Monday, August 30, 2004

This is what a busted blade looks like

This blade, lovingly named "Mr. Smashy" by me, was crafted by a swordmaker named Jess Roe. If you were to call Jess a "crazy old man", that would be a compliment. He is older than Methuselah, his teeth have been sharpened down to points, he could kill you with his pinky, and all the ladies love him for his charm. He placed the blade in my hands 2 years ago and said, "This blade wants to go home with you."

Sunday, August 29, 2004

A closing day bonus bit..

Enjoy this photo from today. T came to the last show, is she not beautiful?

And here is a tiny clip of Galahad and I doing what we do best... no not that! Enjoy this small MPEG.

Now to put ice on my bruised hand and mourn the death of my beloved blade. It served me well for 2 seasons.

One last time.

Performing at a long running show is a lot like a relationship. Before the show begins there is a lot of nervous anticipation, you wonder what it will be like. Sure you have done a number of shows before, but every stage is different, every audience a different lover. With each rehearsal your acceptation builds. You prepare, you take joy in seeing to all the little details in the hopes of making opening night perfect.

Then as the show opens you find yourself fascinated by every aspect of it. You seek out all the nooks and crannies of the theater, amazed by them all. You may leave the show tired and battered, but eager for your next opportunity together. Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel a slight twinge of something, but you’re too wrapped up in the newness of it all to care about that. You love this and can think of doing nothing else.

Somewhere mid run the shine starts to fade. It is not a sudden thing, rather a gradual realization like the coming of dawn. The armor you once so eagerly cleaned is now showing rust and you don’t really mind. The actors you once looked forward to working with now chafe your nerves. The energy you once spent so freely now seems like a bit too much to give, there are other things that need your attention. The drive out to the show site feels a bit too long. The show site that you once found “quaint” now looks old and dull. No longer holding the joy, the show becomes work.

You press on, mindful of your commitments. You are in this for the long haul and cannot back out now. Knowing that these people have paid to see a good show, you dig deep for the energy that once flowed so freely. Sadly those reserves are not endless, and soon you find that you are scraping bottom. You find yourself stealing energy from other aspects of your life in order to fuel the performance.

In the end, as you stand rain soaked on the tourney field once again, you look forward for the day when you bow for the audience one last time.

It is not that you hate the show, quite the contrary. The show as brought you all kinds of joy. The memories and moments are something you will truly treasure, but now you have no more energy left to give it. This thing, once precious to you, now must be put to rest. You have cast your last die; you have no more to give. This is it. The time is nigh to close this chapter of your life.

And so as I sit, coffee in hand, Galahad shows up once again at my door and says.
“One last time into the breech, dear brother?”
“aye, one last time”

Saturday, August 28, 2004

Dancer, guess what just got here from France? Now to find the sugar tablets and a proper smoking jacket.

Friday, August 27, 2004

Oh and let us not forget to go wish Matisse and Max , two of the coolest people I know, a happy fifth aniversary!.

It was a very late anniversary night for me so a quick note as I prepare to dash out and deliver a custom order to my dear friend Bridgette. For those of you who don’t know her, Bridgett Harrington is a rope goddess / artist / pro dom from Portland. This is probably the only person I have ever seen who’s bottom, mid suspension scene, actually tried to run away from her. My kind a girl!

She has been a supporter of the monk since the early days. We even designed a rope color together. Her name is on the very short list of “women I’d bottom to”.

I have expressed before how much I enjoy making rope. While the idea of complete strangers having orgasms thanks to a bit of hemp that once passed through my hands, making rope for my friends is a unique joy. For Bridgette I give the whipped ends a few extra passes, I know how hard she is on her rope and I want these to last her forever. I tend to touch the rope a bit closer as I check for imperfections. As my hands pass over weave I say a little prayer to kink gods wishing the new owner many happy scenes.

Oh and Sunday, your black is drying as I type this and like you it is wicked and beautiful. So save those delivery kisses for next week. Monella, your blue will be extra soft and ready when you return.

PS to S, the first of the tomatoes are now ripe and ready. Bliss!

Thursday, August 26, 2004

Happy Anniversary

Sixteen years ago today I sat in the passenger seat of my brother’s car, scared to death of what was to come next. Just 16 days past my 18th birthday I thought myself now a man, a man that this day was going to wed his high school sweet heart. In hindsight I was a very, very young boy who was about to do the biggest thing of his life.

The driver, my brother as well as best man for the event, drove in silence. If one did not know better you would think we were headed to a funeral. Originally opposed to the union, my bother eventually conceded to my request that he be my best man. From his look I could tell that he was still concerned.

“Before you do this, promise me one thing.” He finally said, breaking the tense silence.
“What would that be?” I ask with a wary glance.
Knowing that this is the same brother who once talked me into peeing on an electric fence, one tends to be wary.
“Don’t end up like mom and dad…”
“Of course not, we are in love!” I retorted.
I knew what he was trying to say, our parents married far too young and ended up resenting each other for it. We were well aware of what it was like to live day to day in a seething pit of resentment and anger.
“…you are in love now.” He corrected. “But promise me this one thing. Promise me that every morning when you wake up next to her you will look at her. You will look at her and say that this is the only place in the world you want to be. The day you wake up and can’t say that, don’t be there any longer.”

