The #Enchanted_Palms Blog

Video Jukebox: Ex-Girl To Next Girl

2010-11-23T20:16:00.003-05:00

A brilliant rap from a simpler time, when a guy could rap about his girl troubles without resorting to flagrant misogyny.

Witty, funny, and musical . . . light-years ahead of so much crap that has come down the pike since.

Fiction: Journey Down, Part 4

2010-11-01T21:16:00.003-04:00

The first week: Friday night, Part 1

Terri marveled at how it always seemed that the less you're wearing, the longer it takes to get dressed.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The outfit that Dave had asked her to wear (he had actually asked, but in Terri's mind is was totally a command) was clearly designed to make the woman wearing it extremely aware of . . . herself.

With no underwear, the shortness of the dress was foremost in mind every second -- she had to move in a very calculated fashion to avoid exposing herself. The half-bra made her already firm and sizable breasts stand out even more; and no matter how many times she checked it was impossible for her to convince herself that her nipples weren't visible through the dress. The heels were so high that she needed to concentrate a bit on her walk, and take very small steps.

It was on outfit in which one would be looked at in one way and one way, only . . . and Terri could feel herself melt inside when she thought about that.

* * *

Dinner, thankfully, went fast. Terri was so focused on how incredibly badly she needed to be fucked, and to finally cum, that she wasn't thinking about much else. Her mind was like mush . . . but Dave at one point stared into her eyes, making sure this one exchange she remembered clearly.

"Terri . . . it's clear that we hit it off, and it's very clear that you're the kind of girl who likes to be told what to do."

Terri just nodded, each word of his gently pushing on some button she was only remotely aware was there to be pushed.

"So, that's how I'll approach things. I enjoy telling you what to do, so I will do that. If there is something you cannot do, or don't want to do, then you have to say that and we'll have a discussion. In the absence of that, I expect that My commands will be followed, immediately,totally, and cheerfully."

Terri nodded again, his gaze on her the only thing keeping her attached to the here and now. "I understand," she said.

"I will try to keep things simple at first . . . so that you can acclimate yourself to the situation. At times it might seem as though there is too much, but you'll eventually see that you're capable of handling quite a bit."

Terri nodded, but "capable" was the last thing she felt at this moment.

* * *

They got back to Dave's house and the first thing he did was have her take off the dress, leaving in just the half bra, stockings, garters, and heels. He gave a very short black silk robe to put on. In truth it really didn't cover anything but psychologically Terri felt better with it on.

"This is the first thing, Terri. In my house, this is all the modesty you're allowed. You're to wear this robe, or less at all times when you're here unless I've dictated otherwise."

Terri listened, nodding.

Dave sat down and Terri didn't really need to hear the order . . . she sank to her knees and within seconds had his cock out and was on it, greedily sucking.

In seconds she found herself in that dark, soft, blissfully sinking place. The feel and smell and sounds blended into one continuous sensory hum . . . she could never recall her mind being so totally empty, empty of everything but experiencing what she was helping create . . . the rhythm of it so gently but inexorably pushing her down . . . her eyes shut tight, afraid to open them lest the entire sensory bundle disappear like some magic spell.

She had no idea how long it went on . . . Dave seemingly could hold out, hold out, hold out, and then explode instantly at any chosen moment. One moment she was deep in that warm darkness and the next there was nothing but the taste of his explosion filling her mouth . . . his hand firmly holding her there as his cock emptied . . . she moaned deeply as she swallowed every drop, sucking him dry, and feeling something inside her melting . . . slowly giving way.

Video Jukebox: You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You're Told)

2010-10-28T20:26:00.001-04:00

Brother and sister. Guitar and drums. Not even a bass player. That's the White Stripes. It sounds like it can't possibly work, but it does. Amazingly well, in fact.

Fiction: Journey Down, Part 3

2010-10-23T19:56:00.002-04:00

The First Week -- Wednesday

The urge to masturbate had slowly percolated down from Sunday's mind-wrenchingly unbearable to somewhat manageable by the time she got home from work on Wednesday. Terri couldn't wait to get home, eat a couple of Pop Tarts, and fall asleep. Dave had said he'd contact her but her cell phone had been silent all day.

She couldn't help but smile as she opened the door and saw the packages sitting there in the porch, an envelope sitting atop one with "OPEN ME FIRST" neatly written on it. She laughed to herself . . . men . . . as if I would tear into the boxes without reading the card first.

Terri brought everything inside and decided that since she was getting so good at this self-denial thing, she would change out of her work clothes before looking at those boxes.

She got changed and sat on the couch, opening the envelope and reading the note inside:

Terri:

In these boxes you'll find everything you need for our date on Friday. Be sure you wear everything provided and only what's been provided.

I know you are being a good girl for me . . . I can feel it, Terri. And I'm very pleased and excited that you are.

I will pick you up at 7:30 Friday night. I expect you to have cleared your weekend of plans. Don't pack any extra clothes -- it's taken care of.

--Dave.

Terri felt that familiar melting feeling inside and the sudden wetness . . . the effect he had on her with the simplest of words . . . the way he knew that she would go along with whatever he said . . .

Terri opened up the boxes, hoping it would be something that would look good on her.

She gulped softly as she went through the boxes. A short black dress, pretty low cut, front and back. Garter belt. Black stockings. A simple pearl necklace and earrings. And a pair of shoes that would challenge any woman -- the heels had to be 7", with a platform of 2".

Suddenly she realized that the outfit contained no bra or panties. She double-checked, and breathed a sigh of relief when she spied a small box she'd overlooked. Gratefully she opened it.

Momentary gratefulness gave way to another shocked gulp: The box contained a bra, but it was a half-cup bra. And no panties! She picked up the note again and made sure she'd read correctly . . .she had -- she was to wear everything, and only those things.

Terri looked at the outfit again, and this time she was grateful. Grateful for a fast metabolism and a regular workout regimen. This outfit was not one suited to hiding the proverbial figure flaws.

It was only later, between bites of tuna fish (the skimpy black outfit had steered Terri away from the "Pop-Tarts for dinner" plan) that Terri wondered exactly how Dave knew her measurements. She could tell by looking that the dress was going to fit perfectly, and the shoes and bra were the right size. How?

She recreated the evening in her mind and quickly wished she hadn't -- thinking back to Saturday night made her hot and bothered all over again. But she realized that she had not so much fallen asleep as totally passed out. Dave could have measured her extensively and she'd have slept through it.

Terri was starting to let her mind wander to what Friday, and the weekend, would hold in store when her Blackberry went off. She read the e-mail: The 10:00 meeting for tomorrow had been moved up to 8:30. That meant the preparation she'd been planning to do between 8:30 and 9:45 would have to be done between 7 and 8:15. And that meant she had a perfect excuse to go to bed early . . . and let her overloaded brain and body just turn off.

Video Jukebox: Birds Of Fire

2010-10-20T21:38:00.004-04:00

Jazz isn't my thing. Nor is jazz-rock fusion, or electric jazz, or whatever you want to call it.

There is however one major exception -- The Mahavishnu Orchestra, a group that defined that fusion genre like no other. While every member displayed great musicianship, the driving force was guitar virtuoso John McLaughlin.

McLauhglin's guitar playing is . . . spiritual, is the only word that fits. And the only other guitarist I'd use that adjective in praise of is Hendrix. Technically, he does things that I've heard few others do, and none other with the fluidity and seamlessness that McLaughlin does.

In a 2003 survery, McLauhglin was ranked #49 among the 100 Greatest Guitarists Of All Time. #49 is about . . . 47 places too low, to My way of thinking.

This accompanying video is a series of beautiful kaleidoscopic "birds" by a very talented person known as mxurbanski. Watch and listen . . . and don't worry, you might feel like you've taken peyote, but this trip is 100% legal.

Fiction: Journey Down, Part 2

2010-10-20T20:24:00.004-04:00

The First Week -- Sunday

Dave had driven her home, saying she'd hear from him "very soon." Terri didn't really believe it . . . it wasn't exactly an original thing to say, and for whatever reason guys seemed to often come down with buyer's remorse after fucking Terri's brains out.

Terri lazed on the couch, absently flipping channels . . . neither "Bridezillas" or "Property Virgins" holding her interest. She was grateful it was Sunday -- she felt tired, but not body tired . . . emotionally tired was the best way she could think of to describe it. She needed the day . . . well, she had the nagging feeling she needed a lot more than "the day," but she needed the day to at least be able to face the week. The (presumed) Debacle of Dave would hurt less with time . . .

Terri was seriously considering bundling herself up in her bed and passing out when her cell phone went off. She didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Dave." Terri had one of those multi-faceted moments. She was shocked and excited and happy that to hear his voice, but at the same time she immediately began frantically trying to recall giving Dave her cell phone number. She gave up trying after a few seconds, her mind suddenly blank.

"Uhh. . . hi, Dave. It's . . . good to hear your voice." She blanched -- jeez, Terri, could you sound any more like an idiot?

Dave's manner was smooth without being slick. He exuded self-control, and Terri realized that was a big part of her attraction to him . . . she could feel submissive around him because he had himself under control -- he could be trusted.

He glossed right over Terri's nervousness. "Great to hear your voice, too, Terri. I called to say I had a wonderful time."

Terri didn't need any prompting. She hadn't been letting herself really enjoy how great last night had been because she'd been assuming she'd never hear from him again.

"Dave, I had a fantastic time . . . "

She felt she could hear his smile through the phone. "Well, I had a feeling . . . "

Dave that hang in the silence long enough, then switched gears.

I wanted to talk about this week and next weekend. "Dinner, Friday night. And -- keep the rest of the weekend clear . . . if things go well there's other things I want to explore."

Terri bit her lip . . . he hadn't asked if she wanted to go out . . . he just knew that she did. And, while some might have thought it presumptuous of him to expect her to be free for him all weekend, Terri jut nodded, entranced, until she realized that she needed to actually speak, since they were on the phone.

"Yes . . . of course . . . sounds great."

"Good. Now . . . since you like when I tell you what to do, Terri . . . I'm going to tell you to do something." He paused, but clearly Terri was supposed to listen at this point, not speak. She squirmed on the couch as he continued.

"I want you to not masturbate this week. You can manage that for me, I know."

Terri instinctively pushed her legs together as her cunt tingled under her robe. She swallowed hard. The voice that came out of her . . . she wasn't sure where it came from, or to whom it actually belonged . . . she answered without thinking.

"Unnh . . . yes, Dave. I . . . can do that for you."

"Mmm. Good girl"

Her cunt throbbed again.

"OK, I have to run. You'll hear from me . . . Wednesday, about details for Friday. Bye . . . and remember . . . you promised. And I'll know if you cheat."

He hung up before she could answer . . . which was fortunate, since the sound that came out of her was hardly conversational.

She went back to flipping channels but soon gave up . . . suddenly and acutely aware how pretty much everything on TV, programs and advertising, was about sex, in some way or other. She put down the remote and pulled here robe open . . . spreading her legs, she let her hand slide down her tummy . . . . she could feel the needy heat emanating from her sex . . .

Fuuuuck . . . I have to touch myself . . . I think I'm going to explode. He'll never know . . . and I can't take it.

She let out a frustrated little yelp and closed her robe up. She was overcome . . . not with a sudden onslaught of terrible goodness, but with the unmistakable certainty that somehow he would know if she touched herself.

She picked up the remote and went back to flipping channels.

Video Jukebox: Polk Salad Annie

2010-10-12T21:42:00.001-04:00

Tonight's selection -- Tony Joe White doing a better version of the song Elvis had a hit with. TJW's version is less mannered, more down, more . . . unnnnh!!

Totally infectious tune.

Fiction: Journey Down, Part 1

2010-10-11T20:40:00.002-04:00

First Date

Terri fidgeted a little in her chair, then caught herself and stopped. She'd been told by several guys that her fidgeting was a "tell" . . . she tended to fidget when she started to feel excited.

Terri looked across the table at Dave, then quickly back down at her chicken. Trying to hide how she was feeling was almost certainly futile. When Terri sensed that a guy was exactly the right type, it was pointless to try to hide how she felt. It wasn't necessarily a good way to be but Terri had learned not to fight it.

Terri looked up at Dave again and she could see it in his eyes. He knew. He knew it was in the bag . . . they wouldn't be going to the movies, or anywhere else but back to his place, where he was going to do pretty much whatever he wanted with her . . . and he didn't care that she knew, either.

She hoped her gasp wasn't audible as her cunt tingled and a trickle started to seep onto her thigh.

*/ */ */

The words "first date" kept going through her head . . . everything was nearly silent -- the only sounds were Dave's subtle moans of satisfaction and the soft sounds of Terri's warm mouth sliding along Dave's cock. Terri felt that familiar warm glow inside as her head moved up and down . . . losing herself in the rhythm of worshiping cock, feeling herself slowly peel away, layer by layer . . . wondering if it was obvious to anyone else how totally she revealed herself at moments like this.

It seemed to go on forever like that . . . Terri sunk down into the perfect rhythm of it, Dave holding it off a long time, giving her the message without a word spoken -- she would have to work hard to satisfy him, to get the salty reward he withheld from her.

That realization broke Terri out of the almost meditative state she'd been locked in. Her pace increased, her sucking more forceful, her breathing in through her nose more focused, feeling the breath propelling the sucking, letting her hunger be naked now, exposed to him and her -- what she was, what she needed . . . what she had to have.

His hand slid through her hair and he held her down on his cock as he spurted, over and over . . . feeding Terri a massive amount of cum. Somehow she didn't gag, slutty greed overcoming even the gag reflex . . . she swallowed down every drop and greedily milked his cock dry until he nudged her off of it.

Panting, she sat back on her knees, eyes unfocused, suddenly aware of the trembling deep inside her.

*/ */ */

Dave lingered a while, turning on the TV, seemingly watching it. He didn't say a word . . . and didn't suggest that Terri come up off of her knees and join him on the couch. Terri shuddered a bit at the silent implication, intentional or not.

Finally he got up and helped Terri to her feet and led her down the hall. Terri wobbled a bit, feeling somewhat self-conscious wearing nothing but her stockings and heels.

Dave led her into his "playroom," and Terri really wanted to be able to look around a bit at all the toys and devices but Dave now moved with purpose and poised her right where he wanted, and within what seemed like seconds she was quite securely bound, strappado-style: arms up behind her, legs wide, ankles locked in the ends of a spreader bar, body bent forward.

Terri closed her eyes and felt Dave slowly moving around . . . surveying/admiring his handiwork, presumably. She felt her bare sex quiver . . . and then her eyes snapped open, feeling something pressing firmly against her wetness . . .

She sucked in sharply as something firm pressed inside her . . . something smooth, and round, and then gasped as it was pulled out with a popping sound.

"Open your mouth," Dave said, and Terri complied without thinking. Dave smiled and slowly slid the ball gag into her mouth, coated with her juices. Terri grunted as he fastened the gag securely behind her head.

She closed her eyes and let the taste and scent of her own slutty excitement fill her head. She felt something inside her give way -- she opened up, tangibly . . . she felt as though her entire existence was focused on whatever sensation would enter her next, and fill her, complete her.

Dave moved behind her . . . his voice seemed to sneak up on her from behind and suddenly steal into her ears.

"I don't want you to cum, Terri," he said. "Can you do that for Me?" Terri nodded her head without thinking, yet somehow knowing she was capable of anything he might have asked at this moment.

Terri moaned into the gag as Dave's cock slowly filled her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling of it, her slut cunt dutifully clenching his cock, making herself whatever he might need or want her to be . . . shuddering in the bondage as Dave worked her over with his cock, taking her like he had known her forever, letting her know without a word that he was going to use her however he liked, as long as he liked.

Terri tried to squirm . . . finding her raging excitement so difficult to contain . . . fuuuuck, she thought to herself . . why did I agree not to cum? There's no way I'll be able to hold back . . .

Terri bit down on the gag when she suddenly felt Dave cock plunge deeper and explode inside her . . . the surprise of it wrenching her away from the edge she'd been teetering on. She drooled around the gag as a pang of frustrated desire shot through her like an all-over toothache.

Eventually Dave untied her . . . she vaguely remembered stumbling out of her shoes and falling onto a bed before passing out.

When Life Imitates The Comics

2010-10-08T19:57:00.005-04:00

Most people have read a Dilbert strip at some point. But you can tell people who have never worked in a company of any size -- when they read Dilbert, they might chuckle, or smile, or generally have a minor reaction. To these people -- Dilbert is funny, but they think it's highly exaggerated . . . not real enough to be truly hilarious.

Those who have worked in any medium-large sized company for any length of time know better. As My girl lissa said the other night, "Dilbert is dead-fucking-on."

In many ways Dilbert is not only a reflection of the office workplace but a predictor. Catbert, the evil HR Director, who at one time seemed like a parody of a villain, is now shown to be pretty much standard issue. The willfully stupid things the company and the boss do in Dilbert can be read right off the headlines now.

And I've noticed over the past few years, especially, that employees now are much more likely to show their Dilbert-like awareness of the reality than they ever were before. We office drones who used to toil in silent acceptance of the essential stupidity and meaningless of the office experience now are much more likely to act like we know what we know -- and why not? The worst that can happen -- losing one's job -- is more than likely to happen anyway. If we are not laid off or moved to Topeka or outsourced to Bangladesh or downsized or right-sized, we might hang on for a while . . . or not. After a while the knowledge that there are lots of younger/cheaper/stupider/more naive people they can get for My job loses its power.

So Dilbert is not just a diversion, not just a refreshing bit of humor from a guy who gets it. If you think of it the right way, it's a very subtle reaffirmation of the human spirit. And while our employers have managed to mostly eradicate that spirit from the workplace (and get very big bonuses for doing so, apparently), it's not totally gone.

It's important to remember that. And to laugh. And to adopt the tag line from the strip above as My personal motto:

"I'm tempted to stop acting randomly."

Tempted, mind you.

Video Jukebox: Existential Baby

2010-10-06T21:05:00.003-04:00

A great song by Die So Fluid.

That's Georgina "Grog" Lisee singing and being generally cool (and hot).

No One Shines In The Dark

2010-10-05T21:01:00.005-04:00

subs (girls, mostly) talk to Me. I'm a good listener . . . I don't judge, I don't sugarcoat the truth, but I'm sympathetic.

There is a girl I'll call phoebe I talk to a couple of times a month, on average. phoebe is an intelligent girl in her 30s, an experienced submissive with a good sense of humor and a lot to give.

phoebe has been on again off again on again off again with a Domme in Her 20s, Who I'll refer to as Miranda. Miranda and phoebe, from what phoebe tells Me, have a great sexual chemistry, and are highly compatible in many aspects of D/s.

Where M and p have fallen apart is as a result of M's method of administering discipline.

p described that one of M's typical punishments is for p to sit in a totally dark room for hours at a time, presumably contemplating the error of her ways. This would be for something relatively minor on the scale of infractions. Over time, p got to resent this form of punishment . . . her attempts to talk to M about her frustrations fell on deaf ears, and eventually p left (for the second time), in order to preserve her sanity.

While there might be benefits to sitting in the dark (that's another post), M's method of punishment showed Her insecurity and immaturity.

The idea of punishment is for the submissive to learn the error of her ways, in a way that presumably is unpleasant enough in some regard or other to make the submissive not want to repeat her mistake. Punishment by . . . sensory deprivation over the course of hours is by definition non-productive -- aside from being deprived of the company of the Other, what is the lesson being imparted? Especially when that Other is unapproachable on the subject?

The lesson that p learned, and it's not surprising . . . was that M's authority was not constructive. And as such, there was nothing to be learned gained from following her/belonging to her.

I've written on this before . . . but it bears re-stating.

An effective punishment is:

1. Close in time to the infraction.

2. Controlled in its application.

3. Proportionate to the offense.

4. Never administered in anger.

5. Limited to the offense, not used to make any other point.

The good Dominant knows S/He is in control; S/He punishes only to correct behaviors S/He wishes to change, not to prove One's Dominance. The difference is subtle, but it is the difference between a real Dominant and a wannabe Dom/me control freak.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 13

2010-09-25T21:04:00.007-04:00

David's is stuck in the past, and makes no pretense otherwise. It's dark and sumptuous and romantic in the very classic sense. Their food hasn't changed in 50 years and one could easily believe that the waiters haven't either . . . David's is a place that makes the diner suspend disbelief, logic, and any thought of holding back.

