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.

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.

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.