Client Nine and a Half

Undating

2012-01-31T07:43:00.000-05:00

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.

2012-01-31T07:00:00.002-05:00

Compartments

2012-01-12T07:15:00.002-05:00

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.

2012-01-12T07:00:00.004-05:00

If Heaven And Hell Decide

2012-01-02T10:14:00.005-05:00

I think one of the hopes many of us have is that this year will be "better" than last. We'll make more money, we'll get healthier, we'll go to the gym, we'll be all around better people. My wife is on the phone as I write this and just said to a friend, "what I know is 2012 will not be better than 2011".

For her and the inevitable physical toll her disease will continue to take there is no clean slate. Just a certainty that the downward spiral will continue. But as I listen to her voice, she's so connected to this person on the phone. She's really living the life she has. And that's inspiration enough to me that maybe my life will be richer if I muster the courage to be there to help her.

Last week I had lunch with a domme friend who suggested I read a series from the New York Times Magazine about regular people who died this year. I recommend it too. My wife and I read the series together this morning. She cried so much at the first couple that she couldn't make it through the series. Each highlighted how death can strangely provide hope. We all face it. Our own and the death of those we love. As the article suggested, death is the most democratic of experiences.

So my hope is that I can be there and go the distance. Since I hope it will be a long haul, I have to figure out how to take care of myself as well as take care of her. Shrink has a care giver group for me. So far I'm not moving back in with my wife entirely; so I have my bachelor digs in the West Village. And I've got friends.

So in the midst of the reality that for my wife 2012 will not be a "better" year - for me - it may be awful enrichment.

2012-01-02T10:03:00.004-05:00

Do I Have A Home For Christmas?

2011-12-23T07:09:00.000-05:00

I'm up early. Back on the Upper West Side. Sitting on the sofa with my dog in my wife's apartment. Her new go-cart wheelchair dominates the living room. It is an otherwise beautiful place. Stunning views of the Hudson and the majestic sweep of West End Avenue reaching north. I left the West Village last night to come up here. I've grown to like it here even though I dislike the Donald Trump, well-heeled, housing project feel of the neighborhood.

I'll spend Christmas here. It feels like home. I think. The alternative of being single and alone for Christmas looms and I try not to think about how I'd spend the holiday when my wife is gone. Maybe it would be like how I don't miss the living on Riverside Drive; but somehow I don't think so. I just don't think about it and try to live here and now.

It's a good way to try to be. I had a good year. A solid foothold in Miami, better business in New York, and being present even when it's hard. So I'll help my wife learn how to drive her Rolls Royce wheelchair. Can't say as I'm happy that Santa brought this contraption into our lives, but it is there. I rolled the rug up last night so its tight little turning radius wouldn't tangle it in the squat wheels.

I guess I do have a home for Christmas.

2011-12-23T07:08:00.000-05:00

Mr. Brightside

2011-12-11T08:21:00.002-05:00

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.

2011-12-11T08:00:00.000-05:00

Exploratoriamos

2011-10-15T09:53:00.004-04:00

On Monday night I attended the "Serious Bondage Exploratorium" held at GLINT; my favorite kinky community center. I've gone on here about what a great place GLINT is in other posts but Yin has really created a friendly, safe, fun haven for kinksters of all stripes to meet, share, and learn. From rope bondage and writing to chit chat and pervy show and tell; GLINT for me is an extraordinary sum gain that has far more value than any of its enchanted individual parts.

The evening was part extreme bondage demo and part try-it-on-for-size. Yin presided as chief conjurer and was ably assisted by a coterie of experienced sous-wizards among them the legendary Erin Houdini and the dashingly dominant Sir Tony. The Exploratorium began with a demonstration by Yin of serious bondage technique. Erin, an immensely talented escape artiste served as the quite comely canvas for Yin's handiwork.

As she expertly ensnared Erin, Yin shared useful and facinating tips which were at once focused on the safe, the salient, and the oh-so-sexy. Meanwhile, at every turn, Erin tested the technique of our host. They were a fine pair; punctuating the lesson with laugh out loud humor. Fists wrapped in ace bandages were entombed in beautiful black leather, over the elbow, restraint sleeves. Brilliant red rope left a hog-tied Houdini to struggle in glorious, wriggling, gallantry in her never ending effort to valiantly free herself. This memorable demo went on for the better part of an hour.

Then Yin bought out her boxes, and crates, and steamer trunks full of gorgeous, custom made bondage gear. I swear it was Christmas morning for kinksters! For some strange reason, despite the fact that I've never really played seriously with it, I was magnetically drawn to metal. Dangerous and deeply sexual, metal just is and won't move.

I had come straight from the office and was wearing my slim cut Hugo Boss navy suit made of space age fabric that magically never wrinkles, a crisp white Charles Tyrwhitt dress shirt, and a dark blue bow tie with little sky blue dots on it. Yin had earlier pronounced me "dapper".

Sir Tony rigged up a steel head bondage globe thingy on a chain hoist and suspended it at the exact point my neck meets my shoulders. He locked my head into its menacing darkness. It was hot and humid in there instantly. There were little holes to let tiny shards of light in; or more ominously to allow the dominant to insert a prod here or a poke there. Tony maintained a running dialog with me about how everything felt. He pointed out that my sense of feeling would instantly be enhanced as my sight and hearing were now impeded by this perverted Diver Dan hat. He took a sound and ran it down my chest and then up my inner thigh. Oh yeah...

Then I was free. For the moment.

As I loitered by the gag box leering at the inflatable funnel gag, Yin came up to me and grinned.

"You know, you look so good in your bow tie. But I know what would just perfectly accessorize your outfit."

"Really?", I sputtered, barely disguising my glee.

"Yes, I think my iron mask would compliment your bow tie beautifully."

She grabbed a striking piece that I had noticed earlier. Made of matte silver colored cast alloy strips welded into a wide, cross hatched, head piece; the mask, complete with a nose and neck taper, looked like a full metal head. I followed her into The Pit.

Now I've read about The Pit. In her writings, Yin has described how she uses The Pit in session. It's a small, confining, dark little holy space separate from the rest of the studio. As she lay the mask on the floor and told me to kneel she described how she has playmates she knows well simply strip and lie back, placing thier heads into the iron mask. She then leads them in, attaches a chain to the top of the mask and fixes it to the point where The Pit's wall meets its polished hardwood floor.

And then in pitch black darkness she simply leaves them; the cold echos of her heels click clacking away.

She locked my head into the mask. At first my left ear didn't want to cooperate and was pinched by the hinge. I yelped and she calmly told me to just place my nose on the mask's schnoz. The bite of the metal reminded me that it held the unmistakeable allure of danger. Yin explained she was going to leave me, but this was not a scene. I should just yell, "Hey You, come get me!" if I was uncomfortable.

A second later I was in the dark, on all fours, with a heavy metal mask locked on my head. The weight of my steely captor was chained to the floorboard and though I could move around, I felt a little like a junkyard mongrel - kept around only for an owner's hidden purpose.

Periodically Yin would breeze in to check on me. Once she brought a foam pad for me to kneel or lie on, as the length of chain would not even allow me to sit up. Her form of mercy she said as she swept back out into the bustle of the well lighted studio.

I swiftly rejected her kind offer of lenity and went back to communing with the shiny, unforgiving wood. I experimented with the range of movement and the heaviness of the iron mask. I slid around, lay on my side, sprawled on my back. Gradually, I went somewhere else and in the religious alchemy of The Pit lost track of all my troubles and cares.

When she came in to let me go I was in full Child's Pose, head and mask against the floor. Yin gently knelt next to me and whispered that I'd really gone into full submissive mode.

A gesture of respect for the room, for her, and for all the wonder she had brought us that night.

Exploratoriamos!

2011-10-15T09:30:00.002-04:00

True Punishment

2011-10-08T07:15:00.003-04:00

Punishment that's part of play isn't truly punishment. It's good hurt, not after you've been "bad" hurt. True crime, spot-on reprimand isn't fun but when it is administered fairly by a dominant I think it can be an integral part of a bdsm relationship.

However, for me, the line is fine. When is punishment fair and fit to the submissive's grubby little caper for which he's been caught red-handed and when does it cross over to the disproportionate? Should us subbie guys have any say either before or after the fact; or is correction the simple and exclusive métier of the domme?

I suppose I don't envision life in a dommy dictatorship. I like to think that I might be permitted to plead my case prior to the imposition of sentence; or at the very least file an emotional appeal after the fact in the hopes of future understanding, compassion, and lenity.

Obviously, that's the fast talking lawyer in me.

I do admit to the attraction of just going with my domme's mood and flow; but in my opinion that's ultimately a recipe for passive aggressive, misdirected, connection damaging retaliation on my part. I think in any relationship, there has to be some sort of positive dialogue and communication; the imposition of punishment shouldn't withstand exclusion from a list of relationship talking points.

My musings are inspired by my recent long weekend and current interactions with She-Who-Visits. My unique, long distance, challenging relationship with her is the closest I've come in my life to a "lifestyle" bond with a domme. Our ties to one another are deep, long lasting, and complex. We've been "together" for five years though most of the time we live thousands of miles apart.

This past trip was wonderful. But more than any other face time we've spent; she said very mean and cutting things to me and chose to impose real punishment. It wasn't so much the substance of the mean things she said which hurt so much but the way she delivered it.

Sometimes, I don't even think she realizes she says very cutting and hurtful things. I can't really give examples because they are so personal and involve her life and my life in a way I'm just not comfortable sharing in the blogosphere.

Should a domme get a pass on fairness and self awareness just because she's in charge? Should a submissive just suck it up and take it because that's what we've signed up for? I suppose I could try to answer my own questions. But I really don't have any answers. The answers I come up with all breed more questions.

My most recent crime was ending a self imposed stint of on-my-honor chastity. I was at about three weeks when She and I met up for our long weekend. When she asked about how long it had been since I'd come she mocked my pride at making three weeks. An obvious back handed compliment.

Then, despite preparing for a last night of play, punishment took the form of final night denial. No play at all. Very mean things were said.

The next morning I told her she'd hurt me deeply. She said it was very important that I understand my deep transgression and she wanted to drive the point home. Just before we left for the airport I thanked her for not allowing me release. I told her for me, it's win-win. She smiled.