The plates and flatware are big and solid, like the short wide glasses from which men in suits drink single-malt Scotch, or bourbon. The women with those men might be older and elegant, or young and hot, or something in between . . . David's is the place where a woman is special simply because she is a woman; one feels it the instant one sets foot inside. It's an institution from a simpler time, and going there one is starkly reminded of what has been lost in the process of making all those gains.

We're shown to our table, and perhaps it's the candlelight but King looks very good tonight. He keeps in shape and dresses well, so he always looks pretty decent, but tonight he looks better. I muse that we must make a handsome couple -- Me in a little black dress and pearls -- I saw us turn a head or two as we made our way through the restaurant, and in this crowd that's looking very good.

I look at the menu but it's just to have something in My hands -- I know exactly what I'm having -- David's dry-aged porterhouse and a baked potato the size of My niece's head. King orders scotch and I order a martini, and the waiter sweeps away as if on one of those moving sidewalks at the airport.

It's one of those times when there is something to be said both for taking on the subject head on and for very slowly inching one's way up to it. I decide to take the slow approach -- having a bad time at David's would be criminal, and besides, I was open to the (slight) possibility that King had a good reason for not telling Me he'd gone legit.

I looked up from the menu and smiled. "They say that in the old days, they'd give the woman a menu with no prices on it, like in the classic French places."

King smiled as the waiter brought our drinks and swept away, knowing with a good waiter's innate sense that we weren't ready to order just yet.

"A quaint custom . . . no longer necessary in these enlightened times, we're led to believe. Of course it was a money-maker, too . . . if one party is ordering without regard to price it probably boosts the bottom line a bit."

We raised our glasses in a perfunctory toast and I sipped the martini . . . savoring that beautiful clean dryness, finished off with subtle herbal notes. I am not a regular martini drinker but there is something magical about a really well-made one, now and then.

I nodded in return. "Well, there is that aspect . . . ironic that it helps the bottom line to keep the woman in the dark." I tried to deliver that line as innocently as possible.

King didn't bat an eye. "In the dark? I thought the idea was to give the woman the freedom to delight herself, unencumbered by financial considerations." I wasn't the only one who could deliver a good line innocently. And suddenly it seemed as though we were talking about envelopes . . .

I took another drink from My glass. "But some women delight in overcoming those . . . financial considerations." I paused a moment. "And some men, too."

King looked at Me blankly, for just a second.

I smiled. "You know what I mean. Most men . . . don't want to win if the game is rigged in their favor -- they lose interest eventually. They seek out the fair game, where the challenges are greater, but the rewards are infinitely more satisfying."

King suppressed a chuckle with a swig of scotch. "Do tell." It doesn't matter now if he thinks he's humoring Me. I forge head in the direction of the point of this dinner.

"Well, suppose a man is . . . a gangster, for the sake of argument. The game is rigged in his favor . . . no one with half a brain loses money being a gangster. And such a man is not cut out to be a working stiff . . . but, the challenge of running a business . . . or businesses, totally on the up-and-up . . . without the game being rigged . . . one could see that being a huge challenge, with huge personal rewards, not necessarily monetary in nature. At least not solely monetary."

I finished My drink. "And in the long run . . . safer."

The waiter appeared and ordered our dinner -- I ordered another one of those transcendent martinis.

King's expression suddenly turned philosophical. "Danger is something a young man doesn't think about. Nor is the future. Nor even . . . loneliness. One ends up with 'everything' one could want but nothing that matters."

I am used to hearing lies. Acting jobs. Sales pitches. I am good at telling the truth from a lie, real emotion from sales pitch. I'm looking right at him and for the life of Me I can't tell if that was real or something King thought would sound good and throw Me off.

I can hear Frankie Boots in My head: "Doll, when you can't be sure what's what -- play along and see where it goes."

So I play it straight. "And what matters to you, King?"

King pauses a moment. It's not a studied pause -- it feels as though he's genuinely thinking about the question.

"Living long enough to enjoy all this money I've made. Being able to do what I want without worrying so much about who wants a piece of Me. Not thinking about cops, Feds, DAs with an axe to grind. Doing what I like with my money, and, yes . . . making more of it with the game not being rigged, as you put it."

He's telling the truth. Martinis or not, I can tell.

"So why not tell Me, King? You know I of all people can be trusted if you didn't want anyone knowing."

King's expression softens. "I know, X. I know. But I have found that there is a certain value in certain people thinking I am still in that 'rigged game.' Surely you can understand that."

I nodded. I could.

"The killings -- I am pretty sure you're not the target."

"I know." He paused to drink more scotch. "For a long time, X, I had to have that sixth sense about who wanted to do me harm and who didn't. I couldn't have survived without it. And I still have it. One benefit of that former life I don't mind retaining."

I want to talk about envelopes now but King is rolling.

"Once you ruled out Bobby Astro, something fell into place for me. I realized that that world spins on its own axis. There are a few psychos who can't let go, but once one leaves it, as long as one leaves it the right way, it more or less goes it way and you go yours."

I sip the martini, wondering how many of these I can have and maintain My wits. Assuming I still them, that is.

"Then why . . . " He reads the question in My mind.

"Why all the envelopes? Well, it's not that I don't think the Blog City PD can solve this, X, but I trust you more than I trust them. I had too many of those clowns on my pad for too long . . . I know their limitations. I knew that you would work hard for the money, and these murders are happening at places I own . . . so I've got an interest in stopping them."

Smooth as silk he pulls an envelope and slides it across the table. I barely feel Myself taking it and slipping it into My little bag. The bastard is good.

The waiter appears with our food. King looks across the table at Me before he digs in. "Besides, it might be confusing if I gave you that later."

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 12

2010-09-23T21:12:00.004-04:00

Blog City's District 4 precinct house is distinguished from the other old shabby buildings on its block only by the police cars parked all around it and the constant stream of people coming in and out, pretty much 24/7. District 4 covers a big slice of Blog City's night life, legal and otherwise. Being a cop in this part of town is never dull and considered within the Department as the best place to work to get promoted, because of all that action.

Inside, the precinct house is not unlike the outside -- old and shabby and in need of a very good cleaning. I make My way up to the third floor, where Arty Daniels' office is, mindful of the slightly lingering looks from the cops I pass on My way . . . I made sure to dress as non-flashy as possible, but it's not that . . . cops simply can't help themselves. Even the women, I'd noticed.

The one advantage to an old, shabby filthy building filled with cops is that you can smoke wherever you want. I light a cigarette and lean My head into Arty's office to let him know I'm there; I can see he's on the phone. He waves for Me to sit down so I plop down and wait for his call to finish. I blow some smoke towards the ceiling, idly musing that the nicotine stains on the ceiling are a better color than whatever the hell it was originally.

Arty hangs up the phone and looks at Me with that self-satisfied look that tells Me he's got something and can't wait to bring Me in on the big secret.

He lights up and opens a file folder in front of him on the desk.

"OK. I was thinking about the places where we've found the bodies. Professional domination studio, pool hall, restaurant. No connection except all are owned by King. Obvious, but pretty much a dead end. Right?"

I stub out my cigarette in the "Police Tactics Convention, 2002" ashtray and sit up a bit. "Right."

"Well, I got to thinking about that and did some checking. And some digging and talking to sources. And I don't know what it means . . . and maybe it means nothing, but . . . " Arty pauses for dramatic effect.

I lean forward, a little peeved at the theatrics.

Arty lowers his voice a little. "As far as I can tell, X . . . King has been 100% legit for three years . . . maybe longer."

I'm speechless a moment . . . King? Legit? Arty continues, filling the silence. "I can't tie a single illegal thing to him. He was never involved in drugs, that we know of, but there's no prostitution, no illegal gambling places, no loan sharking, no protection shakedowns, no phony contracting schemes . . . nothing. The snitches I talked to have him totally out of the game for a while now."

I turned this over a bit. King, having lots of money but not having the time a young man has, cashes it all out and buys more legitimate businesses, having figured out that they could have a use other then as fronts for laundering money. He lives longer, sleeps better, and sleeps in his palatial triplex overlooking the City instead of on a cot in a cell in BC Correctional.

It wasn't totally far-fetched. Old gangsters are rare . . . King always was plenty smart.

I collected My thoughts and looked Arty. "OK, let's say that's true. What's the connection to the case?"

Arty looked as if he was going to start a long expository speech, then caught himself. "I'm not sure. But it must mean something, right?"

I liked Arty's optimism in the face of the highly random nature of the universe. "If it's someone from his past . . . maybe that person is trying to pull him back into the life, somehow?"

It was more or less plausible but it didn't quite "play." Plus, the cops (and Me) had been over all of King's enemies, real or imagined, with a fine toothed comb.

Sometimes you just know a thing. Arty and I exchanged a glance and it was clear to both of us that for reasons we both knew but couldn't prove in any court, King was not the target. whoever was doing this found a convenient hook to hang these killings on . . . in all likelihood whoever was paying to have these killings done didn't know that King was now 100% solid tax-paying citizen.

I like cases where I have a bad feeling early on, and then gradually it improves. I don't like cases where I have no feeling early on and end up with a bad feeling. I lifted My eyes skyward in silent communication with the dear departed Frankie Boots . . . this one ain't no ground ball, Frankie.

I got up . . . Arty looked he hadn't been expecting Me to leave. I stopped a moment.

"What is it, Arty? Unless you have some other revelation about this case I need to get out of here."

Arty looked at Me impassively. "No . . . just thinking about stuff, that's all." I nodded and walked out of his office.

Thinking about stuff. At times I wish I could just stop thinking about stuff.

* * *

On the way home I called mandy at the office, making Myself feel less guilty about pretty much blowing off work today.

Just hearing mandy's sweet voice brightened my mood. Nothing major -- apparently I picked a good day to play hooky. Mrs. Frankenhauler paid her somewhat large outstanding balance, mandy informed Me; a few weeks ago I'd have been hanging on that news eagerly . . . today it made little difference -- I hadn't even looked in King's last envelope to see how much was in there. I laughed to Myself that I suddenly was the kind of person with large sums of cash laying around her apartment and not even needing to know how much it was. I made a mental note to give mandy Mrs. Frankenhauler's $3,000 as a bonus.

I made another call -- time for the envelopes to stop. If I was convinced King wasn't the target I certainly couldn't keep taking his money.

* * *

This time I insisted we meet in a restaurant that King didn't own. I was feeling self-righteous and feisty and didn't want to be on King's turf at all.

King, perhaps sensing the situation, responded like the masterful tactician he was: he didn't object to My wanting to not eat at one of his places. In fact he embraced the idea . . . and suggested David's.

Fucker. David's served the best steak in the city . . . King knew that I couldn't resist David's. And dinner at David's meant dressing up a bit . . . and he knew, in that place, with its tremendous food and romantic atmosphere, I'd feel more girly, less . . . judgmental, less inclined to really take him to task for withholding something that had to be pertinent to the case.

I got off the phone, parts upset, anxious, pissed off, and excited. Domme Detective X. Remember. Focus. You're angry. No more envelopes. Be firm.

I stopped at a red light and suddenly the only thought I had had to do with what I was going to wear tonight.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 11

2010-09-20T22:33:00.005-04:00

I lolly-gagged in bed . . . mandy made Me some breakfast and a cup of coffee and then scooted off to the office . . . I lingered in bed, munching on a bagel, half-watching Regis and Kelly, admiring Kelly Ripa's effortless sexiness -- it's really hard to do the "I have no idea how hot I am" thing and pull it off.

I put the plate back on the nightstand and turn the sound down, rolling over and stretching with a sigh, wishing mandy was still here in bed with Me . . . it's one of those days where I feel as though I could nap all day and not feel rested, yet if I did force Myself out of bed I'd be fine.

I close My eyes . . . I'm not taking any chances today.

* * *

Arty Daniels is your classic plodder, and proud of it. He has no pretensions of extreme intelligence, no witty banter or good looks to ease his way up the organizational ladder. He's not known for bold moves -- he's brave, but no more than the job calls for. But what he does have are street smarts, persistence, and a veteran cop's understanding of human nature. And he didn't like to lose . . . he really hated it, in fact. And that trait, perhaps above all the others, made Arty Daniels a very good cop.

Arty's ancient chair creaked as he leaned back and looked at the whiteboard of "clues" in the Cryptic Man case. To call them clues was to give them a status they hadn't achieved -- disconnected facts weren't clues until one made that intuitive leap to associate them . . . they weren't clues until the solver turned them into clues. Arty laughed -- just like cryptic crossword "clues" . . . they were, just like the evidence in this case, simply a bunch of things strung together . . . waiting to be made into a clue.

Arty pulled out a legal pad and began to write.

1. Not a psycho. Psychos have a pattern, a preferred thing they get off on. This killer wasn't pursuing any crazy compulsion.

2. If not a psycho, then a pro. If a pro, then:

2A. Who's paying?

2B Why?

3. King isn't the target . . . someone wanted King dead and has the money to pay for all these hits, he could afford to do directly after King. Unless the idea was to make King really scared, first. Possible.

4. Victims . . . no connection whatsoever.

5. Places. All owned by King . . . other than that, nothing.

Arty paused, then got up and headed over to Records.

* * *

Vallie actually owned quite a nice wardrobe . . . but when he was working he tended to dress down -- he stayed in the part of town where people didn't pay much mind to their neighbors and dressed not to be noticed. But when he wasn't working Vallie could afford to dress very nicely, and did.

And then there were those times when work required a nice suit. Monty's Mens Store was near the bank; Vallie got $3000 in cash and made his way to Monty's. He did have several credit cards in various names, but those were only for non-working times.

The sales clerk at Monty's might've looked askance at Vallie in better times, but commissions were down lately and these days you couldn't tell a millionaire from a pauper anyway.

Vallie was not one to linger in any one place too long, stores included. He saw what he wanted right away, picked it out, and in less than fifteen minutes he had picked it out, been measured for alterations, and paid for a beautiful Armani suit, two dress shirts, and two silk ties. $2,882.90. The clerk's eyes widened a moment at the sight of $2900 cash but he got over it quickly enough to take the money and give Vallie his $17.10 change. He confirmed the suit would be ready tomorrow by 11 and took the shirts and ties and left.

An expensive fifteen minutes, but well worth it in the larger scheme of things. One last job, then leave Blog City behind for a long time. Vallie was getting restless for some down time.

* * *

In My dream I was . . . someone important, it seemed. It was hazy, but I seemed to be in charge of lots of things, and was telling lots of people to do things. The phone was ringing but I couldn't quite reach it . . .

Slowly I woke up . . . the fucking phone was actually ringing . . . mandy wouldn't be calling Me unless the sky was literally falling . . . who the hell . . .

I reach the phone . . . without My glasses the Caller ID is a meaningless blur. "Hello?"

"X, it's Arty." I'm contemplating pretending I'm an answering machine but I don't think I can pull it off. Plus I said "hello" already . . . I think.

"Arty . . . hi."

"I figured out a couple things, I think. Can you come down to the precinct?"

It's one of those times where I know what the right thing to do it, and I'm getting paid so damn much I can't not do it . . .

"OK, Arty. I'll be there in an hour." I don't wait for an answer . . . I'm up and turning on the shower within seconds. In for a dime in for a dollar.

Belonging And Not Belonging

2010-09-20T20:08:00.003-04:00

"I wanna glide down over Mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky
Gonna free fall out into nothin’
Gonna leave this world for a while"

From "Free Fallin'" Tom Petty

Sometimes a thing just . . . hits you a certain way. You're not expecting it, and an insight, or a lesson, or just a new way of appreciating something just falls into your lap.

I've heard "Free Fallin" plenty of times. Tonight, driving home form work I heard it again and it was . . . different, somehow. I listened to that last verse, quoted, above, and I felt, much more deeply than ever before, Petty's alienation. And my own.

I've long had the thought . . . that the world is very broadly made up of just two groups of people: Those who belong and those who don't. By that I mean: those who are able to just go along and get along, adn those who don't. The former group never seem particularly unhappy, or stressed; the latter group never seem to be fully happy, totally relaxed, 100% at ease.

When I heard those lyrics tonight, it really crystallized it for Me. It was one of those rare and wonderful times when a song in a moment transports one to some other place, a place of immediately heightened understanding. An understanding that can only be described as bodily.

And from "Free Fallin" I went right to "You Don't Know How It Feels":

"But let me get to the point, let's roll another joint

And turn the radio loud, I'm too alone to be proud
You don't know how it feels
You don't know how it feels to be me"

One powerful thing about the belong/don't belong division is how obviously and strongly it cuts across all of the other divisions in life. Sex, race, religion, economic standing, gay or straight, kinky or vanilla . . . no accident of birth or life circumstance insulates us from belonging or not belonging.

Another powerful thing about this divide is how easy it is to recognize in people. We can meet someone for the first time, and within minutes, if we are looking for it -- and sometimes when we're not -- we know which side of the divide they fall on.

And, as far as I can tell, it's more or less impossible to "switch sides" in this divide.

That this divide is so universal, so easily recognized, and very hard to cross leads Me to logically conclude (or at least expect) that it must have some utility.

But . . . what utility, exactly? And what does any of this have to do with any aspect of D/s?

Well, for Me at least, knowing about it, thinking about it, swimming in it . . . revelatory musical discoveries about it -- don't help. To "not belong" feels just as bad when it feels bad . . . and retains its sour goodness when it feels good.

I wonder if D/s couples from opposite sides of the divide are a good match? For that matter, perhaps people from opposite sides of the divide make good (or no good) vanilla couples?

The way it feels to Me -- I couldn't imagine being intimately involved with someone who was happy-go-lucky, totally at ease with life. What would we talk about? But for others, that difference, extreme as it is, could be just the thing . . . I can see two people complementing each other like that.

For right now I don't have any overwhelming insight. For today, to have been reminded so powerfully, so totally, of who I am and where I stand on the side of this massive existential divide, was enough.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 10

2009-11-22T21:33:00.003-05:00

Arty was only being so free with the PD's information on this case because the Department had absolutely nothing. Normally there would be a lot of pretty-pleasing and owing favors and the like; not this time. Arty was desperate for any lead, even if it came from a Lady Detective.

So in the spirit of having nothing, Arty was sharing the lab report on the latest victim to what the press had taken to calling The Cryptic Man. After the third murder there was no way to keep the clues a secret . . . the Blog City PD decided it was better to put it out there rather than have some pain in the ass reporter get it via a leak and embarrass them.

"The tox report is interesting, X."

"Oh? What did they find?"

"What didn't they, is more like it. The victim was very heavily and very skillfully medicated. The ME told me it takes some skill to give somebody this much barbiturates and narcotics and not kill him. In the ME's opinion, the killer was attempting to make the death and the bloodletting as close to painless as possible."

Arty paused. "Fucking freak!"

I had to suppress a laugh. Arty wanted the killer to be a sick sadistic bastard -- warped sadism was something he could easily understand, but a guy going to all that trouble to basically drain a guy of all his blood without hurting him? Arty couldn't wrap his mind around that one so easily.

It made sense in a strange way, though. Sadism was a luxury a good professional hit man could never afford. Any more than a banker could afford to get personal about money, a hit man couldn't get personal about violence. Once it stopped being a job, and being fun, he would be doomed . . . when you're having fun you make mistakes.

"Anything else interesting, Arty?"

"Only that is there is nothing interesting . . . in fact, nothing at all. Everything, except for the murder itself, was clean as a whistle. As you surmised, the murder weapons were several knives, all run through the high-pressure dishwasher and yielding nothing at all. No stray prints . . . no footprints in the blood or anything like that. The only blood was the victim's. No forced entry, no accessing of the alarm panel other than by the victim.

The call waiting beeps. It's mandy.

"I'll call you back, Arty."

* * *

Vallie's phone rang, just when he knew it would.

"Good afternoon. I wonder if you would be interested in a satellite TV system for just $29 a month."

Vallie looked down at his list a moment, just to be sure.

"No thank you, I only watch election returns anyway."

"You can pick up the back half . . . the number is 30099."

Vallie wrote down the number. He liked a client who didn't make a fuss about payment.

"And I have one more for you, and then our business is concluded. This one is a specific victim, and, in light of that and of several complicating factors, I won't haggle. $100,000 for this one."

Vallie did his best to remain impassive. "As long as it's not the President, we've got a deal."

The voice on the other end of the phone never wavered, never laughed, never faltered. Almost anyone else but Vallie would've been at least a little afraid of it, in some undefinable way. To Vallie there was nothing scary about it . . . for him it was more an intellectual curiosity, an interesting little peculiarity of circumstance.