And so for the past 5844 mornings I have done just that. All my lovers know that I do not sleep over. When the date is done, I return to my own bed so that I can wake up next to the woman I love and know that this is the one place in the world I want to be. Save a few exceptions where time and space made it impossible, I have tucked in sleepy lovers, slipped out into the pre-dawn, driven hours, and even crossed international borders so that I could keep that promise.

I love you Tambo. I could not be who I am today with out you. Thank you for loving me, trusting me, laughing with me, and not stuffing me into a wood chipper.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

So here is an update on things, the mom is in town all week. She is very cool and very kinky so we can pretty much be ourselves around her. This is the last weekend for my show at Camlann. Been fun but I'll be glad to see the curtain close on this run. Long, tiring, hard on the body, but very fun none the less. Galahad and I have a spa date. I got a nice gift certificate from for my birthday so we are going to go get hair cuts, manicures, pedicures, and even some hair removal. We need to get his chest and legs nice and smooth for Folsom, (When selling in SF, one needs the propper "bait") As for me? Well maybe just a little hair removal...say about 6 square inches or so of hair... and not from my back.

You do the math.

Ladies and Gentlemen we interrupt this blog for the following emergency announcement. The following is an emergency announcement from the Office of Sexual Innuendo. The Bisexual Threat Level has been elevated to "Erect" or Orange Alert. Be warned that the possibility of bisexual activity is high.

Ever since this posting, I have gotten a lot of e-mail from folks about a potential tryst between Galahad and myself. In the event that we ever did raise the threat level, several women have volunteered their services to be the "Girl there who keeps it from being a gay thing". It would seem that there are a lot of ladies out there who like the idea of being the filling in a sweaty man sandwich. Or at least having a front row seat for such an event.

That said, Galahad and I have agreed to take applications for said woman. If you think you have what it takes, email us at with why we should pick you to be the lucky gal.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog, already in progress.

...And that, dear readers, is why I have a pathalogical fear of biscuit dough.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Milky Memories
Today someone gave me a unique gift. We were backstage, in between performances at the show when one of my fellow cast members started talking about the goats she raises. I grew up on a farm and spent many of my formative years around them. As we swapped stories she asked if I would like some fresh milk and cheese from her herd. Living now in the city, I have not had the pleasure of raw goat’s milk for many years. I eagerly accepted her generous offer.

The next morning as we all assembled before actor’s call, she hands me a jug. With a smile she tells me that this is from last night’s milking and must be kept very cold. I accept the ice cold container and eagerly unscrew the cap. Inhaling the faint aroma of grass and cream I drink deeply. In a moment a thousand memories come rushing back.

I am 5 years old again, my bare feet run along the well worn path to the pens. Inside several goats wait patiently for me. They know this ritual well for we have been doing it for years. They know the order and wait their turn at the milking stalls. I take the first, a rich black Nubian named Gypsy, my sister’s favorite and begin to lead her up to the stalls where my brother and sister wait, milk buckets in hand. The creature knows this route better than I so with arms wrapped around her neck I am half carried and drug up to the stalls. Once relived of it’s creamy goodness I am drug back to the pen where the next goat eager awaits it’s turn. We repeat this ritual every day, rain or shine.

As I close my eyes and relish the flavors that caress my tongue, I smile and take another drink.

I’m 8 and prepping my first show goat for the local 4H fair. She is a silver grey toggenberg named “Princess Liea”. Yeah it was 1978 and I was heavily influenced by a certain science fiction film released the year before. She had a unique skill for escaping even the best made pens. It was while re-enforcing her pen that my older brother convinced me to “go ahead, I dare you to pee on the electric fence….”

I drink again, deeply, little rivets of milk run down my chin.

The forest is ablaze, the summer heat has sparked another fire. The smoke filled air burns my lungs as I dash for the barns, a terrified 10 year old boy. A tree explodes as waves of heat distort the sky. Somewhere in the distance I can hear the fire chopper, carrying it’s load of water that will soon douse the blaze. First I must free the terrified animals from their pens before they kill themselves in a mad attempt to flee the inferno that is raging at the borders of the farm. As soon as I reach the gate and pull the pins to open it, the animals surge out through the opening. Caught off guard by the up swell of panicked animals, I’m knocked to the ground. The animals rush past me, over me and the fallen gate. I cry in pain as the barbwire fence pierces the skin of my back. I struggle out from under the fence, bloodied, and reach into the pen to retrieve one of the stragglers, injured in the mad dash.

I tear up as I wipe the milk from my chin. The scar I still carry on my back burns with memory.

In addition to the fresh milk and wonderful memories, she also gave me a round of fresh goat cheese. Unsalted it looks and tastes much like really fresh mozzarella. I am substituting the goat cheese for mozzarella in this recipe. Tonight I am going to make this dish for my friend to say thank you for the memories.

