The Next Move

So here I am, moved back in with my wife and trying to figure out how to keep up the search for a connection to the kink. I suppose it's not so much "community connection" I seek but rather to keep in touch with friends, make new ones, and have the occassional possibility of a fetish fling of some sort or another. While I don't feel that I can really search out "dating" opportunities, if something organic happened I'd be open to seeing where it led. So a "put-myself-in-harm's-way" strategy seems key. Just the hint of potential can carry me for weeks, sad as that may seem.

She-Who-Visits and I are conspiring to do our annual pilgrimage to Sanibel. She and her husband left corporate type jobs in NYC to be dive instructors in a Caribbean paradise. Now, ironically, they are both back in the hustle on their island and work worse hours than some of my big law bretheren do in NYC. So I know she's looking for a little R&R.

Axe is going to interview me for the Masocast in a couple of weeks, so I'm looking forward that chat. He's the Charlie Rose of bdsm and I'm thinking it will be big fun to talk to him. And then hear myself when it goes public!

I'm hoping to have dinner with my former dance partner and former kinky date set up. Even though there wasn't a love connection I do really miss our weekly turns around the studio floor. And I miss her. Plus, even though there's no chance of any shennanigans, she's way hot and I just like deluding myself into believing that she missed me so much that she'll grab me, drag me back to her place, and have her way with me.

I went to a Recovery In The Lifestyle AA meeting in South Florida. This October will be 30 years of sobriety for me. AA used to be a big part of my life, but I gradually drifted away from it. It was fun to reconnect and say, "Hi, I'm Advo and I'm a kinky alcoholic"!

I think getting my flirt on just a little will improve my feeling of being sucked back into a situation that I didn't want to leave in the first place, but once I did I was just fine. Time will tell.

New Perspectives

Last weekend I hosted She-Who-Visits and her friend who I'll call Swinger Girl in my Magic City condo. They were up from their idyllic island paradise for an intensive, off-island shop-a-thon. They arrived last Friday but alas, work kept me from preparing a proper welcome and I did not arrive until early Saturday morning. When I entered, I knew my place was not my own. Greeting me in the foyer was a pair of summer, strappy wedges. Hmmm...it's a sign. No shoes inside for the weekend. The visiting She is totally OCD about cleanliness. They had left early for one of the massive malls and a marathon of buying things that can't be found in Caribbean paradise.

Throughout the afternoon I re-organized so that I had servant's quarters in my little study nook as they had commandeered the bedroom. I laid out a nice little cheese and crackers spread for their return so we could nosh a bit before our dinner reservation in South Beach. Time passed. Shopping prevailed and they arrived back, glassy eyed and exhausted from their enforced version of super-mall sweep.

This was the very first time in the over five years I've known She that we'd had a guest. Swinger Girl was so incredibly nice and sweet. It was almost painful. I set out the hors d'oeuvres and was invited to sit at their feet by the sofa.

"Why don't you give her a foot massage", She ordered. "And tell him if he's doing it wrong because he's just not very good."

Swinger Girl was immediately appreciative and grateful for my sincere and hearfelt efforts.

"No, no, no!!", She laughed. "I've invested far too much time training him for you to be so nice and ruin it all!"

And so the weekend went. I waited on the them hand and foot. On Sunday I drove them to what seemed like nineteen different malls and a Walmart. I carried their packages to the car. I ferried them from J.C. Penny to Kohl's. I had a great time in the first real social interaction She and I have had together.

I used to be She's client. Now I am her dear friend and submissive on the side. I left them to go to work on Monday morning. Saying goodbye to her is much less painful as I know our relationship is a deep, long-lasting, lifetime current. When I got down to the car there was a $20 bill in the cup holder. Gas money? From She? Certainly one of the sweetest things she's ever done. Financial times are hard and I have upcoming medical expenses for the care of my dying wife. She really shouldn't have.

As luck would have it, Swinger Girl had one more internet shopping package that arrived that morning at my office. I jumped in the car and drove it home to the condo as they were not leaving until later that evening. When I got upstairs the two women were deep into packing their booty just so to look to island customs as though it was just their clothing from a seventeen week stay stateside.

"Was that gas money you left me?" I asked. "I should report you to the authorities that oversee your team. So sweet, but you are slipping, aren't you?"

She got a dark look and immediately grabbed my wallet out of my back suit pocket and took all my cash. I was horrified. I truly am a nitwit sometimes. My silly attempt at humor had deeply offended her. I should have thanked her profusely for her sweetness and yet my pride and shame at not being the earner that I once was, even though I know it's the economy, had gotten the best of me.

