Monday, September 27, 2010

Red Soles

She and I and her friend walked down the block towards Hudson Street in search of breakfast at sunset. Her attention was drawn to the shoe boutique window that was a major selling point in support of my move to the new neighborhood. The store changes its display regularly. The window that drew her attention held two shoes; a sneaker-look shoe in a red, white, and blue sequins and a skyhigh pump in the same design.

It pleased me immensely that the sneaker seemed to hold no interest.

She caught up with us.

"Great shoes!", she enthused with a soul satifying blurt.

"You know the store, right?", I asked.

With her blank look I explained it was the Louboutin boutique. This sent her scurrying back to the window with me thinking, "She doubts a shoe perv?"

She came strolling back with a big smile and allowed as to how I was absolutely right, explaining to her girlfriend that Christian's delights were the absolute it shoe, always identifiable by the fire engine red sole on the bottom.

Huh, ya learn something everyday. I've been walking by that window every day for almost two months and never noticed each hot and heavenly pair sported bright red soles.

Made me want to lick my tongue that very shade.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010



In the bathroom of the beachside hotel She and advo shared for Labor Day weekend. The door remains open as he sits to pee. Normally he stands. She is compulsively insuring there is no sand on the tile floor as she walks a towel around him. He tries to concentrate on the task at hand.

advo: I can never get it all out when I sit. I'm always coming back.

She: Same thing happens to me when I give golden showers standing up.

Oh, the iconic poster graces my bathroom in my new apartment in the Far West Village. I like the familiar.

But if a girl wants you to win her heart, and you're not sure what to do if you win it, should you try?

Monday, September 20, 2010


To all of you who wished me well.

Thank you so much!!

I passed.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Roman Holiday

If you don't enjoy whiney bloggers then perhaps you should go to the next entry on your reading list since I plan to bleat and moan a bit in this post.

Go on, admit it.

You like hearing a nice droney little whimper every now and then if only to feel superiour and say to your self, "That little bitch ought to buck up."

So I've called Ms. Mahwah Kiss like seven times since I got back from Florida and have gotten no meaningful response. When we were more casually acquainted, she'd drop off my radar for months at a time. Then we'd hook-up by happenstance and have dinner or coffee, then go months without seeing each other. But in these emotionally charged times I need more than this from a friend and she's just taken a complete powder.

She-Who-Visits has called me a couple of times in the evening this week and I've been out play dating. Practicing up for my Monday night real deal. I think it's the height of rudeness to take cell calls during dinner. So I didn't answer when she rang. She'll often call and either not leave a message or snark a little, send her love between the lines, and hang up. But on Thursday night she left a message and specifically called my outgoing voice mail dispatch whiney and unprofessional. Then unequivocally stated she was "officially giving up on me."

Now I know she probably doesn't mean this. I've called, texted, emailed and she hasn't responded. I tried her at lunch on Friday and she actually answered.

"Not now", she spat into the phone and abruptly hung up.

This, I suppose, is the downside of liking mean girls. Sometimes they are mean to me when I least deserve it. She knows this is the weekend before the Monday release of exam results. Mr. She sleeps on the same bed of pins and needles that I do. I thought it was particularly cruel of her to announce she was cutting me off just before the last exam watch weekend.

But what? I expect this personality type to be low-maintenance?

Finally, my wife is off to the West for ten days. She suffers a horrible limbo status; she knows she has a serious medical problem but awaits a veritable barrage of test results. This sends her scurrying compulsively to every doomsday Web M.D. diagnosis site on the internet. She's professionally concluded with a high degree of "scientific certainty" that she is about to die. Nothing I can do or say helps. I try suggesting that it is interesting that her obsession with death has coincidentally arisen practically simulataneously with our separation. This, might I say, astute, observation is immediately dismissed in a hail of vitriol. She is certain I believe she is simply an hysteric. As completely selfish as it sounds, I'm actually relieved she's gone for a little while.

Now watch, she'll die and I'll feel years of deep post-mortem, guilt ridden, remorse.

Finally, my oldest dog - my fifteen year old heart and soulmate dog - has green pus infected, bloody, abscesses on his back. Formerly a thorn and thicket tough, pheasant flushing hunter; he can barely keep up with me on our very moderate morning runs.

No wonder I bought a case of rock lobster so the restaurant could serve my Monday night birthday dinner date her favorite arthropod al fresco. That and I want her to tie me up and make out with me.

For some reason, this all made me think of the scene in the HBO series "Rome" in which Atia whips her slave Castor just for the hell of it. No sex, no punishment. Atia of the Julii is just going through a rough patch and she decides to whip the shit out of her loyal, devoted, protective, personal.

