Sunday, October 31, 2010


Me...I'm learning how to lead on the dance floor and she's trying to learn to follow. It would be hilarious if she'd relax and admit she's a domme. We're actually getting quite good together, though I've given up thinking there's any chance of sexual combustibility.

But on Wednesday night when I got up to offer the other one, the new blind date, the wall seat at the little local neighborhood restaurant where everyone seems to already know my name she said, "Of course I'd like that spot, and you should immediately sit here", she smiled and pointed to the outside chair. Be still my heart! Senorita Kinky did pre-screen!

Our conversation just flitted and flowed from this subject to that one. She asked if our mutual friend had told me anything about her and I said only that she was beautiful. It made her eyes sparkle and her glossed lips curve into an appreciative smile.

"So do you do both roles", she asked.

"You mean am I a switch?" I asked. "Well let's put it this way, I'm actually learning to lead on the dance floor. Does that count?"

She laughed.

I yattered on.

"Well, I have this dear friend who thinks it's a team sport and you should choose a side," I smirked a bit. "But life is change, who knows. Stranger things could happen."

She held my hand as we waited on Hudson for a cab to take her home. I put my other hand over hers and softly ran my fingers around her fingers. I lingered a bit. As the cab pulled up she took my face in both hands and kissed me, just left of my mouth, long and slow. I helped her in, shut the door and began the two block walk home.

I reached for my phone as I passed by the Louboutin boutique and to my surprise there was a message.

"You're supposed to wait and watch as the cab pulls away. You are out of practice. Naughty, naughty."

Somos novios? Hmmm...maybe I'm jumping the gun just a bit. But maybe, just maybe, I'll get some practice one of these fine evenings after all.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Sometimes A Heart Is No Place To Be Singing From At All

For years I told lies to satiate powerful sexual desire. Through three long term relationships; two marriages and a serious five year girlfriend - I just heaped lie after mendacious invention after bald faced, flat-out fib on the pile of pursuing personal perversion. Now as I begin a difficult struggle to rid my body of a new, inadvertent craving; I realize I was an addict. For me, the white hotness of the secret sneak to the forbidden was an irresistable narcotic.

By saying this I make no accusation of enabling. Most prodommes totally rock. Some of the women I saw helped me so much. One has become the dearest of friends who will have to mercilessly drive me off if she wants to dump me. I am hers.

But I can also be another's. And even another's. Because there's room in my life. And just like the benzos will be gone, I am mostly free of desperate double crossing deceit. Secret sex has become merely private. It's my business.

Ms. Mahwah Kiss worries that I'll be "caught". She worries that someone will "out" me and I will be "discovered". What? The New York Post will find my blog and do some sort of salacious story about how a respected lawyer is actually a perv? Could my livelihood be affected? I guess so. But it's who I am. This blog and the open references I sometimes make to liking "controling women" have taken something I used be ashamed of and made it into a creative celebration. Welcome to 2010. I say bring it.

Bring it...and I'll deal.

That's why I was so disappointed to be lied to this past week by someone I'd hoped wouldn't have to be like me and hide. Look, I understand. It's supported by every right in the world. But it made me sad.

Sad for all the lies I'd told my wife. How I had repeatedly gaslighted her and denied the incontrovertible. How she'd believed me; until the next time and the time and again after that. My thirty three year surreptitious stealth eroded any semblance of intimacy.

Do I "man-up" by separating and dating kinky? For me, I have no choice. I choose me. I choose to get off my lovely mommy helpers because I miss the anxious, nervous, quivering little guy who said "I think I can, I think I can" often enough to become a successful professional and a proud perv all in one.

Do I risk?

Hell, yeah I risk!

But this is life affirming risk worth taking. We are gorgeous, glittering, outlaws. Why constantly hide all that beauty? I'm not notifying the media mind you. Reasonable precaution is mandatory and wise. But neither do I always screen, veil, and shroud. I don't guiltily inter the marvelous anymore. But that's me. And I'm feeling good about it these days.

"But all at once the world can overwhelm me, there's almost nothing you could tell me, that could ease my mind"

Sunday, October 17, 2010

A Road Not Taken

I was talking to the new shrink. The one that's going to help me get off the azapammy pills. It totally and completely pisses me the utter fuck off that I've become emotionally and physically dependant on prescription anti-anxiety meds and sleeping pills. He said the ironic thing was that I probably hadn't needed them in the first place. But now it's body chemistry to cut them back and wean me off gradually. With all the 12 step knowledge I have and the almost thirty years of sobriety from alcohol I've maintained, this just infuriates the crap out of me. Mind you, I'm not abusing, just taking what's been prescribed. But,I want off.

