Friday, December 23, 2011

Do I Have A Home For Christmas?

I'm up early. Back on the Upper West Side. Sitting on the sofa with my dog in my wife's apartment. Her new go-cart wheelchair dominates the living room. It is an otherwise beautiful place. Stunning views of the Hudson and the majestic sweep of West End Avenue reaching north. I left the West Village last night to come up here. I've grown to like it here even though I dislike the Donald Trump, well-heeled, housing project feel of the neighborhood.

I'll spend Christmas here. It feels like home. I think. The alternative of being single and alone for Christmas looms and I try not to think about how I'd spend the holiday when my wife is gone. Maybe it would be like how I don't miss the living on Riverside Drive; but somehow I don't think so. I just don't think about it and try to live here and now.

It's a good way to try to be. I had a good year. A solid foothold in Miami, better business in New York, and being present even when it's hard. So I'll help my wife learn how to drive her Rolls Royce wheelchair. Can't say as I'm happy that Santa brought this contraption into our lives, but it is there. I rolled the rug up last night so its tight little turning radius wouldn't tangle it in the squat wheels.

I guess I do have a home for Christmas.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Mr. Brightside

I know I've been neglecting the blog. I've never gone this long without posting. Work and life conspired to keep me away from writing. I've had plenty to write about, believe me; but for some reason time and inspiration didn't allow me or move me.

Anyway, She-Who-Visits and I have become friendly again. I secretly think her emotional life is on a Persephoneous cycle with the holidays bringing out her most nostalgic and mushy side. It has been nice to talk to her over the past few days. Despite all the odds against it, our connection is an enduring one.

I had an incredible road trip with my wife in early November. We were supposed to catch the Amtrak Autotrain but missed it and ended up driving all the way from Manhattan to Miami. The trip's purpose was to get a car to Miami; where I now actually have work.

What made the trip amazing was that she'd taken two nasty falls about ten days before we left. Balance related problems from her death sentence disease. She'd broken bones but was determined that we do the trip together. I did my best impression of Jack Kerouac as duty nurse. She joked that my kink related need to serve has come in handy during her time of terrible need.

We had the best of Indian summer weather. The first night we stopped in Richmond, Va. and had a romantic dinner in a wonderful little restaurant tucked down a cobblestone street. A hip Manhattan transplant was our foodie waitress. It was an evening I'll always remember.

The handicapped room at the Hampton Inn was set up with all the bars and benches and shower acoutrements so that with my help she could do all the things I just take for granted. The hotel staff called ahead to the Savannah, Georgia Hampton Inn and we booked our next night.

On I-95 in the driving groove I did Vin Diesel meets geeky, subbie, lawyer dude. I'd never taken my little Bimmer 3 series convertible on a proper road trip. The Germans don't call it the Ultimate Driving Machine for nothing.

It was exhausting though and about an hour from Savannah we were ravenous. I spotted a big billboard telling us that Duke's Barbeque let you eat all you wanted. Minutes later we were gorging ourselves for $10 each on the best roadside South Carolina heartattack food you ever want to eat. The hash, a mix of left overs and gravy, was true religion.

Two meals to remember when the woman I've been to hell and back with is gone.

We made Miami and then departed a few days later. I was very worried about the flight as we'd been seated across the plane from each other and she really couldn't get around without my help. At curbside we asked for a wheelchair and became instant royalty. No lines, nice security people and airline attendants fawning over our every move. I told her I was never flying without her.

She's now recovered from her falls but the disease continues its merciless attack. It is a year since her diagnosis and while this strain of ALS moves slowly; she is much worse this year than last. Though she's in a promising clinical trial, barring an unexpected medical breakthrough or a miracle her life will continue to contract and wither. But in the most bittersweet of ironies we are now closer than we've been in years; bound together in dedicated need until death do us part.

However, my life goes on. I'm in Miami attending to actual work rather than eating lunches with strangers and asking them to give me work. I'm dating a domme in NYC. Sounds so vanilla...dating a domme. We are going very slowly. But I harbor a dirty, perverted, filthy, secret desire. I want to make out with her and get to first base. That's feeling her tit over the bra, right?

This morning I was invited to yoga with Aarkey and his wife but I bagged the Bikram in favor of a lazy Sunday. I didn't run, I didn't go to the gym, I didn't hunker down over a ream of documents for a case. I didn't have to help my wife bath or hang up her sweaters because she can't get her arms above her waist or watch her walk haltingly across the room; bent like a pretzel because the muscles in her diaphram are being destroyed. I didn't have to do any of that.

I just wrote in my blog, because I'm Mr. Brightside.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Exploratoriamos

On Monday night I attended the "Serious Bondage Exploratorium" held at GLINT; my favorite kinky community center. I've gone on here about what a great place GLINT is in other posts but Yin has really created a friendly, safe, fun haven for kinksters of all stripes to meet, share, and learn. From rope bondage and writing to chit chat and pervy show and tell; GLINT for me is an extraordinary sum gain that has far more value than any of its enchanted individual parts.

The evening was part extreme bondage demo and part try-it-on-for-size. Yin presided as chief conjurer and was ably assisted by a coterie of experienced sous-wizards among them the legendary Erin Houdini and the dashingly dominant Sir Tony. The Exploratorium began with a demonstration by Yin of serious bondage technique. Erin, an immensely talented escape artiste served as the quite comely canvas for Yin's handiwork.

As she expertly ensnared Erin, Yin shared useful and facinating tips which were at once focused on the safe, the salient, and the oh-so-sexy. Meanwhile, at every turn, Erin tested the technique of our host. They were a fine pair; punctuating the lesson with laugh out loud humor. Fists wrapped in ace bandages were entombed in beautiful black leather, over the elbow, restraint sleeves. Brilliant red rope left a hog-tied Houdini to struggle in glorious, wriggling, gallantry in her never ending effort to valiantly free herself. This memorable demo went on for the better part of an hour.

Then Yin bought out her boxes, and crates, and steamer trunks full of gorgeous, custom made bondage gear. I swear it was Christmas morning for kinksters! For some strange reason, despite the fact that I've never really played seriously with it, I was magnetically drawn to metal. Dangerous and deeply sexual, metal just is and won't move.

I had come straight from the office and was wearing my slim cut Hugo Boss navy suit made of space age fabric that magically never wrinkles, a crisp white Charles Tyrwhitt dress shirt, and a dark blue bow tie with little sky blue dots on it. Yin had earlier pronounced me "dapper".

Sir Tony rigged up a steel head bondage globe thingy on a chain hoist and suspended it at the exact point my neck meets my shoulders. He locked my head into its menacing darkness. It was hot and humid in there instantly. There were little holes to let tiny shards of light in; or more ominously to allow the dominant to insert a prod here or a poke there. Tony maintained a running dialog with me about how everything felt. He pointed out that my sense of feeling would instantly be enhanced as my sight and hearing were now impeded by this perverted Diver Dan hat. He took a sound and ran it down my chest and then up my inner thigh. Oh yeah...

Then I was free. For the moment.

As I loitered by the gag box leering at the inflatable funnel gag, Yin came up to me and grinned.

"You know, you look so good in your bow tie. But I know what would just perfectly accessorize your outfit."

"Really?", I sputtered, barely disguising my glee.

"Yes, I think my iron mask would compliment your bow tie beautifully."

She grabbed a striking piece that I had noticed earlier. Made of matte silver colored cast alloy strips welded into a wide, cross hatched, head piece; the mask, complete with a nose and neck taper, looked like a full metal head. I followed her into The Pit.

Now I've read about The Pit. In her writings, Yin has described how she uses The Pit in session. It's a small, confining, dark little holy space separate from the rest of the studio. As she lay the mask on the floor and told me to kneel she described how she has playmates she knows well simply strip and lie back, placing thier heads into the iron mask. She then leads them in, attaches a chain to the top of the mask and fixes it to the point where The Pit's wall meets its polished hardwood floor.

And then in pitch black darkness she simply leaves them; the cold echos of her heels click clacking away.

She locked my head into the mask. At first my left ear didn't want to cooperate and was pinched by the hinge. I yelped and she calmly told me to just place my nose on the mask's schnoz. The bite of the metal reminded me that it held the unmistakeable allure of danger. Yin explained she was going to leave me, but this was not a scene. I should just yell, "Hey You, come get me!" if I was uncomfortable.

A second later I was in the dark, on all fours, with a heavy metal mask locked on my head. The weight of my steely captor was chained to the floorboard and though I could move around, I felt a little like a junkyard mongrel - kept around only for an owner's hidden purpose.

