Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Advo Dates

My, my...that didn't take long now did it. So far I've been on two dates. One was so good I'm not writing about it. I really liked her. Gotta be cool fool.

The second one was last night. She was one of the clamoring hordes of dominant women who crave a date with me from my Craigslist ad. One of two clamorers. The other one, a Ms. Cindy Rella, wanted to know what business I was expanding. I wrote a very nice answer confessing my penchant for the pursuit of a license to be Mr. Miami Vice Mouthpiece. I wondered if her last name was Italian. She never got back to me. Something about having to meet a Ms. White and some ornery dwarfs.

But last night's date was with a real deal domme. Very sweet, age appropriate, smart, and funny. But at best we'll be friends, and I doubt even that. She has a demanding, competitive business, a vanilla guy at home who knows about her daliances and approves, loads of friends, and is looking for "the one true submissive".

She described him as someone who she could keep in her closet to bring out whenever whimsy created need. She was funny and playful about this fantasy but it was her ideal. The other type of guy she liked was one who just went with her flow. No complaints, no negotiation, no bleating or whining. She also said she had little sexual connection to bdsm. If you clean my house, you wait on the corner with a mop and a bucket until I give you permission to come up. She said 95% of all her house boy applicants failed that test.

While this particular test is one I could easily pass, she and I have very different views of our "ideal". Hey, I've given up a marriage, a beautiful coop apartment, a neighborhood -- a life -- to be out of the closet. Please don't put me back there?

Plus, I'd like my dominant to love what I bring to the party. I envision a shared life, not one where I'm on 911 standby.

Plus, there's the sex part. I like the sexah-sexah. Sorry, but bdsm is all about sex for me. Plus, it has been so long since I've had any that I am truly a born-again virgin. I should just all Jonas-Brother-Up and instead of experimenting with taking off my almost twenty year old wedding band, buy myself a purity ring and own it.

Nah, I'm on the prowl for a domme who wants me. With all my quirks and imperfections. Somebody who loves stockings and heels and retro-lingerie. A girl who I'll love to serve, especially when she wakes up in a rumpled t-shirt with bed hair and a bleary eyed look.

I'll know because she'll smile when I bring her coffee in the morning and rub her feet at night. And I'll agree she's always right ... mostly.

Although Labor Day is around the bend, it's still Advo's Summer of Love.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010


Her ads in DDI and other bdsm publications of the time were striking. Tall, dark, and rail thin, her hips flared in the simple black corsets she seemed fond of wearing. Sometimes her thick black hair was down, wildly entwining her shoulders as she brandished a cane, almost saying, "Call me, and we'll see how much you can take." In other photos her hair was severerly tied back in a bun, completely hidden by her riding helmet. Instead of jodhpurs and a white shirt, she wore a skin tight, black body suit and real riding boots. I recall being facinated by how such a slender woman's hips burst so curvaceously from her waspy waist.

Her name was Ana Hunt.

Long before I called her and made an appointment for a little slice of heaven, I was riveted by her simple, challenging ads. She oozed sex and experience. I had just turned forty and she was, as she eventually told me, "my senior". After being every kind of lousy, unreliable, bothersome version of wanker/no show client known to domme-dom, I finally made an appointment on a cold November weeknight when I had been out of town all day and had a custom made excuse as to why I'd be late home.

She had a beautiful, private studio in a brownstone in Chelsea. It was dark and each room had wonderful wooden bookcases filled with leather, hard cover, volumes on any subject one might imagine. She had a slightly European, not of this country air to her. She was at once welcoming and menacing - inviting but simmeringly sadistic. I had taken to writing out an explanation of where I was and what I was looking for from my domme. I was often so overwhelmed by desire and nerves that I'd find it hard to articulate my ever-so-demandingly-client-centric wish list. I delivered my creative top her from the bottom entreaty on my knees as she watched me; an amused, barely tolerant, grin pursing her full, red painted lips. When I finished she sat silently.

"I understand you," she said softly. "You write very well."

"Here," she beckoned as she stood. I took her extended hand. "Let's start you out over here in the next room".

She led me from what felt like a wood paneled, library-living room, into a darkened bedroom. The bed, however, was a massive, antique, wooden bondage table. Four huge posts extended upward from each corner. The table was lusterously polished but appropriately worn from the struggles of those captured in Ana's thrall. The four vertical anchor points strained vainly toward the ceiling.

"Go on, sweetheart", she entreated me indulgently. "You know how to lie on your back for me, don't you?"