"OK. This is not going to be the easiest contract you've ever done. The target is armed, and wary. But some of the background work has been done for you already . . . "

Vallie listened intently, making notes as he did so.

* * *

Day of Infamy is proof positive that a little cash, properly applied in the right places, works wonders. The club regularly featured live sex acts and all other manner of debauchery right on the stage, yet they were never raided, no do-gooder mayoral candidate ever made closing it down a campaign promise, nothing of the sort, ever.

I had a soft spot for DOI since it's where I first met mandy. And because, well, DOI specialized in D/s-type debauchery, My absolute favorite kind.

It felt weird being there alone. mandy had begged off, citing a stack of paperwork. Thank goodness she was interested in the day-to-day running of the business.

I swirled the bourbon in My glass and looked again at the action on stage. A very muscular black man had just finished very skillfully whipping a waify redhead . . . she screamed like the skin was being ripped from her bones but there was hardly a mark on her -- Master Leo was very good with that whip.

His hand rakes back through her hair, and his big hand seemed almost the same size as the girl’s head. He pulled back until her whole body arched, and then shoved the whip handle inside her and began to fuck her with it, slowly at first, letting her whimpers of pain gradually turn and finally tip to moans of pleasure. He started to take her harder, faster with the handle . . . holding her tight by the hair, her body caught, caught in the bondage, caught in his grasp, and caught in the slowly rising tide of excitement that she couldn't fight.

I realized all of a sudden how quiet it had gotten -- the crowd was rapt, their attention drawn to the stage and held there. The skinny redhead was shuddering in her bonds now . . . words here flying, pouring out of her as she begged Leo to let her explode. Leo’s powerful arm kept the whip handle hammering her cunt hard and fast . . . the squishing of it and the girl’s sobbing and begging were all that could be heard in the crowded club.

Leo finally broke the tension . . . his words finally giving her release. Her screams made Me shiver, the intensity and the absolute need she was expressing wordlessly were so real, so total, so right-in-the-here-and-now. By the time the girl finally collapsed, spent, I realized that I’d been holding My breath, watching.

I ordered another drink and My mind wandered of course to where exactly I was on the case.

What had I learned? It wasn't Bobby Astro, Arty and I were both pretty sure of that. It wasn't some guy named “Vail” from Chicago -- no one on either side of the law, except Squids, had ever heard of him. Thankfully the kind of money I was getting from King made the $200 I wasted on Squids an afterthought.

What else? Our killer was very professional, very careful, and very versatile. He could do clean, messy, and everything in between. And he had a grudge against King.

Which was looking like another dead end. The cops had looked into everyone they could think of who was known to have any reason to hate King. Funny thing was, the vast majority of those who weren't in prison were no longer living.

The stupid word game clues were no help. She’d been over the words a thousand times. Gangster. Arty Daniels. Royalty. There's no pattern, no meaning, nothing indicative of where or when or in what way the killer might strike next. There was no pattern to the victims, no relationship between them, or to King.

I write down the locations of the killings on a napkin. House of Domination. Pool Hall. Bar/restaurant. The addresses. I hold up the bourbon and look at the napkin through the amber translucence . . . laughing at Myself.

It was a prefect illustration of how life was totally unlike the movies. In the movies the geeky guy in the precinct would plot the locations of killings on a map of the city and they would form an arrow pointing to the location of the next killing. In the movies the first letter of each clue answer would start spelling out the name of the killer's mother. In the movies the killer would be sending Me love notes chock full of subtle but detectable forensic evidence that would lead us to him. In the movies we've had caught this fucker by now.

The truth was, a careful, unemotional, killer could commit plenty of murders and not get caught. The really, really smart ones were almost impossible to catch until they start liking it too much. Then they got caught.

I let the case go away for a little while . . . My friend Astrid and Her new slave, chastityboy, were about to perform.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 9

2009-11-13T20:22:00.003-05:00

I had dinner with King at Memphis Blues, a BBQ joint and music club King owns. I was polishing off an especially succulent baby back when the thought struck me that maybe the best part of being as rich as King would be owning so many restaurants that one never had to eat at the the same place twice for a long time.

I brought King up to speed. Squids' little tidbit, my conversation with Astro.

King listened impassively, then slid another envelope across the table. Normally I'd be feeling as though I should have produced a lot more results for this kind of money, but something about King's demeanor made it clear that spending this money was like some kind of penance, as though he were paying some sort of karmic fine, the only way he knew how.

I pushed the plate away from Me . . . Memphis Blues had amazing food but eating all that wonderful stuff was going to keep Me out of all the designer clothes I could suddenly afford.

I saw that King was done, too. I lit a cigarette and turned to watch the band, who were starting up.

The singer is good . . . youngish, but with enough mileage on his voice to make the songs believable. I take another rather unladylike swig of Dos Equis and close My eyes . . .

One summer's day . . .

She went away

Gone and left me

She's gone to stay

She's gone . . . but I don't worry . . .

Cuz I'm sittin' . . . on top . . . of the world . . .

The guitarist is wringing a mournful solo out of his battered Telecaster . . . with My eyes closed the bass seems to be coming from inside Me . . . I have to open My eyes or I"ll cry, from the beauty and the crushingly sad irony of it.

I look at King. He's not moved by music that way . . . come to think of it I'm not sure anything moves him that way. A man like him, in the world he moves in, can't afford to let anything affect him that much. Not music, not a woman, not somebody leaving dead bodies in places you own.

King finally realizes I'm studying him and we both laugh. I make a gesture towards the door -- I need to be out of here. He nods, understanding. I feel like the music is practically chasing Me out as I thread My way through the tables to the door:

Hey Joe -- where you goin' with that gun in your hand?

Hey Joe -- where you goin' with the gun in your hand?

I'm goin' down to shoot my old lady

You know I caught her messin' 'round with another man . . .

* * *

I get up early, intending to have another one of those "productive Lady Detective" type days. I'm getting dressed when my phone goes off.

A text from Arty.

ROSCOE'S RANCH. DON'T EAT BREAKFAST.

Hm. Either Arty's buying, or . .

* * *

Roscoe's Ranch is one of those places that has succeeded for decades despite itself. Thirty years ago it began life as a gay bar and had a good run. Somehow the name never got changed and it did well as a sports bar, a 40 and over pickup joint, and lately had established itself as a good solid neighborhood bar: a good place to have a beer and a decent burger and see a lot of the same faces each time.

The thought occurs to Me that I'm getting to see way too many crime scenes lately. Arty leads Me towards the kitchen, and grabs My arm before we go in.

"It's bad, X." I nod, and take a deep breath and think good thoughts. Thoughts of envelopes full of cash. Ferragammo and Manolo Blahnik.

Arty starts with the facts, reading from his little notebook, as if a recitation of the dry particulars can somehow lessen the impact of what I am seeing.

And what I am seeing is a guy, hanging by his feet, who has apparently been sliced until every drop of blood has run out because there is blood everywhere. I look at Arty. The only clean thing in the vicinity of the body is the little piece of paper with the clue on it:

King's 40% batty following winning hand (7)

This one takes a minute, then it falls into place: Royalty.

Arty tells Me the unfortunate guy hanging there is Manny Diaz, who typically opens the place up each morning.

"He's here a good two hours before anyone else, most days," they said. Arty is trying to be nonchalant but he's upset by this crime scene.

I look at the body, then at Arty. "Dead people don't bleed, Arty. The killer needed the victim alive. The other two jobs -- there was no extreme sadism like this."

Arty nods. "That explains the gag. Poor bastard would've been screaming his head off."

I try to find somewhere to look where I can see something besides blood. I'm getting a bit queasy -- Arty was thoughtful to tell Me not to eat.

Arty's gaze follows Mine to the industrial dishwasher. "It had been recently run, and there were several knives in there, nothing else. Pretty sure those will turn out to be what our killer used to carve up the victim." I looked at the machine . . . these things use high pressure and very hot water -- they weren't going to get anything useful from those knives.

I turned to Arty. "Can we get out of here now?" We make our way out and walk down the street a little and duck into a Blog City Joe shop.

"Arty, the escalating level of violence . . . the first killing was ultra-clean, so clean you still have no idea how the hell he got in and got out -- he was like a ghost. The second one, messy, but contained. Tossing a dead body through a skylight. Spectacular, but, ultimately just for show.

This one . . . the killer was making some kind of point."

Arty grunts, cop-speak for "yeah, tell me about it."

"And the clue answers, Arty. They're all archetypes."

He stares at Me, which is Arty-speak for "I'm fascinated, please continue." At any rate I'm going to assume that's what it means.

"Well, think about it. Gangster. The name of a cop. Royalty. Cops and Robbers. Kings and paupers." And where were they killed? A place for sexual thrills. A pool hall. A bar/restaurant. Encompassing all the basic human drives: sex, recreation, food, drink."

Arty looked at Me thoughtfully. "So what's it all mean?"

I looked out through the window onto the busy street, then down into My coffee, Arty's question hanging there like an insulting remark you want to ignore but can't because deep down inside you think it might be accurate.

* * *

I take a cab back to the office. Just seeing mandy's smiling face wipes away the memory of that awful crime scene. I flop down in My chair and mandy, sweet thing that she is, knows I need a coffee. she brings us some and sits down.

I fill her in on the fact that the cops don't know anything about a Federal operation in town. she looks at Me, unsure a moment, but she knows Me well enough to know that I need her to tell Me her honest thoughts and suspicions, even if it might hurt Me.

mandy nods, reassured. "OK. Assuming this is the Feds, and I think You're right about that. It's the Feds. Who's the target?"

I sip My coffee as mandy reels off the possibilities. I have to tear Myself away from cleavage and force Myself to concentrate.

"That lawyer, Hughes. Some member of the Beckler family we don't know about. Could be almost anyone, really -- the Becklers probably did jobs with a thousand crooks." she pauses and I motion to her with My eyes for her to go on.

"Well . .. the Feds could be looking into Catherine Chambers for something? Somehow this is connected, maybe?"

I smile at her. I actually had considered that. And even now I couldn't give Myself a straight answer when I asked Myself if I'd help the Feds nail her.

"And, Miss, there's one more possibility. They could be interested in You."

I almost spit My coffee. Me? What the hell did I ever do? And even if I was thinking about not paying taxes on King's envelopes, thinking about it isn't a crime.

"It's just a thought, Miss. They have to know that You know a lot of people they have to be interested in. Who knows the strange ways the Feds might have of sneaking up on their real target?"

she's right of course. mandy is sexy, smart, and efficient in addition to her other wonderful traits. Any number of people could've seen King giving Me envelopes in restaurants and at a crime scene . . . that alone is probably enough to appoint a Special Prosecutor, these days.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 8

2009-11-09T21:48:00.003-05:00

Vallie picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"I'm calling about a unique financial opportunity."

Vallie knew his lines. "I'm fully invested already."

The voice on the other end relaxed, hearing the correct response. "It's time for another."

Vallie was no longer the kind of person to stop and consider that those four simple words, "it's time for another" meant that he was going to kill another person. The dead bodies, and all the before and after stuff, had ceased to matter. It was 100% business. Do a job, get paid. He was also no longer the kind of person to wonder where the other Hank Vallie had gone.

"OK. Parameters?"

Parameters. That's how Vallie thought of them. Constraints, limits, to be fed into a formula, giving rise to a solution.

The voice continued. "It needs to happen at Roscoe's Ranch. Within a week."

Vallie nodded. "Clean or messy?"

"Very messy." Vallie winced a little. He hated messy.

"All right, but this is more."

Silence on the other end. Vallie didn't care; he stayed alive and free by not taking any job where the risk/reward equation wasn't right. So he let the silence grow.

Finally . . . "How much more?"

"Twenty-five, plus five for messy. Thirty." Vallie was starting to get a little nervous about this job. Staying in the same town for more than one body was never a good idea, and messy was always riskier than clean.

A short pause, then, "All right. Half will be there by 4pm."

"If it's not, we never spoke. And the word for this one?"

"Royalty."

Vallie wrote it down an hung up.

* * *

In every large city there are people who are part of a worldwide network, a network for transferring money from one person to another without involving a bank and without drawing the attention of the SEC, the IRS, the DEA, Homeland Security, Interpol, or anyone else.

The system is simplicity itself. Person A, in, say, Toronto, wants to transfer $10,000 to Person B, in Blog City. So Person A goes to a certain neighborhood in Toronto where members of the network are known to have a stall, and gives the operator $10,000 in cash, plus the fee. Person A tells the operator what the destination city is and the operator gives Person A a five-digit number. The operator faxes the five-digit number and the amount to the operator in Blog City. Person A transmits the 5-digit number to Person B and Person B finds the operator in Blog City and presents him with the number, and the operator gives Person B $10,000 in cash. No questions asked. Don't lose your number.

Vallie took a circuitous route to his destination in Fairmont, a dilapidated neighborhood known unofficially as Little Beirut, in recognition of its bombed-out appearance and now predominantly Arab population.

To get to Fairmont from Vallie's place in the equally downmarket Morris Heights section on foot, one needed to traverse several other much better neighborhoods, and many good options for lunch. Vallie always "celebrated" a new contract with Indian food.

Vallie slipped into an unassuming little place called Rani, one of many pretty reasonable ethnic food choices in the neighborhood around Blog City U. He settled on the chicken adrak and bhujia and looked out the window at the busy street.

Mentally Vallie ticked off the activities for the afternoon. Pick up the money. Stash it. Check out Roscoe's Ranch and figure out how, when, and all that.

He was musing that Roscoe's Ranch was either a petting zoo or a gay bar, when the food arrived.

* * *

As usual things went without a hitch as far as getting paid. In the back of the market with the battered sign in Arabic only, there's a man with a ledger book full of neat columns of numbers, a fax machine, and a safe. He looks like he's been right in that spot forever. He's old, but clearly very alert, with an old man's focus and air of permanence and certainty, he looks like the absolute Emperor of his 40 square feet, and he is.

Half an hour earlier Vallie had gotten a text message that simply read: 78212. That's all that was needed.

Vallie approached the man's desk and he nodded. Vallie wrote "78212" on a piece of paper and handed it to the man. He checked his column of perfectly neat numbers, a long finger finally stopping when 78212 was found. He turned, opened the safe, pulled out an envelope, put the piece of paper in the envelope, and with his pen and a straightedge struck through the number 78212. He handed Vallie the envelope and their business was done. Vallie stuffed the envelope in his coat and walked away. He could hear the fax machine dialing, letting the originator know that 78212 had been picked up. Transaction complete.

Vallie had the money for cabs but he walked or took the subway, except when he needed possible corroboration of an alibi. In those cases he made sure to take a cab to talk the diver's ear off, or otherwise be a memorable passenger.

Vallie went back home and counted out the envelope. Fifteen large, all there. He grabbed $700 and put the rest in a coffee can in the freezer. This was a terrible hiding place but it was very temporary -- just until he could get to the bank tomorrow.

He looked at his bed. A nap would feel good right now but there was work to do. Time to go check out Roscoe's Ranch.

* * *

I had just been thinking that I hadn't heard from Arty in a while when My phone went off.

Arty was doing well. He'd weathered the storm over his name coming up in connection with the case, and had satisfied his bosses (and Internal Affairs) that the killer was just taunting the cops in general and he, Arty, in particular.

"Yeah, got grilled by the Rat Squad for a couple hours. The highlight of any day." Arty laughed derisively -- one truism that cut across time and geography and area of specialty was that all cops hate Internal Affairs. Can't really blame them.

Arty filled me in on what else they had learned about the murders, which was more or less nothing. I wasn't going to share with Arty anything I'd learned on My own, but I decided that wasn't really right. Some part of Me realized it was more important to catch this sick bastard than who got the credit. I laughed to Myself -- I must be slipping!

"Arty, you know Bobby Astro, right?"

Arty grunted. Like most cops he felt that a guy in prison belonged there -- if not for the specific crime he had been convicted of, then for the ten crimes before that one that he had gotten away with. So Astro being sprung on appeal was something that rubbed Arty the wrong way, to put it mildly.

"What about him?"

"Well, I came to find out there was some old beef between Astro and King, and I was thinking maybe he hated King enough to do these murders to get back at King."

Silence on Arty's end while his mind ran the complex cop calculations.

"Not his style. A guy like Astro . . . he's more direct about things. He could kill King anytime he felt like it and we wouldn't have a clue. The man is the most professional, most efficient hitter I've ever run across, X. I don't see him doing this."

I lit up, making another mental note about having to quit smoking, as I listened. Even though that whole "word game" thing as we parted ways threw a little jolt of doubt into Me about Astro, I was pretty sure he wasn't involved, either.

"Thanks, Arty. That helps." The other thing I really didn't want to ask Arty about, but I had to.

"Arty, one more thing. Anything Federal going on lately?" If the Feds were doing a legit operation in Blog City, they'd make sure the local PD knew about it. The FBI enjoyed making the local cops feel as small-time as possible.

No answer from Arty. He was still hung up on why I was asking. Finally, about two seconds late, he answers.

"No, X. Nothing they let me know about."

He might be telling the truth or he might be answering carefully so to avoid lying too blatantly. No point getting Arty's radar any more engaged than it already was.

"Thanks, Arty . . . Astro mumbled something about the Feds -- I figured it was just a con's obsession but thought I'd ask."

"OK, X, no problem." Arty's demeanor was back to normal.

I hung up the phone and wondered if it wasn't too late to consider that career in direct sales.

* * *

Vallie kept bank accounts in all major cities he worked in, and his trade took him to Blog City often enough. Vallie put his cash into a safe deposit box, then parceled it out into the savings and checking accounts a bit at a time, keeping under the reporting threshold for cash transactions. Getting involved with a money launderer was not for him -- it was just one more person who could screw up and get him busted.

To go along with each bank account Vallie had an identity. To the Blog City National Bank, he was Michael Fitzsimmons. Vallie grabbed about $6,000 in cash and put the rest in his safe deposit box. Over the next few days he'd make several deposits at various branches and ATMs.

The other chore for today was to write the clue. For that, he needed a quiet place. The first one he did at the Library, the second in General's Park. As he was leaving the bank he passed a Blog City Joe location and on impulse went inside, grabbed a coffee, and sat down at a table in the far corner, meditating a bit on the word.

Royalty.

The first time the clue came right to him; last time he had to stare at the word a long time. This time it wasn't coming either. After ten minutes or so, Vallie got up, stretched, then sat down again and people-watched a bit. Then he turned back to word and the clue jumped out at him like it had been written there all the time:

King's 40% batty following winning hand (7)

Vallie finished his coffee and exited the coffee shop, walking down the street, feeling oddly relieved.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 7

2009-11-03T22:50:00.003-05:00

Frankie Boots had a saying: "There's two kinds of cases -- ground balls and haystacks." Ground balls, as the name implies, were easy. Haystacks, on the other hand, were big undifferentiated piles of possibly connected facts, lies, opinions, feelings, suppositions, and who knows what else all clumped together for the sole purpose of making the truth almost impossible to discern. I'm thinking about this when I should be thinking about how mandy's mouth on Me is making Me feel . . . thinking I'd like a few ground balls now and then. Then I think about King and his envelopes full of cash and the simple fact is haystacks pay a lot better than ground balls.

I close My eyes and run My hand through mandy's hair, pressing her tighter to My sex as the feeling of her soft warm lips on Me blots everything else out. My back arches as the warm tingles crackle and turn to pulsing heat . . . I'm gushing now, feeling My breath come in short ragged gasps. I alwyas tell Myself I can hold out longer . . . I can savor that magical part right before the explosion, longer, make it last, ride it like some kind of pleasure sled . . . but oh godddd mandy's mouth is too wonderful, her love and devotion pour through her and right into the very center of Me and it's over . . . before I know it I'm screaming, thrashing, and there's nothing -- no case, no frustration, no nothing . . . nothing but the feeling of being loved and served so amazingly well.

* * *

This case was definitely a "haystack." And the mission for today was to throw more stuff on the pile. King sent Me Astro's address, so that was first order of business. Then over to Madame Annika's to interview the girls and staff there. I didn't expect much to come of that, but 1) you never know, and 2) appearances to the contrary I did feel a responsibility to give King his money's worth.

I'm wondering how much I stock I can put in Squids' tale of a hit man from Chicago named "Vale." Another straw in the haystack . . . somehow it will all get sorted out. When Frankie Boots told Me to put all the things that don't make sense off to the side, he never told Me what to do when everything's on the side and nothing's in front of Me. Oh well.