Periodically Yin would breeze in to check on me. Once she brought a foam pad for me to kneel or lie on, as the length of chain would not even allow me to sit up. Her form of mercy she said as she swept back out into the bustle of the well lighted studio.

I swiftly rejected her kind offer of lenity and went back to communing with the shiny, unforgiving wood. I experimented with the range of movement and the heaviness of the iron mask. I slid around, lay on my side, sprawled on my back. Gradually, I went somewhere else and in the religious alchemy of The Pit lost track of all my troubles and cares.

When she came in to let me go I was in full Child's Pose, head and mask against the floor. Yin gently knelt next to me and whispered that I'd really gone into full submissive mode.

A gesture of respect for the room, for her, and for all the wonder she had brought us that night.

Exploratoriamos!

Saturday, October 8, 2011

True Punishment

Punishment that's part of play isn't truly punishment. It's good hurt, not after you've been "bad" hurt. True crime, spot-on reprimand isn't fun but when it is administered fairly by a dominant I think it can be an integral part of a bdsm relationship.

However, for me, the line is fine. When is punishment fair and fit to the submissive's grubby little caper for which he's been caught red-handed and when does it cross over to the disproportionate? Should us subbie guys have any say either before or after the fact; or is correction the simple and exclusive métier of the domme?

I suppose I don't envision life in a dommy dictatorship. I like to think that I might be permitted to plead my case prior to the imposition of sentence; or at the very least file an emotional appeal after the fact in the hopes of future understanding, compassion, and lenity.

Obviously, that's the fast talking lawyer in me.

I do admit to the attraction of just going with my domme's mood and flow; but in my opinion that's ultimately a recipe for passive aggressive, misdirected, connection damaging retaliation on my part. I think in any relationship, there has to be some sort of positive dialogue and communication; the imposition of punishment shouldn't withstand exclusion from a list of relationship talking points.

My musings are inspired by my recent long weekend and current interactions with She-Who-Visits. My unique, long distance, challenging relationship with her is the closest I've come in my life to a "lifestyle" bond with a domme. Our ties to one another are deep, long lasting, and complex. We've been "together" for five years though most of the time we live thousands of miles apart.

This past trip was wonderful. But more than any other face time we've spent; she said very mean and cutting things to me and chose to impose real punishment. It wasn't so much the substance of the mean things she said which hurt so much but the way she delivered it.

Sometimes, I don't even think she realizes she says very cutting and hurtful things. I can't really give examples because they are so personal and involve her life and my life in a way I'm just not comfortable sharing in the blogosphere.

Should a domme get a pass on fairness and self awareness just because she's in charge? Should a submissive just suck it up and take it because that's what we've signed up for? I suppose I could try to answer my own questions. But I really don't have any answers. The answers I come up with all breed more questions.

My most recent crime was ending a self imposed stint of on-my-honor chastity. I was at about three weeks when She and I met up for our long weekend. When she asked about how long it had been since I'd come she mocked my pride at making three weeks. An obvious back handed compliment.

Then, despite preparing for a last night of play, punishment took the form of final night denial. No play at all. Very mean things were said.

The next morning I told her she'd hurt me deeply. She said it was very important that I understand my deep transgression and she wanted to drive the point home. Just before we left for the airport I thanked her for not allowing me release. I told her for me, it's win-win. She smiled.

Later, when we retreated to our respective corners of the globe she blithely set a date after which I could end my self imposed stint of chastity. I told her I wished she could watch me. She said if I waited until October 6th; she might be able to. I told her I would.

I didn't.

I suppose I should be punished. She hung up on me Thursday night when I told her what I'd done. She called me a dirty pig and said she wouldn't speak to me until after the weekend.

So here I am; stewing in the juices of my domme's displeasure with me and wondering will her punishment fit my crime - or will it be a cruel, unfitting expression of where she is with her life - essentially unrelated to my passive aggressive act of indulgent self denial.

Getting off would have been so much better with her voice urging me on over the phone.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

The Swimming Pool

"Do you see how easily you're replaced", she whispered a little breathlessly.

She was straddling a water jet in the warm darkness of our Gulf Coast resort's nightime swimming pool. The starlit small hours air and water were the same humid bathtub temperature. Every now and again she'd moan a soft little groan.

"Come over closer", she leered back at me. She'd suggested a swim. The off season cluster of cottages on stilts was silent, deserted, and still. We'd worn only our towels out to the pool. They lay on the chaises a few feet away.

"Here, put your finger down there. See how easy it is to replace you?"

I was in the middle of my third week of on-my-honor chastity. Pretty much self imposed as I knew I'd be seeing her. Makes it so much more interesting. I doggy paddled up behind her and grabbed the edge of the pool where she was fucking the water jet.

"Go on, right in between; feel the water shoot hard against me", her breath gaspy. She had thrust herself right against the fast spurting water.

"Do you want to hump my ass? Do you?"

I murmered something completely gutteral and unintelligable.

"Just don't bother me. Shut up and don't make your silly whimpery grunty sounds. And don't spooge."

With my finger against her water ravaged clit and my other hand gripping the slippery edge of the pool I moved up against her. She pushed back slightly and ground her sun tanned ass against my hard cock. She came almost instantly.

Later as we got ready for sleep and she turned on the static of the clock radio for the white noise she needs to drift off I made a lame excuse that the off channel hiss would disturb me and asked permission to sleep on the couch. Usually she lets me have a tiny sliver of her bed.

I ached badly for her.

But I just couldn't be that close to her after what had just happened in the swimming pool. Without betraying a hint of her own desire, She happily banished me to the sofa.

As I floated off perched on the narrow, uncomfortable couch I felt an inane sense of self righteous integrity. How I love on my honor chastity with She-Who-Visits.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

A Gift Most Precious

Sometimes I'm slow on the uptake. Sometimes I just want to let things sink in. Sometimes I'm a lout and write about stuff that I think people will like or that I just have to get out. Sometimes I'm not always conscious of people's feelings.

She visits so rarely and yet she was able to find time for me. We found time for each other. I chased into the hinterlands of Westchester County for a dinner and a few hours with her. As always it was wonderful.

But She-Who-Visits brought me the sweetest gift. She hauled it all the way from her island paradise. She dragged a shoebox thousands of miles. Inside were delicate plastic moldings of her feet. She'd had custom orthotics made and in order to do that they take a thin plastic cast of your feet. Her feet. Feet I just absolutely adore.

I should have written about them earlier, but getting my brains fucked out and Hurricane Irene seemed way cooler than her incredibly thoughtful gift. I'm a lout. I should have written about this gift most precious earlier.

But I didn't. She hasn't called in awhile. Way longer than is normal. She's mad at me, huh? I'm actually only guessing that she read the blog and is upset. The perils of being semi-public. I did ask her if it was okay to play and she graciously said yes.

I miss her calls. I got her an iPhone for my birthday. Our joke...she gets a gift on my birthday.

Trouble is, her gift was way better, more thoughtful, and she dragged it thousands of miles just to give me, because she knows I love her feet.

I'm a lout...

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Why I Love On-Line Dating

Yesterday I got an email that my OKCupid profile was being cruised by a woman who was "a particularly good match". Here's her on-line profile

79% Match 87% Friend 14% Enemy
Irene.
18 / F / Straight / Single
New York, New York (1 mile)

Her Details
Last Online Yesterday – 9:40pm

Ethnicity - Other
Body Type - Curvy
Diet - Mostly anything
Smokes- No
Drinks - Socially
Drugs - Never
Sign - Virgo but it doesn’t matter
Education - Dropped out of space camp
Job - Hospitality / Travel
Children - Dislikes children
Pets - Likes cats
Speaks English (Poorly)

My self-summary:
I am a large tropical storm system characterized by high winds and numerous thunderstorms.

What I’m doing with my life
Just kind of blowing my way up the eastern seaboard; it’s like I go to Wellesley.

I’m really good at
Inspiring contagious idiocy: Hurricanepocalypse 2011, #GhettoHurricaneNames, etc.

The first things people usually notice about me
100 mph winds.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

Books
The Perfect Storm

Movies
Armageddon, Twister, The Day After Tomorrow

Music
Sounds of Nature: Tranquility, Vol. 2

Shows
The Wire

The six things I could never do without

A maritime tropical air mass
Evaporation
Condensation
The Tropopause
A large low-pressure center
Densely populated urban zones

I spend a lot of time thinking about

Finding the right guy to settle down to start a family. Just kidding: death, flooding, mayhem, panic, property loss, and is it possible for me to pick up a shark from the ocean and hurl it at Michele Bachmann?

On a typical Friday night I am

Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

I play rough.

