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.

I Can't Help Myself

Today is the one year anniversary of "Client Nine and a Half". It has been an amazing and wonderful journey. While I can grouse and moan about not making enough "progress", this writing has connected me to many wonderful and amazing people. It has been a way to take some of the frustrating, terrifying, painful, exciting, and astonishingly fullfilling experiences I've had and create something. That some of you actually seem to come back post after post and read me has been so gratifying I cannot begin to thank you enough.

Writing has inspired me to try to be honest about who I am and where I want to go. Sometimes I think it's all just an indulgent "dear diary" extreme sports event. Then one of you will comment on my most recent e-scrivener offering and say something funny or smart or sad or confrontational - and in a revelatory instant I know I'm a charter member of an incredible community. In a way that I've never experienced, "Client Nine" has hitched me to each of you out there in an effort to illuminate, entertain and understand. Thank you all so much for sharing it with me.

Well, I booked four days in a hotel in South Beach and "She-Who-Visits" might join me. Then again, she might not. Ah ... the exquisite tension. A friend told me to give up my idea of writing The Great Kinky Romance Novel because my wife would literally kill me if I published it in my real name. Will I ever move out? Will I ever meet Mistress Right? Will I ever graduate to the intermediate class at RopeShare or attend another munch? Will this year see me attend my first ever fetish party? What will I wear? Is Motown the quintessential bdsm romance music?

The saga continues ... "I Can't Help Myself" is about on-my-honor chastity, right?

Beautiful Menace

So I'm talking to my shrink. I share I really want to make progress on being more out with my kink. More friends, a connection, some play? She claims she's got an idea - so I'm game. She suggests I take my writing and do something with it in my own name. Join the inspiration of my pervy wordsmithing with something I pen for a public dawn.

What part of I want to play does she not get? Does she not understand that I'm wild for the nasty, dear, and intimate? But I humor her and think it over. I mention to my wife that I'm thinking about writing something and she becomes sneering skeptic. She just got a Kindle which she pours over all the time. Accuses me of never reading much of anything and where am I going to get the time to write anyway, she snorts derisively.

Wait a sec. I've been writing for a year. Regularly. Hey, maybe my shrink was onto something.

I decide for inspiration I'll read some short stories, so I grab a copy of some by Ernest Hemingway - a veritable role model for submissive men everywhere. I begin with "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber".

The story is about an American man in his thirties who, with his beautiful wife, goes big game hunting in Africa. Hemingway is the master of the sparce and direct. The story is about how the guy chickens out on a lion hunt. Me? I like my lions where I can admire them from afar - in the Bronx. Anyway, the great white hunter who serves as maitre 'd for endangered species murder is telling Francis about how the help needs discipline to keep them in line:

“What were you telling him?” Macomber asked.

“Nothing. Told him to look alive or I’d see he got about fifteen of the best.”

“What’s that? Lashes?”

“It’s quite illegal,” Wilson said. “You’re supposed to fine them.”

“Do you still have them whipped?”

“Oh, yes. They could raise a row if they chose to complain. But they don’t. They prefer it to the fines.”

“How strange!” said Macomber.

“Not strange, really,” Wilson said. “Which would you rather do? Take a good birching or lose your pay?”

Actually Papa, I prefer to part with my pay for a good birching!

I suppose I can find inspiration anywhere. Maybe I do have a beautiful, impassioned, kink-love story in me. Maybe I do...

But now, a word from our sponsor.