Pound The Alarm?

This evening I was supposed to have a sneak away, clandestine, liason with Strawberry Blonde Baby Domme. We'd been out for dinner a second time at a restaurant right out of a movie set for an Edgar Allen Poe short story. Tucked back in a cellar corner in front of an open storage room shuttered with a iron barred door we plotted hotel dalliance. Ms. Berry Baby is a single mom to a teenager and I'm caretaker to my dying wife. Venue is a challenge. We had plotted an evening of CFNM based tease and denial. Easy and hot. Excitedly I made the res and informed her we were on. But as the week grew longer in the tooth and the reality of Saturday night began to really sink in, I realized I just had not plotted and planned well.

My window of opportunity? My wife was going out to the theater with friends. So what do I have? Three hours tops? There was the "can-I-get-away-with-it" obsessiveness. Gotta bring my own shampoo, soap, and product. Gotta have a cover story that accounts for whereabouts if I'm spotted. Gotta put it all on a card that will not have a statement she might see. And then there was the I've got to watch the clock factor. And finally, I'd go from sexual sub-space to helping my wife undress for bed with no reentry time. I just couldn't go through with it.

Mind you, I don't think it's cheating. I had no misgivings or doubts about my sexy playmate. I just wanted to be sure I was going to enjoy myself. And I didn't want my wife to find out. It would really hurt her. Somehow I think I'd forgotten I wasn't living alone. I suppose desire will do that to you.

So I cancelled the res on Thursday after talking about it in therapy. I swear therapy just sucks. I really can't do any serious sexy self destruction if I'm spewing it all out at my shrink. I texted Ms. Berry Baby and said I was deeply disappointed but my window of opportunity had shrunken. I did really want to see her though and suggested we meet in the hotel lobby for a drink. She very quickly responded yes, she'd love to do just that. However, half an hour later she said a different plan had emerged and she needed to be downtown at 9pm. Since we weren't spending the night together would I mind rescheduling? I replied sure, no problem.

But like a slow double take I began to think to myself that her response was mercenary. We both have limited play time and she'd probably gotten a better offer. But it just struck me as weird that we were going to see each other and should it matter whether it involved taking our clothes off? Not getting any from you but oh hey, I have a better offer and I'm outta here.

So do I pound the alarm that this girl seems too self centered or do we plot a "long lunch dalliance"? I'm still torn. Then again, if she reads this her new plan may not involve me at all. Ah the edgy life of an anonymous sexual politics blogger.

Do You Have The Time To Listen To Me Whine?

I feel particularly disconnected from my kink. Granted I'm busy: caring for ill, separated-yet-undivorced wife; running a business in two cities; dealing with trying financial realities; recognizing I'm not ready to meet Mistress Right. But for the first time in a long time I feel cut off and sort of lost. Even fantasy eludes me. Why can't I just sexualize all this stress? I used to do that all the time and it made difficult times so much more fun.

I went out on two semi-kinky dates the other week and wasn't even inspired to write about them. Desire suppressed infects my creative juice to write about exploits, such that they were. Maybe it's just coming to terms with the idea that if I like her well enough to play, then it's a "relationship". That connection will vie for the time I have to spend with my terminally ill wife. While I feel no need to tell her I'm still going on dates, I'd feel compelled to tell her if I found someone I really liked.

And that would really devastate my wife, even if I were clear that she came first. I've already ended or cut short more than one promising connection over just not knowing how to deal with the knot.

It's ironic that I feel more protective of my marriage in separation than I did when we lived together. Funny what a terminal diagnosis does.

It's pretty clear I'm going to have to move back in with her. Even getting dressed is an exhausting event for her. I dread it, but it is the right thing to do.

With all this going on, no wonder I'm feeling less than libidinous. Perhaps I should expand my on-line dating profile. I'm an attractive, athletic, man; anxious, lacking in libido, and virtually unavailable. No wonder I'm feeling disconnected. Who wouldn't?

Undating

I've concluded that I'm virtually undatable. Whatever "dating" is these days, I'm just not there. While I am separated I spend lots of time with my wife. There is no sex connection. No shared kink or ignition spark of the erotic. But my time with her is profound. Even as I struggle with the uncharitable feelings of the "resentful caretaker" I am a vastly better man for giving myself to her protection.

With each woman I've "courted" I've been totally honest. Separated yet undivorced, I care for a dying woman. She is number one. You are a distant second. Unless I'm her distant second, it doesn't work.

So then I appreciate my relationship with She-Who-Visits all the more. We're connected but lead totally separate lives. It works in its almost total and complete absence of expectation.

