Carol

It has been a tumultuous emotional time. It's only been a little over a week in the new place. Other than living in back of a Haight Ashbury cafe off the Panhandle and in a month-to-month garrot in the pre-gentrified Mission back in the early seventies, it's the first apartment I've found and rented by myself. Certainly my first NYC adult guy apartment. Adult that is if you count a five foot poster of Julie Newmar on the wall as adult.

It was my birthday on Wednesday and Ms. MahWah Kiss took me out to the veranda at Cipriani on Wall Street for lunch. I was talking about putting some beautiful vases on the false ceiling soffit overlooking the sleeping alcove and illuminating them with strip lighting.

"Oh no", she decreed. "That whole area? A man of your proclivities? That area has all sorts of acrobatic potential. You're putting vases on top? There will be shattering."

I collapsed, hysterical.

But Ms. Kiss's cautions and place-of-my own memories have triggered reminisence.

The eighties in the West Side nineties. As Subdued reminded me a year or so ago there was this section of Screw Magazine called "Helles Belles" where prodommes advertised. Back before DDI took off and became an almost alt artiste journal. A domme named Carol used to visit my Upper West, rent-stable abode. The entrance to the massive living room was framed with wide, thick, ornate, sturdy, wooden molding.

I affixed eyebolts up and down either side of my very own pre-war whipping post. They were tucked on the side and not particularly obvious, but deliciouly effective. Carol would arrive in a tightly tailored suit smartly accessorized with a tote bag full of goodies. We'd get right to the business at hand.

She'd lash me tightly to my ornate corner cornice and proceed to alternately tease me into a drooling frenzy and then viciously beat my obliging eagerness until my ardor began a slow, disappointed surrender. Then she'd go about a knee weakening re-envigoration of engourged attention, only to attack yet again. Used to do three hour sessions of this and only this. Such a Johnny-B-One-Note.

To my delight and horror, I'd look like a piece of blackened cauliflour the next day.

And ya know? With this new place? I'm gonna learn to dance if it takes me all night and day. I got my eye on you baby cause you dance so good.