Later, when we retreated to our respective corners of the globe she blithely set a date after which I could end my self imposed stint of chastity. I told her I wished she could watch me. She said if I waited until October 6th; she might be able to. I told her I would.

I didn't.

I suppose I should be punished. She hung up on me Thursday night when I told her what I'd done. She called me a dirty pig and said she wouldn't speak to me until after the weekend.

So here I am; stewing in the juices of my domme's displeasure with me and wondering will her punishment fit my crime - or will it be a cruel, unfitting expression of where she is with her life - essentially unrelated to my passive aggressive act of indulgent self denial.

Getting off would have been so much better with her voice urging me on over the phone.

2011-10-08T07:00:00.001-04:00

The Swimming Pool

2011-10-02T09:39:00.002-04:00

"Do you see how easily you're replaced", she whispered a little breathlessly.

She was straddling a water jet in the warm darkness of our Gulf Coast resort's nightime swimming pool. The starlit small hours air and water were the same humid bathtub temperature. Every now and again she'd moan a soft little groan.

"Come over closer", she leered back at me. She'd suggested a swim. The off season cluster of cottages on stilts was silent, deserted, and still. We'd worn only our towels out to the pool. They lay on the chaises a few feet away.

"Here, put your finger down there. See how easy it is to replace you?"

I was in the middle of my third week of on-my-honor chastity. Pretty much self imposed as I knew I'd be seeing her. Makes it so much more interesting. I doggy paddled up behind her and grabbed the edge of the pool where she was fucking the water jet.

"Go on, right in between; feel the water shoot hard against me", her breath gaspy. She had thrust herself right against the fast spurting water.

"Do you want to hump my ass? Do you?"

I murmered something completely gutteral and unintelligable.

"Just don't bother me. Shut up and don't make your silly whimpery grunty sounds. And don't spooge."

With my finger against her water ravaged clit and my other hand gripping the slippery edge of the pool I moved up against her. She pushed back slightly and ground her sun tanned ass against my hard cock. She came almost instantly.

Later as we got ready for sleep and she turned on the static of the clock radio for the white noise she needs to drift off I made a lame excuse that the off channel hiss would disturb me and asked permission to sleep on the couch. Usually she lets me have a tiny sliver of her bed.

I ached badly for her.

But I just couldn't be that close to her after what had just happened in the swimming pool. Without betraying a hint of her own desire, She happily banished me to the sofa.

As I floated off perched on the narrow, uncomfortable couch I felt an inane sense of self righteous integrity. How I love on my honor chastity with She-Who-Visits.

2011-10-02T08:00:00.005-04:00

A Gift Most Precious

2011-08-31T00:07:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I'm slow on the uptake. Sometimes I just want to let things sink in. Sometimes I'm a lout and write about stuff that I think people will like or that I just have to get out. Sometimes I'm not always conscious of people's feelings.

She visits so rarely and yet she was able to find time for me. We found time for each other. I chased into the hinterlands of Westchester County for a dinner and a few hours with her. As always it was wonderful.

But She-Who-Visits brought me the sweetest gift. She hauled it all the way from her island paradise. She dragged a shoebox thousands of miles. Inside were delicate plastic moldings of her feet. She'd had custom orthotics made and in order to do that they take a thin plastic cast of your feet. Her feet. Feet I just absolutely adore.

I should have written about them earlier, but getting my brains fucked out and Hurricane Irene seemed way cooler than her incredibly thoughtful gift. I'm a lout. I should have written about this gift most precious earlier.

But I didn't. She hasn't called in awhile. Way longer than is normal. She's mad at me, huh? I'm actually only guessing that she read the blog and is upset. The perils of being semi-public. I did ask her if it was okay to play and she graciously said yes.

I miss her calls. I got her an iPhone for my birthday. Our joke...she gets a gift on my birthday.

Trouble is, her gift was way better, more thoughtful, and she dragged it thousands of miles just to give me, because she knows I love her feet.

I'm a lout...

2011-08-30T23:00:00.002-04:00

Why I Love On-Line Dating

2011-08-28T07:38:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I got an email that my OKCupid profile was being cruised by a woman who was "a particularly good match". Here's her on-line profile

79% Match 87% Friend 14% Enemy
Irene.
18 / F / Straight / Single
New York, New York (1 mile)

Her Details
Last Online Yesterday – 9:40pm

Ethnicity - Other
Body Type - Curvy
Diet - Mostly anything
Smokes- No
Drinks - Socially
Drugs - Never
Sign - Virgo but it doesn’t matter
Education - Dropped out of space camp
Job - Hospitality / Travel
Children - Dislikes children
Pets - Likes cats
Speaks English (Poorly)

My self-summary:
I am a large tropical storm system characterized by high winds and numerous thunderstorms.

What I’m doing with my life
Just kind of blowing my way up the eastern seaboard; it’s like I go to Wellesley.

I’m really good at
Inspiring contagious idiocy: Hurricanepocalypse 2011, #GhettoHurricaneNames, etc.

The first things people usually notice about me
100 mph winds.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

Books
The Perfect Storm

Movies
Armageddon, Twister, The Day After Tomorrow

Music
Sounds of Nature: Tranquility, Vol. 2

Shows
The Wire

The six things I could never do without

A maritime tropical air mass
Evaporation
Condensation
The Tropopause
A large low-pressure center
Densely populated urban zones

I spend a lot of time thinking about

Finding the right guy to settle down to start a family. Just kidding: death, flooding, mayhem, panic, property loss, and is it possible for me to pick up a shark from the ocean and hurl it at Michele Bachmann?

On a typical Friday night I am

Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

I play rough.

I’m looking for

•Everybody
•Ages 18-99
•Near me
•For new friends

My kinda girl!

2011-08-28T06:33:00.005-04:00

A Rarified Ransom

2011-08-21T10:15:00.007-04:00

"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.

2011-08-21T08:00:00.002-04:00

A Murder Of Crows

2011-07-26T07:47:00.000-04:00

We want to belong to her. We long to belong to her. She will take us and hurt us and heal us. And we will love her for it. It's all heat, confusion, and exquiste romance. In a year of unimagined loss I've gained so much. Pain and fear. Hope and trust. They rock me on the water of a new life that surprises me with each new twist and turn.

My wife is dying a slow death before my eyes. It is the best of it now for it will surely only get worse. But we are closer than we've ever been. Save for who I am deep in my hidden heart.

She-Who-Visits is in touch alot. But even as she plans a trip to see her family in New York, there is no mention of time for me. She knows my hidden heart so well for it has been hers. Some part of my soul will always be bound to her. But it's been a year since I've seen her and all the trust in the world doesn't replace need.

I met someone on a date that I like. In overheated letters we talk of corsets, canes and chains. We've gone from zero to off a cliff in the blink of a lust filled eye. But we've only spent a couple of hours together and the realtime lags far behind the ethernet. I reach to connect as knots to the past give way to just trying to be present and honest and as real as I can.

But despite all the promise; confusion and pain just make me want to get lost on a border road by a barbed wire fence. Just be on my own and by myself.

2011-07-26T07:46:00.000-04:00

You're Not One A Those Submissive Toe Suckas, Are You?

2011-07-14T23:35:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-07-14T22:30:00.002-04:00

WYSIWYG

2011-06-19T16:19:00.000-04:00

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?

2011-06-19T14:30:00.002-04:00

I'm On The Right Track Baby

2011-06-11T12:16:00.000-04:00

Oh where does the time go? Just haven't been focusing on cranking out the old blog posts. However, that doesn't mean there hasn't been a lot going on.

Not that I'm way into corporal, but I did happen to read an awfully fun book on the subject by the mysterious Gemma Forbes. It's called "The Adult Spanking and Discipline Handbook: A Comprehensive Guide To Corporal Punishment."
Gemma seems smart, funny, and big-time experienced at percussion play. Check it out.

In other news, Retired Domme, who became my trusted paralegal and one of my favorite employees of all time left this week to go on with the next phase of her life. I took her and the rest of my staff to a rubber chicken lawyer dinner earlier this week. She's so comfortable and relaxed she can talk to anyone. I secretly wondered if any of my fellow suits would recognize her. Prodommes and lawyers are like peanut butter and jelly. They just go together. But I did wonder what being recognized might be like for her. I will miss her greatly, but look forward to keeping in touch and being friends.

She-Who-Visits urged me to try to break my personal best of 82 straight days of on-my-honor chastity. She asked me to go for triple digits and make 100 days. But in a bold move of personal defiance I just can't do it. Actually, I'm pretty sure she'll understand. In these times of personal challenge, stress, loss, and intense change, rubbing one out just takes the edge off. Plus, She is a total absentee keyholder. Though she's good at keeping in touch, it really would be more like just doing it on my own. I'm looking for a kink connection closer to my zip code.

Which brings me to my latest OKCupid escapade. I went out with a woman who used the our-tribe-term "D/s" in her profile. Because of our respective schedules there was some lag time between our initial contact on-line and our date. We chatted on the phone a couple of times as well. Truth be told, I was pretty sure there wouldn't be a connection but was so intrigued that I couldn't resist a meet up. You just never know.

While her profile said domme, the personality questions all said submissive. And in one of our phone chats she said she'd gotten divorced and then recently spent about eight months in a romantic relationship with a dominant man. She said she was very inexperienced, but that he was an old hand and while they did not explore the vibrant NYC Scene, they scened a lot at home. She assured me she was drawn to both roles and really saw herself as a switch.

She was jazzed to be my perfect domme. Hmmm...sounds sort of subbie, doesn't it?

I've said before that I have nothing against switching. I have good friends who switch. But I'm just not wired that way. She-Who-Visits once said, "It's a team sport. Pick a side!" I'm totally with her. On the other team.

So anyway, my date was hyped and enthused. She went on in emails about buying play clothes and boots. She wanted me to amass a portfolio of pictures that showed what turned me on. She waxed eloquently about how I'd gift her with my submission and she'd mold me to be more than I had ever dreamed.

Oh my...

For my part, I unwisely fed the fire by writing a couple of lenthy emails about that which floats my boat. The cautionary tale of Anthony Weiner aside, this experience has taught me that it's just not a good idea. From now on my dates will have to earn the trust necessary to really know what makes me hum. I probably egged her on, even though she'd asked to know.