I’m looking for

•Everybody
•Ages 18-99
•Near me
•For new friends


My kinda girl!

Sunday, August 21, 2011

A Rarified Ransom

"Come with me."

She practically snarled, as she hooked her arm into mine and fiercely yanked me away from my post in front of the traffic tangled bus station at the mouth of the George Washington Bridge. I was late. I'm never late. Especially when I'm being kidnapped.

A few weeks earlier I'd waded into the mysterious ocean that is FetLife. I've never gotten the place. The posting doesn't seem connected. It doesn't feel like a living room. It feels like a big impersonal post office. Undaunted, I spent a morning trolling the profiles. And I came upon hers. We began an electronic conversation which became very hot and heated almost instantly.

In so many ways I didn't think it would work. I still don't. She was big on protocol, for which I have no use. She adored Victoriana and high tea service and seemed like a mystical, new age, upper case/ lower case stickler for propriety. I'm a wise ass, old school, hipster. Or at least I like to think I am. She wants to start a bdsm family and be lady of the castle, or at least of the condo. I'm liking my freedom and my single life.

But when we met for a drink at the lounge in the Meatpacking Standard she looked like a rocker chick. Her punk inspired, tight black pencil skirt had all these zippers I immediately wanted to pull on. Her hair was a spikey, vibrant, ginger. She wore little square grey tinted glasses. But the best was she seemed to glide effortless over the cobblestones of Little West 12th Street in her five inch black pumps with the silver stiletto heels.

Small talk turned to her running her hands down my forearm and tracing lines on my palms. She dug her pointed toe into my calf and I pulled urgently at the bottom of her skirt. She told me that she really wanted to stay but she was going to leave. Next time she wanted privacy and an afternoon that extended into the night.

And so that next time we christened my apartment. We had a real date. Ate at Spice Market, took the dog for a walk by the river. Talked about our lives. But back at my place she pulled the spandex hood over my head and attached black leather suspension cuffs to my wrists. I had ordered them from JT Stockroom. Did you know that they give you a Tootsie Pop with each order? How cool is that?

My hood had a sewn in blindfold, and a tantalizing mouth opening. My cuffs were sturdy and substantial but soft and furry on the inside. She suspended me from the false ceiling soffit where with pervertible acquistions from the hardware store, some Twisted Monk hemp rope, and a couple of tricks of the trade picked up at the RopeShare or two I've attended; I had rigged a way to hang me. At her request.

She had unwrapped me completely. I was strung up naked as she ran her cane over my body, tapping me here and poking me there. I'd carried her canes from her car in an opaque tubular case with a shoulder strap. She teased me mercilessly.

"I want to take you. But in my bed.", her voice a raspy whisper in my black spandex covered ear. She released me from my homemade suspension point and led me over the couch where we made out like sixteen year olds. Except I was wearing my new blindfold bondage hood and she didn't let me see what she was wearing. Something about a vintage girdle.

Later, I walked her to her car through the summer Meatpacking masses. Bridge and Tunnel mostly. But she fit in because of her plan for our next date. I was to be kidnapped and whisked off to her place. In New Jersey.

Over the agonizing week that passed, as she'd extracted a promise I would not have at myself and deprive her of the pleasure, there was much electronic frottage. She promised to tease me, beat me, and fuck my brains out. I couldn't wait.

But when the day arrived I was late for my kidnapping. The A train was stalled at 59th Street because of a water main break at 155th Street. Undettered, I struck out overland in a yellow cab. An hour and change later and $30 poorer I made it to my takedown point where I was immediately nabbed.

She shoved me hard into the passenger side seat of her recent model white Bimmer coupe and slammed the door. Hard.

"Put this on and shut up."

I'd been chattering about why I was so late on our forced march to the car. She handed me a cute little leather party mask. Look at me officer, I'm the Lone Ranger. Being kidnapped.

Suffice it to say, I was successfully abducted, mercilessly teased, and very expertly beaten. I was hooded and blindfolded. She was actually mad at some phone company people for promising to replace her lost one overnight and then after she'd paid them, they'd told her she'd have to wait until Monday for the phone to arrive.

So she beat me until she felt better. The soft leather flogger made a satisfying thump with each angry blow. The cane repeatedly stung. But she didn't leave a mark on me. At least not on my body.

She led me upstairs to her bed. She chained me down and teased me some more.

I heard some rustling and then her hands were smoothing my cock.

"Do you know what this is?", she murmered.

"A condom?"

"Good boy! Aren't you smart!"

And she proceeded to fuck my brains out.

That hasn't happened to me in I've now lost count kind of time. Sex held hostage for all those years. Released to a rarified ransom.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

A Murder Of Crows

We want to belong to her. We long to belong to her. She will take us and hurt us and heal us. And we will love her for it. It's all heat, confusion, and exquiste romance. In a year of unimagined loss I've gained so much. Pain and fear. Hope and trust. They rock me on the water of a new life that surprises me with each new twist and turn.

My wife is dying a slow death before my eyes. It is the best of it now for it will surely only get worse. But we are closer than we've ever been. Save for who I am deep in my hidden heart.

She-Who-Visits is in touch alot. But even as she plans a trip to see her family in New York, there is no mention of time for me. She knows my hidden heart so well for it has been hers. Some part of my soul will always be bound to her. But it's been a year since I've seen her and all the trust in the world doesn't replace need.

I met someone on a date that I like. In overheated letters we talk of corsets, canes and chains. We've gone from zero to off a cliff in the blink of a lust filled eye. But we've only spent a couple of hours together and the realtime lags far behind the ethernet. I reach to connect as knots to the past give way to just trying to be present and honest and as real as I can.

But despite all the promise; confusion and pain just make me want to get lost on a border road by a barbed wire fence. Just be on my own and by myself.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

You're Not One A Those Submissive Toe Suckas, Are You?

OK Cupid dating is high entertainment. Last night I went out with a very funny, nice woman for dinner. She'd written in her profile she very much liked to doll herself up in a sexy black dress and wear stockings and heels. She wanted to meet me in a fancy Midtown restaurant. Who am I to deny such an opportunity?

Her high pitched voice with the tonal quality of Canarsie was absolutely charming in a I-wish-we'd-met-for-coffee kind of way. But there was something unique and uncut about her whole thing. She knew who she was and was totally cool with it.

Of course, the subject of just how kinky I really was came up as my personality profile labels me off the charts in that catagory as compared to other OKC searchers.

"Yer a lawya! Such a high class guy. I saw all the sex questions you answered. You just let it all hang out, doncha?"

I mumbled something about how OKC thinks you're kinky if you'd even day dreamed about a three way.

She leaned in close.

"So what are you?" she whispered. "I mean, yer not one a those submissive toe suckas are you?"

"Well, actually I am and quite proud of it thank you very much."

She gave me a look.

"And so you've been to Buenos Aires, huh?", I changed gears swiftly. "Very European I hear."

How much do you make public and how much do you leave private? Where is the line between making your desires known to increase the chances of meeting Mistress Right, and getting accused of being "one of those"? I think for the time being, I'm just going to let it ride. I am, after all, very much "those".

She did flash her stocking tops attached to garters at me. Alas, no back seam and no RHT or Cuban heel.

It's Bastille Day. Which makes it my birthday. Guess I'll keep daydreaming of meeting my match.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

WYSIWYG

Last weekend I was doing things around the apartment and I put on Unspeakable Axe's Masocast, the kinkster's answer to the Charlie Rose show. Axe is a very engaging and funny interviewer. His shows illuminate the Scene in creative ways that I've not run across in any other venue. As well, I just cranked up the volume and did stuff while he chatted away. Other times when I'd listened, I'd stolen moments here and there, worried that my wife would come in and I'd get "busted". But now, as I approach a year of separation, I just let it rip.

I listened to two or three shows, but was most engaged by the talk with Stephen Elliot. Retired Domme suggested I read Elliot's book, "My Girlfriend Comes To The City And Beats Me Up". Lazy pleasure reader that I am, I've only gotten through a few of the erotic vingettes. He is an accomplished and talented writer who is open and out about being submissive to dominant women. He, Axe, and Alex talked about his writing, his life, and his politics. In his introduction to "My Girlfriend" Stephen writes;
"We can't wait for the approval of others; we must force them to accept us. We will never have political power until we let the politicians know we are not ashamed."
In theory I completely agree, but reality makes it a very complicated proposition. Alex questioned Stephen quite closely about this idea and while she obviously agreed with him, she recognized that many people have a lot to lose by being "out". She's quite out herself, but she defended those of us who still fly beneath the radar. She wondered if society was really ready to open its arms to those courageous enough proclaim their kink.