Perhaps that's what comes with the turf submission. Doesn't mean I can't whine about it every now and then. Here's a clip from the show about the slaves of Rome. Start at the 1:35 mark for the Atia/Castor profile.

I love Castor's line after he's taken an innumerable number of Atia's best.

"Will that be all, Domina?"

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Crustacean Quester

Okay. I promised I wouldn't write about the good date. But I am a deeply flawed individual. My need to share and compose the written word sometimes trumps tact and good sense. I totally understand people, especially girls I'm sweet on, not wanting to become characters on my blog. Frankly, I don't know for sure she's even looked at my stuff so maybe I'm living dangerously - flying precariously under her radar. Oh the utter thrill of it all. Until it comes crashing down around my ears because I'm a self-centered lout who cares only for a good blog story that a handful of people may, or may not read.

We went on one date and I really like this woman. So we've arranged another. I've done the asking. How un-subbie, no? But I've loved it. So she has a request. Outdoor seating and lobster. I am dispatched to find the perfect spot. A no brainer, right?

Mind you, on our first date all she asked for was al fresco dining and in my utter haste to both please and find the perfect, romantic little Manhattan hideaway, I chose a restaurant that had closed. So she took the opportunity to add a reminder to the most recent task that I should keep in mind it was important to select a restaurant that was actually open for business.

I love her already, right?

So I conduct swift research and immediately find a swank Greek joint on the East Side in Midtown that has a nice outdoor patio and serves lobster. I triumphantly email her and trumpet my quickness and enthusiasm, but promise more choice, in the off chance that I have unexpectedly missed the mark - little likelihood though there may have been of that.

She emails me back and allows as to how it looks like a lovely place but I have completely missed the challenge of the quest. It's not just any old lobster. It's lobster tails.

Okay, I like lobster as much as the next foodie, but don't all lobsters have tails? Claws and tails and lots of other extraneous, spiney, but essentially inedible stuff.

No, as I ultimately learn in a series of very teasingly dommy emails, what my devious date wants most is rock lobster tails. I learn these mutant crayfish have no claws and are harvested primarily in Florida and California. It is the rare Big Apple bistro which serves them. Indeed, after I located a fish monger in the Chelsea Market which sold three sizes of these elusive arthropods and tried to convince a restaurant with a charming garden to let me BYOL, my date confessed that despite scouring Manhattan for years, she had dug up only a measley few places that served rock lobster tails, none with a garden. Thus, she knowingly sent me off to attempt the impossible.

Is she perfect or what?

However, she has bestowed major brownie points, gold stars, and profuse praise for my inventive persistence. Hey, if Artie at the fancy little Greek spot gets his supplier to deliver rock lobster tails for our date Monday night, haven't I just pulled the substantial gourmand equivalent of Excalibur from it's cold stone for my fair lady? Isn't this just the best D/s foreplay ever?

Somebody pass me my nose guard and the tanning butter! My mussels are flexin' and my flipper is 'a flippin'.!!!

Monday, September 6, 2010

Where My Heart Won't Break Me

Tampa International Airport feels clean and efficient; like a pleasantly homogenized slice of Gulf Coast southern gentility with a hefty helping of mid-Western work ethic thrown in for good measure. She's flight had landed early, though I had been there for a good hour, jump beaning from my skin at the thought of seeing her again after a ten month hiatus. The main terminal hub is serviced by pairs of swift, smooth, space-agey trams that shuttle passengers on spokes of monorail track to the departure and arrival gates. The trams ran like pairs of modern metal relay racers ferrying packs of travelers to and fro.

From my watch post I could see the delivery duo for the Carribean arrivals slide in and out. I had to hop back and forth to eye each influx of deplaners. For a good half hour I eagarly jitterbuged back and forth to make sure I caught the first glimpse. And finally, there She was. She came right up, dropped both bags to the floor, gave me a huge hug, and said, "You're the only person I know who I can leave and take up with as though we've never been apart".

The next morning in the warm water of the Gulf of Mexico, She later confessed she thought she'd seen a dead body in a wet suit.

She-Who-Visits is a world class, technically trained, and vastly experienced diver. She is strong, hard bodied, and has the nutty brown tan of an island girl. She'd been twenty feet down, scouring the bottom of the sea for her treasured shells. Coming up She thought she'd seen an arm encased in the black neoprene of a wet suit floating akimbo, attached to a lifeless body. Shocked, she said she'd almost inhaled water with the sucked gasp of terror. She'd been trained to save people. She knew she had to retrieve the body and assist in the notification of the bereaved loved ones.