Astro was living in Kirkland, a neighborhood of mostly small, neat, capes. Most of the residents were well into their golden years; a smattering of young families had migrated to Kirkland in recent years, drawn by the quiet tree-lined streets, the convenience to the City, and the relatively affordable real easte.

Kirkland was not where you expected an ex-con to end up after getting out of prison, but Bobby Astro was hardly your typical ex-con. He'd made a very nice living doing hits for all those years, and Astro was the antithesis of the flashy gangster; his livelihood and survival depended upon keeping a low profile and blending in. And everything I'd ever heard about him indicated that he had been very good at all aspects of his job.

The cab lets Me out in front of 18 Barlow Street. One luxury I am granting Myself on this case is taxis.

I notice how immaculate the small front yard is as I walk up to the door. Like every other yard on the street. Astro might have retired from his trade but the instinct to melt into the wallpaper is still there.

I ring the bell and after a moment Astro answers. There's a momentary look of confusion, or something, as his mind quickly goes from survery-taker to real estate agent to whatever else. Then a polite smile as he quickly connects the dots.

He knows who I am, if not exactly who, and why I'm here. Apparently he doesn't mind talking to Me.

He offers Me coffee and I take the offered seat at the kitchen table and the opportunity to observe Astro for a minute. He's not tall . . . not overly muscular like some cons, no tattoos that I can see. The more I look at him the harder it seems to be to get a fix on anything. The guy is as average as average can be -- he looks he could stand in 100 lineups and never get picked out. He's Everyman.

I am used to being around dangerous people. My life has led Me there -- that is what it is. I'm rarely unnerved in that situation . . . I've been in plenty of scrapes, with and without Frankie Boots and Arty Daniels. I've been places I never should've been wearing what I was wearing, or being as young or foolish or bombed as I was. But Astro wasn't scary in the typical ex-con kind of way . . . the very averageness of him was what made him so scary, the idea of what the man before Me, so calmly making coffee -- what he was capable of, what he had done, and what he might still do.

I inhale the aroma of good strong coffee almost done. Thinking a bit more, I realize that Astro is only scary because I knew who he was -- to the folks in the neighborhood I'm sure he was 100% non-threatening. I imagined "Robert" making nice with the nieghbors . . . Mrs. Shipley from across the street wondering if she can fix him up with Marge's sister's spinster niece.

Astro puts a mug down in front of Me and sits down across the table. I'm about to try to figure out how to ask what I need to ask -- I really have no business being here . . . I'm here on the thinnest of pretenses to nicely accuse a recently sprung hit man of two murders -- when Astro puts sugar in his coffee and starts talking.

"So. You're here becasue King has two dead bodies in places he owns. It looks like someone is trying to get at King in some way. He hires you to find out who, why, etc. You ask him if anyone has a gradge against him. He names me. And here you are."

I'm mindlessly stirring My coffee and I must have had a stunned look on My face.

"How'm I doing so far?" He's angling his head down, trying to catch My eyes with his gaze, and smiling.

I laugh and snap out of it. "Sorry. And, um, yeah, that pretty much sums it up."

He laughs easily. He has the way about him of someone who's been dead and come back from it -- but not full of eerie insights, but rather very much at ease, like someone to whom the worst has already happened, and who thus has nothing much to worry about now.

His manner puts Me at ease. "So, Bobby . . . please, tell Me what the beef is between you and King and a couple other things, and, much as I love your coffee, I'll be on My way and you can return to charming the old ladies of Barlow Street." Astro is no less a suspect than he was thirty seconds ago, but you always get more when you're at ease. Astro of course knows this, having been in more interview rooms than most cops, so his easy manner is most likely an act; but we have to each go with our instincts and training.

Astro sips his coffee and gets a bit more serious. "I can't go into too much detail about the nature of my dispute with King. But it involved money, and at the time I was younger and more foolish and more concerned wtih appearances and image and the like and I said some things that I shouldn't have said."

I look at him a moment and then have some coffee Myself. He's told Me quite a bit, and clearly he meant to. Translation of what he just said: King hired him to do a hit. Something went wrong or something was not understood clearly and Bobby dind't get paid when or how much he thought he should have. He was mad and made threats against King.

I have to probe around the edges here. "This was . . . quite a while ago?"

Astro nods. "Yeah."

Then he looks up at Me. "But I do want to be clear. I had nothing to do with either of those murders."

I used to think My built-in lie detector was infallible. I now know it's not, but Astro feels legit to Me.

"Know anyone who might not be quite as well-adjusted about King as you are?"

He smiles. "As you can imagine . . . I don't travel much in those circles now, and . . . acquaintances from the joint as a rule didn't confide their deepest feelings to me."

I nod and smile Myself, keeping this as light as I can. There's nothing here anyway. I finish My coffee and dig through My purse for My cell phone. I have a chance to toss in a seemingly innocent question here on the way out.

"People say the worst part of prison is the boredom . . . how did you pass the time in the joint?"

"Oh . . . word games, crossword puzzles . . . stuff like that."

I find the phone and call the cab . . . thinking about coinicidences and haystacks.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 6

2009-11-01T12:57:00.005-05:00

The best part of this job is no alarm clock. Today was one of those mornings where typically I'd see it was only 8:00 and roll back over and grab some more sleep. Last night was dinner with King at Soixante-Trieze, a comfy little bistro. Nice comfortingly heavy meal, a few glasses of wine, another magic envelope that I hadn't even bothered to count yet . . . a good morning to sleep in.

Normally. But not this morning. Much as King seemed to like giving Me large sums of cash and didn't seem particularly perturbed by the lack of progress on the case, I felt as though I needed to make some real progress on this thing, and soon. Plus I was anxious to find out what mandy had found out the supposed five million dollars I was going to get from Freda Beckler.

I looked at My to-do list from yesterday. Item 2: "Get Astro's address from his PO," was going to be a problem . . . last night, somewhere between the steak frites and the Gateau au Chocolat it hit Me that Bobby Astro was not out on parole, therefore there was no Parole Officer to contact to get his address. Astro had been sprung -- he was an unsupervised as any other free citizen. I scratch that item out and replace it with "Ask King if he knows or can find out where Astro is living now." I was going to ask him that last night but between the food, the wine, and the magic envelope it somehow slipped My mind.

* * *

The other best part of My job is mandy . . . I float in at 10:05 and mandy's clearly been there a while . . . coffee's made, the filing is done, My e-mail's been gone through and the important stuff printed out in a neat pile on My desk. I lean over her desk and give her a kiss, along with an impromptu bonus of a few C-notes from King's latest payment.

I take it back -- the absolute best part of My job is that there is no sexual harassment policy.

The case might be in the toilet, King might be trying to complicate My life, Arty might be lying to Me about this involvement, but right now I feel great. I pull up a chair and sit with mandy.

"So tell Me the good news, pet . . . this whole Freda Beckler/Chicago lawyer/five million dollars thing is a scam, right?"

mandy pulls out the file and opens it, then adjusts her glasses. Sexy thing . . . I force Myself to listen and not tackle her and lay her out across the desk and have My way with her right then and there.

"Well, Miss . . . it's weird. The lawyer and the law firm are 100% legit. I called them, pretending to be a prospective client -- everything seemed on the up and up. I contacted some firms here that we have a relationship with -- they know CH&R and vouched for them. The partner, Hughes, who wrote the letter . . . I called the Illinois Bar Association -- admitted to the bar 17 years ago, perfect record, no ethics complaints against him or the firm, ever. Totally on the level."

I look at her. "Whats weird, then?"

'"The law firm is on the level, but Freda Beckler doesn't appear to be."

"Hm? She didn't win the lottery?"

mandy looks at Me with that "I hate to break it to You" look. "I mean, Miss . . . that she doesn't appear to exist."

I'm sitting there, silent as a golem, so mandy wisely just continues.

"Remember when you had Mary Jane Beckler checked out, when she was going by the name Adele Peterson? She reads from the summary Arty had given Me then.

Adele Pearson, real name Mary Jane Beckler, and as you can see, owner of a number of other aliases. Born in Cleveland, orphaned at a young age, bounced from foster home to foster home, started getting in scrapes when she was 12. Gradually became an accomplished con artist. 7 arrests, 1 conviction . . . did 18 months in Stateville for passing bad checks in 1996.

"So I figured Freda Beckler was her adopted mother -- took her in at the end of that string of foster homes. Except there's no record of any adoption of Mary Jane Beckler, not in Ohio, or Illinois, or any neighboring state -- as far as I can tell Mary Jane simply aged out of the foster care system. On the other end of it, there's no record of any Freda Beckler before six months ago. There's documents, but . . . not enough of them. It doesn't feel as though there's enough of a record out there as there should be for a woman this age who's lived anywhere but a cloistered convent her whole life. I looked at genealogy sites, too . . . if there's a Freda Beckler she was abducted by aliens at a young age and returned to Earth six months ago."

I'm slow in the mornings but not that slow. It's a fucking scam, but not your garden variety, stand-up, good honest crook type scam. This was your double secret Federal type scam. No one else had the juice to plant that fake lottery story in the media and create Freda Beckler out of whole cloth. The thought occurs to Me that as time goes on the Feds are going to have more and more trouble doing this -- there's simply no way to create a 100% airtight backstory for someone the way you could prior to the Internet -- there's too many places a real person would show up on the Web that you can't be sure to cover starting from square one and trying to create someone from nothing.

I finish My coffee, give mandy a hug for her good work, and flop down at My desk. Which part of the government invented Freda Beckler and involved Me in it? The law firm was clearly on the up and up and not in on the charade. What was the motive? If I wasn't the target (a good assumption -- whoever went to this trouble was after bigger fish than Me), who was? But how did I fit in?

I reach for the phone so that I don't have to keep considering how clueless I am in the face of

those very good questions.

* * *

King doesn't know where Astro is living but is sure he can find out faster than I can. Normally I would run it down on My own but I'm trying to get somewhere on this case before another corpse shows up, so I let King and his minions figure out where Astro is living while I look up Squids, aka Johnny Calamari.

Squids is a snitch straight out of Central Casting -- small and skinny and fidgety, chain-smoking, always looking around to make sure someone who wants to kick his ass (or worse) isn't lurking around the corner. A bundle of nerves and barely repressed perversions, living on the ragged edges of the city, that's Squids.

People who watch detective TV shows and movies and scoff at the stereotypical characters forget that cliches are based in fact, and Johnny Squids is the fact behind the stereotype.

Squids can often be found at Smokey's, a decrepit little scab on the left butt cheek of Blog City. I hate going in there, not only because smell and the clientele -- bitter alcoholic veterans, bitter alcoholic pervs, bitter alcoholic retired postal workers, and Squids -- but also because of the persona I have to adopt to go in there. The part of My job that I hate is having to act tough . . . oddly, actually being tough I don't mind nearly as much.

I take a chance. thinking it's still early enough that Squids might not have had breakfast yet . . . and duck into Cappy's Caboose, one of those diners that was actually made from an old train car. As a result it's some sort of historical landmark now, which gives the owner a perfectly good excuse for not doing anything to the place . . . even cleaning, apparently. I know Squids often eats a little here before he moves down the block to Smokey's for the liquid portion of breakfast.

Normally I'd dress a little more fetishy to get info out of Squids -- he gives it up for free when he sees leather or latex and some boots, but on this case I've got more money than time, for a change, so I don't care if I pay for the info. And one thing about Squids -- he's a good snitch -- he knows which side his bread is buttered on and never burns a paying customer.

I'm in luck -- Squids is there. I slide into the booth opposite him, making a face as I feel My skirt catching on the ripped vinyl seat. Squids looks up from his coffee.

"Oh . . . Madame Ecstasy! How pleasant that You should find Your way down here." Squids' self-preservation was rooted in his knowledge that the rougher the environment, the higher the value of manners. Didn't matter if they're genuine as long as they're convincingly presented.

"Madame Ecstasy" is a name that some have called Me from time to time. In this part of town it helps to "be" somebody, so it's all good. And the title helps Squids remember our relative positions.

"Hi Squids." I'm in no mood to play around and I don't mind if Squids knows that, too. I pull out two crisp $100s and lay them on the ancient Formica. For Squids this represents a week's worth of culling scraps and selling them for peanuts. But every good snitch is a good businessman -- from Squids' face you can't tell if he's got pocket kings or 8-2 off suit.

I focus on Squid's eyes. "You've heard about the DBs popping up lately." It's not a question -- Squids ceases to exist if he doesn't know about recent events, especially those of a sketchy/criminal nature. DBs (dead bodies) were clearly in that category.

"Yes, Madame. A terrible business."

I nod and look at the $200 a moment. I can let Squids know I have nothing -- he knows that I'll see through it if he tries some BS story.

A good snitch like Squids needs no more prompting. Either he has something or he doesn't. Might there be someone willing to pay more than $200 for it? Maybe so, but that person isn't sitting across from him with Her money on the table. Squids operates in a spot market -- acquire, sell, move on to the next transaction.

Squids looks around a little, not because he thinks anyone is listening but because he's habitually very careful. Like a hyena separated from the pack and forced to scavenge on his own, he never lets his guard down.

"Out of town hitter. No one knows who hired him. It's none of the Families. Seems to be targeted at King in some way."

"Out of town, Squids? How far out of town?"

"Chicago, Madame."

"Got a name?" I can tell right away that he doesn't have the whole package. If he did $200 wasn't going to get it and Squids isn't bashful about letting the buyer know his price.

"Not really, Madame . . . the only name I've heard in connection with him is 'Vale.' " It's someplace to start, anyway.

"You know Bobby Astro, Squids?" I look for any abrupt change in his facial expression. There is none.

"I do, Madame -- I heard that recently the slow turning wheels of Justice have eventually tuned in his favor. Why the interest in the recently-sprung Mr. Astrinelli, might I ask?"

"Just . . . exploring leads, Squids. No idea who wants to hurt King, or why?" I rub My fingers over the $100s, silently letting Squids know I have more if he has more.

"No, Madame . . . but You know as a concerned citizen I'm always hopeful to find out information helpful to the cause of a safer city and relay it to the appropriate people . . . "

I laugh and slide the $200 across to him. "You do that, Squids . . . I like to reward concerned citizens for their efforts. And of course, we never spoke."

Squids takes the money. It's good to know that $200 still buys something these days.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 5

2009-10-19T21:40:00.021-04:00

The prospect of doing some actual detective work on this case had Me oddly invigorated . . . I sat down and wrote out a to-do list:

1. Find Squids and see if he's heard anything

2. Get Astro's address from his PO

3. Go see Astro

4. Call Arty -- get details of what they know

5. Interview the girls at Madame Annika's

6. Dinner with King @ Soixante-treize

It's an ambitious list, especially for someone as easily distracted by shoe stores and handbagoutlets as I am. I'm about to leave for the subway when I get a text. It's Arty:

Again. 170 Market. Ernie's.

That Arty even knows how to text is impressive in and of itself. The short message is more than descriptive enough. Our psycho killer is at it again.

I run outside and grab a cab.

* * *

Normally, I do some of My best thinking sitting in taxicabs. But this time all I can think about is the fact that this case, in Blog City PD lingo, is officially "off the rails."

Blog City cops describe a case as off the rails when, to put it simply, the bad stuff is piling up faster than anyone can make it go away. In this case, the bad stuff in question is dead bodies, and there is no worse stuff than dead bodies. All anyone can hope right now is that the killer left a little more to go on this time.

Market Street runs the entire length of downtown Blog City, predating the grid, running parallel to the newer streets at times and cutting across them at angles other times. 170 Market is in the neighborhood known as Indiana West; Market, Indiana, and Western Boulevard create a rough semi-triangle that gives the neighborhood its name.

Ernie's is a busy old-school pool hall. The clientèle is 80% ex-cons who are having trouble finding gainful employment, 10% serious pool players and old neighborhood types, and 10% suburban kids slumming. It's another one of King's holdings . . . this place I think King must have some sentimental attachment to. Or it's a tax write-off. For King, of course, the two were not really different things.

I make My way through the crowd. This place hasn't had this many cops in it since Prohibition.

I find Arty and he leads Me over to the body. Where the first job was clean to the point of antiseptic, this one was very messy. The victim had been killed on the roof, it appeared, and the body thrown through the skylight 20 feet down onto Table #5. Cause of death is anyone's guess at this point -- take your pick.

The poor bastard looked almost peaceful laying there. One might even be tempted to think perhaps it was an accident and not murder, except for the slip of paper pinned to his shirt:

Cop murders lady in tears (4,7)

The answer to this one didn't leap right out at Me. My mind wandered and it occurred to Me that the media was going to have to ditch the nickname "Fetish Killer" . . . there was absolutely nothing sexual, kinky, or remotely titillating about this crime scene, although the geek from the ME's office did seem to be a little too fascinated.

As often happens with cryptic clues, you stare at them a long time and get nowhere. You leave it alone a few minutes, look back, and wham! the answer is suddenly very obvious.

I think about this clue again for a moment, and then I realize, gasping involuntarily. I pull Arty aside.

"Arty -- that clue. 'Cop murders lady in tears (4,7).' 'Murders' is typically a word that signals an anagram, a rearrangement of some of the words in the clue. We know the answer is 4 and 7 -- eleven letters. So the answer is the words 'lady in tears' rearranged. And 'Cop' is the definition."

It's not an obvious anagram . . . I write it out for him -- "LADYINTEARS" rearranged = "ARTY DANIELS."

I look at Arty and I'm not sure what his look means. But I am sure that whatever we need to talk about we don't need to talk about in room full of cops and other official types.

"Come on, Arty. I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

* * *

Blog City is blessed (some would say cursed) with a lot of places to kill time over a cup of coffee. They range from rank to regal . . . you can get away cheap or you can spend $5 for a concoction with four names and five flavors.

Arty and I walk a reasonable distance from the crime scene and into a place called Pat's Luncheonette. Pat's is the middle of the road, an old-fashioned "coffee shop" that's neither a slave to trends or a health code violation waiting to happen. I look around; it's not crowded and there are tables. For us, right now, it's perfect.

We sit down and order coffees. The slightly Goth waitress senses that we'll be declining the menus or pastry selection and brings the coffees in short order and then disappears.

I look at Arty.

"I was going to come see you to find out the official story, Arty. Seems like I need to know a lot more than that, now." I'm trying to even-keel it, but I want to yell at him. Or something.

Arty looks at Me like he has no idea what's going on. I open My mouth to start to rip up one side of him and down the other when he starts talking, thankfully.

"OK. Stiff # 2 is one . . . " He pulls out a notebook and continues.

" . . . Eddie Donovan. They ran him -- a couple priors, stupid stuff. Answering the phone for bookies, running games, crap like that. No connection to Ernie's -- no one there ever saw him before, so they claim. That makes sense -- the ex-cons who hang out at Ernie's tend to be more the armed robbery type. No connection to Stiff # 1 that we can find . . . " His voice trails off and I think he can feel Me about to start up again.

He looks at Me. "And no connection to ME. None." I stare at him a long time. With people I know even slightly well, I can see everything in their eyes -- truth and lies and love and hate and passion and pain . . . even murder. With someone I know as well as Arty I might as well be inside his head. And looking into his eyes I can see . . . and feel it: he's telling the truth. If he's connected to this case in some way he honestly doesn't know what that connection is.

Finally I look away. I think of Catherine Chambers and I wonder why I never saw murder in her eyes. I shake My head, hard and fast, to shove those thoughts aside.

The coffee isn't bad here at Pat's. I'm trying to figure out why Arty's name would be the answer to the murderer's clue if he's not involved, when I hear Frankie Boots in My head:

"Doll -- take the piece you don't get yet and put it aside. When there's only one piece left t you know where it fits." I laugh to Myself -- Frankie had a marvelous way with the obvious and could make you laugh at the stupidest things.

I pull out My notebook. "OK, Arty. I believe you. The Department and the papers, though . . . "

"The 'clues' are being kept out of the media for now. The Department I can handle . . . I'll volunteer to go over all my old cases and look for a connection." He laughs. "Hey, it beats workin'!"