I think if everyone who had ever seen a prodomme, worked responsibly in the sex industry, played kinky games in the bedroom, or bought bdsm toys took to the streets, put their fists in the air, and chanted loud, proud, and in unison; "We love our kink and your laws stink" - it would be impossible to dismiss us as a marginal, twisted, lurkingly dangerous sub-culture.

I feel like I'm pretty out. I've lost my marriage over my kink, most friends who really know me, at least know I like my women dommy, and in the Scene if you know my first name and what I do for a living, which is most everyone I know; you can immediately find my law firm's website.

But I'm not really out in the way Stephen Elliot is or in the way it takes to force political change. I'm afraid that lawyers who refer me business would stop and I'd starve. Judges and prosecutors I fret, would look at me differently. I'm terrified that clients, who want a tough guy trial lawyer, would not understand I'm a fearless knight for my Queen, but would scoff that I'm a wimpy, sniveling milquetoast. Which, of course I am - but only if she demands it.

Writing is a powerful tool. I've toyed with trying to write a fictional account of my relationship with She-Who-Visits and getting it pubished in my own name. Of course it would be a smash best seller, and like Elliot's "Adderall Diaries", a famous actor would buy it, want to play me, and I'd become a legend in more than just my own mind.

Stephen Elliot says "My Girlfriend" is "not a memoir, but it's damn close. And I'm OK with that. And I'm okay with you knowing that."

I wonder - would I be okay with my whole world knowing that?

Saturday, June 11, 2011

I'm On The Right Track Baby

Oh where does the time go? Just haven't been focusing on cranking out the old blog posts. However, that doesn't mean there hasn't been a lot going on.

Not that I'm way into corporal, but I did happen to read an awfully fun book on the subject by the mysterious Gemma Forbes. It's called "The Adult Spanking and Discipline Handbook: A Comprehensive Guide To Corporal Punishment."
Gemma seems smart, funny, and big-time experienced at percussion play. Check it out.

In other news, Retired Domme, who became my trusted paralegal and one of my favorite employees of all time left this week to go on with the next phase of her life. I took her and the rest of my staff to a rubber chicken lawyer dinner earlier this week. She's so comfortable and relaxed she can talk to anyone. I secretly wondered if any of my fellow suits would recognize her. Prodommes and lawyers are like peanut butter and jelly. They just go together. But I did wonder what being recognized might be like for her. I will miss her greatly, but look forward to keeping in touch and being friends.

She-Who-Visits urged me to try to break my personal best of 82 straight days of on-my-honor chastity. She asked me to go for triple digits and make 100 days. But in a bold move of personal defiance I just can't do it. Actually, I'm pretty sure she'll understand. In these times of personal challenge, stress, loss, and intense change, rubbing one out just takes the edge off. Plus, She is a total absentee keyholder. Though she's good at keeping in touch, it really would be more like just doing it on my own. I'm looking for a kink connection closer to my zip code.

Which brings me to my latest OKCupid escapade. I went out with a woman who used the our-tribe-term "D/s" in her profile. Because of our respective schedules there was some lag time between our initial contact on-line and our date. We chatted on the phone a couple of times as well. Truth be told, I was pretty sure there wouldn't be a connection but was so intrigued that I couldn't resist a meet up. You just never know.

While her profile said domme, the personality questions all said submissive. And in one of our phone chats she said she'd gotten divorced and then recently spent about eight months in a romantic relationship with a dominant man. She said she was very inexperienced, but that he was an old hand and while they did not explore the vibrant NYC Scene, they scened a lot at home. She assured me she was drawn to both roles and really saw herself as a switch.

She was jazzed to be my perfect domme. Hmmm...sounds sort of subbie, doesn't it?

I've said before that I have nothing against switching. I have good friends who switch. But I'm just not wired that way. She-Who-Visits once said, "It's a team sport. Pick a side!" I'm totally with her. On the other team.

So anyway, my date was hyped and enthused. She went on in emails about buying play clothes and boots. She wanted me to amass a portfolio of pictures that showed what turned me on. She waxed eloquently about how I'd gift her with my submission and she'd mold me to be more than I had ever dreamed.

Oh my...

For my part, I unwisely fed the fire by writing a couple of lenthy emails about that which floats my boat. The cautionary tale of Anthony Weiner aside, this experience has taught me that it's just not a good idea. From now on my dates will have to earn the trust necessary to really know what makes me hum. I probably egged her on, even though she'd asked to know.

We met at a French bistro with a lovely little outdoor garden on the Upper East Side near her apartment. Within forty minutes of our rendez-vous we had eaten and were back at her place. This, I confess, is a first for me. It will stand as my personal best of meet to make out time.

She had a very nicely decorated tiny little rent controlled hideaway so far over that I was tempted to try to throw a rock into the East River. We were literally, figuratively, and metaphorically at opposite ends of the island.

We sat on her sofa and as she suggestively rubbed the back of my neck with her finely manicured hands, she asked me what I wanted from her.

Were we having a "relationship talk" within less than an hour of meeting?

I mumbled something about not really looking for anything serious since I was tending to my dying wife, but if something happened - I'm open. She emphatically stated that she was really only interested in a relationship because she had plenty of playmates.

Then we started making out. I could be very graphic as I have a modicum of pride in my descriptive writing talent. But I won't. I told her about the blog and she may read this. The hot and sweaty breathlessness of it all was pretty exhilarating at first. But what I found was a woman trying very hard to please me. Most guys would love that. But I'm a submissive and I want to please her. She'll revel in my effort. She'll direct it, command it and often deny it. Her control will please me. But she'll control. Not try to please.

She was swept away by the Hell's Gate current of her submissive nature trying to domme me and I was ebbing on a Hudson River back flow. By 9:30 I made excuses about my dog and left. She's really an attractive, lovely, smart, genuinely nice woman. I just didn't feel the domme.

And while the search continues I know one thing: I'm on the right track baby I was born this way.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Fill 'Er Up?

I'm in Miami prospecting for biz. I realized the other day that my year has been an incredibly productive one. I've got an office, may have a line on a place, and I'm making money from all the schmoozing for profit and then hard work to actually realize the dough.

She-Who-Visits was maybe coming up to see me, but got sick, got work, had obligations; blah, blah, blah. Actually, I sincerely believe she does miss me and might have hopped a flight up just for an overnight if she hadn't had a cold all week.

Yesterday she BBM'd me a picture of a book she wanted me to read.

"Your next book." she declared.

I of course BBM'd her back a picture of some incredibly kitschy faux leopard wedges.

"Your next pair of shoes?", I shot off while I wondered how to deliver tongue-in-cheek via BBM. The downside of keeping in touch graphically. Two minutes later my phone rang. It was She.

"Have you bought the book yet?" she asked.

"Ummmm...no. It's been like, ten minutes," I replied wondering if she'd not gotten a cold but been suddenly afflicted with Dominitus, a disease she almost never contracts.

"Oh good, because I have another one for you to read instead. It's called "The Five Love Languages". My heart sank. I hate pop-culture marriage counselors. She went on and on about the book and what a revelation it was for her. I thought it said more about where she was at with her marriage than anything. But she enthusiastically endorsed the book and gushed about how it helped her understand how she and her husband were missing the mark.

She said it would help me spend my remaining time with my wife in a more positive, happy way. I felt instantly grateful, despite my lack of enthusiasm for quick fix, fast food, fakers. She'd been going through a rough patch, found some hope in this book and wanted to help me too. It's one of the astonishing things about our connection. We've been incredibly supportive of each other's marriages.

Anyway, despite using concepts like "emotional love tanks" that need to be filled (ooh baby, baby - can I fill your love tank, huh?) and boiling the complex interactions of a multi-decade marriage into five distinct "languages", I have to admit I'm getting something out of Dr. Gary Chapman's mass market balm.

He identifies five primary ways people feel loved. He calls them languages. They are: Words of Affirmation; Quality Time; Receiving Gifts; Acts of Service; and Physical Touch. He says most marriages encounter difficulty because one spouse is speaking one language and the other a completely different one.

She said Mr. She was definitely a Quality Time guy. I asked her what she thought I was and she said she didn't know me in that way. I shot back that of course she does. She's smart, intuitive, and knows me better than she's really known any other guy except maybe her husband - a fact she often "forgets" because it's tough for her to acknowledge.

And in that moment I was sure my "love lingo" was Words of Affirmation. As I've been reading the book I also think that I've become fluent in trying to feed my need for spoken praise and acknowledgement by learning how to try to please by doing things. In other words I've become fluent in Acts of Service. I did this because my mom never really told me what a fantastic kid I was. I've been attracted to women, like She, who withold their praise and then I sexualize that. Hence, I'm a humiliation junkie.

