Thursday, September 30, 2004

Here we continue the Folsom Journal, part 2

Folsom Diary, Day 3. Time: Saturday 10:15 am, Location: Hotel Room Bed.

I think I can finally feel the coffee start to kick in as I write this, good. So many things to talk about this morning. First off, the rest of the crew flew in last night, armed with the rest of the show stock. Silk and I went to pick them up at the airport in our rental mini van. That is right dear readers, six kinksters and several hundred pounds of bondage rope in a suburban soccermom mobile.

No rest for the wicked! As we get to the hotel, unpacked and the girls set about getting ready for tonight’s entertainment. A women’s only masked ball. Gone now are the comfy airline security friendly clothes and on come the tight, shinny fetish wear. I dash out to the corner pizza shop and score some food for the hurried travelers.

When I return, The Mom and her master are in the room as well. Having flown down from Alaska for the fair, she is decked out and collared. Now would it be strange of me if I were to say that my mom in law looked hot? Well I am going to, she looked hot with a capital H!

You want to hail a cab in San Francisco? Have four gorgeous girls in fetish wear do it. I think every cab in a six block radius stopped when Silk walked off the curb and whistled. Hell I think a couple of private cars pulled over too.

Girls now gone, us boys had a few hours to kill. A quick bite then it was off to wander the Castro.

Our subway car was packed. Dozens of well dressed and good looking men of all ages stood shoulder to shoulder as the train bumped and whisked us to our destination. Castro Street, the cultural epicenter of gay life in San Francisco. As the subway car empties us out, we follow the stream of pretty boys up the ad out onto the street where we it becomes a river of leather pants, washboard abs and fantastic hair.

Now all things considered I must say that I was a wee bit disappointed by the nightlife being offered. A small handful of obscenely packed night clubs with waiting lines that wrapped the block and countless sticky floored dives. Not that enticing. Galahad, wedged into his skin tight leather pants and knee boots attracted *quite* a bit of attention. On more than one occasion I found myself reaching out to put an arm around him and giving a would be suitor my best “Back off honey, he is *MY* bitch” looks.

When we finally did return from our walk about, we found the girls already back at the hotel. Exhausted and blissed out, they all lounged in the hotel suite with huge smiles. I notice that the Mom had the largest smile of them all. With mock concern I say, “Did some big bad dominatrix have her way with my mom?”
“Well… sorta” giggles Silk.

Silk then begins to re-tell the events of their evening. Tonight’s ball was hosted by none other than our “friend”, Midori. Silk, always the networker (bless her soul), had some contacts she wanted to pass on to Midori for our upcoming collaboration. After waiting patently for the gaggle of fans to disperse she approached Midori, they chatted a bit ad exchanged the needed info. Then, well then she introduced the Mom.
“Ohh… you’re THE Mom?” She said, “I am so pleased to meet you!”
“After that,” Silk tells us,” the rest of us were not even in the room. It was just her and Mom”

The Mom? Oh I think she finally stopped smiling around 3 or 4 am.

Must close this for now. The rest of the crew will soon begin to stir. Just enough time to dash down to the cyber café (oddly sandwiched between a massage parlor and a 4 star hotel) and check my mail. With any luck Dancer will have e-mailed me, boy do I miss that girl. Maybe I’ll even be nice and grab some fresh pastries and fruits from the corner market on my way back.

Folsom Diary, Day 3. Time: Friday 7 pm, Location: A Comfy Chair in a Corporate Coffee House.

This must be what the eye of a storm feels like.

Between yesterday’s flurry of sales calls and tomorrow’s deluge of humanity, today is a welcome low key day. Took Tambo out leather shopping, damn that girl cuts a fine figure in a pair of leather pants, took a lot of control to not attack her in the dressing room at Story Leather. Then again I really doubt it if they would even have cared. Rather I had enough class and control to wait till I got her back to the hotel suite where we broke in a sweet new paddle. I call it “Slappy McAssbruiser”. Tambo calls it, “That FUCKING paddle”

Just one story I am compelled to tell today. While riding about the city in a taxi en route to some fetish shop, I played my favorite cab game. I call it the “Ask the cabbie for his strangest, most fucked up thing you have seen in the back of your cab?” game. Here was today’s winner. Our driver, a young guy with a voice prematurely aged by too many Marlboros told us this:
“So I picked up this dude one night near the wharf. He had on this Pepto-Bismol pink suit jacket and no shirt. I figured he probably was not going to try and rob me, so I pull over. Once in the back seat, this guy takes out a bottle of baby oil and proceeds to pour an abusive quantity on his chest and then proceeds to rub it around. Now the fare *should* have been like 10 bucks max, but this guy, this guy starts arguing with me. In between the slorches and moans he is yelling out all sorts of wrong directions. When we do make it to our destination the fare is now 40 bucks. Convinced that I am trying to sucker him, he takes out this wad of cash and proceeds to pour baby oil all over it, then he hands me the whole slippery wad and bolts from the cab. Thing is, he gave me like 70 bucks. My next fare is some guy in a 3 piece. He sits down and proceeds to slide across the oil covered seat as I take off.”

Time for some sushi, caffeine, and a quick polish of the boots then it is off to Club Shabari to see Bridgette kick some ass.

Folsom Diary, Day 3. Time: Sunday 1:07 am, Location: bed

My leather pants lay in a pile at the foot of the bed. Only 5 short hours and I must crawl back into them and do the show. Tomorrow morning will come all too soon. D-day is finally here. But before I worry about that, let me tell you about the rest of the evening.

We looked like a bad pop act. Me, dressed in my long black coat and pants, the rest of the group (Kitten, Galahad, and Tambo) all in black pants and white t-shirts that read “Rope Slut”. Sorta felt like we were “Pinky and the Flesh Tones”. While not planned that way, they all agreed that this was the best way to dress for a rope bondage show. While I can’t say enough good things about my supportive friends, it can make a person feel a wee bit self concious having a matching entorage like that. Time to hit the club, press some flesh and see some hot suspension bondage.

Now I must confess that I always feel a rush of affection and fear when ever I see Bridgette. I have a soft spot for bold, powerful women and she was just too cute with her crew cut hair, PVC gothic evening gown and Keds sneakers. Many kisses and flirtation was exchanged as she shared photos from the semi-finals held earlier that day. As expected, she smoked the competition… using rope made by me, of course. The added bonus? Her model was the ever delicious Imp of Satan, Rose Algren. It is in moments like this, as I look at the shots on her camera, that I really love this job.

As Galahad and Tambo stake us out a corner in the quieter upper balcony, Kitten and I set about to get drinks. You just have to love girl who looks great in short skirts, can talk nice to complete strangers, and will pound back a whiskey shot with you. Competitors, judges, and models swarmed us. Introductions made, cards exchanges, hemp fondled, and promises made for future fondling... All is good in our world.

When the competition started, the 3 finalists set about on the main stage. Their job? Bind and suspend their bottom in the most artistic and creative fashion. Time limit, one hour.

