At Least I'm Consistent

So today I was having a holiday lunch with colleagues in a downtown restaurant which is something of a courthouse hot spot. One of my lunch companions spotted an old friend of hers and remarked to me that there she was and didn't she look great. Now, I happen to know this woman too from a time when she was an adversary. In fact the last big case I had against her involved my representation of a remorseless, wind-up killer who had been employed by a very successful drug crew. I told my lunch mate that indeed I too knew Ms. Former Prosecutrix and we both agreed we should go over and say hi.

My co-luncher leaned into the booth first and Ms. Former Prosecutrix was just delighted to see her. They exchanged air kisses, remarking how long it had been since they'd seen each other. All of a sudden my former enemy saw me and just brightened like summer sunshine after a thundershower. "Advo", she exclaimed, "How are you? Oh my gosh when was the last time I saw you!!"

Now my once sworn nemesis turned to her lunch pal, a noted city official, and said, "You know, I'll just always love Advo. We were once before Judge Tactless who was berating me for taking this tough position. The judge said, 'You know, you'll never meet a man and get married if you continue to be so controlling ..."

"Can you imagine?", she said. "But without missing a beat, Advo said, 'But Judge, I like controlling women'."

At least I'm consistent.

So, come on you controlling women, hit me with your best shot!

This Time Last Year

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Those People

Make no mistake about it ... we are those people. To so much of the world we are bizarre, freaky, weird and dangerous. The New York Post carried a story today of a sensational murder/suicide. An obviously disturbed submissive man shot to death another submissive man ostensibly because he was obsessed by the victim's pro-domme girlfriend. The shooter then kidnapped the poor domme and drove her around until she persuaded him to let her go. She got away and called the cops who tracked the deranged man down. The unhinged submissive, who had stalked the domme for months, held off the police for hours and finally shot himself in the head. I'm not going to link to the story. It is typical prurient Post pulp.

But it made the front page, replete with salacious pictures and lewd, lubricious copy for all to read. Of course the rag trampled over any shred of privacy the family of the murdered man might hope for and made a mockery out of the woman's grieving process. News-wise, I cover all bases in the morning and have the Times, WSJ and Post delivered for a speed read over coffee. My wife saw the story and immediately said, "So, look what happens when you start getting involved with those people". Of course I said these incidents are by no means limited to Scene people. Crazy stalkers come in all stripes.

But the whole thing made me sad and angry at the same time. Deeply sad for this couple. I have no clue who they are, but they both seemed really sweet and nice from the read-between-the-lines description. It made me very angry at the tabloid treatment of terrible loss and grief.

I'm proud to be "those people". We are those people. I am those people. We're real people who care and love and die when we're shot. Who wrench in unimaginable grief when we lose a loved one in so senseless and violent a way. But I'm poignantly reminded that a good chunk of the world sees us as exaggerated stereotypes and when something bad happens it ends up on the front page of the Post 'cos it sells papers. My heart goes out to everyone involved in this horrible tragedy.

I Want the World To Know ... or at least a select few.

So I've been telling some people that I'm kinky. More than just joking how I really like Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman. Er ... actually it's Julie Newmar I'm hopelessly horn doggie over. But really, I've been truly sharing for the first time in my life that I'm a perv with a select few friends. I don't tell 'em everything as there's the ubiquitous "ick factor" with some stuff. But I've been telling them more than enough that they get I'm a submissive man who wants to be with a dominant woman.

Generally, this process has been going very well and I'm feeling liberated and supported. But I had lunch this week with a vanilla woman friend who I've been randy over for some time. She of the Mahwah Kiss. She's definitely a "top" in the street. Smart, bossy, sexy, and hot. Anyway, I tell her I'm having problems in my marriage and she says, "I don't want to pry but what's going on? In other words, I'm prying." So I tell her in a nutshell the main issue is we don't have sex. Upon hearing this, my oh-so-hot friend goes off and says, "Come on, men need sex!! That's part of the marriage vow. You get a vagina to play with."

Okay ... but not wanting to misrepresent myself or my situation I say there's a bit more to it. Like? Well, I say, I've got some pretty kinky sexual tastes. Like? Well, I say, I like to bottom to a woman top. And she says ... "That's not so kinky ... you want to be on the bottom and have her on top?"

Now, I had been totally admiring her high heels, tight black skirt, form fitting wrap blouse and most of all, the tell tale gathering of her black stockings at her ankles which bespoke the real deal instead of the less enticing pantyhose. So I was a little taken aback at her complete naïveté. "Well, it's a little more involved.", I confessed. "I like the dominatrix thing." I blurted.

"You mean like whips and crops?", she so innocently inquires.

And just like that my sexual attraction quotient dropped like the Dow Jones Industrials Average. We chatted a little more about it. She was cool but so not interested. "Whatever turns you on." "As long as it doesn't involve children and animals." Sheesh!!

I gotta figure out a better litmus test to avoid the canned analysis about how it's all due to my domineering mom and the sexualization of losing TV privileges. But on the total upside, I really thought for the first time that I was looking for someone who truly shared my interest in kink instead of trying to chase and mold a "vanilla-top-on-the-street-bottom-in-the-sheets" kinda girl into my perfect domme. That's really been my lifelong mistake.

So even though it's a bit of a cliched anthem, I leave you with this, dear reader. Don't 'cha think her gloves are waaay dommy?