I BBM'd She and told her this without even reading the stupid book. My wife is for sure a Quality Time girl and I've neglected that horribly. She-Who-Visits is, and I'd wager my last dime she agrees, an Acts of Service domme. My need to act in service to get my precious Words of Affirmation was why we got along so well.

She thanked me for my "cliff notes guessing game".

Isn't that sweet? She uses words to affirm me and humiliates me with dignity all at once. It's why I love her so. Or at least one reason I put up with all her mishigas. That's craziness for all you goyisha kampfs. But hey, I slather mayo on white so who am I to talk.

So even in the most banal of McPsychobabble nonsense, I find sustenance, a connection to two women I dearly love, and a subject with which to torture you, my dear readers. Ooops...did I just seem to enjoy switching roles?

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Outside Looking In

It's coming up on a year that I'm physically separated from my wife and in my "post-modern" bachelor digs in the Far West Village. My OK Cupid date who I brought home with me this week referred to it as "Po-Mo".

"Very cool, very PoMo," says she.

I hear it as very cool, very homo. Am I feeing defensive, curious, or just cranking GaGa up way high on the Nano?

We took the dog out and wandered by the river. Here on the edge of the island, Manhattan tides leave daily marks. Rotting wooden pilings visible ten feet above the water during my early morning run are all but completely covered by the dark, night time, ocean fed waters of the Hudson. I like my date. But she's not the domme girl of my dreams. I'm outside our easy conversation; looking in.

My kinky dance partner is so hot. We really rumba and she totally rocks. But the dance floor is as far as it goes. Earlier in the week as we said goodbye on the subway platform she hugged me. As we parted I pulled her back, arm around her shapely waist, like the dance floor leader I pretend to be and kissed her straight on her beautiful full lips. She seemed unmoved. Undettered, I swore I'd repeat it after our Friday night class and add a quick little two step tongue.

But face to face with cold reality it's just not there and I'm left ouside looking in.

She-Who-Visits calls regularly and tells me how much she misses me. We haven't seen each other since September. Starting next week I'm in Miami for ten days. She even told me she was checking air fares. But this week when I asked if she'd be coming up it was clear she would not. Nose pressed eagerly to her window, my hot breath fogs the view. She's but an illusion - and I'm outside looking in.

My wife and I have stopped fighting. She's dying what will be a slow, horrific death. We are deeply and unexpectedly connected despite our separation. In bittersweet dismay, I am tragically and gut-wrenchingly delivered home. Inside her terror looking out, I seek a connection which is, for now, just as well out of reach.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Cold Metal


I've always liked cock and ball bondage. I can't remember the first time a domme bound me. But I can recall the amazing feeling of surrender. And damn, if I didn't look at least two inches longer and a whole lot bigger around.


So of course, when I decided to review sex toys for Eden Fantasys I immediately gravitated towards the CBB offerings. At my specific request, they sent me the Alchemy Metallics Cock Ring they offer.

Although I don't post there very often anymore, the lovely Mme. Veronica put up an irresistable thread on The Hang she entitled "My Drawer of Shame". In her post she detailed the facinating items hidden away in her personal toy drawer. Only Veronica would confess to having a thank you note from her mom in her drawer of shame! Anyway, in my tally I realized I actually had five cock rings, if you count the hinged ring on my CB-3000. Clearly, there's an identifiable pattern, wouldn't you say. And Eden Fantasys is a virtual cock rings R US kinda place.

So the Alchemy Ring was a natural for my first sex toys review. It is, as you can see, a handsome, sleek, shiny, sexy circle of metal. It is neither heavy nor is it so light that at the slightest provocation you'd worry about denting it or making it oblong. Over any leather snap or velcro rings and even over a leather or rope thong it cleans up very easily. However, before you order the ring, measure. Get a piece of string, wrap it around the circumference in question and measure. I didn't measure but thought sure an inch and three quarter diameter would be fine.

I was wrong. Can't get the damn thing on. I've stuffed and pulled and shoved and crammed but to no avail. I requested a two incher so I could provide a review based on actual use but was politely told to go with what I got because they were sold out of the two inchers. Maybe I'm the only fool not measuring...

The whole jam-it-on-my-junk process reminded me of the time when I'd just become She-Who-Visits client and She decided I needed a chastity device. We went on a little shopping trip to Purple Passion and returned to the studio to install the hardware. Needless to say the whole shopping foreplay thing got me all hot and bothered. Now it ain't braggin' if it's true but when She tried to lock the hinge ring on me she just couldn't squeeze tight and manage the whole pin lock thing. So she called the receptionist in who called two more dommes in. As you might imagine, this added fuel to the fire frustrating the ladies. Finally, after much grabbing, groaning, and giggling they locked me down.

Six days later after the hinge rubbed me a rare, raw, red and bloody mess, She gave me permission to cut myself out but I had to meet her to prove I wasn't going all wimp-boy on her.

"There better be a scab, or better yet an open wound," she menacingly warned.

She led me into a Starbucks bathroom near Macy's and inspected the damage. Suffice it to say, I've lived to tell the tale.

Anyway, the Alchemy Ring, as with any solid ring, has the disadvantage of perhaps being easier to get on when you aren't sporting a chub but more difficult to remove when your schlong is doin' ya proud. I was once put into very tight and restrictive cock and ball bondage and almost passed out from all the blood rushing to my wailing wood. Probably didn't help that I was somewhere around Day 60 of my record 82 days of on my honor chastity.

So, when all is said and done, if you like solid cock rings and want to give this sleek, smooth item a try - at $11.99 - you can't go wrong.

Maybe if I shave the manly bits and use a wee dram of ye olde lube I might succeed in getting some personal enjoyment out of my new plaything. After all, I'm a product of America, from the morgue to the prisons, and cold metal - it's how we win - but also how we sin.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

And Now...A Word From Our Sponsor

The kind folks at EdenFantasys have asked me to review sex toys here on "Client Nine" occassionally. They stumbled on my scrawlings and made the offer. In return for a review with some links, I get to keep the toy! Is this a trick?

The site seems decent, if not specifically bdsm high end. But there certainly seems to be enough interesting stuff to keep me busy for awhile. Who knows, maybe I can even suggest acquisitions. Something in a nice Birdlocked perhaps? In addition, the gig brings a certain inspriation to find a dommy girl to play with. That way I could actually have some experience with the toy rather than say using a dildo as a retriever dummy for my dog.

Anyway, I've decided to whore myself to crass commercialism in order to acquire a few functional gizmos to enhance all those hot kinky sex liasons I've been having. Hopefully, I won't have to rent extra storage space in my building before I find someone to kick the tires with.

Despite my completely impulsive and precipitous decision to just go for it, I have put up the first "Client Nine" poll. Please weigh in on my move to become the Siskell and Ebert of sex toys.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Vanilla Serial

This past week I went on three, count them, three e-dates through OKCupid. As I related a post ago, OKCupid is a free, non-fetish, dating site that rates personalities and matches people according to answers on multiple choice questions. In a section of a person's profile, characteristics are expressed in a bar graph against a "norm" of OKC members. For example, someone may be more aggressive, cool, spiritual, or adventurous. A blue bar stretches out to the right of the mid-line expressing how much "cooler" you are than the normal OKC e-dater.

BTW, isn't "OKC" pretty sceney? Like "Over-The-Knee Cupid"? She-Who-Visits actually thought that was what it stood for. Don't I wish!

Anyway, I test off the charts for more "kinky" than the normal OKCupid hopeful, so I figure they must be doing something right. But as I've come to learn this week, what I think is kinky and what OKCupid rates as kinky are two very different things. OKCupid thinks you're kinky if you're bi; or don't believe in monogamy; or would date someone who had sex with a member of the same sex. So there's a gulf, to say the least.

But it has been lots of fun. All three women were smart, thoughtful, funny, and very respectful of my desire to meet a dommy girl. The one on Friday night even reached over and kissed me, on the mouth with tongue, in the dark hors d'oeuvres bar where we met and then dared me to try and turn her on. There she sat, directly opposite me; her arms folded to wield her ample decolletage! Now, since I have a way with words, if I do say so myself, I succeeded in meeting her hot challenge - or so she said. But she was already seeing a Mennonite and I suppose dating me would be like going out with a Pigalle street walker by comparison.