From the get go it was obvious that the competition was between Bridgette and another Seattle native named Emma. The boy in the middle was ok, but he was really there to serve as filler between these two rope dynamos. Both women set about with bundles of hemp and playfully created rope masterworks. The other guy? Well first off he used really icky nylon line and secondly towards the end when he could not deal with the remaining ends of his rope he whipped out his safety shears and cut the rope. Note to you playing along at home. Never EVER pull out the shears in a dungeon unless it is part of the scene or an emergency. But to cut your rope because you mis-calculated and can’t deal with the extra length? Unforgivable.

So between Emma and Bridgette this was really a study in contrasting styles. Bridgette’s model, adorned with an astounding amount of rope, was a mix of lovely blues and green hemp. (remember the bit about me liking to see my rope in action?) Emma’s was a study in asymmetrical minimalism at it’s finest. Her bottom went up with ease and looked astounding. Oh and the other guy eventually put his girl up the air, *yawn*

And the winner you ask? Why our dearest Bridgette of course. As if there could have been anyone else.

Time for a few precious hours of sleep before the big day. Its show time folks.

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

What follows is the contents of my paper journal. I will break this story up and post parts of it over the next few days.

Folsom Diary, Day 1. Time: Thursday 12:15 pm, Location: Anonymous strip mall teriyaki hut, North Seattle.

Waiting. At this point all I can do is wait. Bags packed, dates made, and maps printed all I have left to do is sit and wait. Wait for the bank to open so I can get change for the show, wait for the dog ranch to open so I can drop off sam, wait for silk to call so I can pick her up, wait for the cab, wait for airport security, wait, wait, wait.

It is odd really, after what feels like months of moving at top speed, setting a grueling production schedule for myself ad driving so hard to make enough product it feels strange to just sit here, powerless. That is all I can do.

The rope, it is all about the rope. Funny thing, it was about this time last year that I set my first batch of colored hemp to boil. Who would have thought that in twelve short months I would go from reading the recipe for conditioned hemp in Midori’s book to having a lunch date with her?

What a strange and interesting year this has been.

Folsom Diary, Day 1. Time: Friday 12:39 am, Location: Silk’s hotel room, San Francisco.

After yet more waiting, we finally made it. The 90 minute commuter hop turned into a three hour wait fest. Late plane, mechanical delays, later arrival, and a rental car office located somewhere in east hell all teamed up to create an incredibly long day. On the plus side, however, we did get to drive into the city at night. Crossing the bay bridge on a warm clear night in light traffic really was quite delightful. If I had to describe the city in a sentence I’d say, San Francisco is a lot like Manhattan; crowded, loud, busy, full of energy and things to look at, but with a far wider color palette.”

Our hotel is a historic building deep in the heart of the city. Through our window seeps the sounds of a city that never really goes to bed. The traffic noises mix with the music from a half dozen night clubs on our block. If I were not so tired I might go wander down there and see what they have to offer. Unfortunately as I sit here, relaxing with my shoes off and sipping a mineral water, I can feel the weight of sleep pressing down on me. Tomorrow I must be electric; the next three days will be some of the biggest and most important days in the short history of my company. Must rest and prepare. is in less than 10 hours, then off to see Midori, Madame S, Blowfish, Stormy….

Folsom Diary, Day 2. Time: Friday 12:05 pm, Location: Bart Station, Waiting for Midori

Walking through the mission district we were certain that things could go bad at any moment. Stepping over bums and counting the numbers of bombed out, derelict buildings. Now tour books would tell you that this area was, “Undergoing an Urban Renaissance” the rest of us would call it “a great place for a mugging”.

As we approach our destination, a non descript 2 story building, and ring the bell I a have to stop and wonder just what will we find behind these doors? Our meeting this morning is with the wonderful perverts at Quite possibly one of the hottest rope sites on the web and part of a larger family of bondage sites. Our contact, R, meets us at the door and leads us in. She is the webmaster and head rigger for the very hot website, a tiny sprite of a woman with a sweet accent from somewhere down under. I must admit at first I found it hard to picture this tiny, sweet thing as the sadistic type, reminds me of another sweet girl I know who is also a raging sadist. She calls her sweet appearance, her natural camouflage.

Ushering us past rows of computers and video equipment I take note of the large quantity of “pink bits” displayed on the monitors. Yes, this is probably the one job where surfing the net for porn is a requirement. We chat rope, negotiate delivery dates and exchange all those business pleasantries. If one did not know better, they would think that we were selling toilet brushes at a hotel chain. Then, after placing an absurdly large check in my hands, she asks me in a nonchalant tone, “so would you like the grand tour?”

Silk and I look over at each other and exchange subtle glances while silently screaming, “OH HELL YES!”
“Yes, that would be quite lovely” says Silk in her most professional tone.
We begin our tour at the great double doors that edge the meeting room. Stepping into darkness, we wait as our guide scampers off to find the lights.

In a moment we are standing in the middle of a strip club. We at least the important parts of one a stage, brass poles, bar and pool table. “This is our strip club set, mostly used for our boy girl straight fucking stuff, but kinda boring if you ask me..” says our guide. Above us, a lighting grid hands littered with dozens of high power studio lamps as well as hardened suspension points. Turning a corner, the club set is now replaced with a Japanese tea house. Bamboo and rice paper cover the walls, all an illusion of course a set that can easily and quickly be transformed into any number of things.

… and this is where we store our fucking machines…”

Standing before us are shelves of chrome and steel all built with one purpose, violating body orifices. No mere sybians or fucksawls, no the shelves are lined with finely designed and machined steel marvels of engineering. With ohhs and ahhs we admire them. Somewhere, some MIT graduate is really putting his degree to good use. Oh and did I mention that they even have a fucking machine robot? Yes, a robot. Think a cross between the robot Johnny 5 and the rapist robots of Flesh Gordon.

Down the stairs and through the door reveals even more sets. A gothic dungeon set that would put most Dracula movies to shame. Our guide now leads us to her domain, the water torture devices. Her tone grows animated as she shows off devices that look like something Houdini would be afraid of. We marvel at the great cylinders of glass and steel, each one more devious and panic inducing than the next. Finishing with the piez-de-resistance, the WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE

Picture a massive hamster wheel of blackened steel balanced over a huge tank of water. The lucky victim is bound to the outer tread of the wheel and then rotated backwards into the water. Compared to these guys, the Spanish Inquisition was merely a friendly chat.

Tucked behind a false stone wall, the “matrix room”. Cold steel walls and copper pipes create a bizarre network of shower heads and faucets. As if Salvador Dali took up plumbing.

We walk past the wall of sex toys. Now when I say wall, I mean wall of sex toys. All manner of shackle and restraint, neatly hung on labeled hooks. So high was this wall of toys that they had one of those rolling ladders you see in libraries so you can reach the stuff way up there.