She made me beg and plead for my money back which I did with serious conviction. Eventually she relented. She took two five dollar bills and ripped the corners from them. She said we'd each keep one to remember this moment. I pecked her on the cheek. She grabbed me and hugged me and I was gone.

Later that night when I got home there was a note. She left me two more ten dollar bills and the torn five with the corner taped onto the note.

"Here's some more for something nice and a little more for an emergency."

And she signed it with a heart.

New perspectives and a future with a complex and dear friend to share it with in fleeting, borrowed, weekend bursts. Mean girls...they are so deliciously good.

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.

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...

Death Of A Dog - Birth Of A Future

His name started as a joke. My wife kidded she wanted to introduce us, "This is my husband Advo and my dog Advotey." The name stuck. Many people thought it was the height of self-centered, narcissistic vanity that I'd named my dog after myself. Advotey's name was also my father's nickname.

I inherited the legasy of an absent, alcoholic father who terrified me as a child with guns and untrained hunting dogs. My uncharacteristic mid-life outdoorsman odyssey was an expiation of these sins. My dog was my guide.

My once strong and noble hunter had been dying for over a year. Wracked with the effects of Cushing's disease his powerful back legs were wasting away, his handsome head was boney, and his once thick lusterous coat was thin and marred with bald spots and warts. Though he was recovering remarkably well from the Cushing's, two weeks ago he had his second violent seizure in a month and I knew it was time to help him die.

For fifteen years he'd guarded my soul, retrieved my spirit, and happily licked clean my wounds of day-to-day human life. It's the deal we make with a dog. They love us - period. They trust us to do right. In that bond we are rescued from mediocrity and become heros to a wagging tail.

Dogs are pure D/s creatures. They dominate or they submit. He would dive into a tangled thicket of sharp thorns, completely oblivious to vicious bloody stabbings, to recover a small quail and then obediently deliver it to my hand. I spent years training him. He was a soft dog. You could not be too harsh with him. He served and he lived to please.

He is my model of the noble, strong, courageous submissive. I miss him horribly, but am comforted that for all he gave me, I held up my end of the bargain.



Aarkey and I had spent the day in my new office grunting and groaning together what turned out to be a massive desk that threatened to eat the space whole. He claimed I was overcompensating for something. Wise ass.

Anyway, I'm a tenant in the beautiful downtown suite and my new landlords were throwing a holiday party that night - my reason to come down and work the room.
We cleaned up as we could but tiny white bits of styrofoam packing littered the plush deep green hallway carpeting outside the office. I was told there was no vacuum cleaner.

My next door neighbor is a partner in one of the firms and she serves as the office manager. She came to the door dressed for the party in a short red mini-dress, black hose, black heels and a clingy black sweater.

She bluntly chided, "Advo, this has to be cleaned up," as she pointed to the minute white particles. She glared at me and walked off.

Aarkey and I looked at each other. "Dude, she shoulda put her hand on her hip," he suggested. "Yeah", I giggled, "and pointed at me and then at the floor."

I went out into the hallway and picked up every last little nib of white. Apparently, Aarkey's wife got quite the chuckle from our first day at the new office story.

My spirit dog romps loyally with me as the future tugs me forward with heartache, hope and maybe a few laughs along the way.

Gonna Take A While For This Egg To Hatch

Somehow Thanksgiving just doesn't inspire my perv side like the week between Christmas and New Year does. But despite all life's current challenges and difficulties I am very thankful. I have lots of new kinky friends. I get to go have Thanksgiving dinner with the same folks I've done the holiday with for twenty two odd years and my wife and I will eat together and be happy to see each other.

I have a kinky dance partner and though I know the studio and instructors are just hustling us, they all say we're hot.

And then there's the new crush girl who is cooking dinner for 20 and called me the other night from the grocery line just to say hi. And even though my condo deal in Miami went south and I won't be going to Art Basal with Ms. Mah Wah Kiss; I have my license to practice in the sun.

I'm to bring soda, near beer, and cigars today and on the way back, my playlist produced this goodie which made me think of my kinky new crush girl. Sometimes I'm just a teenage girl.

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"

A Road Not Taken

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

It is what it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roman Holiday

If you don't enjoy whiney bloggers then perhaps you should go to the next entry on your reading list since I plan to bleat and moan a bit in this post.

Go on, admit it.

You like hearing a nice droney little whimper every now and then if only to feel superiour and say to your self, "That little bitch ought to buck up."

