Tuesday, February 14, 2012

The Phenomal Bond

I hug my property in front of Reagan National after another Leather run. Six weeks ahead without the property's service. After my property, I walk away, dragging my suitcase to the check-in counter for Alaska Airlines. This is a job my property would normally do for his MASTER. I stand before the ticket agent and sense the absence of another body against mine.

I walk to the cafe and order my own coffee. I then sit down and instinctively look up to grant property the permission to sit beside me. A habitual act. I sit and drink my coffee alone.

I go to the restroom and pull out my cock, aiming my warm stream into the white, porcelain bowl. I think of the willing mouth of my property always ready to nurse out my piss until I have finished. I shake off the last drops, return my cock to my 501s, and button up my jeans. property is not there to serve as my valet and fasten up my clothing.

For the ensuing weeks I will do for myself what he usually does for me. Each simple action will remind me of the physical bond with my property, of its service when I wake, wash, eat, dress, urinate, walk, and cum. My body will feel incomplete without my property beside me. The bond between MASTER and property now realized through an awareness of absence.

Ownership of another creates an apparent paradox. Over time, my body as MASTER has redefined itself according to the service provided by the property. No longer can I as MASTER experience true independence in action. Without property beside me, I must do for myself what my property would do for me.

As participants in BDSM, we recognize the strong connection between our bodies and our identities. We define our roles by actions during play. Essentially, our movements or lack thereof establish identities that we feebly attempt to define by words. Without such action, roles do not exist. The dance of trust requires a minimum of two participants.

Given this, we must immediately dismiss the notion that a man can be a MASTER without a slave. One is defined by the other. It is not an abstract like a tenet of faith, a personal conviction, or a mysterious rapture felt in the bosom. Rather, both the MASTER and the slave carve out their identities based on physical interactions with each other. The MASTER understands this when the slave no longer is present. He must now do for himself what the slave usually does. Every physical need becomes a reminder of the slave.

Thus, the idea of independence as an attribute of strength is absurd when considered within the power dynamic of BDSM. Standing alone, the MASTER realizes that he is not Superman, Nietzsche's conceptual higher being beyond duality. Without his slave, the MASTER realizes that he is very much connected to the worm of the body which the slave addresses through diligent service.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

For What It's Worth

Today I sat looking at my doctor as he showed me the images of my left ankle. "Your decades of dance have taken their toll on your body," he said showing me an x-ray. "I am surprised that only your left is giving you trouble."

I sat quietly taking it all in. I thought of the accolades over the years and wondered if it was worth it: 1973 World Champion Scottish Highland Dancer; corps, then soloist, and principal with Ballet West and Pacific Northwest Ballet; successful choreographer; movement instructor; modern dancer; movement artist. I had destroyed my joints over the decades, pushing my body to the limit and then beyond.

I am a man who never backs down from a challenge. Being a masochist I have a huge pain threshold. This year, I have endured months and months of pain, refusing to acknowledge that I needed medical attention.

I thought of the 1000's of people who have applauded me over the decades. And the reviews of critics who celebrated my work. I never faced a bad review, either for my interpretations as a performance artist or a choreographer. Was it worth it?

The doctor explained possible limitations in the future. He recommended that I avoid running and jumping, putting undue stress on the joints. "The time has come to face the music," he said.

I thought of the many people who paid to see me perform, fans that even now recognize me on the streets of Seattle. And then I thought of those people who stand beside me today, supportive and concerned: my partner, my boys, my slave, and a few friends.

Was it worth pushing my body beyond its physical capabilities? This question remains with me as I write this entry.

In Leather we often push ourselves beyond our limits. And all too often we do things for the accolades of others. We want to be accepted, to be acknowledged, to be celebrated as a traditional, "Old Guard" Leatherman, a serious member of the Community. When all is said and done, we must face the music. We must ask ourselves, "Was it worth it?"

I have no regrets. My performance career included Highland Dancing, ballet, modern dance, musical theatre, avante garde performance, and even Leather events. I followed my heart and never held anything back. In spite of the recent diagnosis, I love the experiences that make up my life.

And it has been worth it because I have followed my heart. I have not done things for the applause, for the accolades. The impetus has always come from the inside, from within.

To invoke the Bard once again, "To thine own self be true." This saying hangs upon one of the walls of my home. And it is tattooed around the neck of my partner. The key to a happy life.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Mad boy's Love Song

(I think I made You up inside my head.)

Suited in dark gray with silver hair and starched, white shirt, I face You over a glass of fine, Italian wine. Your handsome, carved face denies the dark-scented perversion of Your Leather. You look at me and I look away, embarrassed.

I blink once, twice, and then look up as you loosen your tie. Your silver hair brilliant against the backdrop of the night. The stars try to warn me, but my thoughts go black. Like the Stones song, I am blinded but to the darkness of Your immediate need.

Tipsy now, you lead me defenseless to your bed, iron-black and stern. And you lay me down and remove my pants, my cock leaping helpless against Your confident mouth. Your lips and tongue work the hard shaft of my boyhood and I become helpless. And simultaneously You unbutton Your shirt to reveal Your hirsute, silver against the darkness of the moon through Your open window. More Werewolf than Man, Daddy takes me and I succumb, my innocence blurred by Your desire.

“How could I have been so trusting,” I thought, Your cock now hard and pressing against my thigh. “I have been deceived,” my thoughts racing. Then I feel Your kiss, soft against my shaft, my abdomen, Your mouth working its way up until it finally reaches my chest. Caressing each nipple between your lips, You tease each tender mound with Your experienced tongue. I sigh and look down in time to see You unzip Your tailored trousers. Your perfect cock surrounded by a wreath of black hair flecked with gray.

“Daddy, please take Your boy,” I plead. I am now helpless against You. You force me down head first and shove Your cock into my waiting mouth, and I realize that my saliva is the only lube that You intend to use when You fuck me. I try to slobber out some spittle and my mouth goes dry. You pull Your cock out of my mouth and move it down to my tight hole. And I close my eyes and wait for the burn of that first thrust.

My thoughts turn to the forced morality of Sunday School lessons, of David and Jonathan and stories of Old Testament fraternities. I wonder why I have been drawn to You, a man twice My age. My first steps beyond the apron strings, and I find Another to parent me, a Leather Daddy in suit and tie, a Gentleman now exposed by the drive of His perversion.

“Your type disappeared long ago,” I mumble, my desire meeting Yours halfway. You ignore me and I kiss You in return. Then I lift my legs to guide You deep within me. I feel Your cock shaft moving definite in and out and I ignore the pain. Instead, I give myself to You. You have moved into the silhouette of my darkest fantasy and I surrender. I close my eyes again and feel You cum deep within me. Your cock throbs, You arch, and I lie back satisfied.

(I think I made You up inside my head.)