Tomato-Mozzarella Salad with Spiked Pine Nuts and Basil

3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 large clove garlic, minced
1/8 teaspoon
freshly ground black pepper
Generous pinch hot red pepper flakes
1/2 medium red onion, cut into 1/4-inch dice
1 tablespoon currants
Salt to taste
2 tightly-packed tablespoons fresh basil, torn
7 tablespoons toasted pine nuts
Tomatoes and Mozzarella:
6 medium-sized ripe tomatoes, sliced
vertically about 1/2-inch thick
3/4 pound fresh mozzarella, packed in liquid,
sliced 1/2-inch thick
About 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1. In a small bowl, combine lemon juice, garlic, the two peppers, onion, currants and
salt to taste. Let stand 20 to 30 minutes. Just before assembling the dish, stir
in the basil, and all but 1/2 teaspoon or so of the pine nuts.
2. Alternate slices of tomato and cheese on a plate, lightly seasoning each tomato slice with a little salt. Sprinkle each mozzarella slice with a teaspoon or so of the onion ixture and sprinkle it with about 1/2 teaspoon pine nuts.

Sprinkle the entire dish with the olive oil, and any leftover pine nuts and onion mixture. Serve at room temperature

Saturday, August 21, 2004

To Sir, with love.

Somehow we had done it again. Dawn was creeping into the room as Dancer and I lay sprawled out in each other’s arms on the sofa. Books of erotic photography lay about the floor, next to the strewn ropes and other debris from our lovemaking. Stretched out like big, languid cats, we listened to French pop music and nibbled on chocolates while talking. We talk a lot after sex, asking each other questions, telling stories, and saying things like “oh… that bit was really nice, let’s do more of that next time.”

She asks about T and I tell her about how proud I am of her and how well she has done performing this year. In turn I ask her about her primary partner, Sir, and she tells me of his recent adventures. We laugh at how similar they are. I like this part. I like hearing about her and her world as much as I like sharing mine with her. Why do this? Why care about the man who gets more of her attention than I? I don’t want Sir to be, “the other man in my lover’s life”, but rather I see him for who he is. An integral and important part of what makes Dancer who she is, just as T is to me.

If you are going to be poly, you must respect the importance of the primary relationship. I tell my lovers that if they had fun with me, they should go and thank T for it is with her blessing and trust that I am here. If a lover does not show T the proper respect… well they are not my lover for long. In turn I try and treat my lover’s primary the same way. I know that after our short time together is over, Dancer will return to Sir. They have far more history together and in the end, after Dancer and I have run our course, they will remain together. Now I guess I could resent that. Feel jealous that he gets more of her attention and try to somehow sow seeds of discontent. Perhaps even try to supplant him from his number one slot in her life. And monkeys might fly out my ass.

This is where that empathy thing comes in. I know that if someone tried to replace T in that way, I’d end that relationship in a heartbeat. I expect, no demand that my lovers recognize the importance of my primary relationship. No, they don’t have to be friends with T or hang out with her when I am not around, but they must respect how important she is my life and understand that she is THE most important person in my world. In turn, I try and do the same with my lover’s primary partner. Granted, with Sir it has been pretty easy to do. I genuinely like the guy and enjoy his company so it is really not that hard.

And so, as we embrace at the end of our night together Dancer kisses me and tells me, “Give T my love.”
“And give mine to Sir”

Friday, August 20, 2004

A short note while I pause mid assault. Another VERY late night with Dancer, a good story will be told I promise, and the mom will be here in a few hours… which I know will make for some good stories to tell as well. Like introducing the mom in law to my other two lovers.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Little boxes of orgasms

So minion was back in the shop today helping me fill orders and prep for Fulsom. Now pardon me for a moment while I freak out…. WHOLLY CRAP ON A POGO STICK! ONLY 5 WEEKS TILL FULSOM! Ok, all better now. Where were we? Oh yes I was telling you about my day with minion.

As we boxed up rope and printed shipping labels, minion made the comment. “You must really like this job.”
“Why do you say that?” I respond.
“Well every time you slap a shipping label on a box you get this funny grin.”
“Oh that.” I had to pause for a moment and think, “Well I guess it is like this, this is not just a box of hemp rope. It is an orgasm waiting to happen.”

Holding up a box and reading the shipping label, “Now… I really have no idea who this Bob Smith from Tulsa is, but I do know that he will be exited when this box arrives. I am fairly certain that he will use the contents of this box with another person and, goddess willing, they will both get off. The world needs more orgasms and it feels very, very good to know that the contents of this little box will help do just that.”

I keep saying that I am, in fact, changing the world on bedroom at a time. Today, another dozen bedrooms down….

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

By popular demand…

The Ice Cream Sandwich Story.

Reason #912 why I adore T: The way she smiles when in rope.

To say that T likes to be tied up is like saying a fish likes to be in water. When I first took up rope bondage, she would stand for an eternity as I tried out different ties on her. Invariably I would get to a sticking point and have to stop and re-do a section. She would smile and say, “What? You have to untie me and tie me up AGAIN? Darn!” And smile the smile of a woman in bliss. It was this bliss that actually drove me in those early days to learn more and hone my skills. We discovered the joys of rope together, often just spending hours enjoying the act of placing rope on skin with no particular destination in mind.