Arty was a good cop but he wasn't obsessed with right and wrong, justice and retribution, like most are. Arty was more philosophical about it -- the ones he doesn't catch either met some other form of justice or were meant to get away with it, was Arty's ethos. This stance afforded Arty the luxury of being really pretty lazy, in traditional cop terms. Lazy, but not sloppy. What he did, he did perfectly. He just wasn't one of these TV cops who was going to get obsessed with a case and work it doggedly for years. I wondered sometimes how he had succeeded in the Department, got promoted, etc. I ended up realizing that as lazy as he could be about going on 3-day stakeouts, he was highly attuned to how things worked in a large hierarchical organization like the Blog City PD and a master at working that system. Yet he came off as a very likable, regular guy, not a political weasel at all. An odd, odd, man. But one I felt a great deal of affection for and who had done Me countless favors, even when as far as he knew it wouldn't benefit him at all.

I drag Myself back to focus. "Tell Me everything BCPD officially knows about this case so far, Arty." Arty's cup is almost empty and so is Mine. Goth Girl has a waitress' natural sense of timing -- she was headed over with the pot just as we both realized we needed more coffee. I decide that I will just leave her a nice tip and not mention that's she's a natural at waiting tables, since I'm sure her career aspirations are considerably grander.

Arty lets out a little resigned sort of laugh. "That won't take long, X. We have, in scientific terms . . . a big fat zero. The first victim -- typical, normal guy. No criminal record, not so much as a parking ticket. Never went to Madame Annika's before. We checked into some other Houses -- you know these guys often go to a new place when they mess up in one place -- nothing. No other vices, no wife, no girlfriend, no exes, no nothing. He worked at home for Feeley's Greeting Cards. No one from his job had ever actually met him."

"The clue was printed on generic white copy paper on a generic laser printer. Not going to get much there." I nodded. It was difficult explaining to clients that unlike on CSI, it wasn't actually possible to sniff the paper and determine the date and time it was purchased and the name of the Staples checkout girl who rang up the order.

"As for the door. The killer knew the code or hacked it. Chances are he knew it -- King doesn't skimp on security. The Matsui 990 is known as more or less unhackable among the people who know about this stuff. We ran down the installer, all the contractors and service people. Delivery people. Nothing. The girls. No one unhappy. Not that unhappy, anyway. No crazy boyfriends husbands ex-boyfriends ex-husbands etc. We're running down King's associates, past and present but as you well know there's lot of them . . . and you probably are closer to that aspect of the case anyway."

Arty stared at his coffee as if the answer was going to appear up out of it like the Lady of the Lake. "And now . . . "

He didn't have to finish the sentence. And now, another body.

This case was way off the rails.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 4

2009-10-14T20:00:00.004-04:00

I'm about to call King so he can explain about Bobby Astro when mandy drops an envelope on My desk.

I look at the envelope and then at her. It hasn't been opened . . . mandy opens everything, so either she is slipping, or she has a pretty good idea she doesn't want to know what's inside.

The return address is a law firm in Chicago. Not one we've ever done any work for. I look at mandy again -- she's silent but her mind is going. Clearly there's something she's caught on to that's still eluding Me.

I open the envelope and pull out and unfold the single piece of buff paper inside.

Dear Ms. X:

We at Hughes, Chamberlain, and Rivera are writing at the behest of Freda Beckler, of Bartonville, Illinois.

Mrs. Beckler has retained us to contact you regarding her desire to extend her thanks and appreciation for your efforts on behalf of her daughter, the late Mary Jane Beckler. A recent change in Mrs. Beckler's financial position allows her to express her sentiments in very generous fashion.

Mrs. Beckler has suggested the sum of five (5) million dollars be paid to you. Mrs. Beckler has authorized us to contact you regarding arrangements for payment of this sum.

Please contact me at your earliest convenience at 312-555-8982.

With regards,

Philip Hughes, P. C.

Partner

Hughes, Chamberlain, and Rivera

I look at mandy and laugh. Then I get up and hug her tight.

"Wow! You little bitch! You really had Me going there! Oh my god, mandy you got Me good with this one!"

The look on mandy's face tells Me everything I need to know, and nothing I want to.

"Miss . . . I . . . didn't write that letter . . . "

I suppose I knew. I wanted it to be a joke. I needed it to be a joke.

My mood suddenly brightened. OK, it wasn't a mandy practical joke. But it was almost certainly a scam. The snail-mail version of the Nigerian Lottery E-Mail Hoax.

I was almost relieved. I tossed mandy the letter. "Check this out, mandy . . . let's see who's trying to scam us."

* * *

Roberto Astrinelli, aka Bobby Astro, was the last person I expected to be King's secret enemy, mainly because last I knew Astro was doing life upstate for murder. Everyone was happy to put Astro away for one murder, since the cops were convinced he was responsible for at least twenty over the years.

Astrinelli came to Blog City a long time ago from parts unknown with little book smarts, but plenty of raw brains, a desire to get ahead quickly, and a willingness to do whatever sort of violence for money his clients might require. He was the sort of guy who didn't let sentiment get in the way of a job, and never went overboard in the course of doing the job. When you hired Astro you got what you paid for. No more, and never any less.

Needless to say Astro wasn't someone you wanted mad at you -- he could think of 118 different ways to kill you before he even started to stress his imagination. On the other hand, the idea of Astro being emotional, about anything, was hard to fathom. He survived in his business as long as he did by never getting emotionally involved.

And besides, Astro was doing life without parole. Ratted out by another hood who couldn't turn down the government's deal, Astro was the sort of collateral damage that happens as the wheels of government law enforcement grind on. They were after Gio "The Choke" Arciofi, head of the Panzero Family. Astro was a guy the rat threw in to get an even better deal.

Astro might be dangerous but he was in a maximum-security prison.

Well, turns out, "was" was the operative word.

"Yeah, he was released three weeks ago. One of those appeals that had no chance of succeeding? Actually succeeded." King's voice on the phone sounded as though he was talking about some dry news story, not some very dangerous man who might want to do him harm.

"So why would Bobby Astro want to mess with you, King?" I'm thinking 'or why would you think Bobby Astro wants to mess with you?'

Long pause on his end. I'm glad I work in the only office in town where you're allowed to smoke. Of course there are City regulations . . . I'm sure I'm actually not allowed to smoke in the office, but until the Blog City Health Department comes with a summons, it's smoke 'em if you got 'em in My place of business.

"It was a long time ago, X, the details aren't important. But I could see Bobby holding a grudge."

Frankie Boots used to tell Me, "Doll, there's a time to force your client to spit it all out and a time to let your client hold onto whatever they're holding on to. Knowing which time is which is what separates the artists in this business from the hacks."

I smiled to Myself. This wasn't the time to drag anything out of King. I agreed to meet King for dinner at another one his places tomorrow night and hung up the phone.

I picked up the phone again and made a couple of calls. For $15,000 and counting the least I could do was pay a call on Bobby Astro.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 3

2009-10-12T19:05:00.015-04:00

Like all good gangsters, King owns any number of legitimate businesses. He's not that discriminating, even -- he owns dry cleaners, pet stores, restaurants, gas stations, you name it.

I asked him once why he still bothers with the illegal stuff -- between the legit businesses and his investments he's making a ridiculous amount of money. He just looked at me with that unintentionally disdainful look that the destined-to-be-rich reserve for the destined-never-to-be-rich. Then he smiled and explained that it wasn't about money, in fact it had ceased to be about money for some time. It was now about "more" -- about doing everything he could because he could.

La Catena was one of King's places, an Italian restaurant King had bought with the intent of making it world-class. La Catena was an illustration of the fact that the whole is sometimes not as great as the sum of the parts. King had assembled a world-class chef, hostess, sommelier, wait staff, etc. He had the place redone, beautifully and at great expense. Everything was just . . . perfect, and yet, the overall experience, while good, just wasn't legendary.

Critics sensed this too and as only food critics can be, were unduly harsh. The fact that La Catena means "the chain" in Italian gave the little twerps even more ammunition for their witty put-downs. It was a source of great amusement to some of us that a couple of critics actually re-reviewed La Catena much more positively than they had at first when they found out who the owner was.

Personally I enjoyed the place quite a bit on those rare occasions I was being treated or was feeling flush -- La Catena was not for the faint of wallet. Even lunch could set one back quite a bit.

King ate here quite a bit, I had heard. Perhaps he thought if he ate here often enough he could unravel the secret, discern that tiny but essential thing separating La Catena from greatness. I laughed, considering that -- more than likely King just liked the food. King was the sort of businessman who understood that 95% of perfection was better and more profitable than what 99% of everyone else was doing.

The maitre d' clearly had been briefed; I was whisked to King's table near the back without a word or a second of delay. It was easy to see why King sat here -- from this table he had a commanding view of the entire place. He was far from the noise of the kitchen (not that you could really hear the kitchen from any table that much), the commotion of the bar, and the distraction of the door. It was the owner's table, clearly and unmistakably.

King stood and greeted Me graciously and I was helped into My seat by a man who appeared to have no other function. He disappeared and the busboy appeared, bringing both sparkling and still water, and a plate of lemon slices. The waiter slipped in as the busboy glided out of the frame, each one replacing the other in smooth succession like ballet dancers.

The waiter handed Me a long card with the food choices on it -- it was done old-school style. Back in the day fancy resturants would have two menus . . . one for the man, with prices on it, and one for the woman, with no prices on it. The theory being that the woman should order without concerning herself about how much it's costing. Works for Me!

King poured Me a glass of the pinot noir he was drinking and I took a look at the choices. I am one of those people who feels silly always ordering the same thing in a restaurant, then regrets it when branching out doesn't work out well.

I love the tagliatelle con la salsa del cinghiale (long pasta with wild boar sauce) here and this time I decide to not be an idiot and just order that. So I do. King suggests some fried calamari, which is fine by Me -- somehow the informality of the appetizer makes this feel less like some weird kind of date. Praise the Lord.

I pick up a bread stick and break it in half and look across the table at King. It's his nickel . . . I can't really hurry him along. And I konw better than to make small talk -- that's for after the business is concluded, in King's world.

King makes a slow survey of the place, as if reassuring himself that everything is in its place before taking up unpleasant business, then focuses on Me and begins to talk.

"First, X, thank you for taking this case. I know I'm paying you a lot to do it but still, you probably have 19 good reasons to not take this case and you still did. That means something to me."

I sip My wine. Yeah, it means I'm an idiot shopaholic who gets wet at the thought of $10,000 cash in an envelope.

"And I don't want you to worry about cooperation, X. I want this fucker caught, before he does something like this again." Clearly King was convinced the killing was to get at him. King was civic-minded for a gangster but his interest in justice extended mainly to how justice affected his bottom line.

Clearly it's My turn to talk. The calamari comes, providing a natural break and a moment for Me to gather My thoughts.

La Catena makes a perfect fried calamari. The chef resists the temptation to touch up the Mona Lisa -- a nice light slightly spicy batter, the calamari are fried just right, not overcooked as is so easy to do, and the marinara for dipping is bright with basil and capriciously spicy with the occasional red pepper flake. It's a dish a reviewer dismisses in a few words on the way to describing some much more elaborate/bizarre creation -- it's no wonder that we've lost our appreciation of the skill and difficulty of doing several simple things perfectly right, in concert.

I tell King that a lot of what I need is "cop stuff" . . . who installed the security system, and when? When was it last serviced? Who has keys? What contractors/workmen, etc., have been in and out there lately? Any problems with any of the girls? Husbands? Crazy boyfriends? Any clients causing trouble? Wives or girlfriends of clients? Neighborhood whackos? Random do-gooders? Any hate mail, attacks on the property, threats, etc.?

King is actually a lot more patient and gracious through all this than I expected. He answers in detail, and thoughtfully. The things he doesn't know or that require a list he makes notes on and I know I'll be receiving the information soon.

King looks at Me . . . he is looking for a theory from Me, at the very least. Something . . . anything.

"It feels really personal to Me, King. I am going to check out the victim of course but I expect to find absolutely nothing remarkable about him. I think, like you, that he was in the wrong House of Domination at the wrong time. I know a guy like you has more than a few enemies, on either side of the law, but if there's anyone you think might hate you this much, you need to tell Me. How you know him or what business you two are or were in, is as you know, no concern of Mine."

King pours himself more wine and takes a long thoughtful sip. Clearly he's mulling over whether or not to tell Me something.

He looks at Me with an air of resignation.

"Bobby Astro."

I'm about to gasp in surprise when the waiter arrives with the entrees. King slides an envelope across the table and attacks his veal chop like a bum going through the Waldorf's dumpster, and changes the subject. It's clear the business portion of the lunch is over. Just as well -- I don't want anything interfering with My enjoyment of this gorgeous tagliatelle con la salsa del cinghiale.

This time I don't look -- feels like five grand. I slip the envelope in My purse and inhale deeply the intoxicating aroma. The world is suddenly and fully reduced to the marvelous plate before Me.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 2

2009-10-08T19:08:00.004-04:00

Finally, I open My eyes again, and when I do the crazy colors that lined the insides of My eyelids are still there. I take as deep a breath as I can and doing that causes the electric ripples inside to actually intensify a little bit before they finally crackle more dimly, then fade.

I take another breath, lungs slowly filling again, My heart gradually resuming its normal rhythm. Looking down at mandy there, face shiny, wearing Me like a big neon sign that says "i love You" . . . it's hard not to just get all soft inside and . . .

I sigh and fix My robe and pull mandy up on the sofa next to Me. I kiss her, deeply . . . the taste of her, mixing with the taste of Me on her mouth, so sweet . . . godddd I could get started all over again.

I grab the paper and mandy snuggles. I'm scanning headlines and come upon this one:

Illinois Woman Wins Lottery Jackpot

Of course. It's always someone who lives way far away who wins the big prize. I start reading the article aloud for mandy.

An Illinois woman was the sole winner in Tuesday's MegaMillions drawing.

Freda Beckler, of Bartonville, won an estimated $252.6 million (before taxes) for holding the only ticket with the winning numbers: 2, 17, 19, 33, 48, and 50.

I stop reading and look at mandy -- and she's looking at Me. As one, we say the word,

"Fuck!"

Beckler? From Illinois . . . as in Mary Jane Beckler, aka Adele Peterson, who Catherine Chambers used to perfection in her successful plan to off everyone in her way and end up with $2 billion, with My unwitting help? That Beckler?

mandy tries to be the voice of reason.

"Miss . . . there have to be a lot of Becklers out there -- it's probably a common name there. The lottery winning Becklers probably aren't even related to Mary Jane Beckler."

I smile -- mandy is a sweet girl but she has no understanding of the fact that life is totally random unless there is a chance of one getting royally screwed over, in which case life is decidedly non-random. I was 100% convinced that the new multimillionaire Freda Beckler was related to Mary Jane Beckler . . . probably quite closely.

I toss the paper aside and mandy gets up to get Me some coffee. she knows Me too well already.

Honestly, there was nothing to be upset about . . . I don't begrudge anyone his or her good fortune. And if Freda Beckler is related to Mary Jane, well, that family has suffered a lot -- if $252 million helps that, then who am I to say otherwise?

I wasn't jealous of Freda's good fortune. It was more a feeling that something or other very odd was going to happen. The feeling that My picking up that paper and seeing that article was no random event. Of course, there was no way for Me to know how any of this strangeness would play out . . . and that, I realized, was what was killing Me about this -- that feeling of knowing something, but having no idea what, when, or how.

I took the mug from mandy and she snuggled close again. We turned on the TV. They were calling it "The Fetish Murder." This sort of crime was tailor-made for TV news. It gave them an excuse to interview "a real-life Dominatrix," the titillation of which they counteract by hauling out some pointy-headed psychologist to explain some people's need to be dominated, etc. Add in the aspect of The King, who was a made for TV gangster -- and you had a producer's dream.

The cute redhead on TV was talking about how the police seemed totally at a loss for leads in the case. I wanted to laugh, but then I realized that I was in exactly the same situation. No leads.

But I was going to meet with King tomorrow and hopefully find out who wanted to hurt him this badly. I was hoping the list wouldn't be too long.

The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man

2009-10-07T21:47:00.010-04:00

I posted the Prologue to this story about two years ago, and then never worked on it again, until just recently.

I've re-posted the Prologue here, so you don't have to go hunting for it, along with the newly-written Part 1.

* * *

Business did take off in the wake of the Chambers case, as I’d expected. I rescued mandy from her job at Day of Infamy and our relationship had progressed to the point where soon I was going to collar her and have her move in with Me.

I watched her at her desk as I hung up the phone. Honestly, I was in no hurry with her. Not because I didn’t feel for her . . . I did, strongly.Maybe too much, even. But I wanted everything to be right this time.I’d made bad mistakes before, moving too fast. I wasn’t going to let that happen again.

I had forgotten (or maybe never actually knew) what it was like when things were busy. If there were anyone I could remotely trust I’d take on another person to work cases on his or her own, but for now, it was just Me and the freelancers I needed to get things done.

I glanced at mandy again and laughed softly. she really did “go with the décor.” The new offices were bigger, brighter, with higher ceilings and more modern furnishings. In this efficient space mandy fit right in, and she was a godsend. With things so busy her ability to manage the calendar, generate and collect bills, and deal with all manner of whackos on the phone was invaluable. Plus she was damn sexy – she was one of those girls who made a simple blouse and skirt seem positively pornographic.

I was reviewing the file for the Forman case; in half an hour I had to tell Mrs. Forman the good news: her husband wasn’t cheating on her. The bad news, that her husband was laundering money for drug dealers and was about to be arrested by the FBI, I couldn’t tell her, since I only knew about that from Arty, who wasn’t supposed to have told Me. So I’d tell Mrs. Forman in some subtle way that while the Mr. wasn’t cheating, she might want to distance herself a bit. Or something. I’d figure it out. I didn't feel right just telling her "good news" and taking My money when her world was about to come crashing down around her.

I put the files down and looked up at the skylight, the words of Frankie Boots coming back to Me. “Doll, in this business, having a conscience is like bringing a knife to a gun fight. It can’t do you any good and just annoys people.”

I laughed, loud enough that mandy looked up from the accounts receivable. More customers meant more deadbeats, but mandy did a great job of getting people to pay up without pissing them off.

I was about to tell mandy what I was thinking about when My phone went off. I looked at the Caller ID.

Whoa. Charles Kingley. One of Blog City’s wealthiest and more notorious citizens. Owner of dozens of brothels, houses of Domination and submission, and deeply involved in every other form of “illicit” entertainment one could imagine. My conversations with “King” consisted of him trying to get Me to ProDomme at one of his places and Me being tempted for a second or two and then deciding against it. For him to call Me out of the blue was not at all a usual thing. We usually only talked when we ran into one another.

But there was nothing usual about any of this. Not the call, and not King’s voice or demeanor.

He went right to it, responding to My “hello” with the story, such as it was . . . his voice shaky, rushed. That in and of itself was a bit scary. I’d never heard King anything other than confident, with perhaps a dash of world-weariness thrown in at times. But always in charge.

“I need you to come to 299 Dickinson, X. Right now. It’s bad. And I need you.”

There was silence, mostly because I was so stunned. His voice again.

“Please?”

Wow. I’d never heard him use that word – it was a bit shocking that he even knew it.

But it was one of those times when my gut instinct told Me I should do this. King had, in his way, always been good to Me, as good as he was capable of being.

“All right, King. 299 Dickinson. Be in there in—“ I mentally calculated the traffic this time of day and cab vs. subway. ”Twenty minutes.”

He sounded relieved. “Thank you, X . . . thank you. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes. And I’ll make it worth your while, I swear.” He thanked Me yet again and we said our goodbyes.

I had mandy call Mrs. Forman and reschedule, and told her to cancel the rest of My afternoon. For King to call Me, in that state, to say “please” and “thank you” and mean it, well, this was obviously serious, complicated business.

I gave mandy a kiss and grabbed My purse. It is good to be in demand, yes?

Part 1

299 Dickinson Street is a nice-looking brownstone tucked near the middle of a long row of nice-looking brownstones in Blog City's fashionable Karlyle neighborhood. In all likelihood no one never noticed anything unusual about number 299 -- the neighborhood was populated by young up and comers, the kind who work 60 hours a week, go out a lot on weekends, and mind their own business otherwise. Other than a number of guys coming and going, mostly during the day when no one's at home anyway, there'd be little to point to 299 Dickinson Street as a place where men paid really good money to be beaten, whipped, sissified, and generally humiliated by stunningly beautiful but often bored women, doing an Oscar-worthy job not letting that boredom show.

Until now, of course. Now, on on an otherwise nondescript Tuesday afternoon, the street was dotted with double-parked police cruisers, an unmarked car the detectives drove, an ambulance, reporters here and there and all manner of people in, out, and around the building. The entrance was festooned with bright yellow crime scene tape, lending a perversely comical air to the whole scene.