It is what it is.

The good news is he says it should be pretty straight forward. The bad news is it will take a frustratingly long time.

I had a handsomely compensated hour and forty five minutes to blabber on about my stuff to him. Anyhow, I'm telling the shrink about my kink. I attributed a lack of compatibility on fetish/bdsm as one of a number of causes of the breakdown of my marriage, the loss of which has ignited a repetitively explosive amount of dread and forboding in me.

The shrink asks, "Why didn't you just find the dominant woman of your dreams and ride off into the sunset." Literal quote, I kid you not.

I told him I was ashamed. Or used to be ashamed. I told him I'd gone to a T.E.S. meeting in the early eighties to try to meet kinky people. Who is Tess he wanted to know. Took me two passes to educate him. Anyway, I had run away as people seemed kind of judgemental that I'd spent a fair amount of time with prodommes at that point. I'm sure I was being overly sensitive.

I told Meds Doc I have friends now. Kinky friends. Friends who set me up on dates. Friends who call me when they haven't heard from me. Friends who I'm sure will be concerned and upset for me about this most recent development. Wonderful, kinky, creative, real friends.

Searching for the sunset is all fine and dandy but it was not the road I took. Nothing wrong with what I did. But my choice did fracture a life into a compartmentalized secret.

My wife hurt her knee this week and I had to rescue her from our place in the country. The hospital had put a brace on her leg and I told her she looked very Helmut Newton. But this time her comments about did that turn me on and was I one of those who is turned on by quadriplegic women weren't even delivered with much venom and the bite just seemed de-fanged.

Maybe there will be a sunset ride out there yet. But in the meantime, I'm enjoying cavorting about on the open range and seeing where the trails may lead.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

From Cliche To Costume

I hate Halloween. Every year I feel the pressure to release my inner child and come up with the perfect costume. I never can manage to quiet the voices of criticism, sending my eager little kid to the corner all sad and disappointed that he doesn't get to trick and treat.

This year I've been invited to one Halloween party so far. At Ms. Mah Wah Kiss's loft. She's going as some Chinese cartoon devil girl villain. Who carries a whip. She said she was either going as a "DominAtrix" (pronounced with the accent on the non-existant A) or the cartoon villian, but was concerned that I not go crazy if she dressed as a domme. I love that she thinks my capacity for cruel denial is so low. It's so cute.

I was sinking into my usual "I'm-just-not-going-because-I-can't-figure-out-a-costume-and-I'm-going-to-eat-a-worm" funk yesterday morning. So I told my self, "Self, buck the fuck up ya baby!" and I started messing around with internet searches. I wanted a fetish-theme costume. So I began to search and look and there's really nothing original out there. Besides, it's not a fetish party this one. In addition to Ms. Kiss's shindig, maybe I'll either be invited to a fetish one or go to one of the public ones. The public ones sound very much not my scene though.

So I needed a get-up that would pass, but say something about who I am. So I thought, what's cliche? A waiter, a cabana boy, a Roman slave? All so oh ho, ho, hum. Then I thought what is cliche about the domme/slave relationship and yet outwardly positive? The cliche is that of a cowering, wimpy submissive. The positive twist is a brave Lancelot or Galahad. So maybe I'd go as a knight! Fearless and loyal and courageous - but kneels at his Queen's feet. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Boooring!!! See what I mean about the nasty little peanut gallery in my brain?

I thought, so what do cartoon dominatrixes say to thier partners?

"You worm!", she'll snarl all dressed in an overstated leather body suit; black thigh high boots, blah, blah, blah.

Hmm...a worm. Hard to walk, hard to dance, no panache.

"Pig", she sneers. "Come here you dirty pig."

That's it!! I'll go as a proud, in your face, Dirty Pig. So I immediately went to Ricky's and got a nose and a pair of huge pink sunglasses. I added pig ears that come up out of holes I cut in the $5 bowler hat, and a prominent corkscrew pink tail. The look is prurient porker Elton John imitator meets a Clockwork Orange. I'm adding a tight white man beater, baggy black pants, and black braces. Some wash off tatoos. Add my black on black, white soled Nikes and a cigar to chomp on. Top it all off with my electric pink bow tie with a chunky D-ring hanging off it. I tie my own you know.

Presto! A dirty, edgy, sexy, rock'n rolla, bad boy pig.

"Hey baby! Can ya strap it on and make me squeal like the dirty little piggy I am?"