It was on one of these nights, a muggy night in late summer, that I told her. “I have something I’d like to try.” She smiled as I opened my rope bag and begun to place bundles of coiled rope on the bed next to her naked form.
Laying her out on her back, I bound her wrists to her ankles so that her body lay open to me. Knees bent, sex exposed, she smiled that smile that told me all was good in her world. Once secured, I set about to flog her exposed pink bits with a soft cotton flogger. Her smile turned to a grimace, her grimace to moans, her moans to cries of pleasure.

Standing back to admire her panting form, I reached into my toy bag and remove what is quite possibly the greatest sex toy ever invented…the Hitachi magic wand. A miracle of modern science really. Tying the bat shaped vibe to her inner thigh; I placed its head next to her now swollen sex and fliped the switch. Unable to wiggle away from its deep vibration, her cries doubled. The heat of her pleasure, radiating off her skin in waves, coupled with the already warm night had turned the room into a sauna.
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I uttered my now favorite thing to say when folks are tied up. “Now don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back. Promise!”

I returned a few moments later wearing a grin that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. T looked up at me with pleading eyes as I moved in close to her. With a flash I reveal the item hidden behind me. A single ice cream sandwich.

Slowly and with great care I un-wrapped the milky delicacy, taking care not to spill a single drop of it’s melting goodness. She whimpers as she watches me lick the wrapper clean. Then with no warning I placed the ice cold treat upon her heaving belly. Howling in surprise, her eyes go wide as it instantly begins to melt on her hot skin. With excruciating slowness I sat there, inches from her face, eating the thing. Making exaggerated faces of culinary pleasure as I nibbled on the treat she begged me for a bite, but none would be had.

It was at that moment, as streams of melted ice cream ran down her belly, that T uttered those fateful words for the very first time.


Eventually I did untie her and saw to it that she too got her own ice cream treat (and a few other things as well). We now joke that it is really not a scene until they pull out an ice cream sandwich.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

The trick

Some once asked me what I thought the “trick” was to making poly relationships work. “The secret to making it work is to enjoy the differences in your lovers. Not the similarities. Focusing on similarities will only lead to unfair comparisons, jealousy and heartache”, I responded.

He was obviously not tracking what I just said so I put it like this.

“You know that I love food, right? I love both Thai and Indian food. Given a choice I’d be happy going out to either for dinner. Now Tambo is not a fan of Indian food, however she loves a good Thai curry. S, on the other hand, can’t stand Thai food but she really enjoys Indian curry. This could be a problem if I were to focus on the similarities. I could look at S and say, ‘well Tambo likes Thai why don’t you? Maybe her palate is better than yours?’ Or I could try and use guilt to force Tambo to eat tandori with me. However the end results will be unpleasant.

Instead you enjoy the differences. On Friday night Tambo and I can go out and enjoy the savory basil and peanuts of good pad thai together while sipping our Thai ice teas. And on Saturday night, S and I will be eating spicy nah bread and listening to the latest Bollywood pop songs as we enjoy the lemony flavor of chicken fresh from the tandori oven. For me, the trick is to enjoy both meals as different events with very different lovers. Each is a unique moment that cannot be duplicated with the other and really should not. And in the end? I get to dine on two wonderful cuisines and never go hungry.”

Of course there are those times when I make a curry they both enjoy. Now that is when it really gets fun.

With that, let me share a recipe for an Indian style curry that both Tambo and S enjoy.

2 tb Butter and 1 tb oil
1 1/2 lb Beef or lamb, 1 1/2" cubes
2 Onions, large, chopped
2 Unpeeled cooking apples Cored and chopped
2 tb Curry powder
4 tb Flour
2 c Beef stock
1/2 c Seedless raisins
1 tb Tomato paste
1 tb Major Grey’s chutney
Salt and pepper

In a large skillet or Dutch oven heat the butter and oil over
moderately high heat. When the foam subsides, thoroughly brown the
meat a few pieces at a time and remove to a side dish. Cook onions
and apples in the same fat until lightly browned, and add to the
meat. Add the curry powder and cook slowly for a few minutes. Whisk
the flour into the beef stock, pour over the curry mixture, whisking
to prevent lumps. Heat to simmer, stirring constantly. You want a
smooth, thickened sauce. Add remaining ingredients, simmer a few
minutes more and return the meat, onions and apples to the pan. Cover
and set in the middle of a preheated 350 degree oven for 2 hours.
Serve with plain boiled rice.

