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"

Equis ... Noventa Y Seis - Punto Tres

Free at last from the grip of agonizing among A through D. Narrow it down to C & A ... sweat. Can I remember whether an easement appurtenant runs with the land or whether a partially performed oral contract for the sale of land supplies consideration. The clock is ticking away my 1.8 minutes...pinch me, slap me, beat me silly. It's finally over!

Now I can get down and dirty - the only answer choices are the B & the D.

I love the new digs. I can actually finish the finishing touches. Ms. Mahwah Kiss pronounced my Overstock.com metal frame platform bed one a woman would happily share. However, she made me put away some of the decorative things I had out. Like the beautiful glass pumpkin I had in the bathroom.

"It's nice. If you're twelve," she snorted derisively. "You've lived with women for so long, you don't know how to make your place look like a guy lives in it."

"You've got a schlong," she declared. "Decorate like it."

She loved Julie.

So as I bask in my first weekend free of the haunting need to pick the a to d; I plot. Spoke to She this morning and we may spend Labor Day weekend at her favorite little Gulf Coast shelling atoll. Closer to home, I'm going to check out munch schedules, class offerings, and get a lesson on how to make sense of the vast kinky ocean that is FetLife.

August has such a debauched feel. As I walk back to my new place from glorious grocery shopping at Chelsea Market, I use the Highline as my path. There's a covered section between Sixteenth and Gansevoort where they've preserved the tracks. As some of you know I have a thing for dommy girls, kidnapping by bicycle, and boxcars. I notice all the places I could be lashed - left to strain and struggle for a glimpse of toe cleavage, the glint of a back seam shine, or the click clack of concrete meeting her heels.

Oh, and I'm polishing my Spanish. And finding a salsa class. Blaring 96.3 FM in the truck yesterday morning, while puffing on a fine Dominican cigar, I felt the romantic pull of a spicy, staccato Puente or a sonorous Celia Cruz son. BDSM to a hot Latin beat ... August esta aqui, mami!

Carol

It has been a tumultuous emotional time. It's only been a little over a week in the new place. Other than living in back of a Haight Ashbury cafe off the Panhandle and in a month-to-month garrot in the pre-gentrified Mission back in the early seventies, it's the first apartment I've found and rented by myself. Certainly my first NYC adult guy apartment. Adult that is if you count a five foot poster of Julie Newmar on the wall as adult.

It was my birthday on Wednesday and Ms. MahWah Kiss took me out to the veranda at Cipriani on Wall Street for lunch. I was talking about putting some beautiful vases on the false ceiling soffit overlooking the sleeping alcove and illuminating them with strip lighting.

"Oh no", she decreed. "That whole area? A man of your proclivities? That area has all sorts of acrobatic potential. You're putting vases on top? There will be shattering."

I collapsed, hysterical.

But Ms. Kiss's cautions and place-of-my own memories have triggered reminisence.

The eighties in the West Side nineties. As Subdued reminded me a year or so ago there was this section of Screw Magazine called "Helles Belles" where prodommes advertised. Back before DDI took off and became an almost alt artiste journal. A domme named Carol used to visit my Upper West, rent-stable abode. The entrance to the massive living room was framed with wide, thick, ornate, sturdy, wooden molding.

I affixed eyebolts up and down either side of my very own pre-war whipping post. They were tucked on the side and not particularly obvious, but deliciouly effective. Carol would arrive in a tightly tailored suit smartly accessorized with a tote bag full of goodies. We'd get right to the business at hand.

She'd lash me tightly to my ornate corner cornice and proceed to alternately tease me into a drooling frenzy and then viciously beat my obliging eagerness until my ardor began a slow, disappointed surrender. Then she'd go about a knee weakening re-envigoration of engourged attention, only to attack yet again. Used to do three hour sessions of this and only this. Such a Johnny-B-One-Note.

To my delight and horror, I'd look like a piece of blackened cauliflour the next day.

And ya know? With this new place? I'm gonna learn to dance if it takes me all night and day. I got my eye on you baby cause you dance so good.

Celebration

I was antsy earlier in the week. Couldn't sit at the desk. So I called Ms. Mahwah Kiss for coffee and cookies. We sat in Duane Park in the baking sun eating mini choco-chips, me sucking down iced caffine.

"You have to celebrate", she proclaimed with absolute certainty. "Posters. Do you like posters?"

This goes on the wall. The living room wall. On a stretched canvass. Hell, I don't wanna grow up.

Hiccups

As I sit here in Fort Lauderdale airport, early for my flight home to NYC, I think I have the hiccups. As I snuck into the comments to my last blog post, I had a glass half full result on my exam. Passed the state part and flubbed the national part. Thus, I must retake the national part and pass it come July in order to bask in the sunshine of a new state license. Hiccup.