Most cops know Me . . . most can tolerate Me, and a few, besides Arty, actually like Me. As a result I can drift a lot closer to the action at a crime scene than your typical person who doesn't belong there. I'm gradually insinuating Myself into the scene when I catch sight of The King. His eyes catch Mine as he ends a cell phone call.

They say a cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. The King was no cynic. He was a realist -- a man who knows that everyone has their price, and knows the value of finding the other person's price.

I think King was close to hugging Me, but even under stress the man had his limits. Instead, he got right to business, as was his way. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and handed Me an envelope. It was one of those envelopes that one can tell contains cash without looking inside. In a situation like this, it's rude to take a long look as if one's counting, but ruder still to not look at all. I take a quick glance and a quick riffle. Ten grand, easy, in 100s.

"Don't worry, X. That's just the retainer." In King's mind I'd taken the job already, whatever that job might actually be. I shrugged as I put the envelope in My purse . . . OK, so I guess I hadtaken the job already. Fine.

Where King and money were concerned, I was not worried in the least. He was rumored to be worth nine figures, his acumen for investing his ill-gotten gains surpassing even his skill at accumulating them. And he was known, on both sides of the law, for being scrupulously honest and fair with a buck. Or with ten thousand bucks.

I looked around, then at King again. "This many cops and dicks around . . . has to be a homicide. They don't all converge like this because someone paid for a flogging and got a spanking instead."

King managed a mirthless smile. "Yeah, X. Homicide."

"A trick or a girl?" Yeah, I know . . . they're "clients." I had heard the spiel countless times. Professional Domination is NOT prostitution. Right.

King's cell phone rang but he ignored it. "A trick." He looked at the front door and then at Me. "Can you get in there?"

I turn and look and spot Arty Daniels arriving. "Yeah, I can get in."

I'm about to go accost Arty when King grabs My forearm. Not hard and painfully the way a man of his size and backgournd could certainly do, but in an almost plaintive way. My eyes meet his gray eyes, gray eyes that usually looked hard and unforgiving but today seem to betray, for the first time, the possibility that enough might finally be enough.

"Find out what happened, X. Please." There was that word, again. Christ, I must be getting soft . . . or maybe it was the ten grand burning a hole in My purse, but The King sounded actually sincere.

"I'll do My best, King," I said, and went to grab Arty. I'll do My best. The words of My mentor Frankie Boots rang in My head: "Never promise -- you never know where a case ends up. Never promise . . . just say you'll do your best. And then do it, doll."

Besides, I'm a girl with standards. Ten grand (and the promise of more to come) buys a lot of "My best."

* * *

Thankfully, Arty just let Me in without invoking "the book" or complaining. He just gave Me that look, and I gave him the look in return, where we both know I owe him one. I'm OK with that . . . I'll line up Astrid and give Arty a nice little session.

Arty runs the details down for Me, speaking in that tone and manner that long-time cops do, imparting all the pertinent information without disturbing the flow of anything around us, or drawing any attention to us at all.

The victim was one Edgar Howe, 38. A fairly regular client at Madame Annika's, which is what 299 Dickinson Street was known as to its clientèle and staff. Arty starts to run down Mr. Howe's list of fetishes but I stop him; I'll talk to the girls themselves about Howe -- I know them all, and they wouldn't tell any cop the stuff I might end up needing to know.

Mr. Howe was apparently strangled while restrained. According to Arty, Tammy, who was Topping the late Mr. Howe received an "emergency" phone call and stepped out of the room for no more than two minutes. When she returned Howe was dead.

Arty was convinced Tammy was not in on it. Arty was a good cop when it came to intuition about guilt and innocence. When Tammy went for the emergency phone call . . . there was no one there; the number traced back to a throwaway cell phone. The receptionist said she put the call through because the caller asked for Tammy by her real name -- guys call all the time asking for girls by their work names -- those calls never get through.

Arty looked at Me with an uneasy expression. I know that look on detectives -- it means that there is some aspect of the case that is going to elevate it above the level of a garden variety homicide. He takes me over to a piece of paper laying on the floor. I lean over and read:

Criminal angst follows King's climax with hesitation (8)

I stand up again and look at Arty. I know why the look, now. He not only has what looks on the surface like the perfect crime on his hands, but the prefect crime committed by a weirdo. And cops hate weirdos, because 1) weirdos mean press, and 2) weirdos don't stop at one killing.

He looks at Me again, this time silently asking if I have any idea what the note means.

"Well, Arty, it's what's called a 'cryptic clue.' Based on British-style crossword puzzles, solving the clues is a matter of decoding misleading verbiage and wordplay indicators. The number following the clue is the number of letters in the answer."

Arty stares at Me blankly. All he really needs to know, he already knows. He has a psycho to deal with.

Thankfully (or not) for Arty, cryptics are a hobby of Mine. So Arty is going to hear the answer whether he likes it or not.

"Arty. One part is the definition of the answer. The other part is a wordplay or plays, revealing the answer. In this case . . . look at 'angst follows King's climax.' So, a-n-g-s-t follows 'King's climax,' or, the last letter of the word 'King,' namely, g. So g-a-n-g-s-t . . . 'with hesitation,' 'Er' is the sound of hesitation often, yes? So you get g-a-n -g-s-t-e-r. And 'Criminal' leading the sentence is the definition."

Arty follows Me well enough. "So then why not just write "gangster?"

I laugh. "Arty, you forgot -- he's a psycho. Who knows why he does what he does?" I look at Arty. "But I'd start with King's enemies list. 'Gangster' . . . plus going out of his way to use King's name in the clue . . . if you want to hurt/embarrass the King, making this kind of mess in one of his places would be one way to do it, for sure."

Arty nods thoughtfully and slips back into worried detective mode. I take My leave, thinking about, in no particular order, the King, his ten grand, who'd want to hurt him this badly, and a pair of Jimmy Choo boots I suddenly have the money for.

submissive vs. Dominant Blogs, Part 3

2009-10-05T19:28:00.003-04:00

I concluded Part 2 of this (all RIGHT, yes, it was almost 7 months ago!) by stating My contention that "submission is inherently more interesting to write about" (than Dominance).

Certainly I've some time to think about that contention.

I still believe it to be true, but I do see the influence of personal experience and style.

I believe submission is more interesting to write about (and thus to read about, and thus, to experience) than Dominance because of the delicately balanced places that certainty and uncertainty occupy in the life and mind of a submissive.

Consider . . . the person in the submissive role ideally has a healthy measure of certainty and uncertainty in his or her life. s/he needs to feel confident in the love and care and concern that the Dominant will feel and exhibit. Without that, there is simply animal fear, and animal fear never taught anyone anything except how to behave like an animal. The submissive must be able to see, understand, and trust in his or her Owner. The degree to which s/he is able to feel that (that is, the degree to which the Dominant inspires it in him or her) is proportional to the depth of submission one can eventually feel.

But at the same time, the submissive needs to feel that excitement, that thrill of not knowing what is going to happen next. That is absolutely essential, and is probably the single most exciting thing about submission on a day to day basis. What will S/He think of next? Sometimes the thought, the imagining itself, wrapped as it is in the delicious state of not-knowingness, in and of itself enough to make submission deeper. Not to mention more fulfilling and more fun.

That heady mix, that living, breathing, daily paradox, the clashing balance of the known and the unknown, to Me, is the stuff of great novels, of lyrical epics.

This other thing . . . being the One to dream the stuff up? Being the one in charge? It's wonderfully fulfilling, as for writing, it's easy grist for the essay mill, but not Shakespearean the way submission is.

March?

2009-09-15T07:23:00.002-04:00

I looked with horror at the date.

I thought the last time I posted was . . . like, June, maybe?

March???

That's bad. (Not that June would've been great.)

I am still here, still doing what I do, mostly. I hope to be writing more here, soon.

submissive vs. Dominant Blogs, Part 2

2009-03-05T19:23:00.003-05:00

If I'm right, and there are a lot more blogs by submissives than by Dominants, and more than the generally accepted proportion of submissives to Dominants out there, the question is simply "why should that be so?"

I don't find any of the possibilities I suggested in part 1 very compelling, nor do I find any of the commenter's arguments highly persuasive. With the semi-exception that I do agree with the idea that women are more likely to write about their emotions and experiences than men are, and in my experience there are a lot more submissive women than submissive men (at least those admitting to it).

So then, why more blogs by subs than by Dom/mes?

I think it's pretty simple: submission is inherently more interesting to write about.

Why do I say that?

That's Part 3.

submissive vs. Dominant Blogs, Part 1

2009-02-17T20:29:00.009-05:00

I was surfing the link list, looking for some inspiration, and clicking on links to links of links, and all of a sudden I came to the following realization, unspectacular though it may be:

There seem to be a lot more blogs by submissives than there are blogs by Dominants.

Part of this is that there are simply more submissives than Dominants. I have read, one place, that the number is something like seven subs for every 3 Dom/mes.

One might thus expect a baseline of 70% of D/s blogs to be by submissives, assuming that the blogging subset (!) exists in the same percentage as the D/s population at large. (And the much bigger assumption that the 7/3 ratio is accurate.)

By My anecdotal reckoning it's a lot closer to 90%.

Why should that be? Several possibilities:

1. submission is easier to write about than Dominance.

2. submission is more interesting to read about than Dominance.

3. submissives are naturally more introspective and analytical than Dom/mes.

4. submissives read more blogs, thus comment on more blogs, thus their blogs are better publicized and linked to.

5. A submissive can be ordered to do a blog, thus making submissive blogs more likely.

And any number of other possibilities.

I'm not sure I really put much faith in any of those I listed above.

If not those reasons, though . . . why?

That's Part 2.

Gratuitous Picture Post

2009-02-12T19:50:00.006-05:00

It's the blogging equivalent of a PTA bath. You don't want to go another day without posting something. But you stare at the mocking white new post screen for ten minutes and . . . nothing. And you havn't got all night.

In desperation you figure you'll toss a picture up there. Just this once. You'll be more inspired to do a real post next time.

Honest.

The voice seems to come from a little red devil on your shoulder.

"Go ahead . . . . it's going to feel good. Do it. You're having a rough week . . . you deserve a post off."

Yeah. You know . . . I do . . . I really do . . .

Phelps and A-Rod: Minority Report

2009-02-08T18:15:00.006-05:00

This past week, two sports stories transcended sports and found their way into the mainstream media.

1. Olympic swimming god Michael Phelps was photographed with a bong.

2. Sports Illustrated reported that Alex Rodriguez tested positive for steroids in 2003.

Phelps issued the expected corporate apology . . . I'm sorry I let down all the widows, orphans and baby koalas for whom I had been a role model, I promise never to do it again, I'll gladly narc on the person or persons the weed was obtained from, just ask me, and any fan who would like his or her car detailed please e-mail me and I'll send you a gift certificate to Jiffy Wash.

It was a nice piece of PR hackwork -- for better or worse publicists have had a lot of practice issuing these endorsement-saving (they hope) apologies on behalf of athletes. But most of them involve something more serious than being photographed with a bong.

And that's the essence of Minority Report, Part 1. Once, just once, could one of these guys just admit they smoke weed and skip the mea culpa, which, let's face it, no one believes anyway? Phelps will smoke weed again -- he'll just be more careful about the circumstances and the company next time.

I understand it's against the law . . . but consider -- of alcohol, tobacco, and marijuana -- which has the highest social cost? Marijuana is a distant third. The "gateway drug" argument is easily debunked (or universally applicable, equally as devastating to the argument).

Anti-drug ads urge our children to "live above the influence." I wonder, will an athlete ever live above the influence of sponsorship dollars? I am guessing not. Some addictions are way too strong to break.

* * * * *

A-Rod tested positive for steroids in 2003. This is a big deal because, a) it's A-Rod, b) he's on the Yankees, c) he's an easy target because he cares too damn much what people think, and d) he has denied using steroids (smartly, however, not in front of Congress, as Dumbest Living Human Rafael Palmiero did).

Back in 2003 baseball did mass tests, for the sole purpose of determining if steroid use was widespread enough to warrant an actual "policy" and/or further steps. 5-7% of the players tested, tested positive. The results were never meant to be published, in terms of who had tested positive and who hadn't. In fact, a court order sealed the 2003 results.

Well, someone leaked the A-Rod information to a reporter and the story breaks.

I assume the story is accurate. Sports Illustrated is not looking to invite a massive lawsuit for reporting something so damaging and then having it turn out to be false. A Rod has not denied it to this point.

My problem comes in here. Whoever leaked the information to the reporter knowingly broke the law. The reporter accepted and relayed information she knew to have been illegally obtained.

Why doesn't that matter? I understand it has no bearing on A Rod's guilt, innocence, or legacy. But it's a small example of how the press, in its boundless arrogance, has lost touch with the common good, and with the people they so condescendingly claim to ultimately act on behalf of, when in fact they pursue career objectives with the same single-minded zeal as the most aggressive drug company sales rep.

So, by all means, everyone who wants to trash A-Rod, have a ball. But let's not pretend that it was "journalism" that caused the story to ever become a story.

[My thanks to iris, who contributed to this post.]

It's Not Personal, Sonny

2009-02-06T18:23:00.007-05:00

There's a great scene in The Godfather where the Corleone family contemplates an uncertain future. Don Vito lies in a hospital bed, clinging to life after an assassination attempt by other forces in organized crime who see Don Corleone as standing in the way of their entry into the massively lucrative heroin business.

At one point, a young Michael Corleone suggests to Tom Hagen, the consigliere, and to his older brother Sonny, running the family in the Don's absence, that their problems will be solved if they assassinate a certain New York City police captain and the mobster who's facilitating the Mafia's entry into the drug trade.

Michael suggests that they agree to a meeting -- a meeting at which Michael will kill the police captain and the heroin distributor. The following exchange then ensues:

Sonny: What are you gonna do? Nice college boy, didn't want to get mixed up in the family business. Now you want to gun down a police captain. Why? Because he slapped you in the face a little? What do you think this like the Army where you can shoot 'em from a mile away? No you gotta get up like this and, badda-bing, you blow their brains all over your nice Ivy League suit. C'mere. [Kisses Michael on the head]
Sonny: You're taking this very personal. Tom, this is business and this man is taking it very, very personal.
Michael Corleone: Where does it say that you can't kill a cop?
Tom Hagen: Come on, Mikey...
Michael Corleone: Tom, wait a minute. I'm talking about a cop that's mixed up in drugs. I'm talking about a - a - a dishonest cop - a crooked cop who got mixed up in the rackets and got what was coming to him. That's a terrific story. And we have newspaper people on the payroll, don't we, Tom?
[Tom nods]
Michael Corleone: And they might like a story like that.
Tom Hagen: They might, they just might.
Michael Corleone: [to Sonny] It's not personal, Sonny. It's strictly business.

The scene is both funny and chilling. Chilling because of the way Pacino somehow manages to convey the well-hidden steel beneath the surface, the subtle but absolute willingness to do absolutely anything, perfectly ordered and compartmentalized, even to the extent of murder.

I of course see a lesson in there . . . an important insight into the nature of Dominance.

When I look back at the mistakes I've made as a Domme, I can trace almost every one to a failure to separate "business" from personal.

What exactly does that mean, though? Especially since I Myself have written several times that I can't truly dominate without love being present, that the emotional aspect is so important?

To distinguish personal from business means to separate what jeopardizes One's goals and what does not, when evaluating a situation. It means to take into account everything that led up to the current moment, and to consider, then act, accordingly, with the wisdom and judgement the submissive has earned by committing him or herself to One.

If there is a situation, a mistake in judgement, some faux pas or other, the Dom/me needs to use the most important advantage the unequal power relationship affords Him or Her: The power to take a brief pause, to allow that consideration and analysis to happen, before speaking or acting. The Dom/me who punishes, physically or verbally, without taking that pause is making a mistake.

The distinction might seem picky, or strained. These are interpersonal relationships, after all, not commercial enterprises. But to Me, there is a mission, an objective, a desired future state to be attained. And the pursuit of that desired future state, while it happens in an emotional arena, is not in and of itself emotional. And as such, when the One with the greater power lets His or Her emotions take precedence over the objective, then in a very real sense those being led are temporaril without a Leader. And that's nowhere for one being led to be, even for a moment.

One does need to be able to express One's anger sometimes, of course. But the wise Dom/me bears in mind that punishment should always be business, never personal . . . and that One needs, always, to find another outlet, another venue, to release that negative emotion.

Reputation And Substance, Part 2

2009-02-03T19:34:00.010-05:00

"You don't like my music
You don't have to use it
Funkin is a thing that all of us release
You don't have to get it
All you do is let it
Then you'll know exactly how to groove"

from "Get The Funk Outta My Face," The Brothers Johnson

There's another side to last night's post.

Just as it's easy to lose the message, to lose sight of the important things and lapse into a kind of drearily ritualized half-listening, half-being . . . it's possible also that we're too quick to think, to sincerely believe, even, that we have lost sight of the important things and sadly, to then act accordingly.

And even more amazing, to Me, is the insidiousness of this (sometimes) false idea. It's so subtle, so stealthy, so . . . nearly invisible, that this post didn't even occur to Me until this afternoon.

Consider. I think about these things, these kinds of ideas, all the time. And, I like to think I've got a brain or two. I consider every word I publish on this blog, multiple times. After posting last night's entry, I thought I'd nailed it. I was sad, because the conclusion of that post, which seemed inescapable at the time, felt sad to Me. But I felt that "Reputation And Substance" was all I needed to say on the subject.

In the words of a great philosopher, "Go figure."

It is just as likely that we only think we've lost our way as it is that we might actually have lost our way. Even if it's really difficult to be able to tell when we're really lost and when we only think we're lost . . . that's cause for massive relief and celebration. And thus the Brothers Johnson snippet that introduced this post.

"You don't have to get it . . . all you do is let it . . . "

Reputation And Substance

2009-02-02T19:32:00.004-05:00

Everyone not living under a rock knows that Bruce Springsteen was the halftime entertainment at the Super Bowl last night.

Bruce is a source of some (good-natured) back and forth between iris and Myself. iris is a huge Bruce fan; I, on the other hand, feel that Bruce jumped the shark a long time ago. I don't know if it's ever-unchanging wardrobe, the vapid forays into political commentary, or just that his music isn't nearly as good or powerful as it once was, but Bruce does little for Me these days.

So, last night, predictably, iris and I had diverging views about the halftime show. [Disclaimer: I missed almost all of the first song.] iris loved it; I thought the song selection was regrettable at best [the ultra-lame "Glory Days" as the closer?], and Bruce's performance at times veered between haphazard [a very raggedly "Born To Run" was close to disgraceful] and hokey [adjusting lyrics for the city/event and the tried and true audience vocal segment].

But it got Me to thinking. Often, when we are listening to an artist that we've come to love, we not only forgive a lot, but we reach a point where if we're not careful, we find ourselves simply listening to the artist's reputation, and responding to that, instead of to the emotional intent of the music.

It's something I wonder and worry about in D/s terms. It's been a long time the girls have been with Me. I say the same things, in different ways, granted, but I say them . . . a lot. Does it get old? Or have I made it old, worse yet? What part of indifference belongs to the teacher and what to the student? Have I lost the emotional underpinnings of all this?

Or am I completely off base here? Maybe My worries are totally unfounded.

"Glory days . . . "

Blonde Moment

2009-01-31T19:11:00.002-05:00

Like many women I've got a peculiar relationship with My hair, specifically its color. All of us have a friend who changes hair color on a whim. If you're like Me you don't totally understand that friend, but you envy her more than a little bit.

I'm in a comfort zone with My own nearly black locks. Over time one's hair becomes one's personality, one's self, really, in a non-superficial way that men will never understand. So I like who I am and I'm OK with My hair.

But I think about those who play with their hair color -- and how I often wish I could just change on a whim like that. If My hair now "is" Me, then, changing it significantly makes Me . . . Someone else?

What if I were to (gasp) go blonde? Who would I become then? Would I "have more fun?" [Studies show that women with blonde hair do get more attention, socially/sexually. I'm still young enough to think that's not a terrible thing.] I know My IQ wouldn't suddenly drop 20 points; that's just an unfortunate cliche . . . ummm . . . what was I saying?

Who am I kidding? I'm simply not Suddenly Go Blonde For The Hell Of It Girl.