Sunday, August 15, 2004

A troubling post today I'm afraid. You see, earlier today, while at the show site, I found myself walking along the foot path with a girl, a rather attractive girl actually. She was obviously one of the "serving wenches" from the inn or a new vendor for I had not seen her on site before. As I carried my newly repaired leg armor back from the smith, we chatted and walked. Once we reached an open area, free from prying ears, she paused and said.
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
Hmm, well this is a nice way to start the day. A cute girl in a ren dress complete with flowers in her hair wants to ask me a personal question.
"Sure I guess."
"Now promise you won't take this the wrong way", she added
Hmm... now I'm very intrigued. A pretty girl in a ren dress wants to ask a very personal question.
With my best smile I look at her and say, "No worries, fire away".
"Is Galahad your boyfriend?"
*Blink* *Blink*

Now that was NOT what I had expected.

"Why do you ask?"
"Well the way you two interact... your banter... you're... well you act like lovers."
Laughing now, I assure her that he is not my lover... my heterosexual life partner maybe, but no not lovers.

Sadly this was not the first time someone has asked that question. However the last time it was, "Is he your bitch yet?"

Mayhap we are giving off the wrong impression? Ok, doing the kind of work we do requires a lot of trust in your partner. Ok, we have been working together a lot for this show and the intimacy of the fights we do is pretty obvious. But that should not give folks the wrong impression, now should it? Perhaps it is the way we sit backstage in between shows, singing along to disco on the ipod... in harmony. Yeah that might do it.

Now for the record, Galahad has a wonderful and quite sexy woman in his life.

As for me? Well I guess if I were to start dating a boy, he would be a good choice, but alas there are no plans for adding him to the list of lovers... or is there?

With that I propose we take a page from current events and institute the "Bisexual Threat Level" system. This system will allow you to stay up to date an informed of any potential alternative sexual behavior.

This just in.
Acting on unspecified information and snickering from Tambo, the office of homeland insecurity has raised the current threat level to code yellow or "Turgid" and threatens to raise it again.
Watch this blog for more updates.

Saturday, August 14, 2004

Please, don’t call me “Sir”…

Just a quick note as I wait for Galahad to show up so we can get out to the show site. I don’t exactly know who came up with this, but the habit of bottoms using titles in e-mails is a bit annoying. I hardly know you and you’re already using a title? No, that really is not necessary. I’m guessing someone out there thought it would be a good way to show your submissive nature and respect. Sure, I guess if I was a “Ultimate and True Dominative” this kind of electronic subservience would make my cock hard. Then again, I think we have already established that I’m really not that way.

“Monk” will suffice. That is until we actually find ourselves in a situation where you’re bottoming to me. Then, well then I’d much rather you called me, “an evil rat bastard”.

Friday, August 13, 2004

I love the way that ...

...T smiles when I tie her up.

...Dancer laughs when she is thinking sadistic thoughts about me.

...S brushes her hair after we make love.

...T’s ass looks when I cane it.

...S’s eyes change color when she is horny.

...Dancer’s body feels when I carry her into bed.

...T knows just how to make my toes uncurl.

...S looks in a collar.

...Dancer challenges me.

...each one of them is so unique and brings me so much joy.

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

“If word of this gets out it will ruin my reputation” I told Dancer as we lay naked on her bed. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to creep into the room as we lay there staring at the ceiling in our post orgasmic fog.
“Since when are you concerned about your reputation?!” she responds with mock indignation. Her naked body stretched along side mine, even fully extended like this, her small lithe shape seems tiny compared to me.
“I’m just saying,” I continue on as I absently caress the rope marks that cross my biceps, “if word of this gets out they will kick me out of the topping union.”
“Don’t worry sweetheart,” Her mock indignation has now turned to mock sincerity, “if anyone asks I’ll tell them that you’re a big bad ass top that would never let a little thing like me tie them up.”
“Promise?” I ask.
She raises her head up and smiles, “promise!” And quickly kisses my cheek.

Dancer and I have, what we jokingly call, a “switching relationship”. Both being identified as “tops who sometimes like to bottom”, we agreed that trying to define our relationship in the classic SM terms of “top” and “bottom” would just not work. Rather we agreed that we would, “not dish out anything to the other we were not willing to take in return”. So when I show up with my ropes and rattan canes, she smiles and asks what I think of electricity and clothespins. So far this arrangement has worked well for us, each enjoying showing off our respective specialties to the other. More often than not, while pausing to catch our breath, one of us will look at the other with a smile and say, “My turn!”

This evening however was different. As we sat in her kitchen earlier that night, talking and catching up on each other’s lives, she leaned in close and asked, “You know the whole you tie me up then I tie you up thing?”
“Yeah?” I respond, knowing from the grin she is wearing that she has something up her sleeve.
“Mind if we skip that tonight? I have something I’d like to try with you.”
I smiled and with a laugh agreed.

With that she took the wine glass out of my hand and led me into the next room. I could see that she had some items already laid out. A few coils of rope I had given her previously, restraints, and a few other items hidden from view. Stopping in the center of the room, she turned and said, “First things first, I want you out of that shirt and those boots. Leave the kilt, now that could be fun…. Good… now kneel here for me.”
With a laugh and a smile I did as she commanded.

What happed next you ask? Well a boy needs to have SOME secrets. However I must share this. At one point, while laying there hog tied in my own rope with clothes pins in places that most folks don’t think they should go. She stood over me, straddling my wriggling body with her legs, her sex inches from my face. The endorphins must have been slamming into my brain at top speed, everything was funny. I could not stop laughing. The joy of my predicament only made her laugh more. Which in turn made me laugh more. By the end we were both wearing huge, silly grins.

