shop by my way cool dommy girlfriend who just has to have the Frutti Fruttis in black python, with the black flowered lace. We may not run into Tipper, but we'll sure be havin' a party.

Oooo...maybe Veronica will yell at me for not using Sam...

You Lookin' At A Winner!

Client Nine And A Half has won "Best of the Web" from the very kind folks at Sex Forums. I get my honorary badge and my copy gets featured on their site. Who knew the meanderings of a coming-out kinkster would win recognition.

I'm alerting the media. Oh wait...this is the media. I'm really not familiar with the site, but I love the badge.

It's going straight to my head. You know you lookin' at a winnah...