But I know her, very well. And I know she stole my boyfriend in the 10th grade.

Everybody Is A Star (Ummmm, Actually . . . )

2009-01-28T18:46:00.004-05:00

"Look into my eyes, what do you see?
Cult of personality
I know your anger, I know your dreams
Ive been everything you want to be
I'm the cult of personality
Like Mussolini and Kennedy
I'm the cult of personality"

--Living Colour, "Cult of Personality"

A visitor to the channel the other night said something along the lines that he was "glad I was paying attention to the blog again." Well, hold yer horses there, Pilgrim . . . a few posts does not "attention" make, but thank you . . . and I do hope to keep this up.

But paying attention to the blog isn't all fun and games. When I was ignoring this blog, I was able to also ignore the fact that I have like, nine readers, three of whom are collared to Me and kinda have to read it. Paying attention means being reminded that some girl posts a photo of her cellulite for Half Naked Thursday Afternoon or whatever it's called and it gets 24 comments. Or a post about random promiscuity will garner readership and comments like crazy (extra points for bareback).

OK, I get it. I really do. This might not be a sex blog, but it's "competing" in that marketplace. And a sex blog has got to have some sex in it. Or embarrassing personal details and revelations. My dry little insights are clearly not cutting it in this hyper-exposed hyper-sexualized circus that blogging has become. If you want to be a blog star you have to give the people what they want!

I just have to find My voice . . . perhaps something like . . .

"I was trying for the eleventh time to fix My panty wedgie, and getting wet thinking about the grocery bagger at SavMart, when I realized something very important about the nature of Dominance and submission . .. "

Hrmph. Clearly this isn't going to be easy.

Burdens

2009-01-21T19:43:00.003-05:00

"Now I don't know but I been told
it's hard to run with the weight of gold
Other hand I heard it said
it's just as hard with the weight of lead"

from "New Speedway Boogie," The Grateful Dead

I'm always saying that lessons come at the oddest times from the most mundane things. I say it and think it so often that sometimes I wonder if it's really true or I've just convinced Myself of it and can no longer differentiate lessons from well, random stuff.

Then something happens like what happened tonight. I was driving home and the voices on the radio were hurting My ears in that odd, hard to put words to way that sometimes happens. So I switched to the CD.

Song lyrics stick in Me, or wash over Me, or take Me back to somewhere, or shove Me forward, or, like tonight, just give Me a perfect little jewel of a lesson. I just have to be in the right place at the right time.

And tonight was apparently that right place right time . . . traffic came to a stop at just the right time, and those lyrics above could really seep inside Me.

So what's the wonderful perfect lesson?

More of a reminder than a lesson, really: Burdens are burdens. They all entrap and enervate us, despite how beautiful they might seem on the surface. It's folly to carry them around with us. Likewise, the ugly packages are no more worth lugging around, either. The beautiful ones make us feel important and proud when we carry them; the ugly ones make us feel noble and strong. Both are illusions. Let go.

Let go.

Inaugural Thoughts

2009-01-20T19:13:00.005-05:00

I actually heard a good chunk of President Obama's speech today.

He's a good speaker . . . he has just enough of the gospel preacher thing without going over the top (and that's not easy to do), he's thorough without being long-winded, inspiring without sounding hokey.

I think he said all the right things . . . and it's kind of hard not to, really, in January 2009. America's current problems make an Inaugural Address kind of a slam dunk for anyone with any intelligence and soul at all. But still, to mix My sports metaphors, fastballs right down the middle get fouled off all the time -- if Obama didn't knock his out of the park today, at the very least he hit a one-hop liner off the wall in a clutch situation.

I do wonder if any of this historic change in American politics portends any real change in America, though. I don't mean on any of the "big" issues . . . the economy will get fixed, partially, and fix itself, partially, We will figure out a way to gracefully exit Iraq and Afghanistan. Etc.

The change I wonder about and keep waiting for (foolishly, perhaps), is the fundamental shift wherein we reverse the places of sex and violence in our society. Corny, perhaps, to point this out for the 1,393,884th time, but a movie can show the most sickening acts of violence and cruelty and be rated PG-13, while a slang word for the procreative act or a bared breast is an automatic "R." The unsuccessful Culture War the Right waged for years didn't just acknowledge the ass-backwards places of sex and violence in this country, it embraced that perversion (and cynically relied on it). That they failed was less because the great mass of people rejected it but more because people didn't care all that much to embrace change of any kind.

Apathy -- America's single greatest weapon!

So I'm hopeful today, on many levels . . . but not particularly sanguine about the prospect that our twisted and tragic view of sex and violence will get straightened out any time soon.

The Prospect of Housecleaning

2009-01-18T14:05:00.014-05:00

When I decided to pay attention to the blog again, I wasn't thinking about one unpleasant chore.

I refer to the link list over there to your right. It's been close to a year since I've really looked at it. I must have loads of dozens of dead or stale links.

I see that saratoga is going strong. The thoughtful and considerate swan commented on yesterday's post, so she's around, obviously . . . I look forward to going over there and catching up. What's become of nina? Geisha, if you're out there, send Me a message on yahoo.

I am going to go through the link list . . . doing so is not only good blog management and good manners, but going through it after a long hiatus isn't unlike dumping out a shoebox full of snapshots on the floor and touching on the memories and emotions, recalling what inspired Me in the first place to add that link.

Time to start the cleanup . . . I'm dressed for it!

Serves Me Right (No Pun Intended)

2009-01-17T19:35:00.003-05:00

I, of all people, should've known better.

Should've known better than to title My last post "Back."

If you look, you'll see that post dates from August 2008. So clearly, I wasn't "back."

And I really should know that while the road to hell might not really be paved with good intentions, it's at the very least littered with them.

It reinforces for Me how important it is to battle the seduction of intentions, and trust only the reality of actions.

The cart goes before the horse, always. Actions lead to what we seek when we talk about "change"; intentions lull us into thinking we are changing.

So ridiculously simple, despite the surface nonsensical sound, but so insidiously difficult to apply.

I am not "back" until I am.

One step, here.

Back / On Apologizing

2008-08-09T10:51:00.006-04:00

I. Wow, June 22 was the last time I posted . . . by My own standard that makes this a "dead blog." Obviously standards aren't what they used to be here in #EPB land.

The goal . . . is to post on a regular basis, honest. As with all goals, though, the striving is actually the important thing.

II. It's hard to be "Dominant" when you're apologizing. Sometimes.

In the normal course of life, there are the "trivial" type apologies -- "sorry I ran over your foot" . . . "sorry I washed your red shirt in the bleach load" . . . "sorry I ate the last Dorito." Sometimes we mean them, sometimes we don't, but on some level we understand that the social fabric relies on observance of various well-understood norms. All of us, Dominant, submissive, or neither, follow these norms to a greater or lesser degree, and the degree to which we follow them more or less assigns us our place on the continuum that stretches from "nice guy/girl" to "bastard/bitch." And presumably we're more or less happy with, or unaware of, our particular place.

Then there's the more involved apologies. Those that involve emotions, but not emotions of people we're romantically/sexually involved with. Apologizing to friends can be a sticky affair, but it depends more on the wronged party, really. If the person we're apologizing to wants to be difficult, and we're more on the "nice" side of the continuum, the apology can get fairly long, drawn out, and start to feel semi-humiliating after a while. If the person we're apologizing to is healthy and gracious, well, then, apologizing is a relative snap, because both parties realize that it's not about undoing the wrong -- it's about making the gesture that acknowledges what both parities already know about who was wrong and why.

Sex and love of course complicate the matter exponentially. It's often impossible to keep the current wrong straight from the laundry list of wrongs the wronged party is keeping, consciously or otherwise, in his or her head. And vice versa -- some people don't know what they're apologizing for at any given moment, or much care, in extreme cases.

Bring Dominance and submission into it and there's a very different cast to things. Does a Master/Mistress ever apologize to a slave? Said that way, the entire concept sounds ludicrous.

But this isn't Gor or the Planet of the Blondes . . . real people interacting in real ways can and do, despite their best efforts, give offense.

And I do at times find it difficult to apologize to My girls, even when I really feel as though I should.

Knowing it's difficult, though, helps Me a lot to actually go ahead and do it. I could be kidding Myself, but I don't think so. I think that having the ability to embrace sufficient humility to be able to apologize when it's called for . . . makes Me better, as a Domme and as a person.

If that's a delusion, it's one I totally embrace.

Present!

2008-06-22T09:11:00.005-04:00

(Waving) Over here!

I haven't dropped off the face of the earth. But I have obviously neglected the blog for a little while.

I've dropped YouTube Tuesday as an every-week thing . . . it began to feel like real work, it was beginning to distort what I felt this blog should be about, and judging from the response it won't be missed anyway.

It's one of those phases of life when all creative energy seems to simply vanish, and that more than anything is the reason thata there's been so little posted here lately.

"Stuff Happens" is the operating principle of the universe. Stuff is happening. But along with that principle comes the related one, "It will pass."

There you have it.

Ad Nauseum

2008-06-04T17:50:00.002-04:00

I watch a lot of TV. So I watch a lot of commercials. Many of them are funny, many are easily dismissible, some are silly, and a very few rise to the level where one's left wondering what's being sold to whom, and why.

Such is the case with the following Cadillac commercial, featuring Kate Walsh of Grey's Anatomy.

There are two spots with the actress. One is the pseudo-clever "when you turn your car on, does it return the favor?" spot -- kind of stupid of basically harmless.

The other one is the "favorite things" commercial. Ms. Walsh is tooling along in her Caddy CTS, and she begins listing off some of her supposedly favorite things.

"Gossip magazines . . . dark chocolate . . . "

All righty then. Establishing Ms. Walsh's "girly" credentials. I had no idea they were in doubt, but OK, for anyone watching the ad who might not somehow know, Kate Walsh is female, and what's more, she's a "regular" type girl -- she reads Us in the checkout line just like you (if she ever actually did her own grocery shopping of course, but you get the idea).

The litany of favorite things continues . . .

"Italian shoes . . . "

Oh, hold on now. She might be a "regular girl" but let's not get crazy here -- you can only covet those Manolos -- Kate Walsh can actually buy them, and does so without calling for a 22% payday advance loan. So, fuck off, regular girls.

Kate! Get back on message! Quick!

"Definitely a Kansas City ribeye . . . "

Whoa . . . a left turn there and aimed squarely at the guys. Fellers, this ain't no shrinkin' violet do your laundry type girl . . . this here's a fire-breathin' CTS-drivin' WOMMIN! Woman enough to fuck you and your best friend, make you look bad in the board meeting the next morning, and . . .

"pulling up to the boys' club . . . in one of these."

Kate looks over at the two chumps in the next car, smiles, then a high-heel-shod foot (Italian shoes, bitch!) stomps the accelerator. The music swells and in no time Kate is doing 117 in a 35 mph zone in her CTS.

While very well-made, and certainly expensively produced, not even counting Ms. Walsh's fee for swearing undying allegiance to a car she doesn't drive in real life, it's a horrendous commercial.

The target market clearly isn't 31-old female stars of hit TV shows . . . that's a bit too small a segment. In fact, like almost all car ads, it's not targeted at females at all. I know a fair number of successful women -- none of them drive high-performance sports sedans (or coupes . . . I'm not bothering to look up how many doors a CTS has). Or, and this is important, if they do they don't identify that way. Meaning, some might drive BMWs or Mercedes, but not because they are "performance" cars per se.

So let's give GM credit and assume they are not selling to a non-existent market. (I realize that I could be assuming facts not in evidence, but let's go with it.)

If this ad is aimed primarily at men, then what exactly is being sold, and how? What does this ad say to men?

1. You're a loser. Look at you sitting there with a boner over a car ad, for Christ's sake.
2. And while you are never getting any action from a TV show hottie like Kate Walsh, drive this car, and who knows?
3. There really are women who like sex. Just not sex with you.
4. But you can dream. Buy a Cadillac CTS.

Most advertising is based on two concepts: Come hither. Drop dead. Mixing the two can make for great ads, but more often makes for a mess. And like most big-dollar advertisers, GM makes the mistake of thinking that production values, name talent, and some oblique form of sex is what weds the two concepts best.

YouTube Tuesday: My Bily Joel Problem

2008-05-27T19:24:00.004-04:00

No one's perfect, least of all musical artists.

Billy Joel is a shining example. He can give you the chills with "Captain Jack" . . . then make you shake your head with tired hackwork like "Still Rock 'N' Roll To Me." Brilliant satire ("The Entertainer," "Angry Young Man") stands elbow to elbow in the catalog with "She's Always A Woman To Me," perhaps the single worst song by an otherwise good artist in modern musical history. That the same person created "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant" and "Uptown Girl" is baffling, and somehow sad.

That's My Bill Joel Problem. But the good outweighs the bad, certainly. Tonight's clip is Joel's brilliant "Ballad Of Billy The Kid." The clips from classic Westerns are a little bonus.

"Well, he never traveled heavy
Yes, he always rode alone
And he soon put many older guns to shame
And he never had a sweetheart
But he finally found a home
Underneath the boothill grave that bears his name"

YouTube Tuesday: 80s Rule, Part 7

2008-05-21T18:55:00.003-04:00

No compilation of 80s videos would be complete without a contribution from Prince. Tonight's selection is "1999."

It's easy to get caught up in the persona, the outfits, the girls, and the total over-the-topness of Prince and lose sight of the fact that he is an extremely talented and influential musician and songwriter. In a way he was too good for the 80s, but in another of course he was absolutely perfect for them.

Some readers may remember when 1999 seemed like a long time in the future.

"I was dreamin' when I wrote this
So sue me if I go too fast
But life is just a party
And parties weren't meant to last
War is all around us
My mind says prepare to fight
So if I gotta die
I'm gonna listen to my body tonight
Yeah, they say two thousand zero zero party over
Oops out of time
So tonight I'm gonna party like it's 1999"

Another Lesson

2008-05-17T19:47:00.005-04:00

I've been out of touch a couple of days, having been with a good friend for her father's wake and funeral.

Our rituals surrounding death, morbid and unnecessary though they often seem, do have the (positive?) side effect of bringing various emotions to the surface in the observer(s).

These emotions are often surprising.

I watched My friend over the past couple of days and at times I found Myself actually envious of her uncomplicated grief, the crushing sadness of losing her father untempered, unmitigated by any laundry list of confusing, conflicting feelings getting in the way.

I was envious too of her ability to let others be there for her, to accept the sincere concern we offered, to simply and completely sink down into our love and empathy the way one gives one's self up to a soothing bath. Envious of her grace in just allowing herself to be comforted.

I felt vaguely wrong in feeling envious of those things, until the lesson behind it all was made clearer.

During the funeral Mass, I found Myself crying for no apparent reason. I usually tune out during those times when circumstances mandate My presence in a church, but the relative darkness and the solemnity of the ritual are at least soothing.

The Gospel was one commonly used in funeral Masses, Luke 24:1-8. This passage recounts what happened on the Sunday after the Crucifixion, when women came to Jesus' tomb:

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, the women came to the tomb, bringing the spices which they had prepared. And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. And it happened that while they were perplexed about this, behold, two men suddenly stood near them in dazzling apparel; and as the women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, the men said to them, "Why do you seek the living One among the dead? He is not here, but He has risen. Remember how He spoke to you while He was still in Galilee, saying that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and the third day rise again." And they remembered His words.

The words washed over Me but that one insistent question lodged itself in My mind: Why do you seek the living One among the dead?

And I realized that that is something that we do in our lives, again and again: Constantly put ourselves through futile exercises, nonsensical efforts with as much as chance of succeeding as looking for the living among the dead. Death, being and feeling so final, drives the simple lessons home with great force at moments like that.

I cried, and couldn't stop for some time. Normally, even at a funeral Mass, I would've made more effort to stop. This time, though, I didn't feel the need to . . . the more I cried the deeper I could feel the lesson penetrating Me, penetrating to that place where words can't reach.

My friend, in the midst of her crushing grief, understood this lesson much better than I. She sought the comfort the living could provide in the face of the awesomeness and finality of death; her sadness and her response to the efforts of those who love her was complete, rational, and totally of its time and place. It was that rare thing-in-itself that lies outside the boundaries of our reflexive system of reason.

The thought that maybe this time I had truly learned that lesson caused Me to stop crying.

YouTube Tuesday: Coyote

2008-05-13T23:57:00.003-04:00

It's a cliche to say "no one writes songs like _____ any more," but no one's writing songs like Joni Mitchell any more, or executing them like her, either.

Tonight's clip is a live version of "Coyote," one of the last great Joni songs before she lost her way in the jazz morass, never to return.

"Coyote," for Me, encapsulates a longing, a sweet pain so intense it defies words, even defies thought at times.

Alleged trivia fact: The "coyote" in question is actor/playwright Sam Shepard.

"I tried to run away myself
To run away and wrestle with my ego
And with this flame
You put here in this Eskimo
In this hitcher
In this prisoner
Of the fine white lines
Of the white lines on the free, free way"

YouTube Tuesday: Cheeseburger In Paradise

2008-05-06T18:50:00.005-04:00

Summer's coming. And summer means that Jimmy Buffet, by forces of nature unknown to Me, racks up his customary $100 million or so in concert grosses.

I don't get it and never will. But OK, grab your blanket and your Mike's Hard Lemonade or similar portable intoxicant, pony up your $118 or whatever a Buffet ticket will go for this summer and have at it.

Not to say that Herr Buffet is totally without redeeming social value. I've always liked "Cheeseburger In Paradise." Buffet is as clever as he is shrewd.

"Tried to amend my carnivorous habits.
Made it nearly seventy days,
Losin' weight without speed, eatin' sunflower seeds,
Drinkin' lots of carrot juice and soakin' up rays.
But at night I'd have these wonderful dreams
Some kind of sensuous treat.
Not zucchini, fettuccini, or bulgur wheat,
But a big warm bun and a huge hunk of meat.
Cheeseburger in paradise.
Heaven on earth with an onion slice.
Not too particular, not too precise.
I'm just a cheeseburger in paradise."

(Margarataville(tm) Frozen Dinners are available in your local supermarket. Ask for them by name!)

Knowing and Knowing

2008-05-04T15:23:00.009-04:00

Often, I'll say something to someone and their response is "I know."

"I know" is a common deflector. We all use it in response to something that we don't want to hear, something we are embarrassed about, something we actually are going to get around to, something that we have no intention of ever doing, or, most perversely (and perhaps most commonly) of all, something we really don't know at all. It can mean "OK," "I really do agree with you," "screw off," "sorry," "I feel your pain," and a whole host of other things.

But what it almost never means is "I know." Because there is knowing, the way we've come to treat that phrase, and there is knowing.

The distinction is readily apparent in the D/s context. The nature of the Dominant/submissive relationship is often that the Dominant ends up saying a lot of stuff, and the submissive ends up saying "i know" in response. A lot.

And when the submissive says that, more often than not s/he means it. Aside from intentional bratting or in a relationship that is well down the slippery slope to dissolution, the submissive's "i know" is sincere, i.e., s/he really thinks s/he knows.

And s/he might. But most likely not. Not because s/he is incompetent or lazy, but because knowing is available to us all, but knowing is rare.

Knowing, as embodied in the phrase "i know," is a simple cognizance of a fact, generally-accepted principle, or piece of common or uncommon wisdom we've come to internalize.

This brick is red. Beggars can't be choosers. Hitler shouldn't have waged war on two fronts. One might say "I know" in response to any of those, with varying degrees of interest or irritation.

The simple knowing also can encompass desired states. The Mom and apple pie sort of things that we understand and more or less acquiesce to without really changing anything inside us.

You shouldn't care too much about what other people think. Working out will give you more energy. a submissive should serve with passion, always.

And thus "I know" becomes that deflector -- it expresses nothing, least of all any true knowledge. It's offered as proof of our depth and concern and sensitivity, but there is nothing behind it, because "I know" closes the case in our minds. What is usually left unsaid after "I know" is "let's move on to something I can feel better about."

The other "knowing," what I've referred to as knowing, above, is an almost bodily sense of conviction. The common way to refer to this might be knowing in one's head as opposed to knowing in one's heart, but that's a glib definition that's ultimately meaningless.

Knowing is being convinced to the extent that behavior/actions actually change. The cart needs to go before the horse. Change first, "know" second. The result is that one ends up knowing without actually "knowing" how or why. Because knowing is the inescapable result of the correct approach, not the result of any specific actions or procedures.