My lovely little loft apartment? The one with the private patio in the back that Ms. Mahwah Kiss offered to grow basil in? Well when the broker showed it to me it had an air conditioner in the upstairs bedroom. When I attached a rider to the sublease asking the owner to warrant that the appliances actually worked, the broker said she was "forced" to tell me the a/c unit was improperly installed and could not be used. Ever. How was the place cooled in July? By ice blocks? Hiccup.

On two successive nights after my exam result I had the most intense bdsm sex dreams I've ever had. In the first, I was at a debauched party in a glitzy but dilapidated hotel. I was there with one of my favorite pro dommes of all time. She still works and we occassionally email, but I've not actually seen her in a few years. Anyway, she and I were together when all of a sudden two angular, tattooed, pierced, and gorgeous creatures with tits and cocks grabbed me and threw me on a table. As one yanked my pants and underwear down and the other readied to take the plunge, I called out to my old domme to please come watch. As if on cue, she turned her back on me, entered an elevator, and left - not even looking at my predicament as the doors slid closed. Hiccup.

In the second I bottomed to a middle-aged woman and a middle-aged man in two separate and distinct dream sequences. You know the dreams, right? The ones where the people are different but it's obvious to the audience that they're your mother and father. Anyway, in the first scene I was being rhythmically flogged by a lanky brunette. All about the back and shoulders her powerfully wielded, multi-strand cat inspired little red nicks to blossom perfectly and profusely. In act two I was watching an outdoor sporting event while sitting next to an older and physically imposing man. The guy put his arm around my shoulder as if to pal around and then began brawnily dragging me close. He reached across my chest and tried to pinch my left nipple. Though I was uncomfortably aroused, I tried vainly to pull and strain away from his burly bear hug. Hiccup!!

As I wait for my JetBlue flight back to LaGuardia I think I'm gonna hold my breath. Or maybe I'll drink a few quarts of water. Quick! Somebody scare me!

Hey Veronica, this one's for you. For Sam I'll make an exception to my ridiculously OCD rule that my music video selections must have performance.

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?

The One

As the ordeal of examination gradually drifts into the past, the future stretches out like a lazy, calm river pool. Around the corner could be rapids leading to a precipitous waterfall, but right now I'm just floating along enjoying the scenery -- content not to be trying to figure out the riparian rights of the people I see waving to me from the banks.

Do I rent or do I buy? Will it be the FiDi, the UWS, or the East Village? Will I go visit the Sunshine State this month or next? Tough questions, but someone's gotta answer them. Ms. Kiss and I were sitting in the late winter sunshine yesterday talking about these pressing issues as I had sought her counsel about the rent or buy question. She's got a banker brain and I do not, thank you very much. We got snagged on property division.

"Your wife should not have a future interest in any apartment you buy. Are you crazy? You're getting divorced! When you meet someone and are living with her in your new place, how do you think she's going to feel when you have to give half of the apartment sale to your ex-wife?"

You know the catagory on Facebook or online dating services marked "It's complicated." I don't think Ms. Kiss gets that catagory. I've spent the past 30 odd years of my life in dedicated, long term relationships or marriages. I know alot about the clinches of committment. I suppose what I'm looking forward to most about my impending separation is my new single life. I know very little about being single. No doubt it will be an "it's complicated" bachelorhood. But that's the allure.

Unlike Ms. Kiss, who is and should be looking for Mr. Right -- I'm looking for a life. Part of the life I hope will be meeting new friends, some of whom will be kinky. I recently wrote to Yin and asked to be favorably considered for an upcoming "Writing Cage", which she'd advertised publicly on her blog. I don't want to have to lie and sneak around to read my writing at such a cool event if I get asked.

I'm not looking for the one. I'm looking for a life.

Well...maybe Ms. Kiss and I could visit Madame Ruth...

Come Down Off Your Throne

I finished my marathon study and test taking about ten days ago. It's nice not to be haunted by the compulsive need to memorize restrictive covenants, the Supremacy Clause, and servient estates. Wait...that sounds kinda kinky. I miss it. Oy...

Anyway, during my effort at becoming the poster boy for "the-more-you-know", my friend Ms. Mahwah Kiss was very supportive. I think she felt very guilty for saying that she was certain I'd flunk when I told her I was forcing my fifty-six year old brain to memorize the Rule Aganist Perpetuities again. After I finished the little two day, twelve hour, pop quiz; in a fit of generousity borne of remorse, she offered to do something "non-kosher" with me to celebrate. She made it clear that "non-kosher" meant kinky.

I think I've related here on "Client Nine" that Ms. Kiss is an example of my life long penchant for being overwhelmingly attracted to "tops-in-the-street-but-bottoms-in-the-sheets". She's whip smart, very snarky, really hot, and all about telling me just what she thinks I ought to do. But she doesn't have a real, honest to goodness, pervy bone in her very lovely body. She's at best, which is very good I must imagine, a spicy creme caramel. Or a scrumptious vanilla sundae with some chocolate sprinkles and Heath bar crunch mixed in.