Hmmm, how many times can I get slapped?

This character allows license to say completely obnoxious things.

"This little pig don't want no roast beef, sweetheart. He wants to roll in the muck for you, doll face!"

"Yo, what about 'choo and me go to market, if you catch my drift, sweet cakes."

Really. I totally need a fetish party for this outfit/persona to be appreciated and appropriately punished.

But the persona gives license to do and say things that should suffer immediate castigation and decisive discipline. Even vanilla girls will want to beat me up!

Proud Pig, Dance Pig, In-Your-Face Dirty Pig. This little piggy likes it rough!

Friday, October 1, 2010


I used to slink into the deeply sexual seediness of the old, pre-Disneyland, Times Square to ferret out bdsm porn. I mostly sought out the contact magazines. I felt melded to this secret underbelly of hot bdsm sex. There were days I thought of nothing more. Somehow I managed to graduate, get a job and get sober during the late 70's and early 80's; but all I really truly wanted to do when the need hit was to see prodommes. It was an irresistable impulse. Completely and utterly beyond my control. I felt horrible, racking guilt at my complete lack of control. I was a bad, bad, boy for wanting this. And this was the essence of hot. Being bad - being secret - being a double-life agent sneak - made it all the more forbidden and all the more gut wretchingly, achingly, dick-hardenly hot.

A prodomme friend talked about how she got way too many emails where the guy just put his dick on the table and expected - no demanded - in a language that only remotely resembled English, that she deal with it. I used to do that all the time, whether by letter, phone call, or much, much later by email. I liked to think I was charming and facinating, but I was just a major league, presumptuous pain in the ass.

I exhibited, within the bounds of the comparatively reasonable, the worst attributes of clients. I no-showed, I was a vertible cock spammer when I discovered email, I called and wasted time promising a call back and never coming through. I sessioned twice or three times and then disappeared - I'm sure leaving her to wonder if she'd offended me, done something wrong, and what had happened anyway. I gave bad client.

But when the drive was clean, pure, lust and I connected? When there was a chemistry with a beautiful, experienced domme? The scene was was virally sexual, beautiful and deeply fullfilling.

Diana was one of the those dommes.

It was the early to mid 80's. Houses had not hit the Scene. I was an avid reader of all the Matriarch productions. A tall lithe Russian domme named Sasha had caught my eye and I somehow managed to write to her at a P.O. Box and got a contact number. The process of making the appointment was sex itself. There was just something about being asked over the phone when I'd last sought solo relief and was I rubbing one out while we spoke. Made me boil over with such inexorably driven desire that I just could not ever say no, when the need hit.

Years later, a domme friend said it was like "Cat People". You couldn't help turning into the huge, primal black cat.

Diana's studio at the time was on the south side of 23rd Street between Park and Third. Years later I visited Venus's studio which was in the same building, only a floor below. Diana's place was at the top of a seemingly endless, vertical staircase climb. But I thought I was seeing Sasha. When she met me at the door, she looked a little different than her pictures, but she was hot so who cared. It was definitely going to work.

I saw her pretty regularly for about two years. After the third session she confessed that her name was Diana and Sasha was an entirely different person. Diana really introduced me to small stints of chastity as she preferred I come to her with at least three days of no orgasm. She showed me how much more desperate, submissive, and compliant I became without release. She play pierced me. She teased me mercilessly. I found two picture books in the bins of a dimly lit Times Square smut shop dedicated to only her. I made cut-out montages and brought them to her. I was deeply connected. But not in love.

Then one day when I called for a session, she was gone. I was bereft. I tracked down the real Sasha after many failed attempts. She said Diana had left town but promised she'd get my teary, heartfelt, plea to know where she was to her. I never heard from Diana again.

Maybe it was the first time I truly realized the power of the client/prodomme relationship. I couldn't imagine life without her. And yet I've never heard from her or anything about her. Though there are dommes from my past I wonder about -- she has not become one of them.

Such is the nature of so much secrecy.

But there was something about being tied tightly to her simple bondage chair as I'd watch her pull up her tight, little, black ribbed dress high over her hips. She'd watch me. Stare into my eyes. Look down at my involuntary, iron-risen, reaction. She'd sidle over to touch my face, to whisper in my ear some reeking obscentity. She'd sit on my knee. If she released my hand would I show her, she'd ask? Would I show her how much I wanted what I could never have? Would I present her my honey? Did I want this?

Could I beg?

Could I give a her just a tiny little piece of my heart?

What do you think?