She messaged me this morning that it seemed to her I wanted to hook-up with someone who wanted to live "the lifestyle" and she simply wanted to meet someone she liked and who liked her. It was clear, however, that somewhere inside, percolating like an errant underground spring; she had a kinky streak. She just didn't want to go there. She wanted the Mennonite.

I like this serial vanilla dating because these women reflect me back at myself and push me to really think about what it is I want. My kink is pretty manageable I think. 24/7 slave? No way. A completely female led relationship? I've always had a problem with authority. I can tick off a list of preferences, none of which are particularly involved, but I think it's the connection and the attitude that really takes me there.

And I'm not going to compromise or settle. That's not to say that in the day-to-day clinches of a relationship I wouldn't give. I have a giving and accomodating nature. Just ask She-Who-Visits! Nobody grovels like me, says She. In the end, I'm looking for a somewhat scene savvy, dominant woman who wants to invite me to share her unique adventure - and together we'll make it ours.

I'll know her when I see her. I've given up too much and come too far to not keep looking. Ya might even say I've fought for my right to be chosen by the domme girl of my dreams.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

The Domme On 19th Street

Her ad in Screw Magazine had no picture. Magazine is a misnomer. It was a sleezy, misogynistic rag. But Mr. Goldstein ran ads from dommes. After a time there was a whole section entitled Hells Belles. But her ad ran years before that and was just text and a phone number. I called the number and she answered.

I forget what her ad said or why it drew my attention. Who am I kidding? I called all the ads back then. I was a domme ad whore. I forget what she said or what it was about her manner that drove me to make an appointment. And I don't remember how it was I ended up in the Peter McManus Cafe as I was told. I just as often called, made appointments, and no showed.

It was before I quit drinking, in the gorgeous dirty desperation of late 70's New York. After I fortified myself with a shot or two of Bushmills, I called from the venerable Irish bar which still graces the corner of 19th Street and 7th Avenue. She answered. Come over, I'm right down the block.

I sometimes miss the feeling. Like I was the electricity shaking my body. Nothing else mattered except getting to that door and seeing it open, as if by magic.

I remember her well, though I can't recall her name. She was probably in her late twenties like me. Curvy and fit, dressed in classic black retro lingerie and back seamed stockings. Bullet bra, full panel panties, a waist-cinching garter belt,and nylons ending in skyscraper, patent leather stilletos. She had jet black hair cut in a Louise Brooks fetish bob.

She didn't smile, but had an easy, confident manner. She was smart and articulate. She put leather cuffs on me and attached me to the Saint Andrew's cross that was sunk into the wall of the bedroom in her clean, simple walk-up apartment. She matter-of-factly put nipple clamps on my virgin flesh. She rubbed her black pantied hips against my raging demonstration of desire.

She pulled me and slapped me and beat me. She laid me on my back, took her panties off and squatted over me. Over my mouth. She lashed me hard with her rough hewn riding crop as my tongue involutarily rose, its own mindless erection in full bloom.

"Put that back!" she snapped. "But keep your mouth open," her words a hot hiss, as I hurriedly did what I was told.

She pissed in my mouth and told me to swallow. She did it again. And again. And once more. I coughed and sputtered as taste, stomach and mind struggled with the confusion.

"One more time?", she asked sweetly. "For me?"

For weeks afterwards I tasted her in the oddest of moments. And every time I walk by McManus's Cafe, I think of the domme on 19th Street, and wonder what happened to her and marvel at what riches she showed me.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

The Stealth E-Date Profile

So, you're a red-blooded, horny, kinky, newly single (or something), submissive guy and you want to maximize your chances of catching the eye of a dommy girl love interest. Sure, there are classes, fetish parties, munches, Shibari Cons, writing salons, and the old fashioned set-up. But when you get right down to it, don't you want to at least try the on-line dating thing?

Some time ago I signed up for CollarMe.com and I'm just recently getting more emails that say there are hordes of dominant women who live within five miles of me and want to meet me. I find CollarMe to be odd and very random. No thought given to potential compatibility.

Before I separated from my wife I messed around a bit on Alt.com. She-Who-Visits met her husband on Alt. But the site tends to be almost exclusively kink focussed. I mean I do have a serious vintage lingerie fetish, but I like to know she's well read and can run rings around me with her interests in dance, theatre, and her mastery (mistressery?) of some obscure 17th century artist. Me, I like a good action movie, a vat of diet coke, and a tub of salty, butter-like topping soaked popcorn. Don't they say opposites attract, or something?

But I figured what the hell, I took the plunge and I signed up again as "advochasty". We'll see. I like the overtly kinky profiles there.

I also joined Nerve.com. Mainly because at lunch last week with Ms. Mah Wah Kiss she emphatically stated I should immediately jump in there since everyone knows "Nerve is for Pervs". Site is set up like Alt. Both have these "Gold and Silver" pay-to-play memberships which allow more access to your fellow seekers. I tried to pay for Alt but the fraud protection folks stopped the transaction as suspicious. Oh come on, I've lived on my own almost a whole year now. I'm looking for love in all the right places, aren't I?

But my real find is OK Cupid. It's totally free, lets you post pictures, and has a never ending supply of personality based multiple choice questions that help to match you up to your potential perfect date. The site operators have a sense of humor too. I got an email this week that showed me five potential love interests. We'd gotten high compatibility ratings on some subjects and polar opposites in others. The email urged me to view the women as great "divorce material". Hilarious.

But what I like best about OK Cupid is that it rates by bar graph all the folks who answer the personality questions as having a higher or lower amount of say kindness, coolness, or spirtuality against an average. And they rate for kinky!

I joined OK Cupid at the suggestion of a kinky friend but she didn't tell me about the kink-o-meter. I just signed up this week. At first I was all like, "dude, this sucks", as I was getting hit on by women who wanted to walk on the beach and cook with me. But I discovered the kink-o-meter and now I'm the one who is cooking with gas! So far I've sent out three messages. All to bisexual women, all who are very clearly into kink. We'll see, they probably won't respond. But I find the site highly entertaining.

My stealth profile talks about vanilla stuff and hints at my kink. One of the bits of information the site asks you to provide is "The most private thing I'm willing to admit"... I wrote, something about liking nice, bold women who are appropriately mean. A domme would get that, wouldn't she? Not be offended that I want her mean. But I'm not saying my chastity record is 82 days, I like to drink your piss, and lick the back seam of your fully fashioned, reinforced heel and toe, black Cuban stockings. Though probably not in that order.

So there we have it. Advo the E-Dater. Hey, ya never know. A new subbie friend said he met his partner and Love Domme on E-Harmony! And if this doesn't work, maybe I'll just get a car that goes boom.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

I'll Give It To You Right

After a week in the sun the frigid Hudson river wind cuts at my spirit like a hard sell Ginsu knife; my partner on my pre-dawn ritual run. But spring is around the corner with its promise of re-birth and re-awakening. For the first time in I can't remember I have no dommy crush girl. At least not one who lives within a subway ride of my done up subbie bachelor digs.

If there was anything to break, I broke up with Crush Girl a few weeks ago. She was surprisingly shocked I'd do such a "dismissive" thing. Did I really owe all that much consult and confer energy based on two dates in three months? And Ms. Mah Wah Kiss and I are no longer Best Flirt Friends. Funny how sometimes getting to know people better either brings you closer or sharply crystalizes why they are chronically solo despite wanting the Manhattan equivalent of a white picket fence and 2.1 children.

So when the mercury actually breaks into the 60's with at least some consistency, maybe my chilled heart will thaw. I need a prowling strategy. How to more consistently run the risk of catching the roving eye of an attractive dominant? A domme friend told me the other day she thought I was doing all the right things. Getting out and about, having scene friends, maintaining my mysterious menage with She; all things that lots of subbie guys want.

So with the promise of the flash of leg, the intoxicant of toe cleavage, and a gaze fixed on the lickable underarm - I'm ready. I'll give it to her right, and she'll be satified. Or at least hurt me if she's not.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

A Pack Whore In The Magic City

It is magically beautiful weather here in South Florida. I'm down for the week doing the meet and greet hustle. Building a practice, meeting new people, and new kidding my way to life on a fresh block. I'm down until Wednesday when I catch my JetBlue flight back to Manhattan. As I take off, She-Who-Visits lands with Mr. She for a little R&R togetherness.

I won't get to see her this time. At least a part of the reason I've spent the last two years slaving over exams, networking, setting up a new office, and trying to get a toe hold for a new life is to have a chance to be closer to She. I'd be doing it all without that hope, but She's inspired me to live the dream.

Irony oozes as I associate being down here with seeing her. And I won't be seeing her this time. But that's okay. It really is just fine. I don't for a moment begrudge her quality time with the man she loves. I've really come such a long way. What makes her happy, makes me happy. But I miss her.