We met at a French bistro with a lovely little outdoor garden on the Upper East Side near her apartment. Within forty minutes of our rendez-vous we had eaten and were back at her place. This, I confess, is a first for me. It will stand as my personal best of meet to make out time.

She had a very nicely decorated tiny little rent controlled hideaway so far over that I was tempted to try to throw a rock into the East River. We were literally, figuratively, and metaphorically at opposite ends of the island.

We sat on her sofa and as she suggestively rubbed the back of my neck with her finely manicured hands, she asked me what I wanted from her.

Were we having a "relationship talk" within less than an hour of meeting?

I mumbled something about not really looking for anything serious since I was tending to my dying wife, but if something happened - I'm open. She emphatically stated that she was really only interested in a relationship because she had plenty of playmates.

Then we started making out. I could be very graphic as I have a modicum of pride in my descriptive writing talent. But I won't. I told her about the blog and she may read this. The hot and sweaty breathlessness of it all was pretty exhilarating at first. But what I found was a woman trying very hard to please me. Most guys would love that. But I'm a submissive and I want to please her. She'll revel in my effort. She'll direct it, command it and often deny it. Her control will please me. But she'll control. Not try to please.

She was swept away by the Hell's Gate current of her submissive nature trying to domme me and I was ebbing on a Hudson River back flow. By 9:30 I made excuses about my dog and left. She's really an attractive, lovely, smart, genuinely nice woman. I just didn't feel the domme.

And while the search continues I know one thing: I'm on the right track baby I was born this way.

2011-06-11T09:00:00.005-04:00

Fill 'Er Up?

2011-05-22T14:19:00.000-04:00

I'm in Miami prospecting for biz. I realized the other day that my year has been an incredibly productive one. I've got an office, may have a line on a place, and I'm making money from all the schmoozing for profit and then hard work to actually realize the dough.

She-Who-Visits was maybe coming up to see me, but got sick, got work, had obligations; blah, blah, blah. Actually, I sincerely believe she does miss me and might have hopped a flight up just for an overnight if she hadn't had a cold all week.

Yesterday she BBM'd me a picture of a book she wanted me to read.

"Your next book." she declared.

I of course BBM'd her back a picture of some incredibly kitschy faux leopard wedges.

"Your next pair of shoes?", I shot off while I wondered how to deliver tongue-in-cheek via BBM. The downside of keeping in touch graphically. Two minutes later my phone rang. It was She.

"Have you bought the book yet?" she asked.

"Ummmm...no. It's been like, ten minutes," I replied wondering if she'd not gotten a cold but been suddenly afflicted with Dominitus, a disease she almost never contracts.

"Oh good, because I have another one for you to read instead. It's called "The Five Love Languages". My heart sank. I hate pop-culture marriage counselors. She went on and on about the book and what a revelation it was for her. I thought it said more about where she was at with her marriage than anything. But she enthusiastically endorsed the book and gushed about how it helped her understand how she and her husband were missing the mark.

She said it would help me spend my remaining time with my wife in a more positive, happy way. I felt instantly grateful, despite my lack of enthusiasm for quick fix, fast food, fakers. She'd been going through a rough patch, found some hope in this book and wanted to help me too. It's one of the astonishing things about our connection. We've been incredibly supportive of each other's marriages.

Anyway, despite using concepts like "emotional love tanks" that need to be filled (ooh baby, baby - can I fill your love tank, huh?) and boiling the complex interactions of a multi-decade marriage into five distinct "languages", I have to admit I'm getting something out of Dr. Gary Chapman's mass market balm.

He identifies five primary ways people feel loved. He calls them languages. They are: Words of Affirmation; Quality Time; Receiving Gifts; Acts of Service; and Physical Touch. He says most marriages encounter difficulty because one spouse is speaking one language and the other a completely different one.

She said Mr. She was definitely a Quality Time guy. I asked her what she thought I was and she said she didn't know me in that way. I shot back that of course she does. She's smart, intuitive, and knows me better than she's really known any other guy except maybe her husband - a fact she often "forgets" because it's tough for her to acknowledge.

And in that moment I was sure my "love lingo" was Words of Affirmation. As I've been reading the book I also think that I've become fluent in trying to feed my need for spoken praise and acknowledgement by learning how to try to please by doing things. In other words I've become fluent in Acts of Service. I did this because my mom never really told me what a fantastic kid I was. I've been attracted to women, like She, who withold their praise and then I sexualize that. Hence, I'm a humiliation junkie.

I BBM'd She and told her this without even reading the stupid book. My wife is for sure a Quality Time girl and I've neglected that horribly. She-Who-Visits is, and I'd wager my last dime she agrees, an Acts of Service domme. My need to act in service to get my precious Words of Affirmation was why we got along so well.

She thanked me for my "cliff notes guessing game".

Isn't that sweet? She uses words to affirm me and humiliates me with dignity all at once. It's why I love her so. Or at least one reason I put up with all her mishigas. That's craziness for all you goyisha kampfs. But hey, I slather mayo on white so who am I to talk.

So even in the most banal of McPsychobabble nonsense, I find sustenance, a connection to two women I dearly love, and a subject with which to torture you, my dear readers. Ooops...did I just seem to enjoy switching roles?

2011-05-22T12:07:00.002-04:00

Outside Looking In

2011-05-14T09:43:00.003-04:00

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.

2011-05-14T08:00:00.005-04:00

Cold Metal

2011-05-07T11:20:00.003-04:00

I've always liked cock and ball bondage. I can't remember the first time a domme bound me. But I can recall the amazing feeling of surrender. And damn, if I didn't look at least two inches longer and a whole lot bigger around.

So of course, when I decided to review sex toys for Eden Fantasys I immediately gravitated towards the CBB offerings. At my specific request, they sent me the Alchemy Metallics Cock Ring they offer.

Although I don't post there very often anymore, the lovely Mme. Veronica put up an irresistable thread on The Hang she entitled "My Drawer of Shame". In her post she detailed the facinating items hidden away in her personal toy drawer. Only Veronica would confess to having a thank you note from her mom in her drawer of shame! Anyway, in my tally I realized I actually had five cock rings, if you count the hinged ring on my CB-3000. Clearly, there's an identifiable pattern, wouldn't you say. And Eden Fantasys is a virtual cock rings R US kinda place.

So the Alchemy Ring was a natural for my first sex toys review. It is, as you can see, a handsome, sleek, shiny, sexy circle of metal. It is neither heavy nor is it so light that at the slightest provocation you'd worry about denting it or making it oblong. Over any leather snap or velcro rings and even over a leather or rope thong it cleans up very easily. However, before you order the ring, measure. Get a piece of string, wrap it around the circumference in question and measure. I didn't measure but thought sure an inch and three quarter diameter would be fine.

I was wrong. Can't get the damn thing on. I've stuffed and pulled and shoved and crammed but to no avail. I requested a two incher so I could provide a review based on actual use but was politely told to go with what I got because they were sold out of the two inchers. Maybe I'm the only fool not measuring...

The whole jam-it-on-my-junk process reminded me of the time when I'd just become She-Who-Visits client and She decided I needed a chastity device. We went on a little shopping trip to Purple Passion and returned to the studio to install the hardware. Needless to say the whole shopping foreplay thing got me all hot and bothered. Now it ain't braggin' if it's true but when She tried to lock the hinge ring on me she just couldn't squeeze tight and manage the whole pin lock thing. So she called the receptionist in who called two more dommes in. As you might imagine, this added fuel to the fire frustrating the ladies. Finally, after much grabbing, groaning, and giggling they locked me down.

Six days later after the hinge rubbed me a rare, raw, red and bloody mess, She gave me permission to cut myself out but I had to meet her to prove I wasn't going all wimp-boy on her.

"There better be a scab, or better yet an open wound," she menacingly warned.

She led me into a Starbucks bathroom near Macy's and inspected the damage. Suffice it to say, I've lived to tell the tale.

Anyway, the Alchemy Ring, as with any solid ring, has the disadvantage of perhaps being easier to get on when you aren't sporting a chub but more difficult to remove when your schlong is doin' ya proud. I was once put into very tight and restrictive cock and ball bondage and almost passed out from all the blood rushing to my wailing wood. Probably didn't help that I was somewhere around Day 60 of my record 82 days of on my honor chastity.

So, when all is said and done, if you like solid cock rings and want to give this sleek, smooth item a try - at $11.99 - you can't go wrong.

Maybe if I shave the manly bits and use a wee dram of ye olde lube I might succeed in getting some personal enjoyment out of my new plaything. After all, I'm a product of America, from the morgue to the prisons, and cold metal - it's how we win - but also how we sin.

2011-05-07T11:00:00.000-04:00

And Now...A Word From Our Sponsor

2011-04-23T11:36:00.000-04:00

The kind folks at EdenFantasys have asked me to review sex toys here on "Client Nine" occassionally. They stumbled on my scrawlings and made the offer. In return for a review with some links, I get to keep the toy! Is this a trick?

The site seems decent, if not specifically bdsm high end. But there certainly seems to be enough interesting stuff to keep me busy for awhile. Who knows, maybe I can even suggest acquisitions. Something in a nice Birdlocked perhaps? In addition, the gig brings a certain inspriation to find a dommy girl to play with. That way I could actually have some experience with the toy rather than say using a dildo as a retriever dummy for my dog.

Anyway, I've decided to whore myself to crass commercialism in order to acquire a few functional gizmos to enhance all those hot kinky sex liasons I've been having. Hopefully, I won't have to rent extra storage space in my building before I find someone to kick the tires with.

Despite my completely impulsive and precipitous decision to just go for it, I have put up the first "Client Nine" poll. Please weigh in on my move to become the Siskell and Ebert of sex toys.

2011-04-23T09:24:00.002-04:00

Vanilla Serial

2011-04-17T15:03:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-04-17T14:00:00.002-04:00

The Domme On 19th Street

2011-04-09T12:57:00.000-04:00

Her ad in Screw Magazine had no picture. Magazine is a misnomer. It was a sleezy, misogynistic rag. But Mr. Goldstein ran ads from dommes. After a time there was a whole section entitled Hells Belles. But her ad ran years before that and was just text and a phone number. I called the number and she answered.