I knew this was a bad idea, but I just could not resist sending her the link to yesterday's RopeShare event. I thought, "Okay Ms. Kiss. Let's see ya put yer money where yer big, sexy mouth is." Plus, if ever there was a non-threatening kinky thing for a non-pervert to enjoy, it's a RopeShare event. I love RopeShare.

I got an email response from her that just said, "Oy Vey!" I thought this incredibly fitting as the class was to be taught by Lolita Wolf, who calls herself "The Leather Yenta." It seemed somehow both politically and religiously correct.

However, when I saw Ms. Kiss this past week she was incredulous that I'd asked her if she might consider going. "A bondage workshop?? Are you crazy??", she practically gasped. "I'm worried I'll get all kinds of porn spam just for clicking on the link." I assured her she was safe from perverted spammers bent on forcible conversion to Semitic or, heaven forbid, goyisha kinkdom.

"Maybe a movie.", she whispered sotto voce.

"Have I got some movies for you!", I crowed.

"Oh I bet you do. On second thought, maybe I'll buy you a nice root beer float," she smirked.

With chocolate sprinkles on the ice cream, no doubt.

I think I'm just going to have to figure out how to date kinky in the upcoming months as I separate from wife and home. This conversion business is for the birds and besides...somebody holds the key.

This Ain't No Lay Down

My friend Ms. Mahwah Kiss claimed the other day that the reason I have been in so much pain over the sale of my coop and separation from my wife is due to my kinky proclivity to serve a dominant woman. Ms. Kiss maintains that because I am compelled to serve, my inability to sustain alpha-provider status is causing all manner of heartache. The lovely Ms. Mahwah believes she knows this about me because one afternoon when we met for coffee, I insisted on having her sit while I served her coffee and a snack.

I declared, "See, you get a servant when you get involved with the likes of me."

"Hmmm," she mused, "Well I like that!"

Anyway, her whole take on my emotional state these days got me thinking that maybe she was onto something. Even though I do not have a kinky relationship with my wife, there are developed aspects of my bdsm personality in my bond to her. I can recognize my hurt pride for now in not being able to continue to provide as just that - hurt pride. But I have to admit that the depth of my sorrow might be related to a need to serve. At least the thought helps me to manage the ordeal and feel some honor that my submissive side is so actively engaged.

Which brings me to my next point. Since when is submission all about the lay down? Recently, a dominant woman friend confided that she had bottomed a bit and that she loved it because she got to lay back and do nothing. She got to just bliss out in a pleasurable release from any responsibility. Now I suppose there are aspects of sub-space which match up with this description. Certainly, the dominant is often the planner, the decider, and the actor. But I gotta say that for me, submission is very engaged and interactive. I figure out how best to compliment my domme's style, accomodate her preferences and meet her needs. For me, this is the very heart of active submission.

Indeed, there are lots of times when I play with She and she's doing nothing and I'm doing everything. Maybe if I mess up I get punished. But I'm all about being an a vigorous, dynamic bottom. Unless I'm wrapped in Saran wrap...

Come to think of it, just tie me up now and I'll lay here and moan.

Takin' My Frito To Tito

"You're going to die," said my dear friend Ms. Mahwah Kiss. "One day your penis won't work anymore."

I guess it's been awhile since I wrote, huh? Been busy. And crazy. Selling my home, leaving my wife, studying for the bar exam, hiring new people. Am I kinky? I forget. Such change is hard. One minute I'm an elated, grandiose dreamer and the next I'm a despondent little fourteen year old being dragged from my house next door into the home of my step father by my long departed Mommie Dearest. Mostly, I just don't know which end is up.

But it's all for the best. Never had to make a soul shattering decision so driven by money. It's looking good though. If it all comes through, I'll be out of debt for the first time in two years, moved into a new place in the FiDi, with a lower nut and lots of dreams. Really, when I let myself own what I'm about to accomplish I'm truly and deeply amazed.

The wife and I are generally on much better terms. Just before I saw She in Miami this last time, my wife snooped in the CrackBerry and found a pretty innocuous email to She. After a scene, I've actually had a couple of conversations with the wife about She, in as vanilla a way as possible, and I'm still alive to tell the tale. And today we ran into Ms. Mahwah's sister on the street in Tribeca. That, of course, set off a little Duane Street tiff, but as I feel my body for knife or bullet wounds, I'm still here, blabbering on my blog about it.

So, dear readers, Advo is alive and well. Dreaming some Sunshine State dreams as I learn all over again about the privileges and immunities clause. But to all who wonder if I'm leaving town for palm trees and Lincoln Road, I'm here to tell you - I'm in an Empire State of Mind.