I'd gotten her a gift she'd wanted for her birthday. A stripper pole! I'd ordered it sent to my apartment in the West Village and it arrived some time back in November. It was a massive, huge, heavy box and I had no clue how to get it to her. Duty charges were triple its cost and just lugging the thing around to send it off was a monumental pain in the ass. So it sat gathering dust in my new bachelor digs.

When I found out she was coming to South Florida for vacation I offered to ship it to her hotel for her to pick up and tow back to her idylic island in the Caribbean. I loaded it into a car service and after a meeting dropped it off for overland shipment from a little mailing outpost in the FiDi that has become one of my favorite little businesses in town.

Then about ten days ago, She informed me she was doing one of her internet shopping hauls. I suggested she have it sent to my Miami office and she could come pick it up or I'd just send it off to her Fort Lauderdale hotel. However, this past week when I arrived there were four bulky boxes, a bag, and a little Estee Lauder beauty box. Waaaay too much to FedEx. So I figured I'd drop it at the hotel for her on my way to the airport or on my way up to see Aarkey and his wonderful wife tomorrow night for dinner.

When I got up this morning it was just a picture perfect day. An 80 degree, blue skyed, slice of utter perfection. So I decided to dedicate the morning to playing pack mule. She and I chat regularly on the phone and I'd told her I love being her pack mule.

"More like my pack whore", she snarked.

"Pack Whore!", I laughed. "I'll be your Pack Whore anytime!"

And so I spent my morning pack whoring in The Magic City. Top down in the rental Mustang, music blaring on Florida's Turnpike, I arrived at her Broward County getaway with her booty in my convertible's boot. It's never easy with She. I had to break two of the bigger boxes down and dump her blouses, skirts, shirts, and shoe boxes into a garbage bag in order to cram all her crap into the trunk. I even saved the broken down boxes so she could tape them back up and return all the stuff that either didn't fit or didn't meet with her approval.

The nice woman at the hotel gave me one of those valet wheely carts with the big curved brass plated arches and carpeted floor trays to trundle She's load to the bell captain's closet. The cute concierge met me at the door and we wheeled the gargantuan cargo consignment to a crowded little room. As I was wheeling my pack whore's forward supply through the parking lot I had two guys fresh from the golf course snap a BlackBerry photo of me, which I immediately forwarded to She as proof of my devotion.

"She already has a big box in there", I informed the obliging concierge. "A large piece of exercise equipment".

"Well, you know how to make an entrance", she laughed.

She helped me unload and said she'd leave word at the desk that She had mail. Lots of mail.

As I was going back to the car to return for a Saturday afternoon in Vice City, my Crackberry vibrated in my pocket. It was She.

"I miss you soooo much!" She loves taking pictures of me hauling her stuff for her. It was a good shot. Me playing pack whore bell hop.

It's kind of like a ruined orgasm. Usually when I haul, I get to see her. No such luck this time. But as I blasted down I-95 with the hip-hop station turned way up loud, the whole morning brought me immense pleasure. I may not see her, but I was working my way back to her, thinking about all that I've won in my life.

Monday, March 7, 2011

One Life To Live

It may come as a shock that I have surrounded myself at work with highly intelligent, driven, opinionated women employees. Dare I say they are all pretty bossy? Anyway, fairly recently it became painfully clear that one of them was just not right for her position no matter how hard she tried. A wonderful, creative, artistic talent was simply wasted as a paralegal/receptionist. And what's more the other women had viciously turned on her. I was spending hours of my day vainly trying to keep the peace and failing miserably. Everyone was at each other's throats.

Everyone that is, except the intern.

Ah, the intern. Last fall I was asked by an extraordinarily well regarded, very successful, active domme friend to try to help her friend, a retired domme, get an internship in my general line of work. So I offered Retired Domme a volunteer gig at my office and she graciously accepted. Then when Ms. Artistic Office Beauty and I decided it wasn't working, I offered Retired Domme a paid postion as my paralegal and receptionist. And presto, like some sort of secret, voodoo magic, my office was transformed from a scene out of "Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill" to a serene, professional, calm workplace.

But this "just-the-facts-ma'am" description does not even begin to describe the internal odyssey I've experienced since meeting and working with Retired Domme. We first became acquainted at a little evening soiree held by Active Domme in honor of a visiting subbie guy who she'd sort of adopted, much in the same way she has sort of adopted me. I arrived and Active Domme gave me a big hug while she leeringly told me I smelled of cologne and money.

Well, maybe cologne, I offered.

As she led me into her parlor of perversion she told me that it was just her, subbie guy, and Retired Domme. She referred to Retired Domme by using her stage name.

And my heart missed a beat.

You see, Retired Domme for me, has always been one of those iconic symbols. Dominant women I'd never met but whose visages and presence in the ethernet of my imagination just captured all that is so deeply and darkly sexy about this thing of ours. And there she was. Just a smart, pretty, funny woman who I talked to normally all night long.

And so, Retired Domme has become a part of my office. A trusted and valuable part of my office. She is an integral link in the delivery of my services to my clients. At this week's office meeting when I made a bit of a fuss by formally welcoming her to our lean and mean little staff, everyone burst into simultaneous applause and proclaimed her employee of the month.

As for me, I truly feel like she's the employee of a lifetime. At once, she is both icon and normal girl just trying her best to fit in and do a good job. While I'm a red blooded subbie guy who still has a healthy libido, it's great being her boss and appreciating her intelligence, talent, and attention to the detail of our practice.

I must confess to the irony of asking her to make my travel arrangements and having her cheerfully present me with my security blanket envelope containing plane tickets, car rental voucher, and accomodation information. But it just feels normal, despite her place as Ms. Kink Universe in the pervy pin-up calender of my mind.

I think I'm a good boss. A tad anarchic and unconventional. Prone to befriending particularly good employees. But a good boss nevertheless.

BTW, she did authorize me to write about this confluence of scene and work, just so you know.

And I just love her as my "wing ma'am". Far more scene savvy than I am, I can ask her questions about events, people, and stuff in general and have these nice, normal conversations about kink. She is always circumspect and appropriate, never gossipy or loose with the many confidences I'm sure she must enjoy. Retired Domme is happily involved in a committed relationship and is the perfect friend with which to share the vicissitudes of dating kinky.

So after over two months of sharing my professional life and kink life with my new favorite employee and friend, the internally rancorous and raucous assemblage of scene life, work life, and vanilla social life has uncannily morphed into a quieter and more confident sense of success.

And yo dog, if Rhianna can get banned in Britain, I can certainly at least attempt to engage Retired Domme in idle chit chat about who's hot and available and who's not.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Voices

Last night I attended "The Writing Cage" at Glint and actually publicly read something I'd written here on "Client Nine" about She-Who-Visits. In typical OCD fashion I drilled my stage presence and delivery with mirror readings, stage notes, and attempts at nuanced voice inflection. While the room did not simultaneously leap to their collective feet and give me a teary eyed, embarassingly long, standing ovation - it went well.

And most of all I had fun.

There were so many talented writers, singers, and performers there. From the hilariously funny blogger who wrote of hot boy three ways while eating hot pockets to incredible poets and true short fiction writers it was a night I felt true pride of participation. And the hang with cool, smart, kinky people was so good.

I was supposed to have gone with Crush Girl. She has, however, come to exhibit a singular ambivalence about her interactions with me. Our last date was over a month ago. She was away a week then I was away a week. But on our last date I had told her I was reading and she seemed genuinely eager to come hear me. So she put it in her book.

Now was this a date? Or was it something else?

Earlier this week I had asked her to dinner and she'd replied that since we were seeing each other on Friday anyway we could go out to dinner then.

Date? Or since we were likely to be hungry we could eat...together.

Anyway, on Thursday she texts me and asks if it is okay if she meets me before 8pm. The Writing Cage was from 7pm to 10pm, information I'd given her in the previous text in the thread. What was up?

I texted back that I was running home to feed the dog, zipping back downtown to the soiree which was, once again, from 7pm to 10pm and what was up with the before 8pm deal anyway? If it was at all inconvenient for her there'd be others, I was sure.

Truth be told I had mixed feelings about Crush Girl being at the reading anyway. On the one hand I was really touched she wanted to come listen because my writing has been intensely personal, reasonably creative, and my low-rent literary outlet. However, since I've pretty much concluded that she's just not that into me anyway, I figured she might cramp my oh-so-suave style. I could meet the domme of my dreams at Writing Cage, oh yes I could, yes I could.

She called me and left a voice message.