“So I guess that makes me a switch then?” I ask as I prepare to leave the warm cocoon of her bedroom.
“Maybe, but don’t worry it is really not so bad”, she responds with a smile.
“No worries, in fact I’m rather enjoying it”
“Oh goooooooooooooodie” she purrs
“Of course you know what this means? Next time, next time your ass is mine… and I’m bringing an ice cream sandwich.”
“Honey, I would not have it any other way”

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

The year I turned 12, twice

My grandfather and I shared a birthday. Well not exactly, our birthdays were in fact two days apart. Mine the 10th, his was the 12th. We usually split the difference and celebrated both our birthdays on the 11th. Now for those who know me well, know that my grandfather was a huge influence in my life. I got a lot of my charm and charisma from him, as well as a nice full head of hair. He was the kind of guy that could go into a bar a stranger and leave knowing everyone’s life story. Generous to a fault, he was raised poor, married young, worked union all his days and always had an extra beer in the fridge in case a friend stopped by.

I always spent a good portion of my summers with him.

He tried to teach me all the important stuff grandfathers are supposed to teach, fishing, hunting, and how to fix cars. My brother, being my senior by eight years, got those lessons when the old man was in his prime. By the time I came along he was, well he was a bit worn down by too many years of hard drinking and hard living. Now don’t let the snow on the roof fool you, there was still a warm fire burning in his hearth.

The thing I remember most about him was playing cards. We would play rummy for hours on those hot summer days. The two of us sitting there at the chipped linoleum kitchen table, cards in hand. I with my Shasta soda and he with his ever present can of beer. The constant shuffle of cards and banter as the old man and I traded cards and comments. Over the course of the game, as he finished one can, he would instruct me to go fetch him another from the old fridge that sat on the back porch. As the day wore on, the beers would begin to take their toll and I would eventually begin to win. That is of course until he, after making sure the cost was clear of prying eyes, broke out the “special” deck. You know the one, where every card featured a different nude woman sprawled out in all her lovely 70’s glory. I would sit, wide eyed, and stare at the waxy cards in my hand, no longer able to count the runs or match suits; he would chuckle and lay down a winning hand with a smile and say, “Rummy, dummy”

When I was 12, we did not make our annual summer trek to see him. The years of hard living finally caught up with him. It was June when the doctors told him, the pain in his side was something bad. Something terrible in fact, a cancerous growth in his liver had spread and taken root like English ivy. His days were numbered. With his usual bravado he announced, “I’m going to see 70 gawd damnit.” He was 69 when they told him, his birthday a mere 3 months away.

The last time I saw him was on August 9th, three days to go before his 70th birthday. I remember being lead into the ICU and looking down at a pale, thin grey man. This was not the great bear of a man I remembered. This, this was shell, a poor replica of someone I once knew. No longer larger than life, he lay there. The morphine drip kept his pain at bay as he slept those final days. We were told that if we wanted to say any last words to him, now was the time. He could hear us, but to not expect much in response. The morphine’s grip was too great.

My mother gently pushed me forward, to the edge of the bed and then slipped out of the room. This was my first experience with the death of a loved one. I remember standing there, clutching the bed’s rail in tears trying to make sense of what was happening. Trying to understand why he was being taken away from me. I wept.

“Why are you crying?” came a voice from the bed. It was his voice. Not the hoarse, reed thin voice of an ill man, but the clear tone of the cantankerous old man I loved. He laid there, his eyes a dull steel grey, and looked at me.
“Boy… I’m already dead…don’t cry for me…go…live” and closed his eyes.

The doctors pronounced him dead the next morning. The great bear of a man had roared his last.

“It is a pity,” they all would say at his wake, “he wanted to see his 70th birthday. He almost made it…”

There were no birthday presents that year for the Monk, rather it was my turn to give the present. Yes, in my eyes he did make it to see his seventieth year, I gave him my birthday.

Now you might think this story a sad one. Lord knows that as I type this tale, the waves of sorrow slam into my chest like fists, 22 years later and I still miss him. However as I sit here in tears I know that this is not a sad tale. Rather this is what drives me. His last words were not words of regret, they were a command. Like the great comission given by jesus to his disciples to go out and spread the word. His words have been burned into my very character.

Anyone who knows me knows this. During the month of August I am overbooked. My already busy life is pushed to the limit as I attempt to do more and more. My days are filled with friends, lovers, adventures, and yes a few silent tearful moments as I try to do just what the old man said.


Saturday, August 07, 2004

Any readers in Portland, OR?
As part of Portland’s leather pride week, Tambo and I will be making an appearance at the La-Fetiche Show on Wednesday August 11th. Proceeds from the event will benefit Camp Starlight. We will be in the vending area, so if you’re in the area come out for a good cause and say hello.

Oh and did you know that Tuesday, August 10th is my birthday?