I'm entering another change phase. Will I move back in with my wife to care for her as the inexorable cruelty of her disease continues to destroy her body? And I've got to get real on a financial level. Things are not "turning around". The new reality is survival. Not a time to support four homes. Warren Buffet I ain't.

It is again time to let the feelings wash over me and try to enjoy the ride down the rapids of the mucky, dirty, chop of a river that is my life.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Stealth E-Date Profile

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Fleeting Questions

I had dinner with my wife Friday night instead of dancing with a domme.

What's with that?

Truth be told, I have the dregs of a nasty cold and didn't feel much like playing Fred to my dommy dance partner's Ginger. My wife is leaving town for ten days or so and I just wanted to be close to over two decades of intimacy. The value in shared history, however marred by conflict, is truly comforting.

How do you figure?

I had a date last night with my new love interest. I re-texted our restaurant rendez-vous and added a "be there or be square". She replied she was too hip to be square. I added that her hips were most definitely not square. Truth be told I was too nasal nasty to be make-out material. But we had a wonderful talk about our unexpected connection. After dinner we walked arm in arm through Times Square to Eighth Avenue. She kissed me goodnight on my mouth through her soft leather glove as I wriggled excitedly telling her how hot that made me. "We'll try it with a veil next time", she whispered. She shoved me toward the subway commanding me to go away and walked abruptly off, leering over her shoulder at me as she disappeared into the holiday crowd of an early winter's eve.

Where does she fit?

As I write this my older dog is pacing my snappy new Far West Village loft apartment, unable to relax, occassionally stopping, tilting his head into the air and plaintively, softly, howling. He's trying to tell me something. He's old, he's tired, he hurts. I just don't know what he wants. He's so boney and small from the effects of his Cushing's disease we've been battling. He's a such a good boy.

How long will he remain with me?

Fleeting questions. The answers just out of reach.

Snapshots

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

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

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

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

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

She laughed.

I yattered on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bring it...and I'll deal.

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

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

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

Do I risk?

Hell, yeah I risk!

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

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

Familiarity

Scene

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


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

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

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

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

Crustacean Quester

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

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

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

I love her already, right?

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

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

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

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

Is she perfect or what?

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

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

Advo Dates

My, my...that didn't take long now did it. So far I've been on two dates. One was so good I'm not writing about it. I really liked her. Gotta be cool fool.

The second one was last night. She was one of the clamoring hordes of dominant women who crave a date with me from my Craigslist ad. One of two clamorers. The other one, a Ms. Cindy Rella, wanted to know what business I was expanding. I wrote a very nice answer confessing my penchant for the pursuit of a license to be Mr. Miami Vice Mouthpiece. I wondered if her last name was Italian. She never got back to me. Something about having to meet a Ms. White and some ornery dwarfs.

But last night's date was with a real deal domme. Very sweet, age appropriate, smart, and funny. But at best we'll be friends, and I doubt even that. She has a demanding, competitive business, a vanilla guy at home who knows about her daliances and approves, loads of friends, and is looking for "the one true submissive".

She described him as someone who she could keep in her closet to bring out whenever whimsy created need. She was funny and playful about this fantasy but it was her ideal. The other type of guy she liked was one who just went with her flow. No complaints, no negotiation, no bleating or whining. She also said she had little sexual connection to bdsm. If you clean my house, you wait on the corner with a mop and a bucket until I give you permission to come up. She said 95% of all her house boy applicants failed that test.

While this particular test is one I could easily pass, she and I have very different views of our "ideal". Hey, I've given up a marriage, a beautiful coop apartment, a neighborhood -- a life -- to be out of the closet. Please don't put me back there?

Plus, I'd like my dominant to love what I bring to the party. I envision a shared life, not one where I'm on 911 standby.

Plus, there's the sex part. I like the sexah-sexah. Sorry, but bdsm is all about sex for me. Plus, it has been so long since I've had any that I am truly a born-again virgin. I should just all Jonas-Brother-Up and instead of experimenting with taking off my almost twenty year old wedding band, buy myself a purity ring and own it.

Nah, I'm on the prowl for a domme who wants me. With all my quirks and imperfections. Somebody who loves stockings and heels and retro-lingerie. A girl who I'll love to serve, especially when she wakes up in a rumpled t-shirt with bed hair and a bleary eyed look.

I'll know because she'll smile when I bring her coffee in the morning and rub her feet at night. And I'll agree she's always right ... mostly.

Although Labor Day is around the bend, it's still Advo's Summer of Love.