"Darling, I didn't want to cancel, but a girlfriend from out of town was in and I wanted to have a drink with her, but no, call me and I don't want to miss you."

I decided to banish her. I didn't think her little toe in the water deserved to hear my hearfelt screed. So I texted her that we could reschedule but her friend was here only temporarily and she should catch her while she could.

Haven't heard from her since.

I'm tempted to just drop the whole thing. But perhaps that's rude. She was a set up through a friend and I should have dinner with her and provide face saving closure. I'm really not available to go all in and I don't blame her for not wanting to get involved. She says she wants to continue to see me and she gets straight As for flirting. But what is it they say about actions? I'm calling our once a month fabulous flirt sessions off. I want her and, let's face it, she just doesn't want me.

Now I could easily sexualize this whole thing. The unrequited humiliation factor is hot. Trouble is, I'm just playing with myself, which I do enough of already anyway.

I'm tempted to just not contact her again. But I'll probably opt for the gentlemanly approach and tell her to her face.

This dating stuff is hard. While I try to show it she's just drivin' me back. So maybe this love should just fade away.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Just Kids

Last week my wife and I went away to the Caribbean together. She was worried she might not be able to get into the water again. Afraid she'd soon be too weak to comfortably travel on an airplane - unable to just feel the sun's warm medicine during our hard, cold winter. I dreaded the trip. She'd for sure rip my guts out for ruining her life. I'd be trapped on the beautiful rustic resort carved into cliffs, perched precariously above a beautiful cove. I actually couldn't find my passport until the night before we left, and was secretly disappointed when I finally dug it up. Such is the depth of my singularly unattractive passive aggression.

But we had a wonderful time. I don't think there is anyone else in the world I'd agree to go away with for a whole week, let alone one in which I was trapped in a palm tree paradise prison. It was very easy to be with her. She was deliriously happy to be in the sun, smell the ocean, and do nothing with me. Though she rejected my offer to make out with her back at the room on Valentine's Day, I will always treasure the memory of our little idyll of an interlude. There is unfortunately an awfully grim future ahead.

She-Who-Visits loved her Valentine's plant and actually thought I'd sent her one last year. I on the other hand recall I sent flowers and she affectionately flogged me by chiding I should have sent a plant. This year I did and she deemed it "very similar to last year's". I sent her multiple cards, just like last year, except this year's versions included excerpts from "Client Nine" pasted into the card. Not bad if I do say so myself.

We'll see though as this Friday I'm publicly reading from my blog at "The Writing Cage". I'm nervous and excited at the same time. A first and another expansion of my comfort zone.

In other Valentine action, my dommy dance partner sent me a link to a picture of a guy in a CB something or another with a wreath around the package. And Crush Girl texted me a happy V day wish. Unfortunately for me, neither of these women are much interested in pursuing nastiness with me. Sheesh, some wild and crazy single dude I am. My own wife won't even make out with me.

Oh, and "Just Kids" was my reading material by the pool. Gotta love Patti. Mapplethorpe, Jim Carroll, Sam Sheppard. Janis confidante. I lapped it up. New York in the 70's. Life at the Chelsea Hotel. But back in the day is now. On a shoe-string I've expanded my business, I'm dating kinky, caring for my terminally ill wife, reading at a pervy literary salon, and sporting a rakish mid-winter's tan.

Hey, Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine...

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

RopeShare Redux

I went to my second RopeShare Sunday. The outing was supposed to be a date with Crush Girl, but her dog ate a huge hunk of cheese and she was worried he was headed for an Orkney Extra Sharp overdose. So I went stag.

The class was taught by Master Mike and Tyutumi at Glint. I love Glint. It feels like a haven of hard edged magic. This class was all guys and one very hot transgendered rope student. We learned two column ties, one column ties, and a basic harness, which without another class I will never be able to replicate.

Rope is so much about the rope. I found myself lost in the texture of my new Twisted Monk hemp. "Cinch with gusto", Master Mike told us beginners and I did. I joyously finished my harness with a looping handle that traveled up my rope buddy's back. I see the allure of the rope top. But in the end, it's all about the rope for me. I don't connect to top sex. I'm all about the bottoming. I need to take a yoga class...

I missed Crush Girl. I wanted to come away from class with a friend to practice with and instead I watched the Jets blow the playoffs while I did solo ties on my ankles and thigh. She called later to ask me to dinner if her dog was better, but he was belching Bree. So I ate take out and wrote about longing for a playmate. It'll happen. Meanwhile, I'm out there, making new friends and putting myself where I think I'll feel uncomfortable, but end up feeling at home.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Dance With Me Through This Rain

These days I call my wife every morning despite our separation. She's been diagnosed with ALS. I've talked about it a little in prior posts. She's dying an excruciatingly horrible death very slowly. She's terrified. This morning she was sobbing about the depth of her tragedy and then all of a sudden stopped. She blurted, "I probably shouldn't tell you this." Oh come on, I said, what?

She told me about the college senior daughter of friends of ours who had been an intern in my office three years ago. College Senior is a very smart, ambitious, lovely young woman who I had just the other week had lunch with and talked with about getting a job in the legal field so she could get practical experience before going to law school.

During her internship College Senior had become BFFs with a former employee of mine. Former Employee, a seemingly cool woman, and I had also become extraordinarily good friends. I told Former Employee almost all my secrets. Suffice it to say, Former Employee knew all about my kink.

Former Employee moved back home last year and College Senior interned with Former Employee's new office and lived with Former Employee last summer. "She was like my big sister", College Senior told me over lunch.

Anyway, enough backstory. Wife says this morning that Former Employee (let's just call her Asshole) apparently told College Senior about my bdsm proclivities. My wife knew this because College Senior was so freaked out that before meeting me for lunch to get my take on the job market, she had confided in an adult friend of ours, one of my wife's BFFs, and mother of one of College Senior's best friends, that College Senior was weirded out to be having lunch with a pervert.

Suffice it to say I was enraged at Asshole Former Employee and sent her a text to that effect. I probably shouldn't have. Asshole Former Employee denied telling College Senior I'm a perv and then blamed College Senior and I for creating drama in her already stressed out life.

Is that just breathtaking or what?

Asshole Former Employee tells 20 year old College Senior a secret and confidence I trusted Asshole Former Employee with, lies point blank about it, and then blames College Senior and I for complicating her life. I suppose I have one less so-called friend to worry about.

I often wonder what I might do if my blog was discovered by my wife. Or discovered by the New York Post. Or I somehow got publicly outted. I like to think I'd just own it and say it's something I love, am proud of and is private. I hope I'd say get a life and move on. But telling a 20 year old kid who didn't ask to be burdened with the private confidence and doesn't have the life experience to process it just seemed the height of deeply flawed judgement.

People who aren't us don't understand us. Liberal, consenting, sophisticated adults don't understand us. Why would you out a friend to a kid? I suppose it's a reminder that so much of the world views our thing as such a dirty little secret that we truly do have to be constantly vigilant about who we confide in.

"Cause we all have a darker side
A place we keep where no one else will find"

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

First Date of the New Year

So tonight I'm seeing my new crush girl for the first time in almost a month. Our last date was a quiet, what-are-you-looking-for Advo kind of affair full of promises to see each other before she left NYC to go home for the holidays. Yet despite all the potential we failed to share even a quick cup of coffee and this was not for lack of trying on my part, or for that matter, on her part. But I can't help searching between the lines for a message though.

So last week I got an announcement that RopeShare returns and I asked Crush Girl if she wanted to go. I was very careful to tell her to say no if she had the slightest apprehension. Gotta say though, RopeShare is about as vanilla a true kinky experience as one can have.

First, I think rope bondage is the Scout's Honor merit badge activity of kink. Safety, knots, combination ties, plotting physical predicaments. Almost algebraic...

Second, it takes place on a Sunday afternoon in a brightly lighted space with everyone dressed in loosely fitting schmatta clothes.

Finally, it's a class about the rope. It's only sexy if you take it home to the bedroom or out to the dungeon. Otherwise it's like a Learning Annex class on home plumbing. Very cool home plumbing with nice, fun, interesting, attractive plumbers. But a session it ain't.

So I was perplexed that Crush Girl chose not to respond at all to my invitation. Not yes and not no. Just nothing. Then she asked me out for tonight, Tuesday night. Not exactly date night.

So I'm thinking she's gonna tell me she likes me but just wants to be friends. The dread "F" word.

We'll see. If I'm right, I'm saying no. Me no friend you after you bite my cheek. But maybe I'm thinking too much. Check the comments for the skinny. Jeez, I don't need even need a good one. I'll take a bad romance.