So I've called Ms. Mahwah Kiss like seven times since I got back from Florida and have gotten no meaningful response. When we were more casually acquainted, she'd drop off my radar for months at a time. Then we'd hook-up by happenstance and have dinner or coffee, then go months without seeing each other. But in these emotionally charged times I need more than this from a friend and she's just taken a complete powder.

She-Who-Visits has called me a couple of times in the evening this week and I've been out play dating. Practicing up for my Monday night real deal. I think it's the height of rudeness to take cell calls during dinner. So I didn't answer when she rang. She'll often call and either not leave a message or snark a little, send her love between the lines, and hang up. But on Thursday night she left a message and specifically called my outgoing voice mail dispatch whiney and unprofessional. Then unequivocally stated she was "officially giving up on me."

Now I know she probably doesn't mean this. I've called, texted, emailed and she hasn't responded. I tried her at lunch on Friday and she actually answered.

"Not now", she spat into the phone and abruptly hung up.

This, I suppose, is the downside of liking mean girls. Sometimes they are mean to me when I least deserve it. She knows this is the weekend before the Monday release of exam results. Mr. She sleeps on the same bed of pins and needles that I do. I thought it was particularly cruel of her to announce she was cutting me off just before the last exam watch weekend.

But what? I expect this personality type to be low-maintenance?

Finally, my wife is off to the West for ten days. She suffers a horrible limbo status; she knows she has a serious medical problem but awaits a veritable barrage of test results. This sends her scurrying compulsively to every doomsday Web M.D. diagnosis site on the internet. She's professionally concluded with a high degree of "scientific certainty" that she is about to die. Nothing I can do or say helps. I try suggesting that it is interesting that her obsession with death has coincidentally arisen practically simulataneously with our separation. This, might I say, astute, observation is immediately dismissed in a hail of vitriol. She is certain I believe she is simply an hysteric. As completely selfish as it sounds, I'm actually relieved she's gone for a little while.

Now watch, she'll die and I'll feel years of deep post-mortem, guilt ridden, remorse.

Finally, my oldest dog - my fifteen year old heart and soulmate dog - has green pus infected, bloody, abscesses on his back. Formerly a thorn and thicket tough, pheasant flushing hunter; he can barely keep up with me on our very moderate morning runs.

No wonder I bought a case of rock lobster so the restaurant could serve my Monday night birthday dinner date her favorite arthropod al fresco. That and I want her to tie me up and make out with me.

For some reason, this all made me think of the scene in the HBO series "Rome" in which Atia whips her slave Castor just for the hell of it. No sex, no punishment. Atia of the Julii is just going through a rough patch and she decides to whip the shit out of her loyal, devoted, protective, personal.

Perhaps that's what comes with the turf submission. Doesn't mean I can't whine about it every now and then. Here's a clip from the show about the slaves of Rome. Start at the 1:35 mark for the Atia/Castor profile.

I love Castor's line after he's taken an innumerable number of Atia's best.

"Will that be all, Domina?"

One For HMP

Because he said he liked my Popeye reference.

Hey, does Olive Oyl ever wear a black retro waist cincher and full fashion back seamed stockings?

Breathplay anyone?

Sweet Dreams

As I once again submerge into constant study during most all available free time (whatever that is...) I also do little things to keep my eye on the prize. I take the little man down from the zoomer thingy in Google Maps and wander downtown Miami. I scan Craigslist ads to scope out the residential and commercial rental markets. I compare virtual office packages. Somebody said it was the modern day equivalent of a med student studying for the boards. A hundred times he writes; Dr. Advo, Dr. Advo, Dr. Advo. Wait a sec, that has a kind of catchy ring to it. Maybe more like a Spiderman villan though.

As for my kink dreams I'm thinking classes, munches, more active involvement in FetLife, and perhaps working on my creative writing some more. When I take my virtual Googlemap Man down from married life and drop him single and sort of available in a public play fetish party he feels very out of place. I suppose I still really want to go to a fetish party but can't imagine playing publicly. Someone once said to me that I wanted to go to a fetish party so badly because I'd never been to one. Dreams and reality diverge, she cautioned. But then she added she enjoyed them if she went with friends.

My kinky little GoogleMaps Man has some good friends now and wants to make some more. All in good time. Hey, everybody is looking for something.

Baby Steps or One Giant Leap?

So maybe I've found an apartment. West Villagey-Chelsea-ish; cool first floor, one bedroom loft with my very own little outdoor patio. In an only in New York real estate sort of deal, despite the fact that I'd only be signing a one year lease, I have to get passed by the coop board. So I've spent the weekend compiling every last little bit of financial flailing and ghost writing personal recommendations. And tomorrow I hear about my examination exertion. Nothing like the judgment of others that will have a dramatic affect on what my life will look like over the next year.