"There's something under us," She whispered. I felt something slick and smooth brush my leg. "I'm standing on a ledge", she said in a voice that sounded apprehensive. She later confessed to complete horror and, not wanting to panic me, she struggled for control. She was facing shore and I was facing the open ocean.

All of a sudden I saw a broad black back streaked with white break the water's surface and roll gently in a slick hump back into the warm, thankfully oil-free Gulf.

"Manatee!!", I shouted gleefully.

"What..." She asked, sounding slightly dazed.

"It's a manatee!!! No, it's two!", I cried happily.

And She-Who-Visits and I frolicked with two gentle sea cows for a few magical minutes. Underwater, one looked at me with placid dark round eyes and I reached out and petted a docile, briney, bovine, nose.

One of the things She and I have always shared is being married. But this visit, my leg of that stool was broken. I was deeply shaken, ashamed and mortified that at times I had to make an excuse to go to shore and cry, hidden alone in the trees or behind sunglasses as She dove for her beloved ocean treasure. The pain of my separation was actually invigorated by seeing my dear friend who had provided so much solace and sexual acceptance over the past four years we've known one another and I've struggled with middle-aged matrimony.

With friends I can wear my emotion like a bothersome badge. I told She about my dating, which she blessed, though I thought she was a little miffed I didn't seek approval beforehand. I told her how broken hearted I felt to not be able to share tales of marriage with her. We talked that one day we might not play, but would remain friends. She talked alot about her life with Mr. She as she always does. It was alternately comforting to hear her tales of married life and heartbreaking to see my marital leg of our stool; detached and in the deep grass of an uncertain and yet-to-be completely defined separation after twenty two years of mitered and mortised joinder.

And though She swore this would be a vanilla weekend, it was not. Seasoned diver and power shopper, She spotted a DSW as we meandered in town. I practically swerved across three lanes of on-coming traffic to satisfy her squeal of delight. Apparently, there are not many stores on her island paradise. As a gift to the domme and dear friend I love, I bought her a pair of black sling backs. Later that night, our last together, she let me tougue clean and smell them as she sat on the ottoman, tanned legs crossed, smiling wickedly down at my grovelings.

But I sensed a distance. Later, in the aftermath of play, she accused me of whining like a dramatic little girl and overplaying my role like a novice dominatrix. We've played many, many times together and she's never expressed such displeasure. I know she thinks I talk too much, a problem solved this visit with a sweaty running sock. But something in her tone belied not a problem with my sub-style, but one of a more She-centered, personal nature. I mean what self respecting, red-blooded, manly, submissive doesn't wheedle and whine and beg? No, her inflection and annoyance fortold perhaps a problem in her life or that we just weren't as connected this time around.

On the drive to Miami across Alligator Alley I told her I had always admired her for protecting her marriage, for loving Mr. She, and a for being a good wife. I told her I never wanted our deep, one-of-a-kind, lightening strike relationship to threaten any aspect of her union.

She said she thought our relationship would evolve and change over time with the twists and turns of life.

She told me that our previous goodbyes had made her want to run. My morose sadness at our parting had badly burdened her. But my life's twists and turns have changed me and changed her in our four years of friendship and play. She is no longer my only real connection to a kink life. I now live with privacy, but more openly. So this time, I could really say goodbye to her without feeling an overwhelming loss and trust that there will be a next visit, there will be more surprise phone calls, and we will be bound to one another in the unexpected and unpredicable kink kabuki of our amazing dance.

Because like my first kinky day dream of a girl on a bike tying me up and trundling me off, She takes me down to the railroad line.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Vanilla Visitation?

She-Who-Visits arrives today in the Sunshine State and we are heading for her favorite shelling spot in all the world. As Earl stormily stomps its way up the eastern seaboard, the coast is clear Gulf-Side. I'm excited. To say the least.

However, She has allowed as to how this is going to be a "vanilla" weekend. Ahh...yeah. Whose vanilla weekend? She's already given me a list of stores to line-up and Google Map for our trip south to her shrimp-shaped atoll. She knows I love to search and organize for her. Just following her around J.C. Penny is deeply devotional for me. So while we may not play and she may simply ignore how horribly horny I'm feeling, such disregard will kindle and inflame my kinky soul. So as someone recently said, it's a "Win-win".

While she's a woman of her word, there's a glint of quixotic, hopeful, glee in my squinty little subbie eye that She will relent.

Even if she sticks to her guns and never once intentionally sends me to sub-space heaven with just a glance - it will be deeply reassuring during a time of such turmoil in my life to see one of my dearest friends in all the world after a ten month absence.

Yo, Peaches! Just call me Herb!