Last stop, the barn. A rustic set of worn wood and patinaed steel creates an environment so real you could almost smell the hay and manure. However these stalls are designed to hold animals of a different sort… unless there is market for cow bondage that I don’t know about.

Hands shook, pleasantries exchanged, and thus our tour ended where it all began. Back out on the seedy sidewalk. Standing again in the bright California sun, Silk and I, no longer needing to be the “Hip Rope Makers” that we are, burst into full nerd overload.

Thankfully we have at least an hour before our lunch date with Midori, plenty of time to get our geek out of our system and return to the picture of cool.

Folsom Diary, Day 2. Time: Friday 2:45 pm, Location: Savoy Hotel Bar, Cooling Off

She called us “friends”

Silk and I hop an outbound train to meet her at one of her favorite local eateries. A tiny taquieria, a busy little hole in the wall where the food is authentic and the smells are heavenly. The kind of place were grandma still ran the kitchen and the grandkids bussed your table. Under my arm, 300 feet of the Monk’s finest. A delivery for Midori’s upcoming performance at this year’s Rubber Ball in London. As always, she does not just arrive somewhere. She *enters* a room. Even in street clothes she carries herself with an aura of grace and power. This woman radiates confidence. Over spicy salmon tacos and Mexican cokes we laugh and exchange ideas for an upcoming collaboration. Silk, at first nervous to meet “her”, is laughing and swapping dirty stories with her. Meals finished, her phone rings. She chats happily with the caller for a minute then asks, “Hon, can I call you back in like 5? I’m finishing up lunch with some friends and want to say goodbye to them…”

Now she could have said “associate” or “acquaintance” or even “some nice folks”, but she used the word “friend”. Funny how something as small as a single word can make you feel.

We watched her walk away, coils of golden hemp under her arm. It took all the control we could muster to not immediately burst out into the happy dance, no we waited till well AFTER she turned the corner and was out of ear shot. Then we made a scene.

Home again.

We are home and safe. An awesome weekend with many stories to be shared. Patience while I set about trancribing the 16 page journal into a readable blog post or 3.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

...leav’in on a jet plane...
This is it gentle reader, Folsom is here! All the preparations are done, bags packed, meetings made and parties planed. I’ll be in San Francisco till Wednesday 9/29. I am not bringing my laptop with me, no room for it amongst all the rope and fetish wear, so there will be no updates till then.

I know I know, no updates for five whole days. But fear not my friends! For when I return we will have many stories to tell. This weekend is jam packed with things to talk about. Here is just a teaser,
In the next 5 days I will:
1) Deliver a custom rope order to Midori (and she is taking Silk & I to lunch!)
2) Meet with the delightfully warped folks at and start supplying them with lots and lots of rope.
3) Press the flesh with the owners of some of the hottest sex shops in the country.
4) Watch Bridgette smoke the competition at the Club Shibari
5) Sell a shitload of rope.
6) Stand back and enjoy the madness that is the Folsom Street Fair as 10,000 kinksters invade 3 city blocks
7) Spend 2 days alone with my Tambo, sipping tea and looking for fun places to kiss.

Oh yeah and on Friday, while all the girls are off at a Women’s only masquerade. I’m taking Galahad and Kreig out to cruise the Castro.

See you in 5 days.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

My Den Mother, A Dominatrix?

Dear Monk,

Have you ever noted a trend in Eagle Scouts being likely to be tops
that love rope bondage? I know only a little about the kink community, but I know of several Eagle Scouts like this.-d

An excellent question! Being a former eagle scout myself I would have to wonder the same thing. Are Eagle scouts more likely to become kinky? That would explain a lot. Like why my big burly scout master “Carl” is now known as “Carlotta”... but that is a story for another day. I know that personally I had a very strong affinity to activities like mountaineering and climbing when I was a scout. I was the guy they called whenever something needed to be lashed together. Did that give me a predisposition to being a rope top? Probably not, I discovered the joys of tying up girls much later in life; just call me a late bloomer I guess.

After asking several of the rope tops I respect I came to this consensus. Most, if not all, had some kind of scouting experience. Now this is not conclusive evidence. Ask just about any male between the ages of 25-45 and you will find that most of them had some kind of scouting experience. Of this group, I’m the only one who stuck it out to get the rank of Eagle (that would be the highest rank in scouting for those of you playing along at home). Most left scouting to pursue things like sailing or rock climbing. Again rope related activated so maybe there is some kind of link, but not a strong one. I even went as far as to ask some female rope tops, they too had some early involvement in outdoor organizations like camp fire and the girl scouts.

Another interesting side note, most of the really good rope tops out there have something to do with the tech industry. Programmers, coders, dba, network administrators, you name it they all have had some kind of work in that field. Perhaps there is a link between the problem solving techie and the technical aspects of rope?

So the larger question would be, do scouts make better rope tops? In the words of bondage instructor extraordinaire Max, “If a person knew the 6 knots needed to pass tenderfoot they would be miles ahead of most tops”

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

The Green Fairy, PT 2

Like an iceberg caught in the gulf current, the slow persistence the dripping water rendered the sugar tablet down to nothing. The once deep green liquor now a milky white as the sugar and water dilute it’s potency. The ritual demands that the proper dosage for absinth should be one part liquor to 5 parts iced water. Make the drink any stronger and you are inviting a pilgrimage to pray at the feet of the porcelain god.

Sugar now gone and glasses full, the pouring ritual is complete. Taking our glasses we stop and admire how they look in the low light. The liquid inside is an eerie pale green, like a potion used by Dr Jekyll himself. We hold them up for the toast, the first of many, “To art and the lust to create it” I say as we clink glasses.

Now is the moment of truth. It is one thing to pour the drink, another to partake in it. No turning back now, partake the drug and forever be changed.

As I bring the glass up to my nose my first impression is the smell. Like black licorice or sweet clove cigarettes. I take a slow small sip, my brain working overtime to catalog every moment as the flavors spill across my palate. First impression, bit like drinking diluted Nyquil. That same foul sweet licorice taste. Not bad mind you, but strong and very present. My taste buds reel and blink madly as they process the flavor. I can feel my lips tingle ever so slightly, by the end of the night they will feel as if I had been kissing for hours, slightly numb and tingly.

A small camera runs silently in the corner. We chose to document this event, to capture the grand brilliance that would come while under the spell of the drug? Perhaps. Either that or we were going to do our own version of the Blair Witch Project, “Two lovers set out one evening to drink absinthe together and were never seen again, only this tape was found…”

We giggle and chat as we sip our drinks. Trying to gauge the effect of the drug is hard, are we feeling light headed due to the drug or is it just our mutual attraction? Glasses now empty, we kiss. I can taste the drug on her lips, it’s flavor mixing with the unique taste that is Dancer’s. We both agree that our lips feel odd, like perhaps they have been inflated with a bit too much air.

An hour has passed since we first opened the bottle, time now for another round. All told we will repeat the pouring ritual 3 more times.