I forget what her ad said or why it drew my attention. Who am I kidding? I called all the ads back then. I was a domme ad whore. I forget what she said or what it was about her manner that drove me to make an appointment. And I don't remember how it was I ended up in the Peter McManus Cafe as I was told. I just as often called, made appointments, and no showed.

It was before I quit drinking, in the gorgeous dirty desperation of late 70's New York. After I fortified myself with a shot or two of Bushmills, I called from the venerable Irish bar which still graces the corner of 19th Street and 7th Avenue. She answered. Come over, I'm right down the block.

I sometimes miss the feeling. Like I was the electricity shaking my body. Nothing else mattered except getting to that door and seeing it open, as if by magic.

I remember her well, though I can't recall her name. She was probably in her late twenties like me. Curvy and fit, dressed in classic black retro lingerie and back seamed stockings. Bullet bra, full panel panties, a waist-cinching garter belt,and nylons ending in skyscraper, patent leather stilletos. She had jet black hair cut in a Louise Brooks fetish bob.

She didn't smile, but had an easy, confident manner. She was smart and articulate. She put leather cuffs on me and attached me to the Saint Andrew's cross that was sunk into the wall of the bedroom in her clean, simple walk-up apartment. She matter-of-factly put nipple clamps on my virgin flesh. She rubbed her black pantied hips against my raging demonstration of desire.

She pulled me and slapped me and beat me. She laid me on my back, took her panties off and squatted over me. Over my mouth. She lashed me hard with her rough hewn riding crop as my tongue involutarily rose, its own mindless erection in full bloom.

"Put that back!" she snapped. "But keep your mouth open," her words a hot hiss, as I hurriedly did what I was told.

She pissed in my mouth and told me to swallow. She did it again. And again. And once more. I coughed and sputtered as taste, stomach and mind struggled with the confusion.

"One more time?", she asked sweetly. "For me?"

For weeks afterwards I tasted her in the oddest of moments. And every time I walk by McManus's Cafe, I think of the domme on 19th Street, and wonder what happened to her and marvel at what riches she showed me.

2011-04-09T12:01:00.002-04:00

The Stealth E-Date Profile

2011-04-03T09:29:00.002-04:00

So, you're a red-blooded, horny, kinky, newly single (or something), submissive guy and you want to maximize your chances of catching the eye of a dommy girl love interest. Sure, there are classes, fetish parties, munches, Shibari Cons, writing salons, and the old fashioned set-up. But when you get right down to it, don't you want to at least try the on-line dating thing?

Some time ago I signed up for CollarMe.com and I'm just recently getting more emails that say there are hordes of dominant women who live within five miles of me and want to meet me. I find CollarMe to be odd and very random. No thought given to potential compatibility.

Before I separated from my wife I messed around a bit on Alt.com. She-Who-Visits met her husband on Alt. But the site tends to be almost exclusively kink focussed. I mean I do have a serious vintage lingerie fetish, but I like to know she's well read and can run rings around me with her interests in dance, theatre, and her mastery (mistressery?) of some obscure 17th century artist. Me, I like a good action movie, a vat of diet coke, and a tub of salty, butter-like topping soaked popcorn. Don't they say opposites attract, or something?

But I figured what the hell, I took the plunge and I signed up again as "advochasty". We'll see. I like the overtly kinky profiles there.

I also joined Nerve.com. Mainly because at lunch last week with Ms. Mah Wah Kiss she emphatically stated I should immediately jump in there since everyone knows "Nerve is for Pervs". Site is set up like Alt. Both have these "Gold and Silver" pay-to-play memberships which allow more access to your fellow seekers. I tried to pay for Alt but the fraud protection folks stopped the transaction as suspicious. Oh come on, I've lived on my own almost a whole year now. I'm looking for love in all the right places, aren't I?

But my real find is OK Cupid. It's totally free, lets you post pictures, and has a never ending supply of personality based multiple choice questions that help to match you up to your potential perfect date. The site operators have a sense of humor too. I got an email this week that showed me five potential love interests. We'd gotten high compatibility ratings on some subjects and polar opposites in others. The email urged me to view the women as great "divorce material". Hilarious.

But what I like best about OK Cupid is that it rates by bar graph all the folks who answer the personality questions as having a higher or lower amount of say kindness, coolness, or spirtuality against an average. And they rate for kinky!

I joined OK Cupid at the suggestion of a kinky friend but she didn't tell me about the kink-o-meter. I just signed up this week. At first I was all like, "dude, this sucks", as I was getting hit on by women who wanted to walk on the beach and cook with me. But I discovered the kink-o-meter and now I'm the one who is cooking with gas! So far I've sent out three messages. All to bisexual women, all who are very clearly into kink. We'll see, they probably won't respond. But I find the site highly entertaining.

My stealth profile talks about vanilla stuff and hints at my kink. One of the bits of information the site asks you to provide is "The most private thing I'm willing to admit"... I wrote, something about liking nice, bold women who are appropriately mean. A domme would get that, wouldn't she? Not be offended that I want her mean. But I'm not saying my chastity record is 82 days, I like to drink your piss, and lick the back seam of your fully fashioned, reinforced heel and toe, black Cuban stockings. Though probably not in that order.

So there we have it. Advo the E-Dater. Hey, ya never know. A new subbie friend said he met his partner and Love Domme on E-Harmony! And if this doesn't work, maybe I'll just get a car that goes boom.

2011-04-03T09:29:00.000-04:00

I'll Give It To You Right

2011-03-26T11:54:00.003-04:00

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.

2011-03-26T11:54:00.000-04:00

A Pack Whore In Vice City

2011-03-19T23:45:00.003-04:00

It is magically beautiful weather here in South Florida. I'm down for the week doing the meet and greet hustle. Building a practice, meeting new people, and new kidding my way to life on a fresh block. I'm down until Wednesday when I catch my JetBlue flight back to Manhattan. As I take off, She-Who-Visits lands with Mr. She for a little R&R togetherness.

I won't get to see her this time. At least a part of the reason I've spent the last two years slaving over exams, networking, setting up a new office, and trying to get a toe hold for a new life is to have a chance to be closer to She. I'd be doing it all without that hope, but She's inspired me to live the dream.

Irony oozes as I associate being down here with seeing her. And I won't be seeing her this time. But that's okay. It really is just fine. I don't for a moment begrudge her quality time with the man she loves. I've really come such a long way. What makes her happy, makes me happy. But I miss her.

I'd gotten her a gift she'd wanted for her birthday. A stripper pole! I'd ordered it sent to my apartment in the West Village and it arrived some time back in November. It was a massive, huge, heavy box and I had no clue how to get it to her. Duty charges were triple its cost and just lugging the thing around to send it off was a monumental pain in the ass. So it sat gathering dust in my new bachelor digs.

When I found out she was coming to South Florida for vacation I offered to ship it to her hotel for her to pick up and tow back to her idylic island in the Caribbean. I loaded it into a car service and after a meeting dropped it off for overland shipment from a little mailing outpost in the FiDi that has become one of my favorite little businesses in town.

Then about ten days ago, She informed me she was doing one of her internet shopping hauls. I suggested she have it sent to my Miami office and she could come pick it up or I'd just send it off to her Fort Lauderdale hotel. However, this past week when I arrived there were four bulky boxes, a bag, and a little Estee Lauder beauty box. Waaaay too much to FedEx. So I figured I'd drop it at the hotel for her on my way to the airport or on my way up to see Aarkey and his wonderful wife tomorrow night for dinner.

When I got up this morning it was just a picture perfect day. An 80 degree, blue skyed, slice of utter perfection. So I decided to dedicate the morning to playing pack mule. She and I chat regularly on the phone and I'd told her I love being her pack mule.

"More like my pack whore", she snarked.

"Pack Whore!", I laughed. "I'll be your Pack Whore anytime!"

And so I spent my morning pack whoring in Vice City. Top down in the rental Mustang, music blaring on Florida's Turnpike, I arrived at her Broward County getaway with her booty in my convertible's boot. It's never easy with She. I had to break two of the bigger boxes down and dump her blouses, skirts, shirts, and shoe boxes into a garbage bag in order to cram all her crap into the trunk. I even saved the broken down boxes so she could tape them back up and return all the stuff that either didn't fit or didn't meet with her approval.

The nice woman at the hotel gave me one of those valet wheely carts with the big curved brass plated arches and carpeted floor trays to trundle She's load to the bell captain's closet. The cute concierge met me at the door and we wheeled the gargantuan cargo consignment to a crowded little room. As I was wheeling my pack whore's forward supply through the parking lot I had two guys fresh from the golf course snap a BlackBerry photo of me, which I immediately forwarded to She as proof of my devotion.

"She already has a big box in there", I informed the obliging concierge. "A large piece of exercise equipment".

"Well, you know how to make an entrance", she laughed.

She helped me unload and said she'd leave word at the desk that She had mail. Lots of mail.

As I was going back to the car to return for a Saturday afternoon in Vice City, my Crackberry vibrated in my pocket. It was She.

"I miss you soooo much!" She loves taking pictures of me hauling her stuff for her. It was a good shot. Me playing pack whore bell hop.

It's kind of like a ruined orgasm. Usually when I haul, I get to see her. No such luck this time. But as I blasted down I-95 with the hip-hop station turned way up loud, the whole morning brought me immense pleasure. I may not see her, but I was working my way back to her, thinking about all that I've won in my life.

2011-03-19T22:38:00.003-04:00

One Life To Live

2011-03-07T12:20:00.011-05:00

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.

2011-03-07T12:00:00.001-05:00

Voices

2011-02-26T10:19:00.000-05:00

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.

2011-02-26T08:45:00.003-05:00

Just Kids

2011-02-20T11:41:00.003-05:00

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...

2011-02-20T10:00:00.002-05:00

RopeShare Redux

2011-01-25T07:00:00.001-05:00

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.

2011-01-25T06:45:00.002-05:00

Dance With Me Through This Rain

2011-01-11T18:29:00.000-05:00

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"

2011-01-11T18:28:00.000-05:00

First Date of the New Year

2011-01-04T07:54:00.000-05:00

So tonight I'm seeing my new crush girl for the first time in almost a month. Our last date was a quiet, what-are-you-looking-for Advo kind of affair full of promises to see each other before she left NYC to go home for the holidays. Yet despite all the potential we failed to share even a quick cup of coffee and this was not for lack of trying on my part, or for that matter, on her part. But I can't help searching between the lines for a message though.