Friday, August 06, 2004

I once had a lover that smelled of savory herbs.

She loved the feel of earth between her toes. I would often find her in the garden, her soft curvy frame covered in a light summer dress and little else. I remember she always had bits of earth under the nails of her strong, tiny hands as she coaxed life from even the most barren of soils. We would often make love in the garden, on warm summer evenings surrounded by the flowers.

I believe that every lover has something to teach us, that is if we are willing to listen. She taught me the art of the cook. Granted up to this point I considered myself a pretty good cook, competent and not afraid of the kitchen. Good, but not great. Skilled but not yet a master, for that I needed a guide a mentor as it were. It was she how threw out my collection of mediocre knives and replaced them all with a single, perfect blade. It was with her I learned the art and timing of herbs, how to add a spice by smell and feel. Now when I walk into a nursery, I close my eyes and inhale the aroma of the plants. When I look at fresh vegetables I don’t see peppers and carrots, I see colors and textures.

As I type this, watching the rain feed the rosemary bush we planted together so many years ago, I wonder what I am teaching those who call me lover?

Yes, we are all a composite of every lover who came before.

This is my favorite dish we used to make together. The first meal I ever cooked in my now priceless Le Cruset pot. A fantastic show piece meal if you want to impress company.

Chicken with 40 cloves of garlic
4 boneless skinless chicken breasts or 6 boneless skinless thighs (less expensive and just as good)
40 cloves of garlic peeled, whole. 3 or 4 heads will do. Use the freshest best you can afford.
Dash Salt
Dash Pepper
½ tablespoon Thyme
½ tablespoon Rosemary
2 cups white wine
Large handful fresh Italian parsley
2 tablespoons olive oil

Pre-heat oven to 375
You will need a heavy pot that can go from stove top to oven. Something with a good, tight lid.

On stovetop, heat oil in pan. Brown the chicken on both sides, maybe 5 minutes max, and then set aside. Toss the garlic in and brown. You do not want to sauté the garlic, just get it nice and golden brown. Once brown place the chicken on top of the garlic, add the wine, salt, pepper, thyme and rosemary. Cover and place in oven. Cook aprox 45 min. You will know it is done when the chicken is falling apart and the garlic is soft and buttery tasting.

Serve with mashed red potatoes and crunchy chiabata bread. Sprinkle the parsley over the chicken and use the bread to soak up the rich sauce and spread the garlic. I like to serve this with a nice honey dill glazed carrot. The green of the parsley, the orange of the carrot, the reds of the mashed potatoe make for a visual feast

This is a great dish for when company is coming over; they will be welcomed into a home full of the rich aroma of roasted garlic and chicken.

And the next time you find yourself in the arms of a wonderful lover, be sure to say a silent thank you to all the lovers who came before you.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

My Dinner With A Diva
We were somewhere out of Redmond when the Advil finally took effect. My driver, Galahad, was turning up the stereo to aid in the speeding process. I remember at one point Galahad looking over and asking me, “So just how does one introduce themselves to a diva?”
Good question, we had just left the ren fair and were in the process of violating several traffic laws (as well as a few laws of physics) in order to get me to my dinner date with Midori on time.
“Well, seeing as how we have been talking in Middle English all day I suppose I could walk in, drop to one knee and say. Oh great Lady Midori! Thyne are truly magnificent! Lo for I am but a simple rope maker, amongst all these paragons on Topping I am humbled in your presence…”
“Nah too geeky, she will probably stab you with a fork if you do that.”
“Um I could try and greet her in Japanese?”
“You know Japanese?!”
“Um well… kinda..”
“Domo Arigoto Mr. Roboto…AIEEEE GODZILLA!!!”
“No, just no”
“Crap. So what do I say?”
“Did Matisse give you any advice?”
“Yeah, she warned me to not upstage her.”
“What, YOU upstage someone?!”
“Fuck you”

To say that there was some pressure here would be an understatement. Tonight I, as my reward for trouncing my competition at the naked sushi slice off, was to meet and have dinner with THE grand dame of kink, Fetish Diva Midori. In town this weekend teaching a series of classes in bondage and kink, I am granted an audience few get. Sure on the surface it would seem like a simple thing. Dinner with a group of people from the leather community who want to entertain and impress a visiting celebrity. However this is Midori we are talking about, quite possibly THE biggest star in kink. Her book brought Japanese rope bondage out of the shadows and into mainstream. Her classes sell out weeks in advance. For a kinkster, especially one who makes bondage rope, this is like meeting the queen of kink.

We arrive at home early and in one piece. T greets me at the door holding a towel and directs my smelly, sweat covered self to the shower. My clothes are all laid out waiting for me. As she and Galahad chat I do the mad shower / shave / dress routine…in and out in less than 20 minutes. Dressed now in my deep green kilt, docs and a button-down I look nervously at T. I can’t believe how calm she is, sitting there in her black silk slacks and top looking… oh my… she looks good, talk about arm candy. A quick “missed anything” check and we are off. In my bag I hold the 2 most important items for the night. A copy of Midori’s book, a book given to me by my mother in law and quite possibly the whole reason I make rope today. The second item? Why two coils of my best rope of course. My goal for the evening is simple. Get an autograph for my book and present her with rope.
T and I arrive at the restaurant with 5 minutes to spare. Amazed we take a minute to collect ourselves and focus. When we walk into the private dinning room, everyone is there but our guest of honor. Seems her last class ran late and she was swarmed with fans wanting face time with her. We sit and chat a bit; I show Matisse my new collection of bruises. She smiles and tells me that men pay her a lot to leave welts like that on them.