The poring takes a bit more focus this time; the fine motor sills are obviously impacted by the alcohol. Slowed yes, but not such that we are clumsy drunk. Quite the opposite really, relaxed and animated would be a better description. We talk about all manner of things, telling stories and confessing secrets. I would later describe this to Tambo like this, “It is like being stoned, you are talkative and your thoughts are very fluid. However unlike pot where you can’t really remember what you said 2 seconds ago, there is great clarity to your thoughts”

At no point were we so enraptured by the drug that we set about with quill and paper to write some fevered tale nor did we ever hallucinate. Quite the contrary in fact, we were most content to share ideas and talk about all manner of things. Many a fantasy was shared that night.

Armed with the camera and the remains of our fourth and final glass, we retreat to her bedchambers.

What happened next you ask? Well that, dear reader, is a story for another day.

Monday, September 20, 2004

Remember kids, don't try this at home

I always tell folks that no I am not a "sword fighter"; rather I am an "actor who is trained to use a sword". In my mind there is a big difference; actors are not purposely trying get hurt. Of course accidents do happen.

A fraction of a second late with my block and a student that I was pushing too hard yielded me a new scar. Right on my melon, why is it always the head? That's right, dear readers, I caught the business end of a broadsword on my skull. Netted myself three stitches, as you can see from the photo, and one hell of a headache.

Later that night while I prepared to do horrible things to a most delightful girl at the wetspot, Max had this to say. "Well now you can tell folks that you have a real dueling scar..."

Sunday, September 19, 2004

The Film Idea

After completing my first film folks started asking me, “So what will your next film be about?” At the time, I had some ideas but nothing that so snared my creative being that I would be willing to give up a year or more of my life in order to make it. Sure I had some thoughts, some films that sounded pretty cool when I screened bits of them in the theater of my mind. One such idea has had enough sticking power to stay in my brain for quite awhile. After having a conversation with a friend who is a sort of muse to me, I find that the idea has a bit more draw than before.

First off you need some back story, I have a great deal of admiration for Shakespeare. Yeah, yeah I know. Everybody is supposed to like the bard. What I admire is the ingenuity and creativity that takes place when plays written in the 1600’s are updated and transplanted into new times and worlds. I am sure you have seen films like Baz Luhrmann'sRomeo + Juliet”, but what about the under rated version of Othello called “O” or, my personal favorite, Richard III staring the amazing Sir Ian McKellen? Imagine the bard done in pre Nazi Germany, oh that film sizzles!

My favorite play of all his works would have to be King Lear. I remember seeing it when I as a very young drama student while on a tour to the great Ashland Shakespeare Festival. Let’s just say that it completely and utterly kicked my young ass.

The version I would like to tell is set in the sun dappled hills of southern California. The time is the late 1970’s and our good king is lord and master of a vast porn empire. I see him as a hybrid character, all the charm and manners of a Hugh Heffner with the spite and audaciousness of Larry Flynt. Ready to retire from the cocaine fueled life of excess he seeks to divide his empire of magazines, strip clubs, and grind houses amongst his 3 children and live the simple life. If you know the bard, then you know what happens next. Everything goes terribly, horribly wrong as the siblings fight for control and the arrogant, foolish king is reduced to a shell of man, striped of his grandeur and dignity.

The one scene that keeps playing over and over in my mind is of course the storm scene where Lear, now betrayed and blinded after having his eyes torn out by his own daughter stumbles out into a raging storm to cry out to the gods in anger and frustration. As the scene opens we see a long stretch of Malibu beach. The sea no longer blue, but a torrent of foam and spray as it is whipped into a frenzy be the on coming storm. Lear, still dressed in his signature silk pajamas now torn and stained, staggers out to accost the storm. Behind him his fool, a man who was once a stallion of a porn star ,now too bloated with age and excess who only gets work as a parody of his former self, tries to coax his friend and master back into shelter and sanity. The once proud man, now bent and worn thin, shakes his fist at the skies and screams.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's moulds, an germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!
O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry
house is better than this rain-water out o' door.
Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters' blessing:
here's a night pities neither wise man nor fool.
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,
You owe me no subscription: then let fall
Your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high engender'd battles 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul!

Now until I finish the adaptation, secure the 13-15 million needed to film and convince Ron Jeremy to play the fool go watch "Ran" by film god Akira Kurosawa. This is his interpretation of Lear, set in feudal Japan. A masterwork, an astounding film.

Saturday, September 18, 2004

Thanks Kitten

I need to publicly thank Kitten for all her help. As we prep for the madness that is Folsom, she has been an invaluable helper around the shop. It is one thing to have dependable help; however having dependable help that brings you fresh treats from the farmer’s market, rocks out to Japanese pop with you and can tie a taut line hitch after being shown once is rare. Have fun at school, we will all miss you.

As for the rest of you, if you were thinking about getting some rope now you can add “...and made by a hot, 22 year old, tall blonde co-ed” to the list of reasons why.

Friday, September 17, 2004


One character in my life that I have not really spoken much about would be Dave. Dave is my oldest and best friend in the world. A part of my life for nearly as long as Tambo, I owe a great deal to his friendship. You see it was about 16 years ago, in the stock room of the only hip record store in town, where we met. Me, having recently embraced the rebellion and anger of rock & roll, disavowing organized religion and sporting a sporting a wicked “Flock of Seagulls” haircut watched in disgust as my boss interviewed this new guy. While far from the cool of say “Empire Records”, we did have a certain level of cool at this store that needed to be held up and this guy was not that. Pastel button down shirt, yuppie knit tie and seersucker slacks was not exactly what we would call hip those days. Of course it did not help that his look and demeanor screamed “conservative republican”, my inner social anarchist bristled at this. The very idea that he thought he could work here with us? Oh the nerve!

I made my displeasure known to my boss. An ex musician and rebel, he took pride in tweaking my world. It was his fault that I now listen to The Who and due to him I’ll forever have soft spot for Kate Bush. As I expressed my disgust, he just sat there and smiled his cockeyed smile. Nodding his head in mock concern as I told him how we could not hire anyone like that.
“That guy is a flounder!” I explained
“Really, a flounder you say?”
“Good, cuz you’re training him”

With clenched teeth I showed him about the job, waiting for the opportunity to pounce. “…just give me an opening and I’ll shred you” I thought. He returned my cold grimace with an affable smile. I found it hard to hate his jovial, easy going nature. Politics, that would do it. I’ll bait his right wing ass and then slam him with my biting socialist commentary! So while setting out magazines one day I noted a headline on the cover of the Rolling Stone and made some biting liberal comment about gun control. To my surprise he perked up and asked me to elaborate. So I did, and he listened attentively leaning in to take in my words. Then to my utter shock he did something I was not expecting. Responded calmly, “You know, that is an excellent point. However have you considered this…” and proceeded to eloquently argue the counter point. No venom, no ego just facts and ideas discussed. “Oh yeah? Well what about this…” as I countered his argument.