So last week I got an announcement that RopeShare returns and I asked Crush Girl if she wanted to go. I was very careful to tell her to say no if she had the slightest apprehension. Gotta say though, RopeShare is about as vanilla a true kinky experience as one can have.

First, I think rope bondage is the Scout's Honor merit badge activity of kink. Safety, knots, combination ties, plotting physical predicaments. Almost algebraic...

Second, it takes place on a Sunday afternoon in a brightly lighted space with everyone dressed in loosely fitting schmatta clothes.

Finally, it's a class about the rope. It's only sexy if you take it home to the bedroom or out to the dungeon. Otherwise it's like a Learning Annex class on home plumbing. Very cool home plumbing with nice, fun, interesting, attractive plumbers. But a session it ain't.

So I was perplexed that Crush Girl chose not to respond at all to my invitation. Not yes and not no. Just nothing. Then she asked me out for tonight, Tuesday night. Not exactly date night.

So I'm thinking she's gonna tell me she likes me but just wants to be friends. The dread "F" word.

We'll see. If I'm right, I'm saying no. Me no friend you after you bite my cheek. But maybe I'm thinking too much. Check the comments for the skinny. Jeez, I don't need even need a good one. I'll take a bad romance.

2011-01-04T06:44:00.002-05:00

Death Of A Dog - Birth Of A Future

2010-12-19T11:46:00.001-05:00

His name started as a joke. My wife kidded she wanted to introduce us, "This is my husband Advo and my dog Advotey." The name stuck. Many people thought it was the height of self-centered, narcissistic vanity that I'd named my dog after myself. Advotey's name was also my father's nickname.

I inherited the legasy of an absent, alcoholic father who terrified me as a child with guns and untrained hunting dogs. My uncharacteristic mid-life outdoorsman odyssey was an expiation of these sins. My dog was my guide.

My once strong and noble hunter had been dying for over a year. Wracked with the effects of Cushing's disease his powerful back legs were wasting away, his handsome head was boney, and his once thick lusterous coat was thin and marred with bald spots and warts. Though he was recovering remarkably well from the Cushing's, two weeks ago he had his second violent seizure in a month and I knew it was time to help him die.

For fifteen years he'd guarded my soul, retrieved my spirit, and happily licked clean my wounds of day-to-day human life. It's the deal we make with a dog. They love us - period. They trust us to do right. In that bond we are rescued from mediocrity and become heros to a wagging tail.

Dogs are pure D/s creatures. They dominate or they submit. He would dive into a tangled thicket of sharp thorns, completely oblivious to vicious bloody stabbings, to recover a small quail and then obediently deliver it to my hand. I spent years training him. He was a soft dog. You could not be too harsh with him. He served and he lived to please.

He is my model of the noble, strong, courageous submissive. I miss him horribly, but am comforted that for all he gave me, I held up my end of the bargain.

Aarkey and I had spent the day in my new office grunting and groaning together what turned out to be a massive desk that threatened to eat the space whole. He claimed I was overcompensating for something. Wise ass.

Anyway, I'm a tenant in the beautiful downtown suite and my new landlords were throwing a holiday party that night - my reason to come down and work the room.
We cleaned up as we could but tiny white bits of styrofoam packing littered the plush deep green hallway carpeting outside the office. I was told there was no vacuum cleaner.

My next door neighbor is a partner in one of the firms and she serves as the office manager. She came to the door dressed for the party in a short red mini-dress, black hose, black heels and a clingy black sweater.

She bluntly chided, "Advo, this has to be cleaned up," as she pointed to the minute white particles. She glared at me and walked off.

Aarkey and I looked at each other. "Dude, she shoulda put her hand on her hip," he suggested. "Yeah", I giggled, "and pointed at me and then at the floor."

I went out into the hallway and picked up every last little nib of white. Apparently, Aarkey's wife got quite the chuckle from our first day at the new office story.

My spirit dog romps loyally with me as the future tugs me forward with heartache, hope and maybe a few laughs along the way.

2010-12-19T09:00:00.001-05:00

Fleeting Questions

2010-12-05T08:30:00.004-05:00

I had dinner with my wife Friday night instead of dancing with a domme.

What's with that?

Truth be told, I have the dregs of a nasty cold and didn't feel much like playing Fred to my dommy dance partner's Ginger. My wife is leaving town for ten days or so and I just wanted to be close to over two decades of intimacy. The value in shared history, however marred by conflict, is truly comforting.

How do you figure?

I had a date last night with my new love interest. I re-texted our restaurant rendez-vous and added a "be there or be square". She replied she was too hip to be square. I added that her hips were most definitely not square. Truth be told I was too nasal nasty to be make-out material. But we had a wonderful talk about our unexpected connection. After dinner we walked arm in arm through Times Square to Eighth Avenue. She kissed me goodnight on my mouth through her soft leather glove as I wriggled excitedly telling her how hot that made me. "We'll try it with a veil next time", she whispered. She shoved me toward the subway commanding me to go away and walked abruptly off, leering over her shoulder at me as she disappeared into the holiday crowd of an early winter's eve.

Where does she fit?

As I write this my older dog is pacing my snappy new Far West Village loft apartment, unable to relax, occassionally stopping, tilting his head into the air and plaintively, softly, howling. He's trying to tell me something. He's old, he's tired, he hurts. I just don't know what he wants. He's so boney and small from the effects of his Cushing's disease we've been battling. He's a such a good boy.

How long will he remain with me?

Fleeting questions. The answers just out of reach.

2010-12-05T08:00:00.002-05:00

Gonna Take A While For This Egg To Hatch

2010-11-25T12:35:00.004-05:00

Somehow Thanksgiving just doesn't inspire my perv side like the week between Christmas and New Year does. But despite all life's current challenges and difficulties I am very thankful. I have lots of new kinky friends. I get to go have Thanksgiving dinner with the same folks I've done the holiday with for twenty two odd years and my wife and I will eat together and be happy to see each other.

I have a kinky dance partner and though I know the studio and instructors are just hustling us, they all say we're hot.

And then there's the new crush girl who is cooking dinner for 20 and called me the other night from the grocery line just to say hi. And even though my condo deal in Miami went south and I won't be going to Art Basal with Ms. Mah Wah Kiss; I have my license to practice in the sun.

I'm to bring soda, near beer, and cigars today and on the way back, my playlist produced this goodie which made me think of my kinky new crush girl. Sometimes I'm just a teenage girl.

2010-11-25T12:00:00.004-05:00

Holly Came From Miami FLA

2010-11-12T16:59:00.019-05:00

Upheaval, cataclysmic transition, adjustment as agonizing as it is thrilling. But at bottom, it is all about change.

A few months ago I sat in the Fort Lauderdale aiport, writing my blog having come up short. Today as I write, I'm a sworn member of the club (I'm told there's a secret handshake), I have an office, and I am reviewing a lease for a huge, cheap, sleek, apartment with a free parking space. For a Manhattanite - this is shangri-la!! My dream of being a bi-east-coastal big shot is upon me. Now the trick is to get work.

On the other hand, my wife has been diagnosed with a horrible neurological condition that may in fact lead to an utter dissembling of any remote quality of life and cause the most horrible of swift, but torturous deaths. We find out more just after the first of the year.

I could talk about riding waves or the best of worst times or worst of best times. But figure if I show up each day and reach for the strength to be present; I'll be here to deal.

Not much kink. Just a lot of life with its fractured and frustrating flights of fancy and fear. I just f'd the f out of that, huh?

2010-11-12T16:45:00.002-05:00

Snapshots

2010-10-31T00:47:00.004-04:00

Me...I'm learning how to lead on the dance floor and she's trying to learn to follow. It would be hilarious if she'd relax and admit she's a domme. We're actually getting quite good together, though I've given up thinking there's any chance of sexual combustibility.

But on Wednesday night when I got up to offer the other one, the new blind date, the wall seat at the little local neighborhood restaurant where everyone seems to already know my name she said, "Of course I'd like that spot, and you should immediately sit here", she smiled and pointed to the outside chair. Be still my heart! Senorita Kinky did pre-screen!

Our conversation just flitted and flowed from this subject to that one. She asked if our mutual friend had told me anything about her and I said only that she was beautiful. It made her eyes sparkle and her glossed lips curve into an appreciative smile.

"So do you do both roles", she asked.

"You mean am I a switch?" I asked. "Well let's put it this way, I'm actually learning to lead on the dance floor. Does that count?"

She laughed.

I yattered on.

"Well, I have this dear friend who thinks it's a team sport and you should choose a side," I smirked a bit. "But life is change, who knows. Stranger things could happen."

She held my hand as we waited on Hudson for a cab to take her home. I put my other hand over hers and softly ran my fingers around her fingers. I lingered a bit. As the cab pulled up she took my face in both hands and kissed me, just left of my mouth, long and slow. I helped her in, shut the door and began the two block walk home.

I reached for my phone as I passed by the Louboutin boutique and to my surprise there was a message.

"You're supposed to wait and watch as the cab pulls away. You are out of practice. Naughty, naughty."

Somos novios? Hmmm...maybe I'm jumping the gun just a bit. But maybe, just maybe, I'll get some practice one of these fine evenings after all.

2010-10-31T00:46:00.002-04:00

Sometimes A Heart Is No Place To Be Singing From At All

2010-10-23T09:59:00.002-04:00

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"

2010-10-23T09:59:00.000-04:00

A Road Not Taken

2010-10-17T20:38:00.000-04:00

I was talking to the new shrink. The one that's going to help me get off the azapammy pills. It totally and completely pisses me the utter fuck off that I've become emotionally and physically dependant on prescription anti-anxiety meds and sleeping pills. He said the ironic thing was that I probably hadn't needed them in the first place. But now it's body chemistry to cut them back and wean me off gradually. With all the 12 step knowledge I have and the almost thirty years of sobriety from alcohol I've maintained, this just infuriates the crap out of me. Mind you, I'm not abusing, just taking what's been prescribed. But,I want off.