I saw the apartment this past Tuesday evening and made an offer by text from the street five minutes after leaving. I went back on Thursday and wandered down the street, only to discover that there's a lingerie store on the block. I took a picture of the sign and emailed it to She.

I also emailed the link to the apartment listing to Ms. Mahwah Kiss. She emailed back that she'd come over and hang with me on the patio and grow basil. We'd had brunch last Sunday. Ms. Kiss had wickedly waved a pair of rubber, medical gloves at me when I picked her up in her Tribeca loft. I told her later that I'd wondered if she had a clue how purely erotic those gloves are for me. She said she figured it might make an impression. Later in the week Ms. Mahwah teased me by saying she'd bought a pair of leopard platforms and every guy in the store couldn't take their eyes off her feet. Tell me about it.

So when she offered to grow basil on my new patio, I emailed back that basil grows best when tended wearing rubber surgical gloves and leopard platforms.

I forgot to delete these emails from my Crackberry. Uh-oh...

And of course, on Friday night the wife and I had a rare, nasty, fight. We've been much more friendly recently, but this fight was bad enough that I fled the apartment to give us a much needed timeout. Didn't take the Blackberry. When I got back my wife demanded snarlingly if She-Who-Visits was "my whore" and she hoped that Ms. Kiss and I had lots of fun tending basil with her wearing rubber gloves and leopard print platforms.

Need I share that the wife had breeched the BB and emailed herself my emails.

So I did something I've never done before. I told her a bit of the truth about my kink life and have actually lived to write about it here. Mind you, I'll wake up dead if she ever finds this blog. But I told her I'd met She at a conference and we'd become very dear friends. I told her that She is in a kinky relationship with her husband and that she had helped me to feel better about who I really am. Without giving names or identifying information, I told her I had made real friends with guys who were kinky too. And I think she believes for the first time that Ms. Kiss and I are really just good friends.

And you know what? I think my wife had a bit of an epiphany. A modicum of an appreciation for what I've gone through and how much progress I've made in feeling good about myself. It's not going to save my marriage, but I think it made us better friends. Now who knows what will happen the next time she loses it, but for now I'm glad that one of my deepest secrets, my relationship with She, is revealed in a bit of its truth to my wife.

Now...about the basil. I have it on good authority that tending it in black, retro-lingerie while wearing rubber surgical gloves and leopard platforms makes the spice particularly pungent.

Or maybe something in a nice dommy cheerleader's outfit would make it zesty, peppery and piquant?

Caveat Venditor

So the wife and I have the co-op on the market in the tough buyer terrain of recession ruptured New York City. My shrink had suggested a broker we worked with briefly last year before the crash and burn when we were flirting with a downsize. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Oh well, we live in challenging times.

This time around the broker came from the bride's side. I figure, let the wife control this decision and in the clinches, the broker is her's. I know for sure if the agent was mine I'd take heat. So about six weeks ago I met this woman and she seemed incredibly knowledgeable. An attractive, late 40's-ish woman who is billed as one of this agency's top producers - she is striking, sharp and completely relentless. I even felt a little tingle, but dismissed it immediately. At their most excellent, brokers are all about the deal. Since they're making money off any potential pact, they are, in their best incarnation, shepherds of the sale. At worst they are snakes in the grass who lie, cheat, and steal. I've worked with a few over the years, and have even represented a handful who faced time in the pokey. While Ms. B seemed honest, ethical, caring, and good - a cut above the rest - I just never trust a broker.

As well, Broker Lady knows we're separating because I confessed when my wife and I first met her. I thought it was important she know we are going to rent separate apartments and, with a little help from her, walk away with enough of a chunk-a-ca-ching to ease the pain of transition. Lots of dwelling agents deal in the muck of separation and divorce. Indeed, the prominence of real estate in the annals of Manhattan Splitsville is iconic. Ms. Broker Babe done been around this block before.

Anyway, without revealing too much detail, I made a bit of a risque comment in an email to Ms. Broker. We were talking about the origin of her email name and she said that instead of her current one she had considered insisting that her email name be "ASS" as she'd spent her life convincing people she wasn't one. However, upon reflection, she'd decided to go with the more upscale choice. I replied that although it was clearly the right pick, for some at least, there was a certain down and dirty charm to the road not taken. A bit suggestive perhaps but perfectly within tasteful bounds, no?