This became the nature of our early relationship. We loved to debate; pretty soon I was looking forward to the verbal fisticuffs. Researching topics and honing my arguments in hopes of winning the topic of the day. Eventually one day, while pointing out the flaws in his stand on the nature of the social contract, I stopped and realized. This guy is actually quite cool, he makes me think and won’t let me just rest on my mental ass.

Over the course of these 16 years, it has been my twisted pleasure to introduce Dave to… The Rocky Horror Picture Show, alcohol, impersonating police officers, pot, smuggling, girls, racing vintage cars, staring in micro budget cinema, Asian porn, and midnight grocery store bowling with frozen turkeys… but those are all stories for another day.

Of all the things we have done together over the years I am most proud of introducing him to his darling wife. I was there the day the met, I offered advice as he came to grips with these new feelings of love, I offered my house up so they could have a place to fuck when he came to visit her, I was there when he proposed to her, I was the best man at their wedding, and was there on the morning his first child was born.

He lives in the suburbs now, a devoted husband and doting father to his 2 adorable girls. We don’t see each other that much these days and that does sometimes makes me sad. However it only takes a few minutes together and it is like we were never parted. We share a friendship that has spanned many years and many of lives changes.

Upon recently discovering this journal he said this to me.
“I think that if the flounder were to meet the monk today, he would die of fright”
To which I had to respond, “The monk could not be who he is today if it were not for the flounder”

Happy birthday dear friend. Our lives may be very different these days but our bond is not. You are my oldest and dearest friend. I am proud to call you my brother.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

The Green Fairy, PT 1

“If you’re going to sin, sin well”

Normally, when one sets out to do something “taboo” they do so quickly and silently. Out of fear and guilt they go about the act with out taking the time to relish the moment, to enjoy the forbidden nature of the act. To revel in the lawless nature of the moment is an intoxicating thing. So when Dancer stated her desire to try Absinthe, we both agreed that if we were going to try this “forbidden” pleasure together we were going to do it right. This was the drink of artists and poets; they say that this was the drug Mary Shelly took the fateful night she set the tale of Frankenstein to paper. This is a drug with history, a drug with ritual… a ritual that we too must follow.

I’m thinking that perhaps I have a bit of a fetish for presentation…

When I arrived on her doorstep for our night of forbidden pleasure I was well prepared. Under my arm I carried the wooden box that only days before had slipped through the borders from France. Nested inside the pale wood, a vintage bottle of Absinthe. The same brand they say Hemmingway drank. Along side the deep green bottle, crystal glasses bearing the maker’s mark of the distiller as well as the proper spoons. Again, the ritual demands that you use a proper, slotted spoon. And one cannot deny the power of ritual.

Some elements took a bit of creativity on my part. You see, you cannot just pour the stuff into a glass and drink it. No, doing that would be a grand waste of very expensive alcohol and a terrific way to get sick. There is a certain way it must be done, a time honored ritual. A small measure of the fabled drink is first placed into the glass, next the slotted spoon is balanced on the glass’s rim. Iced water is then poured over a sugar tablet that rests on the slotted spoon. This pouring needs to be a slow act such that the sugar properly dissolves into the drink. Before its ban in the US, many a parlor and artist haunt housed special glass decanters designed for this task. These works of art are now antiques and very hard to find. Not the sort of thing one can dash down to the mall and obtain. The bag over my shoulder held the answer to this dilemma, a glass decanter made for just this purpose. Crafted of bronze and glass, this little item took me more than a few days, quite a bit of creativity, several trips to the hardware store and several glass carafes before it was perfect. A pillar of glass with 2 antique brass spigots at it’s base such that both our glasses could be filled at the same time.

As I set about to place all these items on Dancer’s parlor room table I had to smile, she too took this presentation ritual to heart. The table, draped in a deep gold covering was adorned with flowers and candles. The lights of her great home turned low and Dancer herself was dressed for the part. Her wondrous frame wrapped in a slinky deep green velvet dress, so deep that it seemed almost black. Running my finger along the thin straps of her dress, I stop to admire the shape of her collarbones. Of all my lovers, past or present, she would be best suited for partaking in this ritual. We share a unique bond that way.

After setting the decanter, now filled with crushed ice and water, on it’s pedestal at the center of the table we are now ready to begin. As it often does when we are together, time slowed and the world outside faded away. At that moment we could have been artists in 19th century Paris… if not for the French pop playing in the background and the video camera.

Measure poured, spoon balanced, and sugar tablet placed all was ready. All we must do next was to turn the brass spigots and release the chilled water. We sit close, our fingers caressing the other’s thigh, and together reach out our free hands and rest them on the spigots. Taking a deep breath we each give our’s a slight twist and begin…

To be continued.

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Along with this electronic journal, I keep a large notebook with me at all times. This diary holds random thoughts, sketches and my many to-do lists, The following is an excerpt as I sat waiting in a salon waiting room.

Random notes on a Saturday afternoon while waiting for a haircut.
I do really love my ipod. Need more Stones and old Beastie Boys, perhaps Paul’s Boutique?

I really should take Tambo out to the movies on Sunday, wonder where Hero is playing?

Jesus tits I am tired. We were out till what, 6 am last night? Damn, only a few hours sleep then it is off to M M’s party.

Last night is why Dancer and I spend most of our nights together wrapped in each other’s arms, a tangle of naked flesh and desire. The gallery opening was good, filled with plenty of sexy art and even more sexy people. While not a huge fan of performance art, one could not help but be aroused by the naked bodies as they danced and posed as art. The paintings and sculpture were terrific, Jeff really has a skill for capturing all the unflattering bits and making them beautiful. Sadly most of that was lost on us. We spent the evening in a near constant state of arousal together. Touching, teasing, kissing, amongst all those sexy people, only the two of us really existed.

When she rose and sauntered off to the bathroom, I watched their eyes. All those pretty boys and girls (Let’s not discriminate here) wanted her. They stared at her with hunger. She knew it too; she probably could feel their gaze as they undressed her mentally. She has that power, that sexual pull about her. As she strode back, tall boots clicking on the hardwood floor she looked right at me. Walking past all those hungry eyes, she cut though their lust like a ship’s bow through water and up to me. Straddling my lap she leaned in and we kissed again, one of many kisses we shared that night.

One girl even offered her body up to us, with soft whispers of desire she made her play. Take her home with us and to share in our desire, be our plaything for the evening. No dice my pretty. We had only one thing on our minds, each other.

One must wonder how many other fantasies we fueled that evening?

Remember to pick up flowers and champagne for tonight.

Don’t forget to finish the decanter for Monday. She wants to film it, be sure the editing gear is ready next week. I wonder what story we will tell from that adventure? Be sure to remember to note the little things. The telling of the ritual, the preparation, the details…pay attention to the details.