It is what it is.

The good news is he says it should be pretty straight forward. The bad news is it will take a frustratingly long time.

I had a handsomely compensated hour and forty five minutes to blabber on about my stuff to him. Anyhow, I'm telling the shrink about my kink. I attributed a lack of compatibility on fetish/bdsm as one of a number of causes of the breakdown of my marriage, the loss of which has ignited a repetitively explosive amount of dread and forboding in me.

The shrink asks, "Why didn't you just find the dominant woman of your dreams and ride off into the sunset." Literal quote, I kid you not.

I told him I was ashamed. Or used to be ashamed. I told him I'd gone to a T.E.S. meeting in the early eighties to try to meet kinky people. Who is Tess he wanted to know. Took me two passes to educate him. Anyway, I had run away as people seemed kind of judgemental that I'd spent a fair amount of time with prodommes at that point. I'm sure I was being overly sensitive.

I told Meds Doc I have friends now. Kinky friends. Friends who set me up on dates. Friends who call me when they haven't heard from me. Friends who I'm sure will be concerned and upset for me about this most recent development. Wonderful, kinky, creative, real friends.

Searching for the sunset is all fine and dandy but it was not the road I took. Nothing wrong with what I did. But my choice did fracture a life into a compartmentalized secret.

My wife hurt her knee this week and I had to rescue her from our place in the country. The hospital had put a brace on her leg and I told her she looked very Helmut Newton. But this time her comments about did that turn me on and was I one of those who is turned on by quadriplegic women weren't even delivered with much venom and the bite just seemed de-fanged.

Maybe there will be a sunset ride out there yet. But in the meantime, I'm enjoying cavorting about on the open range and seeing where the trails may lead.

2010-10-17T19:15:00.003-04:00

From Cliche To Costume

2010-10-10T09:09:00.014-04:00

I hate Halloween. Every year I feel the pressure to release my inner child and come up with the perfect costume. I never can manage to quiet the voices of criticism, sending my eager little kid to the corner all sad and disappointed that he doesn't get to trick and treat.

This year I've been invited to one Halloween party so far. At Ms. Mah Wah Kiss's loft. She's going as some Chinese cartoon devil girl villain. Who carries a whip. She said she was either going as a "DominAtrix" (pronounced with the accent on the non-existant A) or the cartoon villian, but was concerned that I not go crazy if she dressed as a domme. I love that she thinks my capacity for cruel denial is so low. It's so cute.

I was sinking into my usual "I'm-just-not-going-because-I-can't-figure-out-a-costume-and-I'm-going-to-eat-a-worm" funk yesterday morning. So I told my self, "Self, buck the fuck up ya baby!" and I started messing around with internet searches. I wanted a fetish-theme costume. So I began to search and look and there's really nothing original out there. Besides, it's not a fetish party this one. In addition to Ms. Kiss's shindig, maybe I'll either be invited to a fetish one or go to one of the public ones. The public ones sound very much not my scene though.

So I needed a get-up that would pass, but say something about who I am. So I thought, what's cliche? A waiter, a cabana boy, a Roman slave? All so oh ho, ho, hum. Then I thought what is cliche about the domme/slave relationship and yet outwardly positive? The cliche is that of a cowering, wimpy submissive. The positive twist is a brave Lancelot or Galahad. So maybe I'd go as a knight! Fearless and loyal and courageous - but kneels at his Queen's feet. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Boooring!!! See what I mean about the nasty little peanut gallery in my brain?

I thought, so what do cartoon dominatrixes say to thier partners?

"You worm!", she'll snarl all dressed in an overstated leather body suit; black thigh high boots, blah, blah, blah.

Hmm...a worm. Hard to walk, hard to dance, no panache.

"Pig", she sneers. "Come here you dirty pig."

That's it!! I'll go as a proud, in your face, Dirty Pig. So I immediately went to Ricky's and got a nose and a pair of huge pink sunglasses. I added pig ears that come up out of holes I cut in the $5 bowler hat, and a prominent corkscrew pink tail. The look is prurient porker Elton John imitator meets a Clockwork Orange. I'm adding a tight white man beater, baggy black pants, and black braces. Some wash off tatoos. Add my black on black, white soled Nikes and a cigar to chomp on. Top it all off with my electric pink bow tie with a chunky D-ring hanging off it. I tie my own you know.

Presto! A dirty, edgy, sexy, rock'n rolla, bad boy pig.

"Hey baby! Can ya strap it on and make me squeal like the dirty little piggy I am?"

Hmmm, how many times can I get slapped?

This character allows license to say completely obnoxious things.

"This little pig don't want no roast beef, sweetheart. He wants to roll in the muck for you, doll face!"

"Yo, what about 'choo and me go to market, if you catch my drift, sweet cakes."

Really. I totally need a fetish party for this outfit/persona to be appreciated and appropriately punished.

But the persona gives license to do and say things that should suffer immediate castigation and decisive discipline. Even vanilla girls will want to beat me up!

Proud Pig, Dance Pig, In-Your-Face Dirty Pig. This little piggy likes it rough!

2010-10-10T09:00:00.001-04:00

Diana

2010-10-01T06:55:00.009-04:00

I used to slink into the deeply sexual seediness of the old, pre-Disneyland, Times Square to ferret out bdsm porn. I mostly sought out the contact magazines. I felt melded to this secret underbelly of hot bdsm sex. There were days I thought of nothing more. Somehow I managed to graduate, get a job and get sober during the late 70's and early 80's; but all I really truly wanted to do when the need hit was to see prodommes. It was an irresistable impulse. Completely and utterly beyond my control. I felt horrible, racking guilt at my complete lack of control. I was a bad, bad, boy for wanting this. And this was the essence of hot. Being bad - being secret - being a double-life agent sneak - made it all the more forbidden and all the more gut wretchingly, achingly, dick-hardenly hot.

A prodomme friend talked about how she got way too many emails where the guy just put his dick on the table and expected - no demanded - in a language that only remotely resembled English, that she deal with it. I used to do that all the time, whether by letter, phone call, or much, much later by email. I liked to think I was charming and facinating, but I was just a major league, presumptuous pain in the ass.

I exhibited, within the bounds of the comparatively reasonable, the worst attributes of clients. I no-showed, I was a vertible cock spammer when I discovered email, I called and wasted time promising a call back and never coming through. I sessioned twice or three times and then disappeared - I'm sure leaving her to wonder if she'd offended me, done something wrong, and what had happened anyway. I gave bad client.

But when the drive was clean, pure, lust and I connected? When there was a chemistry with a beautiful, experienced domme? The scene was was virally sexual, beautiful and deeply fullfilling.

Diana was one of the those dommes.

It was the early to mid 80's. Houses had not hit the Scene. I was an avid reader of all the Matriarch productions. A tall lithe Russian domme named Sasha had caught my eye and I somehow managed to write to her at a P.O. Box and got a contact number. The process of making the appointment was sex itself. There was just something about being asked over the phone when I'd last sought solo relief and was I rubbing one out while we spoke. Made me boil over with such inexorably driven desire that I just could not ever say no, when the need hit.

Years later, a domme friend said it was like "Cat People". You couldn't help turning into the huge, primal black cat.

Diana's studio at the time was on the south side of 23rd Street between Park and Third. Years later I visited Venus's studio which was in the same building, only a floor below. Diana's place was at the top of a seemingly endless, vertical staircase climb. But I thought I was seeing Sasha. When she met me at the door, she looked a little different than her pictures, but she was hot so who cared. It was definitely going to work.

I saw her pretty regularly for about two years. After the third session she confessed that her name was Diana and Sasha was an entirely different person. Diana really introduced me to small stints of chastity as she preferred I come to her with at least three days of no orgasm. She showed me how much more desperate, submissive, and compliant I became without release. She play pierced me. She teased me mercilessly. I found two picture books in the bins of a dimly lit Times Square smut shop dedicated to only her. I made cut-out montages and brought them to her. I was deeply connected. But not in love.

Then one day when I called for a session, she was gone. I was bereft. I tracked down the real Sasha after many failed attempts. She said Diana had left town but promised she'd get my teary, heartfelt, plea to know where she was to her. I never heard from Diana again.

Maybe it was the first time I truly realized the power of the client/prodomme relationship. I couldn't imagine life without her. And yet I've never heard from her or anything about her. Though there are dommes from my past I wonder about -- she has not become one of them.

Such is the nature of so much secrecy.

But there was something about being tied tightly to her simple bondage chair as I'd watch her pull up her tight, little, black ribbed dress high over her hips. She'd watch me. Stare into my eyes. Look down at my involuntary, iron-risen, reaction. She'd sidle over to touch my face, to whisper in my ear some reeking obscentity. She'd sit on my knee. If she released my hand would I show her, she'd ask? Would I show her how much I wanted what I could never have? Would I present her my honey? Did I want this?

Could I beg?

Could I give a her just a tiny little piece of my heart?

What do you think?

2010-10-01T06:45:00.001-04:00

Red Soles

2010-09-27T07:00:00.002-04:00

She and I and her friend walked down the block towards Hudson Street in search of breakfast at sunset. Her attention was drawn to the shoe boutique window that was a major selling point in support of my move to the new neighborhood. The store changes its display regularly. The window that drew her attention held two shoes; a sneaker-look shoe in a red, white, and blue sequins and a skyhigh pump in the same design.

It pleased me immensely that the sneaker seemed to hold no interest.

She caught up with us.

"Great shoes!", she enthused with a soul satifying blurt.

"You know the store, right?", I asked.

With her blank look I explained it was the Louboutin boutique. This sent her scurrying back to the window with me thinking, "She doubts a shoe perv?"

She came strolling back with a big smile and allowed as to how I was absolutely right, explaining to her girlfriend that Christian's delights were the absolute it shoe, always identifiable by the fire engine red sole on the bottom.

Huh, ya learn something everyday. I've been walking by that window every day for almost two months and never noticed each hot and heavenly pair sported bright red soles.

Made me want to lick my tongue that very shade.