So today, without boring you with all the juicy market intrigue of useless, flaccid, soft offers and vainly trying to manipulate a bidding war, we were considering a price drop. At a hurried three way conference call my wife lost her highly vaunted temper and started cursing the absent interested buyers and berating our broker. She's such a top in the street and a bottom in the sheets, the wife. Later, when she and I spoke alone, my splenetic spouse proposed we essentially throw in the country home, like a flat screen TV, to sweeten the pot and motivate these attracted buyers. Since we've seen no interest in our country place despite a year on the market, the wife reasoned, it was a way to simply unload it in order to stimulate an ante. She was calling Ms. Sells Alot with the suggestion and that's all there was to it.

So Ms. Broker emails me and says the wife wants to dump the coop and throw the country home, the dogs and me into the deal to any single, straight woman who'd take the bait. I write to Ms. Broker and ask what she'd bid for me and was she looking for a chauffeur, a secretary, and a willing gofer as I was available. Then I called her to discuss the price drop and asked;

"So, don't you want to bid on me?"

She laughs a real, throaty, genuinely appreciative laugh.

"I can't afford you!"

"Come on! Sell our apartment and you could," I wheedle. "Besides, I look great in a chauffeur outfit."

"Well," she leers suggestively, "there are a few outfits I'd like to dress you up in."

"Whoa." I blurt.

"So now I'm talkin' your language, huh?", she smirked.

I was rendered dumbstruck and, tail momentarily between my legs, stammered back to our price drop chat.

So that was hot, huh? What do you think? Is she just a reptilian broker, not to be trusted and looking for any edge and angle? Or is she a hot, smart, attractive, age appropriate kinky girl? I think I'm gonna think up some more suggestive little come ons to test whether I have Mistress Broker on my hands. Hey, worst comes to worst, I sell my apartment and move into a one bedroom in the East Village.

Best case? She visits me there and we play a little dress up. Because baby, you know I'm a sharp dressed man.

Ebb and Flow

Sadly, She-Who-Visits and I have decided to postpone our much anticipated jaunt. While I'm disappointed to say the least, I'm oddly taking the whole thing in stride. When last we left our intrepid, daring, handsome, submissive hero he was eagerly scurrying about at his dominant's behest checking flight schedules, rental cars (no convertibles, drat), idyllic beachside inns, and even the average air and water temperatures of our destination. I was a happy, happy subbie. I was directed to put a hold on her flight from there to here for 24 hours, was told to renew the hold a day later, and then stunningly, She just dropped off the face of the earth. Total MIA.

Even though it was She who was supposed to let me know if she'd cleared it with her husband and gotten coverage at work - breathtakingly - she surfaced almost six days later and asked, "What's the status of our trip? It dropped off my radar." After I picked my jaw up off the floor, rinsed it off and replaced it on my face, I somehow politely responded that she was the one who was supposed to get back to me and if she still wanted to go there was whole lotta work to do to make it happen.

She loves to mock me when I go on and on. This time, it was her own trademark expression - "blah-blah-blah" - which captured the essence of her very lame explanation as to her ambivalance. The fact of the matter is that it is me, not our trip, which is way off her radar right now. Once she'd gone on about the reasons why she was hesitant (they might move, might not, new job, dog ate her homework) she said, "Why don't you check everything again, see if the prices have changed and get back to me."

Now I love a nice orange crunchy carrot dangling all nice and tantalizingly from a stick - preferably a stick she'll beat me with as I eat the carrot off the floor at her feet. But I knows me some ambivalance when I sees me some. So I suggested we postpone and she readily accepted.

Things change. I am not in her life these days in the same way. When I made my plea to be hers at the end of last summer, in so many ways I didn't really know what I was asking. But she knew. In the five months after I "proposed" she made me the happiest subbie I've ever been - and it was all long distance. I felt our strong bond on a daily basis. In February, it just stopped. There are lots of reasons on her end. All understandable and legitimate. While it doesn't help my feeling of lonliness, in the end, I believe that if I just give her space, she'll cycle back around. No more chasing. No more letters with question marks at the end of sentences. I'll find a voice without request for return. Asking will lead only to disappointment.

On the bright side, I told my kinky work friend about my blog and she read it. She called me "deep and poetic". Little does she know, huh? It was the first time I've told someone in my "vanilla" life about my advochasty musings. She seemed to genuinely like my writing and said she took the stuff about her as a compliment. I told her it was meant as truly high praise and she was an early inspiration to be more out with my kink. I'm really glad I have her to talk to ... and flirt with!

So there's an ebb and flow to the current of my life right now. Through the crests and troughs I know my course is true. So what if the tide is high ... I'm not the kinda girl who gives up just like that ... oh nooooooo.