Finally she arrives, even late and tired from teaching this woman can make an entrance. Impeccably dressed in a white silk shirt and black trousers, her hair is tied back into a bun. With her glasses on she looks slightly older than I expected, No old is the wrong word to use. Mature? No… experienced. Yes, experienced in that, “this woman knows more about sex than you will ever hope to and can fuck you into the ground”, kind of way. Striding in, the picture of confidence she takes her place at the head of the table, naturally, and smiles. Shaking out her hair and turning to smile at our host she gives out a sigh of relief and addresses our host in a voice that could be described as mixture of dark black velvet draped over razor blades. Rich and inviting yet masking something sharp and potentially dangerous. When she speaks she looks right at you. No she looks right through you, deep almond brown eyes that seem to know everything you are thinking. Her speech is punctuated by the occasional animated gesture or facial expression. Each one perfectly timed for maximum effect.

For the next 3 hours she commanded the room. Telling stories about recent events, parties she had been to and people she had been with. It was like a who’s who of kink. This woman knows EVERYONE! I did my best to impress her, but it was obvious that this was her show. If I was to be successful tonight I needed to check the charisma at the door and be a supporting actor in this evening’s drama. I remember at one point, when Max and she were discussing a recent scene at Thunder involving race and a rope noose. T looked over at me and in the non verbal language of spouses we both exclaimed, “OH MY GOD WE ARE SO VANILLA!”

As the hour grew late, I patently waited for my opening. The restaurant staff had long since stopped refilling our waters. We were all obviously tired but nobody wanted the night to end. . Max, bless his soul, made the first move. Thanking everyone for a great night, he rose to leave. Yes the night was quickly coming to a close, time to make my move.

Leaning in I lower my head a bit and look her in the eyes, asking for but two small favors before this evening ends. The first, a simple autograph.
“What would you have me sign?” she asks?
I open my bag and pull out my well worn copy of her book.
“Why this, this book”, I tell her how this book is quite possibly the reason I make rope today. I tell her how this book was first given to me by my mother in law.
“Your mother in law?” she asks, now turning her gaze to T.
“Yes, but T tells this story far better than I”.
As T begins her tale of how her mom is a 24/7 slave and that they talk about SM openly, Midori listened intently. Here, this woman whom we have hung on her every word for the last 3 hours now sat, hand on chin listening intently to T tell her tale.

With a smile, Midori now signs my book. Looking up she tells T to “Tell your mom hello. I’d love to meet her someday. Oh and the other thing?”
“This, a token of my respect” I respond as I pull the two bundles of brightly colored hemp rope from my bag.
“Oh what wonderful color, I can’t wait to play with this. Thank you.”
I smile and give her my best “awe shucks” look. The whole time I’m doing the victory dance in my head.
“You know…” She says in that voice and now looks even deeper at me, “I do have this project coming up where I could use your help… here is my private e-mail address.” She punctuates the word “private” with a slightly raised brow as she hands me her card.

We raise to leave, I again bow and thank her for the honor and privilege of her company. She responsed with a smile and thanks me for the gift, saying “we will talk again soon”.

As T and I make for the door I catch Matisse’s eyes. She gives me a quick wink, well done.

As I type this I have to look down at the book and card sitting next to me in order to remind me that this did in fact actually happen.

Tuesday, August 03, 2004

I know, 3 one line posts in one day! Just read about my friend Bridgett's handfasting.

So while you are waiting for the Midori story, enjoy another photo from my recent shoot of Mistress Matisse.

I keep telling folks that I am taking over the world, one bedroom at a time.

Monday, August 02, 2004

Just a quick note while I sit here on the couch and recover from another weekend of armor. Seems the theme for this weekend was "just how will my armor hurt me this time?" As I sit here drinking coffee and popping Advil I'm admiring the welt over my right knee. Seems the articulation on my leg armor decided to go wonky and fold the wrong way... right into my leg. And then there is the matter of the golf ball sized welt on my left bicep. That is what happens when you blow a safety strap mid show. You can't exactly stop a show and say "gee folks, I know your having a good time but I have to stop entertaining you because the upper cannon of my arm armor is now digging into my flesh in a most painful manner." Nope, the show must go on so you push through. Yes, actors are strange masochist fuckers.
For whatever reason, me and armor seem to have this love hate relationship. Remind me to tell you sometime about me, a full face helmet, 3 cracked ribs, and 26 stitches above and below my right eye.

Yeah, and I had an amazing dinner with Fetish Diva Midori too. Let me get the swelling down a bit and I'll give you all the details.