2010-09-27T06:45:00.002-04:00

Familiarity

2010-09-22T06:58:00.010-04:00

Scene

In the bathroom of the beachside hotel She and advo shared for Labor Day weekend. The door remains open as he sits to pee. Normally he stands. She is compulsively insuring there is no sand on the tile floor as she walks a towel around him. He tries to concentrate on the task at hand.

advo: I can never get it all out when I sit. I'm always coming back.

She: Same thing happens to me when I give golden showers standing up.

Oh, the iconic poster graces my bathroom in my new apartment in the Far West Village. I like the familiar.

But if a girl wants you to win her heart, and you're not sure what to do if you win it, should you try?

2010-09-22T06:23:00.001-04:00

Yessssss!!!

2010-09-20T11:50:00.003-04:00

To all of you who wished me well.

Thank you so much!!

I passed.

2010-09-20T11:45:00.001-04:00

Roman Holiday

2010-09-18T08:28:00.007-04:00

If you don't enjoy whiney bloggers then perhaps you should go to the next entry on your reading list since I plan to bleat and moan a bit in this post.

Go on, admit it.

You like hearing a nice droney little whimper every now and then if only to feel superiour and say to your self, "That little bitch ought to buck up."

So I've called Ms. Mahwah Kiss like seven times since I got back from Florida and have gotten no meaningful response. When we were more casually acquainted, she'd drop off my radar for months at a time. Then we'd hook-up by happenstance and have dinner or coffee, then go months without seeing each other. But in these emotionally charged times I need more than this from a friend and she's just taken a complete powder.

She-Who-Visits has called me a couple of times in the evening this week and I've been out play dating. Practicing up for my Monday night real deal. I think it's the height of rudeness to take cell calls during dinner. So I didn't answer when she rang. She'll often call and either not leave a message or snark a little, send her love between the lines, and hang up. But on Thursday night she left a message and specifically called my outgoing voice mail dispatch whiney and unprofessional. Then unequivocally stated she was "officially giving up on me."

Now I know she probably doesn't mean this. I've called, texted, emailed and she hasn't responded. I tried her at lunch on Friday and she actually answered.

"Not now", she spat into the phone and abruptly hung up.

This, I suppose, is the downside of liking mean girls. Sometimes they are mean to me when I least deserve it. She knows this is the weekend before the Monday release of exam results. Mr. She sleeps on the same bed of pins and needles that I do. I thought it was particularly cruel of her to announce she was cutting me off just before the last exam watch weekend.

But what? I expect this personality type to be low-maintenance?

Finally, my wife is off to the West for ten days. She suffers a horrible limbo status; she knows she has a serious medical problem but awaits a veritable barrage of test results. This sends her scurrying compulsively to every doomsday Web M.D. diagnosis site on the internet. She's professionally concluded with a high degree of "scientific certainty" that she is about to die. Nothing I can do or say helps. I try suggesting that it is interesting that her obsession with death has coincidentally arisen practically simulataneously with our separation. This, might I say, astute, observation is immediately dismissed in a hail of vitriol. She is certain I believe she is simply an hysteric. As completely selfish as it sounds, I'm actually relieved she's gone for a little while.

Now watch, she'll die and I'll feel years of deep post-mortem, guilt ridden, remorse.

Finally, my oldest dog - my fifteen year old heart and soulmate dog - has green pus infected, bloody, abscesses on his back. Formerly a thorn and thicket tough, pheasant flushing hunter; he can barely keep up with me on our very moderate morning runs.

No wonder I bought a case of rock lobster so the restaurant could serve my Monday night birthday dinner date her favorite arthropod al fresco. That and I want her to tie me up and make out with me.

For some reason, this all made me think of the scene in the HBO series "Rome" in which Atia whips her slave Castor just for the hell of it. No sex, no punishment. Atia of the Julii is just going through a rough patch and she decides to whip the shit out of her loyal, devoted, protective, personal.

Perhaps that's what comes with the turf submission. Doesn't mean I can't whine about it every now and then. Here's a clip from the show about the slaves of Rome. Start at the 1:35 mark for the Atia/Castor profile.

I love Castor's line after he's taken an innumerable number of Atia's best.

"Will that be all, Domina?"

2010-09-18T08:00:00.001-04:00

Crustacean Quester

2010-09-16T07:24:00.007-04:00

Okay. I promised I wouldn't write about the good date. But I am a deeply flawed individual. My need to share and compose the written word sometimes trumps tact and good sense. I totally understand people, especially girls I'm sweet on, not wanting to become characters on my blog. Frankly, I don't know for sure she's even looked at my stuff so maybe I'm living dangerously - flying precariously under her radar. Oh the utter thrill of it all. Until it comes crashing down around my ears because I'm a self-centered lout who cares only for a good blog story that a handful of people may, or may not read.

We went on one date and I really like this woman. So we've arranged another. I've done the asking. How un-subbie, no? But I've loved it. So she has a request. Outdoor seating and lobster. I am dispatched to find the perfect spot. A no brainer, right?

Mind you, on our first date all she asked for was al fresco dining and in my utter haste to both please and find the perfect, romantic little Manhattan hideaway, I chose a restaurant that had closed. So she took the opportunity to add a reminder to the most recent task that I should keep in mind it was important to select a restaurant that was actually open for business.

I love her already, right?

So I conduct swift research and immediately find a swank Greek joint on the East Side in Midtown that has a nice outdoor patio and serves lobster. I triumphantly email her and trumpet my quickness and enthusiasm, but promise more choice, in the off chance that I have unexpectedly missed the mark - little likelihood though there may have been of that.

She emails me back and allows as to how it looks like a lovely place but I have completely missed the challenge of the quest. It's not just any old lobster. It's lobster tails.

Okay, I like lobster as much as the next foodie, but don't all lobsters have tails? Claws and tails and lots of other extraneous, spiney, but essentially inedible stuff.

No, as I ultimately learn in a series of very teasingly dommy emails, what my devious date wants most is rock lobster tails. I learn these mutant crayfish have no claws and are harvested primarily in Florida and California. It is the rare Big Apple bistro which serves them. Indeed, after I located a fish monger in the Chelsea Market which sold three sizes of these elusive arthropods and tried to convince a restaurant with a charming garden to let me BYOL, my date confessed that despite scouring Manhattan for years, she had dug up only a measley few places that served rock lobster tails, none with a garden. Thus, she knowingly sent me off to attempt the impossible.

Is she perfect or what?

However, she has bestowed major brownie points, gold stars, and profuse praise for my inventive persistence. Hey, if Artie at the fancy little Greek spot gets his supplier to deliver rock lobster tails for our date Monday night, haven't I just pulled the substantial gourmand equivalent of Excalibur from it's cold stone for my fair lady? Isn't this just the best D/s foreplay ever?

Somebody pass me my nose guard and the tanning butter! My mussels are flexin' and my flipper is 'a flippin'.!!!

2010-09-16T07:00:00.002-04:00

Where My Heart Won't Break Me

2010-09-06T07:49:00.014-04:00

Tampa International Airport feels clean and efficient; like a pleasantly homogenized slice of Gulf Coast southern gentility with a hefty helping of mid-Western work ethic thrown in for good measure. She's flight had landed early, though I had been there for a good hour, jump beaning from my skin at the thought of seeing her again after a ten month hiatus. The main terminal hub is serviced by pairs of swift, smooth, space-agey trams that shuttle passengers on spokes of monorail track to the departure and arrival gates. The trams ran like pairs of modern metal relay racers ferrying packs of travelers to and fro.

From my watch post I could see the delivery duo for the Carribean arrivals slide in and out. I had to hop back and forth to eye each influx of deplaners. For a good half hour I eagarly jitterbuged back and forth to make sure I caught the first glimpse. And finally, there She was. She came right up, dropped both bags to the floor, gave me a huge hug, and said, "You're the only person I know who I can leave and take up with as though we've never been apart".

The next morning in the warm water of the Gulf of Mexico, She later confessed she thought she'd seen a dead body in a wet suit.

She-Who-Visits is a world class, technically trained, and vastly experienced diver. She is strong, hard bodied, and has the nutty brown tan of an island girl. She'd been twenty feet down, scouring the bottom of the sea for her treasured shells. Coming up She thought she'd seen an arm encased in the black neoprene of a wet suit floating akimbo, attached to a lifeless body. Shocked, she said she'd almost inhaled water with the sucked gasp of terror. She'd been trained to save people. She knew she had to retrieve the body and assist in the notification of the bereaved loved ones.

"There's something under us," She whispered. I felt something slick and smooth brush my leg. "I'm standing on a ledge", she said in a voice that sounded apprehensive. She later confessed to complete horror and, not wanting to panic me, she struggled for control. She was facing shore and I was facing the open ocean.

All of a sudden I saw a broad black back streaked with white break the water's surface and roll gently in a slick hump back into the warm, thankfully oil-free Gulf.

"Manatee!!", I shouted gleefully.

"What..." She asked, sounding slightly dazed.

"It's a manatee!!! No, it's two!", I cried happily.

And She-Who-Visits and I frolicked with two gentle sea cows for a few magical minutes. Underwater, one looked at me with placid dark round eyes and I reached out and petted a docile, briney, bovine, nose.

One of the things She and I have always shared is being married. But this visit, my leg of that stool was broken. I was deeply shaken, ashamed and mortified that at times I had to make an excuse to go to shore and cry, hidden alone in the trees or behind sunglasses as She dove for her beloved ocean treasure. The pain of my separation was actually invigorated by seeing my dear friend who had provided so much solace and sexual acceptance over the past four years we've known one another and I've struggled with middle-aged matrimony.

With friends I can wear my emotion like a bothersome badge. I told She about my dating, which she blessed, though I thought she was a little miffed I didn't seek approval beforehand. I told her how broken hearted I felt to not be able to share tales of marriage with her. We talked that one day we might not play, but would remain friends. She talked alot about her life with Mr. She as she always does. It was alternately comforting to hear her tales of married life and heartbreaking to see my marital leg of our stool; detached and in the deep grass of an uncertain and yet-to-be completely defined separation after twenty two years of mitered and mortised joinder.

And though She swore this would be a vanilla weekend, it was not. Seasoned diver and power shopper, She spotted a DSW as we meandered in town. I practically swerved across three lanes of on-coming traffic to satisfy her squeal of delight. Apparently, there are not many stores on her island paradise. As a gift to the domme and dear friend I love, I bought her a pair of black sling backs. Later that night, our last together, she let me tougue clean and smell them as she sat on the ottoman, tanned legs crossed, smiling wickedly down at my grovelings.