Sunday, September 12, 2004

Ugh… bleary eyed and stumbling…. What a weekend. Date with Tambo on Thursday (oh how she makes me smile), date with Dancer on Friday… till 6 am Saturday morning. (Me thinks that girl is a bad influence) Few hours sleep then off to a party where I had the good fortune to meet some very, very cool people. In fact I must say how taken aback I was by some of them. These are folks in the local leather community and the kink world in general that I really respect. Artists, models and producers all of whom I was quite nervous to meet…only to discover that they were exited and pleased to me. Stories told, laughs exchanged, bundles of hemp pressed into eager hands, and wee a bit of flirtation too.

And now to rest up and finish my prep work for Dancer’s and I date with The Green Fairy

Saturday, September 11, 2004

26 things

“You know” I said as I sat back to admire the seductive curve of my lover’s form, “I must say that looking at your ass fills me so many dirty thoughts. Oh the number of things I would love to do to that most perfect ass of yours”
“Really?” She coos “A large number is it?”
“Oh yes, I dare say I can think of at least twenty-six things I would love to do to your ass right now.”
“Oh my, twenty-six is a rather … large number. Do tell”

And so, my dearest lover, twenty-six things I would do to your most perfect no particular order.

1) Admire it from afar for it is a work of art.
2) Caress the soft curve where it meets your leg
3) Bite it
4) Spank it firmly with my open hand
5) Sign my name on it, claiming it as my own.
6) Strike it hard with a rattan cane and admire the marks it leaves
7) Fondle it
8) Grope it
9) Flog it
10) Drip hot wax upon it
11) Press it tight against my body
12) Fuck it (savagely, softly, longingly, deeply, slowly, quickly, and repeatedly)
13) Photograph it in soft light
14) Serve sushi upon it
15) Sculpt it out of clay
16) Piss on it
17) Place my eager mouth between it and lap you up
18) Probe it with all sorts of items that buzz, curve and otherwise make one squirm.
19) Two words, butt plug
20) Bind it in coarse hemp
21) Drape it in silk
22) Blow upon it.
23) Torment it with ice cubes
24) Paint a landscape across its surface with watercolors
25) Spill my seed upon it
26) Fantasize about it non-stop.

Friday, September 10, 2004

The differences between swingers and kinksters, # 37 Dancing

Having spent a great deal of time identified as both a “swinger” and a “kinkster” I feel it is my duty to compare and contrast these two very different worlds. While they tend to be lumped into the generic “alternative” lifestyle category by the vanilla world at large, they are quite different worlds.

Young or old, swingers love to dance. Now most folks who have been to a swing club will tell you, swingers don’t dance particularly well, but they do enjoy it. Picture if you will a dance floor, oh about the size of a postage stamp. Now on this floor there are dozens of writhing sweaty bodies in various states of undress. Folks tend to dance almost shoulder to shoulder, the press of bodies creating a sexual buzz that crackles across the floor. For swingers, dancing is a form of foreplay. Hands caressing, clothing removing, bodies grinding are all part of the fun. If you are lucky and your dance partner is really connecting with you, others will writhe around you as if feeding off your sexual energy. It is quite common when in such a situation to look around and say to yourself, “I see my hands, I see her hands… so who the hell is rubbing my ass?”

Kinksters, on the other hand are a whole other matter. Every week the WetSpot holds a party called “The Grind”. This is a dance centered event featuring lots of thumping techno and industrial tunes. Folks come out of the woodwork for these parties dressed in the most amazing costumes. The odd thing is only a handful dance and hardly anyone dances actually WITH someone. Rather, folks move to the beat content in their own little world. Rarely connecting and actually dancing with another person, the exchange of sexual energy is rare. If you watch you can see it, two bodies moving to the music aware of each other but several feet apart. If all goes well they may end up a foot apart, but at no time will there be the horizontal bump and grind of two people eager to grope and feel the flesh of the other.

Which is better? Hard to say really. For me I guess I would say that dancing is like fucking, it is best done with a partner. So I guess you could say that I have an affinity for the sweaty grind of two bodies very intent on expressing their desire for each other through this primal movement. However I must admit that it is a bit weird when you say turn around and someone old enough to be your mother cops a feel. Also, swingers have TERRIBLE taste in music. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get your sexy mac daddy moves on when dancing to Shania Twain? *shudder* If only we could get the driving music and great clothes of the kinksters and mix it with the wanton sexual chemistry of the swingers… then that would be perfect.

Thursday, September 09, 2004

Folsom Street Fair Count Down: 18 days.

We are in a mad dash to prep stock for the event. Right now the house, the shop and the rest of my world looks as if a rope bomb went off. While we do the dance of the mad rope makers, I have a question for the folks in San Francisco. I’m looking for a cool place to take my crew on Saturday night. Can you recommend a cool, funky, and fun place I can wine and dine my 5 awesome helpers? Oh and if it were near the Castro, even better.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Tambo found this today.

A human being should be able to change a diaper,
plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building,
write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone,
comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone,
solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a
computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly.
Specialization is for insects.

--Robert A. Heinlein

So far all I have left to do is design a building, set a bone, and die... however there will be NO diapers in my future.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

So I’m having this conversation with a friend today… of course it was about sex. Specifically the odd things folks like to use as sex toys. The ever popular, and versatile, cucumber was mentioned. My friend tells me with wicked pride, “Well… I once used a cucumber on a girl then watched her make me a cucumber sandwich afterwards. She even trimmed the crusts off the bread”

Not to be outdone, I countered with this. “I once asked a lover grow her own cucumbers in her garden. She fed and watered them everyday and they grew *quite* healthy. Seeing as how they were English cucumbers she named them names like “Nigel” and “Roderick”. When the time came, she chose her favorite and… and we had a nice salad afterwards.”

I am an evil, evil man.

Monday, September 06, 2004

One from the mailbags.
Good Morning, Monk,
I have a question that I hope you will answer. I've been dying to ask it, but didn't really know how to put it, and this morning, it occurred to me that I should just ask it.
I was looking at your blog this morning, at the picture of you 'in action'. I've looked at the picture before, but I've not really studied it with great intensity until now. See, I had the page scrolled down, and all that was showing was the girl and your hands. I noticed something about her hands, but couldn't quite put my finger on it, and so I was studying it very closely, trying to figure out what it was. Anyway, that's neither here nor there, I'm only trying to illustrate how I came to the conclusion that I should just ask and get it over with.
Normally, when you see someone being tied and suspended, they are tiny girls, like the perfect Asian bondage models. I'm not just talking about the models, though, I am also referring to the girls I have seen in bondage demos and workshops. They're always tiny. But the girl in the photo doesn't look tiny. So that brings me to the question. Can those of us who aren't in the single digit sizes be suspended with rope bondage?

Well W, you guessed right, the woman in the photo is not your typical girl you see in suspension demos or photos. Jules, the girl in the photo, is a sexy curvy gal who reminds me a lot of a girl you might see in a Russ Meyer film. She went up in rope just fine.

