Fast Away

Tomorrow is New Year's Eve. I've always hated the holiday. Nothing like enforced merriment. But the week between Christmas and New Year's is a whole other thing. This year I was struggling with bad bronchitis, but usually the week bursts with erotic portent. The deliciously possible year end fling is ever elusive, but for that one week its promise dangles like ripened fruit pleading for plucking before it drops to the ground; bruised, bashed, and broken.

It was a year. Another year. For the first time since the recession began my work profits were respectable. I left life as a kinky single man about town and committed to care giving for my dying wife. While my personal life has become something of a shrunken and muted fugue, I find the experience of helping my wife to be sustaining and profound.

I asked her the other day why she thought I was so good at it and without missing a beat she said it was because I was "into S&M". She thought I was erotically driven to serve and help for her has tapped into that motivation. It is so ironic that what drove us to separate has provided the glue to our current relationship. It's so not sexy, but I get a deep satsfaction from my efforts.

So with my personal work star on the rise, her life is in a continuous downward spiral. Two opposite arcs with no chance of a future meeting. I sometimes have fleeting glimpses of future fantasy. But for now I look forward in a most bittersweet way to the coming of a new year and my continued life in the moment.

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.

True Heart Service

If you'd seen us you'd think we were on vacation; a happy family reunion in a hot springs mountain retreat. But death cloaked the blue skies and sunshine like an indecorous winding sheet. Her parents in their 90's; her brother a cancer survivor; a manical bike touring, hard pedeling uncle wheeling headlong through a defiant bucket list; and my wife with her terminal diagnosis. And me...

I help her onto the toilet in the unisex handicapped bathrooms that dot an airport like havens for the afflicted. I adjust her underwear and pull up her jeans. I grovel on the floor to make sure she slides into her shoes comfortably. I latch her seat belt. I always allow an hour more to get ready as we have to move slowly.

I think about sexualizing all this but I can't. The whole process makes me horny though. I crave humiliation, orgasm control, cuckolding, and being lovingly laughed at as her rejected loser while She-Who-Visits fucks another younger more virile man before my lust filled eyes.

It's all in my mind as I cut up her steak at dinner and dice her salad so as she raises the fork with her shaking hand less romaine falls to the plate as a frustrating reminder that this is only going to get worse. Some say she is lucky to have me.

But it is I who am lucky to have her. Ironically blessed to render true heart service in pure and unerring love.

Except for the fantasy dream sequence part where she denies me orgasm until I learn to comb her hair properly.

Restart - Cutting Out A Graceless Heart

It has been such a process, this decision. Two years ago I was looking for an apartment in Manhattan, cut adrift. I faced a separation that my gut knew was right and I searched to find a home and a haven. The little slice of the West Village I burrowed into is precious to me. Though many would mutter that at his age he should have so much more, I know it is a tribute to my resourcefulness that I have supported my separated wife, myself, my office, and my business.

But now I have more decisions. I love being single and trying to find Mistress Right. But my wife is slowing - withering away - and needs my help. At first I dug my hamfisted heels into the ground. I won't move back, I won't. I'm happy where I am.

But when I see her struggle to even pull up her feather light, elastic-like, jeans and I rush to her aid - I know there is one choice. So come June I'll pack up my bachelor pad and put everything, including my never-been-used-on-me Twisted Monk hemp rope and Victor Tella baby single tail, into storage and move back in to take care of her.

Until another life I shall cut out a graceless heart and trust that time will provide a restart.

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.

Compartments

One of the themes of my writing has been how I've struggled to live as integrated a life as I can when it comes to my kink. For so many years I hid it away in a dark closet and it only really came out when I snuck around to buy the latest issue of Screw Magazine or DDI and then obsessed on when and where to see which domme I was for the moment enthralled with.

Now, while I certainly don't broadcast to everyone in my social and professional circle that I'm a shoe licking submissive fetishist, most people who know me, both vanilla and scene, know I'm a perv. For myself, I much prefer this less compartmentalized, "one-life-to-live" sort of approach. Sex and what I do, or more accurately what I'd like to do, in the bedroom are private things, not secret shameful things.

But over the course of being more "out" I realize that there are all sorts of lines people draw in their own lives around who knows what about their kink. Or for that matter, how much any given kinkster will reveal to another fellow traveller about their vanilla life. I totally get it and how much anybody choses to share is totally up to them. But even accounting for the need to be discreet because of the "ick factor" of a kinkster lifestyle, I wonder is there something appealing about compartmentalizing for its own sake.

It can be fun to create different persona and be different people in diverse social circles, right? A fantasy role lets you escape the day to day grind of life's mundane responsibilities. It's a mini-vacation or a form of freedom, isn't it? Plus, you get to reveal or protect aspects of your personality as you see fit, which is often a good thing, no?

I suppose I could agonize over where someone's lines in the sand are. Will I offend them? Have I already messed up said something or written something I shouldn't have? Will they ever speak to me again? Can I tip toe through these tulips and not lose my balance?

I try my best to respect other people's boundries and appreciate the compartments of their lives that they feel comfortable sharing with me. And while discretion is said to be the better part of valor, revelation under the right circumstances is an optimistic act of hope.

Mr. Brightside

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

WYSIWYG

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

I listened to two or three shows, but was most engaged by the talk with Stephen Elliot. Retired Domme suggested I read Elliot's book, "My Girlfriend Comes To The City And Beats Me Up". Lazy pleasure reader that I am, I've only gotten through a few of the erotic vingettes. He is an accomplished and talented writer who is open and out about being submissive to dominant women. He, Axe, and Alex talked about his writing, his life, and his politics. In his introduction to "My Girlfriend" Stephen writes;

"We can't wait for the approval of others; we must force them to accept us. We will never have political power until we let the politicians know we are not ashamed."

In theory I completely agree, but reality makes it a very complicated proposition. Alex questioned Stephen quite closely about this idea and while she obviously agreed with him, she recognized that many people have a lot to lose by being "out". She's quite out herself, but she defended those of us who still fly beneath the radar. She wondered if society was really ready to open its arms to those courageous enough proclaim their kink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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...

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.

Dance With Me Through This Rain

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that just breathtaking or what?

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

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

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

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