But I sensed a distance. Later, in the aftermath of play, she accused me of whining like a dramatic little girl and overplaying my role like a novice dominatrix. We've played many, many times together and she's never expressed such displeasure. I know she thinks I talk too much, a problem solved this visit with a sweaty running sock. But something in her tone belied not a problem with my sub-style, but one of a more She-centered, personal nature. I mean what self respecting, red-blooded, manly, submissive doesn't wheedle and whine and beg? No, her inflection and annoyance fortold perhaps a problem in her life or that we just weren't as connected this time around.

On the drive to Miami across Alligator Alley I told her I had always admired her for protecting her marriage, for loving Mr. She, and a for being a good wife. I told her I never wanted our deep, one-of-a-kind, lightening strike relationship to threaten any aspect of her union.

She said she thought our relationship would evolve and change over time with the twists and turns of life.

She told me that our previous goodbyes had made her want to run. My morose sadness at our parting had badly burdened her. But my life's twists and turns have changed me and changed her in our four years of friendship and play. She is no longer my only real connection to a kink life. I now live with privacy, but more openly. So this time, I could really say goodbye to her without feeling an overwhelming loss and trust that there will be a next visit, there will be more surprise phone calls, and we will be bound to one another in the unexpected and unpredicable kink kabuki of our amazing dance.

Because like my first kinky day dream of a girl on a bike tying me up and trundling me off, She takes me down to the railroad line.

2010-09-06T07:45:00.002-04:00

Vanilla Visitation?

2010-09-02T09:46:00.008-04:00

She-Who-Visits arrives today in the Sunshine State and we are heading for her favorite shelling spot in all the world. As Earl stormily stomps its way up the eastern seaboard, the coast is clear Gulf-Side. I'm excited. To say the least.

However, She has allowed as to how this is going to be a "vanilla" weekend. Ahh...yeah. Whose vanilla weekend? She's already given me a list of stores to line-up and Google Map for our trip south to her shrimp-shaped atoll. She knows I love to search and organize for her. Just following her around J.C. Penny is deeply devotional for me. So while we may not play and she may simply ignore how horribly horny I'm feeling, such disregard will kindle and inflame my kinky soul. So as someone recently said, it's a "Win-win".

While she's a woman of her word, there's a glint of quixotic, hopeful, glee in my squinty little subbie eye that She will relent.

Even if she sticks to her guns and never once intentionally sends me to sub-space heaven with just a glance - it will be deeply reassuring during a time of such turmoil in my life to see one of my dearest friends in all the world after a ten month absence.

Yo, Peaches! Just call me Herb!

2010-09-02T09:06:00.001-04:00

Advo Dates

2010-08-31T07:16:00.005-04:00

My, my...that didn't take long now did it. So far I've been on two dates. One was so good I'm not writing about it. I really liked her. Gotta be cool fool.

The second one was last night. She was one of the clamoring hordes of dominant women who crave a date with me from my Craigslist ad. One of two clamorers. The other one, a Ms. Cindy Rella, wanted to know what business I was expanding. I wrote a very nice answer confessing my penchant for the pursuit of a license to be Mr. Miami Vice Mouthpiece. I wondered if her last name was Italian. She never got back to me. Something about having to meet a Ms. White and some ornery dwarfs.

But last night's date was with a real deal domme. Very sweet, age appropriate, smart, and funny. But at best we'll be friends, and I doubt even that. She has a demanding, competitive business, a vanilla guy at home who knows about her daliances and approves, loads of friends, and is looking for "the one true submissive".

She described him as someone who she could keep in her closet to bring out whenever whimsy created need. She was funny and playful about this fantasy but it was her ideal. The other type of guy she liked was one who just went with her flow. No complaints, no negotiation, no bleating or whining. She also said she had little sexual connection to bdsm. If you clean my house, you wait on the corner with a mop and a bucket until I give you permission to come up. She said 95% of all her house boy applicants failed that test.

While this particular test is one I could easily pass, she and I have very different views of our "ideal". Hey, I've given up a marriage, a beautiful coop apartment, a neighborhood -- a life -- to be out of the closet. Please don't put me back there?

Plus, I'd like my dominant to love what I bring to the party. I envision a shared life, not one where I'm on 911 standby.

Plus, there's the sex part. I like the sexah-sexah. Sorry, but bdsm is all about sex for me. Plus, it has been so long since I've had any that I am truly a born-again virgin. I should just all Jonas-Brother-Up and instead of experimenting with taking off my almost twenty year old wedding band, buy myself a purity ring and own it.

Nah, I'm on the prowl for a domme who wants me. With all my quirks and imperfections. Somebody who loves stockings and heels and retro-lingerie. A girl who I'll love to serve, especially when she wakes up in a rumpled t-shirt with bed hair and a bleary eyed look.

I'll know because she'll smile when I bring her coffee in the morning and rub her feet at night. And I'll agree she's always right ... mostly.

Although Labor Day is around the bend, it's still Advo's Summer of Love.

2010-08-31T07:00:00.002-04:00

Ana

2010-08-25T06:36:00.008-04:00

Her ads in DDI and other bdsm publications of the time were striking. Tall, dark, and rail thin, her hips flared in the simple black corsets she seemed fond of wearing. Sometimes her thick black hair was down, wildly entwining her shoulders as she brandished a cane, almost saying, "Call me, and we'll see how much you can take." In other photos her hair was severerly tied back in a bun, completely hidden by her riding helmet. Instead of jodhpurs and a white shirt, she wore a skin tight, black body suit and real riding boots. I recall being facinated by how such a slender woman's hips burst so curvaceously from her waspy waist.

Her name was Ana Hunt.

Long before I called her and made an appointment for a little slice of heaven, I was riveted by her simple, challenging ads. She oozed sex and experience. I had just turned forty and she was, as she eventually told me, "my senior". After being every kind of lousy, unreliable, bothersome version of wanker/no show client known to domme-dom, I finally made an appointment on a cold November weeknight when I had been out of town all day and had a custom made excuse as to why I'd be late home.

She had a beautiful, private studio in a brownstone in Chelsea. It was dark and each room had wonderful wooden bookcases filled with leather, hard cover, volumes on any subject one might imagine. She had a slightly European, not of this country air to her. She was at once welcoming and menacing - inviting but simmeringly sadistic. I had taken to writing out an explanation of where I was and what I was looking for from my domme. I was often so overwhelmed by desire and nerves that I'd find it hard to articulate my ever-so-demandingly-client-centric wish list. I delivered my creative top her from the bottom entreaty on my knees as she watched me; an amused, barely tolerant, grin pursing her full, red painted lips. When I finished she sat silently.

"I understand you," she said softly. "You write very well."

"Here," she beckoned as she stood. I took her extended hand. "Let's start you out over here in the next room".

She led me from what felt like a wood paneled, library-living room, into a darkened bedroom. The bed, however, was a massive, antique, wooden bondage table. Four huge posts extended upward from each corner. The table was lusterously polished but appropriately worn from the struggles of those captured in Ana's thrall. The four vertical anchor points strained vainly toward the ceiling.

"Go on, sweetheart", she entreated me indulgently. "You know how to lie on your back for me, don't you?"

Like a memory that drifts unexpectedly into focus, I'll wonder every now and then what ever became of Ana Hunt, world class domina, gone now - never to come back.

2010-08-25T06:15:00.001-04:00

Gil

2010-08-18T22:49:00.007-04:00

This post has nothing to do with kink, She, dommes, rope, or sex. Half this blog is about how music drives my feelings, hopes, and dreams - as half of all my posts are music videos. This is a post about music.

On the way to work this week I've been reading a story from the August 9th issue of The New Yorker about Gil Scott-Heron entitled "New York Is Killing Me". It was such a raw, painful article for me to read as I was just a huge admirer and fan of Scott-Heron's in the '70's and early '80's when he was at the peak of his extraordinary musical talent. I saw him perform once in 1977 when I lived in San Francisco. He was produced by Clive Davis and Arista records and wrote "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised", "The Bottle", "Winter In America", "We Almost Lost Detroit", and "Home is Where The Hatred Is" along with just a host of other incredible songs that meant the world to me in my twenties. Some call him the grandfather of hip-hop and both Kanye West and Jay-Z have sampled him. He has a new album entitled "I'm New Here" and there is apparently a resurgence of interest in his work.

Gil Scott-Heron is also a crack addict and the New Yorker piece chronicles how this horrible disease has devastated his life. The interviewer and author, Alec Wilkinson, met with Gil on a number of occasions in his apartment in Harlem and the prose captures the essence of a soul trapped by addiction. His description of Scott-Heron clutching his propane torch will haunt me for sometime. My brother became addicted to crack in his early-forties and committed suicide.

His girlfriend, Monique de Latour, does a poigniant and melancholy voice-over to her photos of Gil, now 61 years old, on the New Yorker website. It all made me very grateful that somehow I got sober and have managed to stay that way. Here's Gil Scott-Heron who the article says is one month clean from crack.

2010-08-18T22:48:00.002-04:00

Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie

2010-08-14T23:43:00.007-04:00

So I've decided that among the strategies I shall employ to meet people in "The Scene" is a sensibly placed and meticulously screened Craiglist ad. Inspired by a chat with a friend, here's the text. You can find it in Manhattan - Strictly Platonic

Are you a dominant woman? Do you enjoy fine dining and worthy conversation? I offer an evening of smart chat and good food. I promise only one thing – I’ll pick up the tab for the two of us. I’ve separated from my wife, moved to the Far West Village, and want to explore "The Scene" in real time.

I own an expanding business, am fifty-seven years old, and I’m in great shape - usually. I’m an experienced submissive looking for friendship - mostly.

I write an award-winning kinky blog and I’ll give you the link to check me out before you agree to meet me.

Whether you lifestyle or drive a toll road, dinner is on me. What’s to lose? And the rest, as they say in NOLA, is lagniappe.

Okay, okay. I promise to be careful and watch out for crazies. But it could be fun, no?

Here's the link: Eat Out On Advo!

2010-08-14T23:00:00.001-04:00