Granted, most of the girls you see in photos or demos are tiny. Tiny girls tend to be more flexible and phycically adept to the demands of suspension. Remember that for a bottom, suspension can be very physically demanding. I will not do certain suspension scenes with someone till I have played with them enough to know they have the needed endurance. That said, you do not have to be a size 2 tri-athlete to be suspended. You just need to be aware of the limitations.

You if you are a big girl and want me to hang you up, suspended upside down by one ankle? Nope, probably not the wisest idea. Now you want to be tied to a bamboo pole and then be suspended from that? Now you’re talking.

From a technical standpoint, most folks use a thicker line on the body when doing suspension. I like to use an 8mm wide line for all my suspensions. The thicker line is stronger and helps distribute the weight more evenly across the body. Now on a smaller girl I might only use a 30 ft section of line around her hips. This should create a section 6 to 8 inches wide across her hips where most of her body weight will soon sit. On larger bodies, or bodies that are new to suspension, I use twice that length in order to create a wider saddle for her to lie in.

Another thing I may do is use more than one mount point. This also helps to distribute the weight. I have seen photos from Bridgett where she suspended a 300 pound guy using over 2 dozen mount points!

Of course it goes with out saying that before one attempts this sort of thing they go out and get the proper training. If you are in the Seattle area I would strongly encourage you to seek out Max for classes. I believe he is starting a new season of classes this October.

So don’t be blue, you too can experience the bliss of suspension bondage.

Sunday, September 05, 2004

Manly Men Are We

Anyone who has a brother knows that there is a certain rivalry that exists between male siblings. My brother, Danimal, and I are no different. I love the guy but it seems that whatever we do always seems to end up in some kind of odd challenge. (Remind me sometime to tell you about the time we dared each other to try and drink ALL the tequila in Cabo.) One day as we were swapping camping tales we got onto a kick about who could “rough it” better. I was convinced that my ten years as a boy scout better prepared me for primitive life than his four years as an ROTC lieutenant. He of course disagreed. Naturally this could only be settled in the manliest of ways. A survivalist camping excursion.

On the day of the challenge we piled into his jeep with the barest of provisions. Each of us trying to out macho the other one by taking less. Survival kits, some rope, sleeping bags and that was about it. If it were possible, we probably would have insisted that our fishing gear consist only of bent safety pins for hooks and line made from our own pubic hair. Of course matches were completely forbidden. How can you have a proper survival camp with such trappings of civilization?

Once we escaped the snarl of rush hour traffic and began our climb into the mountains the one blue sky overhead begun to take an ominous turn, dark black clouds filtered in as the air took on that all too familiar smell of an oncoming storm. Arriving at our campsite, we set about quickly to make our shelters for what looked to be a damp night ahead. I chose a high spot under a dead fall tree. My brother chose a low spot between 2 large hills to build his shelter. No sooner had we finished out makeshift shelters when the rain started to fall. A light sprinkle at first, “No problem” we said as we puffed out our manly chests. No mere sprinkle would send us manly men slinking back to civilization.

After much cussing and bruised knuckles, we never actually managed to coax a fire using my old boy scout flint. And to think I once did it in order to earn a merit badge? Too dark now to properly “forage” for dinner, we both dug into our survival kits for dinner. a meal of hard tack crackers and an old power bar later we decided to call it a night. The rain now fell harder, we had some cover from the mighty trees that surrounded our small encampment, but soon even their great branches would not stop the downpour. I think by this point we were looking to see who would blink first. We both really would have much preferred to be home and dry but by god we were not going to let the other one off the hook.

Sometime in the wee early hours of the night the rain turned from shower to a downpour. Sheets of water fell from an angry sky as the soft ground turned into a sliding mess of mud. I watched and silently gloated as the lee my brother chose for his shelter began to fill with water. By dawn it would be a full blown creek. He setup camp in a flood run off zone.

When the watery dawn finally came we were a mess. My brother’s shelter, now underwater, looked more like a damn built by beavers on crack. My little lean to, having long since succumbed to the eroding hillside, lay in a pile of sticks at the base of the hill. Danimal and I looked even worse. Wet and covered in mud we resembled those cavemen from Quest for Fire. As he tried in vain to wring out the water from his sleeping bag I set about getting warm and fed. "Fuck this" I swore as I opened my kit and dug deep, deep into the bottom where I kept my “if all hell breaks loose” supplies. Items I never hoped I would have to use. The first item? A road flare. Walking up to the pile of deadfall that was once my shelter, I struck the flare and shoved it deep into the mass of sticks and tinder. It was not long before the ramshackle pile of limbs was converted into a rather large fire.

Once the heat problem was fixed now to address the hunger issue, digging deeper I pulled out the one item I never, ever hoped I would have to use. This was my last ditch item, but by god I was not going to back down and let him win this. So with a deep breath of resignation I pulled out...a can of spam. The blue and yellow can was faded and dented from years of rattling around the bottom of the kit. Looking around I found a relatively straight stick and after a few minutes with my knife I fashioned it into a primitive roasting spit. Spearing the greasy meat product with the now sharpened forked end, I thrust it into the fire in the vain hope that once warmed the quivering mass might not taste as foul. Granted at this point I think I would have probably eaten my own shoes, but that is beside the point.

As I pulled the dreaded meat cube out of the flame I made a remarkable discovery. Spam is flammable. Very flamible. Amazed and delighted by the site of this new discovery I turned to show my brother, who was now also standing next to the fire drying out.
“Dude check it out, I got a pork torch!”
Just as I turned and presented my flaming discovery to Danimal, we were surprised by a loud, wet *SPLORCH*.
Little known fact, spam is also explosive when set ablaze.

Now wet, muddy, and covered in bits of smoking pork by product I smiled, shrugged and said, “Ya know I think there is an IHOP at the base of the mountain?”

Friday, September 03, 2004

The list.

So I was chatting today with an old friend. I think we have known each other for well over 15 years, long before I was ever I identified as poly or kinky. He may say that I was never really “vanilla”. Now long married and a father, he lives tucked away in the safety of Suburbia so we don’t get to see each other as much as we once did. Now, one of the things about our friendship that I really enjoy is that we can go a year with out talking and it only takes a few sentences for us to feel like we never parted. After a bit he asks about the blog. You see this is a new discovery for him and he is having no end of fun reading about my recent exploits. He is ,of course laughing, knowing that he knew me back when I was a geeky dork with a flock of seagulls haircut, working on a record store.

“So the wife and I have been talking about… trying some of your rope out.”
“Yes and maybe some other stuff too”
“Well good for you.”
“Problem is I really am not sure just what it is she wants to try? I mean where do you start?”
“Have you asked her?”
“Kinda, but I’m not sure she knows how to express what she wants to try”
“Have you tried a yes, no maybe list?”

The venerable YES/NO/MAYBE list, cornerstone of kink. For those who do not know, this list (usually called a y/n/m list) is a pretty though listing of almost every sexual thing you could do with another person. It lists everything from the fairly obvious stuff, vaginal intercourse, anal penetration, vibrators, oral sex, etc to the more extreme end of things like cutting, shitting, branding, and even animals. Along side all these activities a person will list if this is something they like to do “yes”, don’t like, “no” or are interested in trying “maybe”. The list I use goes a step farther by letting you rank each activity on a scale of 1-5. 1 being you are really not interested and 5 being “Oh hell yeah baby!”

