Some Quality Trouble

I feel like I used to when I ran competitively and pretty much would sprint flat out the 3.5 mile silly corporate challenge races in Central Park. The aerobic became the anaerobic and with no real breathing capacity my muscles would just carry me by some out of body masochistic determination to finish. Such is life when moving back in with a woman who just two years ago I decided I did not want to live with anymore.

But things change and while I'm not really going back to my marriage, I am looking forward to spending time with someone I love dearly and who truly needs me. I hate giving up my mancave and unwittingly may have already spent my last night there earlier this week. But like practically everyone, financial realities don't allow me to carry four homes. Jeez, realistically, there are income cycles where I'm lucky to hold one down. So a big part of the move is confronting the money thing and shuffling slowly to some sort of semblance of a practical, prudent, and pragmatic care about the pecuniary.

Ho hum.

But life could be so much worse. We'll live in a really great place. There's a little terrace where I can smoke my cigars. I get my morning river run and there's a killer view. But I won't be dating and alone time will no longer be just a quick cab ride away. It is a loss and a sacrifice, but worth it to be able to care for my terminally ill wife.

To look at her last night at the concert we went to you'd never know she was so sick. She was happily enthralled with Mavis Staples and Bonnie Raitt. And I thought that if Bonnie can look so hot and sexy at 62 then I can too. I don't need to feel that life is over - just a new chapter to begin.

Bonnie gave good patter between songs last night. She introduced one number by telling us that there was a time in her life when she was looking for some quality trouble and that she found him. So just because I'm giving up my single life for that of a caretaker, doesn't mean that I can't keep my eye out for some quality trouble.

You just can't make your heart feel something it won't.

Money Honey

The best sex I've had in my life has been with prodommes. Granted, I have an expansive, poly-fetishistic view of what constitutes sex. I related to Unspeakable Axe's term "fuckless fucking". Virtually all of my experiences with prodommes have not involved "penetrative sexual intercourse". But for me, nearly all my escapades with prodommes have been deeply and profoundly sexual.

These days, I'm just not much for booking appointments. Despite the deep allure of the clandestine sado-sneak away, it has been sometime since I've ticked off a session wishlist and handed over a envelope stuffed with tribute lucre. Mind you, I have nothing against pro sessions. I'm not saying for a moment I would not do it again. But for right now, I like trying to meet kinky people and seeing where those relationships go.

For some time I've been thinking about the deeper functions of tribute in a prodomme session. Unadorned it is simply a fair wage for a safe, sane, and skilled service. The existance of the market encourages dommes to hone a craft that must be learned, practiced, and refined. The market allows someone like me, who can't dedicate a tremendous amount of time to lifestyle searching, to satisfy deep needs that a vanilla relationship, no matter how close and committed, will never satisfy. A tribute frees me to say "this is exactly what I want" and frees her to respond or not based upon scenes and skills she likes and possesses or dislikes and has not developed.

When a prodomme-client relationship evolves into something more than the not-so-arm's-length business transaction it is at its heart; tribute takes on a more complicated role. I have not become friends with many dommes I've sessioned with. But in the few instances I have I've variously experienced tribute or a financial arrangement of some sort to both allow a deeper closeness and maintain a stronger buffer that helps one or the other of us feel more comfortable. After all, if you're paying for it or being paid for it, in spite of how deep your feelings for the other may be, how really personal can that scene be?

A financial arrangement lets both domme and client walk the down and dirty and not have to face each other over cornflakes in the morning. Money supports the esoteric. It allows a domme to practice and hone an intricate rope bondage predicament and find a willing stream of appreciative playmates who reward her study. There are so many good and positive things about the market for professional bdsm services.

But for now, for me, the cash in the envelope paid for session doesn't ring the bell of my heart. Because I think at bottom, money changes everything. Wait ... are Cyndi's feet bare? Ya want how much to lick 'em?