Like a memory that drifts unexpectedly into focus, I'll wonder every now and then what ever became of Ana Hunt, world class domina, gone now - never to come back.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010


This post has nothing to do with kink, She, dommes, rope, or sex. Half this blog is about how music drives my feelings, hopes, and dreams - as half of all my posts are music videos. This is a post about music.

On the way to work this week I've been reading a story from the August 9th issue of The New Yorker about Gil Scott-Heron entitled "New York Is Killing Me". It was such a raw, painful article for me to read as I was just a huge admirer and fan of Scott-Heron's in the '70's and early '80's when he was at the peak of his extraordinary musical talent. I saw him perform once in 1977 when I lived in San Francisco. He was produced by Clive Davis and Arista records and wrote "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised", "The Bottle", "Winter In America", "We Almost Lost Detroit", and "Home is Where The Hatred Is" along with just a host of other incredible songs that meant the world to me in my twenties. Some call him the grandfather of hip-hop and both Kanye West and Jay-Z have sampled him. He has a new album entitled "I'm New Here" and there is apparently a resurgence of interest in his work.

Gil Scott-Heron is also a crack addict and the New Yorker piece chronicles how this horrible disease has devastated his life. The interviewer and author, Alec Wilkinson, met with Gil on a number of occasions in his apartment in Harlem and the prose captures the essence of a soul trapped by addiction. His description of Scott-Heron clutching his propane torch will haunt me for sometime. My brother became addicted to crack in his early-forties and committed suicide.

His girlfriend, Monique de Latour, does a poigniant and melancholy voice-over to her photos of Gil, now 61 years old, on the New Yorker website. It all made me very grateful that somehow I got sober and have managed to stay that way. Here's Gil Scott-Heron who the article says is one month clean from crack.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie

So I've decided that among the strategies I shall employ to meet people in "The Scene" is a sensibly placed and meticulously screened Craiglist ad. Inspired by a chat with a friend, here's the text. You can find it in Manhattan - Strictly Platonic
Are you a dominant woman? Do you enjoy fine dining and worthy conversation? I offer an evening of smart chat and good food. I promise only one thing – I’ll pick up the tab for the two of us. I’ve separated from my wife, moved to the Far West Village, and want to explore "The Scene" in real time.

I own an expanding business, am fifty-seven years old, and I’m in great shape - usually. I’m an experienced submissive looking for friendship - mostly.

I write an award-winning kinky blog and I’ll give you the link to check me out before you agree to meet me.

Whether you lifestyle or drive a toll road, dinner is on me. What’s to lose? And the rest, as they say in NOLA, is lagniappe.

Okay, okay. I promise to be careful and watch out for crazies. But it could be fun, no?

Here's the link: Eat Out On Advo!

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Equis ... Noventa Y Seis - Punto Tres

Free at last from the grip of agonizing among A through D. Narrow it down to C & A ... sweat. Can I remember whether an easement appurtenant runs with the land or whether a partially performed oral contract for the sale of land supplies consideration. The clock is ticking away my 1.8 minutes...pinch me, slap me, beat me silly. It's finally over!

Now I can get down and dirty - the only answer choices are the B & the D.

I love the new digs. I can actually finish the finishing touches. Ms. Mahwah Kiss pronounced my Overstock.com metal frame platform bed one a woman would happily share. However, she made me put away some of the decorative things I had out. Like the beautiful glass pumpkin I had in the bathroom.

"It's nice. If you're twelve," she snorted derisively. "You've lived with women for so long, you don't know how to make your place look like a guy lives in it."

"You've got a schlong," she declared. "Decorate like it."

She loved Julie.

So as I bask in my first weekend free of the haunting need to pick the a to d; I plot. Spoke to She this morning and we may spend Labor Day weekend at her favorite little Gulf Coast shelling atoll. Closer to home, I'm going to check out munch schedules, class offerings, and get a lesson on how to make sense of the vast kinky ocean that is FetLife.

August has such a debauched feel. As I walk back to my new place from glorious grocery shopping at Chelsea Market, I use the Highline as my path. There's a covered section between Sixteenth and Gansevoort where they've preserved the tracks. As some of you know I have a thing for dommy girls, kidnapping by bicycle, and boxcars. I notice all the places I could be lashed - left to strain and struggle for a glimpse of toe cleavage, the glint of a back seam shine, or the click clack of concrete meeting her heels.

Oh, and I'm polishing my Spanish. And finding a salsa class. Blaring 96.3 FM in the truck yesterday morning, while puffing on a fine Dominican cigar, I felt the romantic pull of a spicy, staccato Puente or a sonorous Celia Cruz son. BDSM to a hot Latin beat ... August esta aqui, mami!