“Here let me e-mail you this one that is setup as a spreadsheet, really handy”
I fire him off a copy of this. Feel free to download it too. Right click to “save as”
“Ok I have it, hmm yeah… lots of stuff here. Um, what the hell is Barosmia?!”
“Getting turned on by smells, why?”, I deadpan.
“How the hell do you know all this?! I have no idea what half these are!”
“Here, try this link it should give you definitions to most of the items.”

Once both partners have completed the list, you now have an excellent place to start talking about what you would like to do together. Armed with a similar vocabulary and a common starting point you can agree on common activates you both enjoy as well as a few new ones you both want to try. Now keep in mind that the list is a fluid and living thing. Constantly changing, your list will evolve and change over time as you experience new things and learn more. My current list is much different that the one I made 8 months ago also the list I have with Dancer is different that the list I have with Tambo.

The trick, I told him, was to remember that there is no wrong answer. She could have things on her yes list that frankly do not turn you on, and vice versa. Respect those limits and don’t freak out or else she will be less eager to share with you in the future. Discovering kink with a long term spouse is great, I told him. I know that for Tambo and I it has been a lot of fun to do together. You already have a basis of communication and trust in your relationship. By adding kink you get to discover new things about someone you already know and trust. You will learn to talk about everything but in the end it is fantastic when you discover a new way to make the woman you love go limp with pleasure. Sorta that same feeling of unexpected joy you get when you find a $20 bill in your jeans pocket after doing the laundry.

I certainly do wish them well in their discovery of kink. They both are both dear people who obviously love each other very much. With any luck they will start taking those baby steps and enjoy every one of them. I gotta say that frankly, I can’t see him becoming the “big bad top”, nah I think he more the bottoming kind. As for her, well we will just have to see about that one, now won’t we?

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Hey little sister

“Does it hurt?”
“Pardon?” I ask as I look up from the bundle of rope I am working on.
“The rope, does it hurt when you get tied up?” She asks again.
“Well I guess that all depends on how you use it…” I respond as I reach into the tub and pull out another tangle of burgundy.

It is Monday night and I am working late again, a tub of burgundy and black rope sits at me feet. Almost complete, the rope awaits my finishing touches before it can be sent off to it's new homes. Tonight is the one quiet night of their 10 day visit. As I sit at the kitchen table working, Tambo and The Mom are off in the other part of the house doing some kind of mom / daughter bonding thing. Lil sis stands at the door of the kitchen, right at the edge of the portal actually.

“You see there are two major schools of rope,” I continue, “Western and Japanese. Western style rope is more centered on restraining someone to something where as Japanese rope is more about using the rope to restrain the body to itself. It also has a higher focus on the artistic aspects of the rope.”
“Artistic?!” She asks, furrowing her brow.
“Yes, this is actually an art form that dates back to feudal Japan, to the time of the shogun. A sort of sexual origami really”
“No way, cool.”
“Here, pull up a chair and I’ll show you.”

As she takes the chair across from me I am struck by how much she has grown up. I have known this girl since she was in diapers. I still remember her as the impish little 6 year old flower girl in a frilly pink dress and pigtails at our wedding. Armed with a huge basket of petals, she walked in front of the bride earnestly placing a single petal on the ground then taking a cautious step forward and placing another petal. Now, sixteen years later, she is an intelligent college senior. Whip smart, articulate, opinionated, and in the right light I am astounded by how much she looks like her sister at that age. One of the (many) side benefits of my life with Tambo has been getting to watch both her younger brother and sister grow up.

“Have you and your boyfriend ever played with rope before?” I ask.
“well….” She hesitates
“Everybody has probably tried it a little, maybe with neckties or scarves.”
“Oh yeah sure we have done that”
“Did you both enjoy it?”

Now to most this might seem a might bit strange, me talking about sexual bondage with my wife’s younger sister. I’m sure some of you are thinking that this would be something more suited for the stage of the Jerry Springer show. Quite to the contrary actually. Tambo and I have always tried to be very open and honest about our lives to both her adult siblings. While not advertising our lifestyle choices (or actively recruiting), we have never tried to hide them either. We have always had a, “This is what I am drinking / smoking / reading right now. If you would like to try a little just ask” policy.

“So do you like being tied up or doing the tying?” I ask.
“Um… the tying I think”
“Would you like to learn a few rope tricks?”
“Yeah that would be cool”
“Now this is called a French cuff, see how I place the knot over the pressure point on the wrist? Good, now you try it on my wrist”
I place the bundle in her hands and she begins to feel the rope, begins to make the connection with it.

And so we sat at that table for the next 2 hours, I showed her some knots and quick restraints. Answering her questions and doing my best to dispel a few myths in the process. By the end her nimble fingers could manage the knots and with a smile she could quickly bind my hands behind my back. Yes, this girl was a good student. Along with knots I also shared a few insights on how she could further torment her willing victim once she had him properly restrained.

Stuffed into her suitcase, along side all the souvenirs and new clothes from her trip to Seattle, are 3 bundles of the Monk’s finest burgundy along with a note that reads. “Remember, there are a myriad of different ways in which people make love. Some ways may seem foreign or even wrong to you. Keep an open mind and never be scared to explore

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

A bittersweet day today, today is the day that S and I chose to close the book that was our lives together. A grand book really, full fun, laughter and great sexual exploration. But like all books, it must eventually come to an end. In our case a mutual and happy end. It is so easy when ending a relationship, especially one where you are both still good friends, to say “let’s be sure to keep in touch”. Only to do the exact opposite. Rather, we promised that whatever happens next, the next time we ran into each other at an event the meeting will be filled with joy and many hugs.

And what of our hero you ask? Will he seek out another lover or are Tambo and Dancer the only ones in his love life for a while?

To be honest I am not really sure. There are some interesting prospects on the horizon, a few individuals that I do find rather intriguing. Will they end up as characters in the drama that is my life? To be lovers, long term partners or merely entertainment for a few hours? I guess you will just have to say tuned now won’t you?

A brief note from a tired, but happy boy.

Just got back from the Prince concert, if you have a chance to go see this show DO IT! No opening act, he came out and played for three fucking hours. Kicked our asses, Tammy, lil sis, the Mom and I danced and sang till we could sing no more… then went out for milk shakes at 2 am.

Ok I’ll admit that I have a thing for the old stuff. Purple Rain is still one of my favorite albums to fuck to and if you ever want to see me shake my booty, play “Raspberry Beret”. My only complaint about the show, no “Darling Nikki”.

Question, it has been a VERY interesting week here. What would you rather hear about? The adventures of 2 heterosexual men getting waxed or me giving my little sister her first lesson in rope bondage?