A New Chapter

I've finally found my new home. For a year at least. I'll be living in the West Village/Meatpacking District, fittingly just a stone's throw from the old Hellfire Club. I never went to Hellfire. My perv provenance is client based rather than scene-player based, but I like the thought of living so close to such a venerated, back-in-the-day kind of place.

As I wrestle with sometimes overwhelming emotional strangleholds to find a perspective on this new chapter, I reach to try. It's all so confusing and difficult. But I content myself that come September I'll move on from the opening paragraphs of the tale and be able to see a bit more clearly.

For now, I just try to be myself and not fall to pieces, as I look at sleeping alone and living with the pain.

An Expanse Of Bay

The black car flew across the causeway from St. Pete's to Tampa Airport. The bay here is a massive, horizon bending expanse. A spirit freeing sight. Worries, fears, terrors take wing and fly free to glide on momentary release. I remembered our trip to her little shelling atoll along a south bound ribbon of highway. Now threatened by an ugly, oily invasion; I sent an entreaty to ocean gods to keep it safe. She-Who-Visits loves it so. It is a safe haven. There, we will meet again and I'll be hers - if only for three days.

Whack-A-Mole

The other week I was sitting in Thursday morning therapy talking about losing my marriage, leaving my home, retaking the bar, trying to get business, struggling with debt, firing an employee who wasn't working out, being chided by She-Who-Visits about how I'm not dealing properly with my impeding separation, my never-ending search for a rental apartment in Manhattan, and on and on and on.

My shrink stops me and says, "Your life seems like that game at carnivals. What's it called? The one where mice pop up and you try to hit them."

"You mean Whack-A-Mole?", I grinned.

"Yeah, that's it. Whack-A-Mole. Your life right now is a game of Whack-A-Mole."

And you know what, no matter how quick I am, how hard or sincerely I whack away, or how often I hit the little squinty-eyed subterranean bastards, they all keep coming back for more. I know this is supposed to be a kinky blog, but right now I just feel completely whacked out.

Today, I looked longingly in the window at the Louboutin store on Horatio and thought to myself that there was nothing about the way I feel that a woman wearing a pair of those shoes and wielding a nice cane couldn't fix with a few little whacks of her own.

Here's to whacking! Here's to Christian Louboutin! Here's to the ones with the high heels and the red bottoms. Hit me slowly, hit me quick. It's nice to be a lunatic!