The first step is being aware that there is knowing and there is knowing. Once one comprehends that, then "I know" can begin to take on a different, much more important, meaning.

YouTube Tuesday: White And Nerdy

2008-04-29T19:17:00.004-04:00

Time for a Weird Al Yankovic interlude.

Tonight's offering: "White and Nerdy," Weird Al's re-take on Chamillionaire's "Ridin' Dirty."

Weird Al has the perfect eye and ear for what he does. One doesn't have to be familiar with the original video to enjoy what Weird Al does here. And the lyrics . . . it's worth watching the video again if you don't get them all the first time through.

"There's no killer app I haven't run
At Pascal, well, I'm number 1
Do vector calculus just for fun
I ain't got a gat but I gotta soldering gun
Happy days is my favorite theme song
I can sure kick your butt in a game of ping pong
I'll ace any trivia quiz you bring on
I'm fluent in Java Script as well as Klingon
Here's the part I sing on"

You Tube Tuesday: Covering the Uncoverable, Part 2

2008-04-22T18:31:00.003-04:00

This week's entry: The Stones' classic "Satisfaction." Unlike last week's "I Am The Walrus," "Satisfaction" practically invites "coverage" somehow.

And there's plenty to give it a go.

First, a pretty faithful rendering of the Stones themselves performing the song on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1996. This video is worth it just to see how young Mick looks and Keith and the boys in mod suits. a la The Fab Four. I give this a B for overall cuteness.

Next up, the most satisfying version for Me: Devo's syncopated reconstruction. "Satisfaction's" lyrics might've seemed fairly subversive in the early 60s -- by the mid 70s they were beyond tame. Devo's version, intentionally or otherwise, makes the song subversive again, not by changing the lyrics but by twisting the rhythm.

And those smart yellow decontamination suits never go out of style. A+.

On we go to the Residents, a (purposely) obscure band based in San Francisco. Their cover of "Satisfaction" goes beyond subversive . . . like much of their music it's deliberately distancing to the typical listener. This live version is actually more listenable than their original cover.

I am simply one of those hopeless idiots where the Residents are concerned -- I confess to not getting it. I give it a C.

I have no idea about these next guys, The Roadside BitchBand. Never heard of them, I don't know if they have a recording contract, if they are even really a "band," or what. Their version of "Satisfaction" is adorably sucky . . . it has a garage-band energy that can't be faked. B+ . . . an extra-half-grade for having the unmitigated chutzpah to post this on YouTube.

Then from out of left field . . . Britney Spears performing "Satisfaction" at the 2000 MTV Awards. It quickly morphs into "Oops I Did It Again" and the arrangement is a lot more Vegas than suits Me, but it does show that when Britney has her head on straight, she is an affecting performer. I give it a B.

The last one is a real gem of sorts. This cover is by The Acid Drinkers, described by the person who posted the video as "one of the best Polish bands." All right . . . I'll take your word for it.

Their "Satisfaction" is fast and punky. It's actually pretty good -- the singer's accent alone is worth the price of admission. I was giving this a B+ until I heard some weird semi-yodeling noises at the very end. B.

Fiction: The Taking of anni, Part 7

2008-04-21T19:37:00.003-04:00

1. Casual Suggestion

I’ve found that introducing anything new and big is usually best accomplished by starting with a small thing, a casual suggestion that arises out of an innocuous conversation.

We’d just finished dinner and I casually asked anni how things were going at work. I’d been bitching about My job a bit lately and making noises about how I wished I could quit. Nothing overly serious . . . just the same mildly disgruntled employee stuff you’d hear at any one of ten million American dinner tables on any given night.

For her part, anni was doing fine at work and liking it pretty well. I told her I was glad to hear that and that she needed to stay on top of things and be a good girl for Me in all aspects of life. I ended the conversation with a joking promise to someday take us both away from office drudgery. We laughed and moved on to something else.

2. Two Months Later

Another after-dinner conversation.

“I’ve done it, anni. I’m going into business for Myself and I’m going to need your help. I want you to give notice at work tomorrow. Two weeks from Monday we start a whole new thing.

anni looked at Me excitedly. “Really, Miss? Wow, i guess i never really . . . “ her voice trailed off, realizing what she was about to imply.

I was in too good a mood to get angry. I laughed, and said “you never thought I’d actually pull it off?”

she blushed wildly and stumbled for words. “No, Miss, never . . . i didn’t mean to imply that . . . i . . . “

I hugged her tight and then looked in her eyes. “It’s all right, anni, I’m teasing. Honestly, I never thought I’d pull it off Myself. But I have, and it’s going to be a fabulous new venture. I’ll be My own boss and I’ll make more than you and I are making now, combined.” I hugged her again.

“What exactly is this new venture, Miss? Um, if I may ask?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, sweet girl,” I said, holding her. “I’ll fill you in on all the details at the right time. For now, let’s gets to work on converting the spare room into a home office.”

3. Rainy Days and Mondays

We had a nice weekend following our last day as office drones and Monday morning rolled around before we knew it. Normally I hated Mondays, especially drizzly ones like this one, but this Monday morning I was bursting with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get this new venture off the ground.

anni was bursting too, with curiosity. I still hadn’t filled her in on the details of our new business. she had been such a good girl, not pestering Me about it these past two weeks.

We ate and I told anni to get showered then come see Me before she got dressed. I could see that she wanted to question Me but she was excited to get her day going and simply complied and ran to get the shower going.

I sipped My coffee as the freshly showered, naked anni stood before Me. I took a long moment to savor the sight. anni did her best not to betray her nervous excitement, mixed with sudden consternation – she obviously hadn’t expected to be standing here naked at this moment.

I got up and left the room, returning a moment later. I laid the black thigh-high stockings and the black patent leather stilettos on the table.

“Put these on, anni. Then do your makeup . . . make it dramatic, but elegant. Don’t overdo it but don’t try to look innocent, either. Then put on your black raincoat. I’ll be ready by the time you’re done.”

I thought I heard a tiny gulp. I swatted anni’s cute butt playfully. “Run along, anni, time’s a-wasting!”

4. We Deliver!

We drove in silence until we reached the Financial District, all steel and glass and marble skyscrapers. Lots of wealthy men with low-down needs. I pulled up to the Bradstone Building and looked at anni . . . she seemed to still not know. Or perhaps she was just desperately trying not to know.

I looked at her. “32nd floor. You are there to see Mr. Randolph Wiggins. You will have to sign in at the elevators – use the name “Brianna Mason.” Off the elevator, the receptionist will direct you to Wiggins’ office. He’s expecting you.” I laughed. “Well, he’s expecting Brianna Mason, I suppose.”

I had her repeat all the information to make sure she had it right.

“Good girl.”

I opened My daybook. “Now, Wiggins fancies himself King of the Universe, so for you it’s a simple job. He’ll want his cock sucked while he sits in his chair with his commanding view of the City; he’ll probably take a call or two while you’re doing it. He might ask you to take off the raincoat – that’s OK. It’s $500 -- he’ll pay you in cash, but probably won’t tip – he sounds like a cheap bastard.”

I handed anni a cell phone. “Take this. Anything goes wrong, or he won’t pay, or won’t pay enough, or anything at all, you hit 99-SEND. If you are not back in 30 minutes I’ll know something is wrong and take appropriate action.”

She looked at me . . . not angry, not scared, not anything really, except maybe surprised. I took one last look at her and smiled. “You look perfect, anni. Now go be a good girl and make My new business a success.”

“Yes, Miss,” she said, and got out of the car. I watched her walk up the steps to the doors of the building.

5. The Rewards of Entrepreneurship

I’d been lucky to get the parking space I’d found . . . with any luck anni would be back before I had to feed the meter. I read a magazine and found Myself lingering longer than usual on the Lexus and Mercedes’ ads.

About twenty-five minutes after I’d dropped her off, anni came back to the car. I watched her approach and the look on her face was at once shocking, revelatory, and deeply pleasing to Me. She didn’t look sad or humiliated as she moved towards the car. If I had to apply just one word to how she looked, I’d have to say “serene,” of all things.

anni got in the car and hugged Me tightly. “I did a very good job, Miss,” she whispered in My ear, then pulled out six new $100 bills and handed them to Me.

I smiled brightly. “Oh My, anni! I was wrong about Wiggins not tipping! Good girl!”

I started the car and drove off. All right, I’ll stop at home. You have time to freshen up before your 11:00 at the Baxter Building. After that we’ll go for a nice lunch. you might not be as hungry as I’ll be, but . . .

I giggled to Myself as I heard anni’s voice catch in her throat a little. I glanced over at her and our eyes met for a moment. I could see in her the absolute happiness at having served well, and she could see in Me the absolute pride and pleasure I felt.

“i love You, Miss,” she whispered.

“And I love you, anni, so much.”

We say that to each other a lot, but never were the words less necessary, or more deeply felt, than at this very moment.

Warnings

2008-04-19T18:42:00.004-04:00

nina recently wrote about the recent surge in Blogger blogs that have been recently "flagged,' resulting in one seeing a "content warning"page before one sees the actual blog in question.

Of course, these newly-flagged blogs all deal with some aspect or other of sex, to no one's surprise. In My comment on nina's entry I (jokingly, I think) suggested that some form of guerrilla action was called for -- I had the idea that we should organize an army of people to visit all sorts of "normal" Blogger blogs and flag them until they receive warning labels. Quilting? Badminton? Brazilian pop music? Flag 'em all. The theory being that the backlash would result in the end of the warning label system as Blogger got inundated with hundreds of thousands of complaints.

Well, up the revolution and all that, but it's not practical.

What I see more and more (and what nina advocates in her post) is leaving Blogger for other alternatives.

Just today I went over to Stiletto Diaries and found that the lovely shasta had moved to her own domain. As I was updating My link list to take this change into account, I realized that
Blogger wants all the sex bloggers to go elsewhere.

Blogger wants blogs that are going to connect to AdSense and generate revenues. And since "adult" products even in this enlightened age reside mainly on the margins, the AdSense opportunities in that arena are much more limited than they are for more mainstream blogs. Plus, not having any sex blogs would free Blogger (now a unit of deep-pocketed Google) from any fingers pointing in their direction along the lines of "your sex blogs made my son a rapist" and the like. However remote that might be, corporations always seek the path of least resistance, especially in the perception-is-reality-and-then-some area of children and anything remotely sexual.

So My advice to Blogger sex bloggers is: Stay. If people want to read you, a content warning screen isn't going to stop them. Stay. Because they want you to go.

There is no revolution. There is just a long series of tiny "no's."

YouTube Tuesday (+1): 80s Rule, Part 6

2008-04-16T18:42:00.000-04:00

Tonight's delicacy: "Sex As A Weapon" by Pat Benatar, from 1985. No idea what brought this song to mind today, but I'm glad I thought of it.

Pat Benatar exhorts the guys to "stop using sex as a weapon." The video also points up how sex to used to sell products. That Pat Benatar, whose entire career and professional persona were based precisely on using sex as a weapon/marketing tool, made this song/video, is either unintentional irony or chutzpah of the highest order.

Ah, the 80s. Not only was no message too ridiculous to deliver . . . it stood a good chance of being swallowed whole without complaint.

The quality of this clip isn't great but I was impressed by how sophisticated the video editing is for 1985.

Tagged: The Six-Word Memoir

2008-04-12T18:28:00.005-04:00

saratoga tagged Me to participate in the six-word memoir meme, after he was tagged by nina.

The rules are as follows:

-Write your own six word memoir

-Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like

-Link to the person that tagged you in your post

-Tag five more blogs with links

-And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play

What I consider My life to is a struggle to know and embrace reality, both the real but not all-encompassing "real world" we are presented with every day, and the other nature of the world, those parts of the world that are withheld from us by almost insurmountable perceptual barriers.

To be in a position to someday break those barriers requires a lifelong commitment to reclaiming one's true self from the myriad of foreign energies that have been layered upon us over the years, the process so subtle and continuous as to go unnoticed.

Getting free of all that is an equally long and slow process.

So My six-word memoir, My commitment, My life is:

Freeing Myself in continuous tiny increments.

Five is a lot of commenting I have to do . . . I'll keep it to three:

alena

this girl

Mistress S

YouTube Tuesday: A Classic Done Over (and Over and . . . )

2008-04-08T18:30:00.004-04:00

There is something sacrilegious about the mere concept of covering certain classics. For Me, The Beatles' "I Am The Walrus" is one of the least "coverable" songs ever.

But most covers are meant in homage, so while I might fault the results, in the long run it's done from the right place.

So here goes.

First, the original in all its glory, from the Magical Mystery Tour film. What was playful and weird in 1968 is still playful and weird, the silly visuals nicely softening the song's relentless and undeniable ominous edge.

And forty years later the song still stands up beautifully.

Next we have a version by Oasis, from 1994. Something one might expect, given that Oasis are unabashed Fab Four worshippers. This version features Jools Holland (of Squeeze fame) and frankly, it's a waste. They steamroll through the song as though they want to hurry up and get finished before someone catches them in the act. Nice work by the orchestra, however.

Not Oasis' finest hour. Unfortunately embedding is disabled for this video so you have to click here to see it.

Moving right along to a version Frank Zappa(!), live, from 1988. I didn't know what to expect but this one surprised Me -- Frank kept it reverent (difficult for him at the best of times), the musicianship and arrangement are flawless, and Frank uses some different instruments nicely.

The cons: Horrible singer, a little too up-tempo, and the video ends about 2/3 of the way through the song. Embedding disabled (grrrrrrrrr) . . . see it here.

Next up: A version by a group I confess to never having heard of, Carey Ziegler's Expensive Hobby. This was recorded live in 2005 and they do a creditable version -- more blues-rocky, using some sort of synthesizer for the string parts. It almost rocks out . . . it works. Excellent drummer.

Then, perhaps the most surprising and audacious cover -- by Styx. Yeah, those guys. Apparently from 2005 and I've no idea who from the old Styx is still in the band (Dennis DeYoung is not).

I was actually scared to watch/listen to this. But the result is all right . . . Styx takes the song to an arena-rock place that somehow doesn't come off insulting. They decided to sing the string parts, which, while disconcerting at first, ends up working in an odd way. The video is crap --2005 trying to be 1968-- but that's excusable. Overall a much better result than one might think when "Styx" and "I Am The Walrus" are juxtaposed.

Once again, no embedding (what exactly is wrong with people?), so click here for the video.

Then there's the Bono version from the movie Across The Universe. It's . . . OK, I guess. But it's too "Bono-fied" . . . and if I have to explain that further we're both out of luck.

And finally (whew!) Spooky Tooth's cover from way back in 1970. Supposedly John Lennon said he liked this version best. It's interesting . . . Spooky Tooth forgoes trying to incorporate the strings/orchestral touches and lets a languid rocker ooze out. The singer is a little too soulful for the song, to My way of thinking, but in many ways this is the most adventurous cover of them all. Sometimes the best time to cover a classic is before it becomes a classic. An A for effort for Spooky Tooth.

Thanks for sticking around for all of that. Conclusion? Nothing touches the original, but in the end trying to cover what can't be covered ends up all right. It was fun discovering all these and getting to see what each artist wanted to bring out in the song.

Four

2008-04-07T18:26:00.003-04:00

Today is four years that storm is with Me.

Thank you, storm, for loving and serving Me so well all this time . . . I love you.

Happy Anniversary . . . I look forward to all the days and years to come.

YouTube Tuesday (+1): I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide

2008-04-02T19:15:00.002-04:00

Sometimes, you've just got to have the song. The real song, not any one of 22 lame-assed live versions. No 1/3-length version set to a huffing 10th grader playing air guitar. You hope you can find it paired with some sort of halfway-decent video. And not a slide show. A video. But, above all else, you've got to have the song.

Tonight is that night. I had to have "I'm Bad I'm Nationwide" by ZZ Top. And there it was. Good audio. And here it is.

The video is, to be polite, boring. A completely uneventful car trip. Comments ranged from "idiotic -- a complete waste of bandwidth" to "absolutely the worst video ever posted on youtube."

Yeah.

So?

"Easin down the highway in a new Cadillac
I had a fine fox in front, I had three more in the back
They sportin short dresses, wearin spike-heel shoes
They smokin Lucky Strikes and wearing nylons too
Cause we bad, we nationwide
Yeah we bad, we nationwide."

Not The Usual Thing, But . . .

2008-03-29T19:44:00.002-04:00

I'm not a big fan of joke sites, joke e-mails, etc., as a rule, but I do love cats and kittens and I'm not without a sense of humor. Really.

So I thought this was funny.

see more crazy cat pics

The site has like NINETY PAGES of these things. A fun, SFW, time-waster of the highest caliber.

YouTube Tuesday: 80s Rule, Part 5

2008-03-25T19:34:00.004-04:00

I hadn't intended another 80s video tonight, but stumbled upon this gem . . . "Word Up" by Cameo, from 1986.

Pure dancability and hilarity. The prominent red codpiece is just, well . . . words fail Me. LaVar Burton (!) pitches in as the detective. The hyper-nasally voice, the ridiculous lyrics, the butt-shaking groove, and the pure 80s milieu make "Word Up" a big winner.

"Now all you sucker D.J.’s
Who think you’re fly
There’s got to be a reason
And we know the reason why.
And act real cool
But you got to realise
That you’re acting like fools.
If there’s music we can use it
We need to dance.
We don’t have that time
For psychological romance
No romance
No romance
No romance for me mama
Come on baby tell me what’s the word.
Ah – word up,
Everybody say when you hear the call
You got to get it underway."

Fear Works

2008-03-23T19:21:00.006-04:00

This post, about Doms and Dommes and what we present versus what we really might be/want, generated a couple of comments.

nina commented, in part

" . . . is the idea of fear itself. Fear of who and what we are and the difficulties in confronting that very thing which makes us essentially who we are."

I thought about this a bit and it's certainly true. Many who want to submit present as Dom/me, and fear is part of the reason for that. Fear of physical or emotional harm, fear of looking foolish, fear of giving offense, fear of insert-your-worst-nightmare here. And I wouldn't necessarily disagree with the notion one might infer from nina's comment, that the more strongly submission represents what one is, the more intense the fear.

Why should this be, though? Why fear? We're talking about embracing one's true self (or at the very least, sorting out a very important aspect of what isn't one's true self). That should be an activity that one approaches with glad anticipation. Fraught with butterflies, surely, but fear?

OK, I asked a question I already knew the answer to. Anything that might touch on the "real us" is of course drenched in fear. But it should it be that way?

In thinking about it, the answer is a somewhat surprising but resounding yes. Much as we might hate it, or feel the burden of it, we need fear. Fear works.

Fear makes us stop and consider angles we wouldn't bother to consider otherwise. Fear steps in and forces us to either summon all our strength and meet the thing we fear, or to reconsider, to think it out some more, to try again another time.

And when the stakes, particularly the emotional stakes, are so high, as they are in D/s, that pause that fear can create in us is a very healthy thing indeed.

There are big negatives of course. Fear can hold us back forever, it can warp us and make us timid, withdrawn. We can end up surrendering to fear in a way that is not at all healthy.

As in most other things in life, the healthy approach is one in which fear is just another item in the inventory -- it's not overpowering nor is it dismissed without a thought. Recklessness might feel better in the moment but in the long run it is as damaging as timidity.

Fear works. Respect it, submit to it, without surrendering to it. Fear is there for compelling reasons. And those reasons matter.

YouTube Tuesday: 99 Problems

2008-03-18T20:00:00.002-04:00

Fast-forwarding to the (almost) present, tonight's clip is "99 Problems" by Jay-Z.

Jay-Z bangs rap up against metal here and the result is powerful. Lyrically he mines a lot of well-trod ground but it's solid enough and raw enough that it sounds fresh.

I'm not sure how long this version (with the lyrics not bleeped) will stay up there; the edited version sounds so chopped up it's almost unlistenable.

On Doms and Dommes and Everything Else

2008-03-16T12:01:00.004-04:00

saratoga wrote here on the topic of dominant Males. The post and the comments are worth reading in their entirety. At one point, saratoga writes:

My personal belief is that it's the least secure males who outwardly express themselves as 'dominant' to Females.

Among the commenters was a Gorean Master and well, you can imagine the fur flying, so to speak.

In My experience, there is just no one way about things. I have met many women presenting as Domme who were in fact looking solely to submit. They used a Domme name/persona for protection (from, among others, some of the more aggressive "Doms" out there). I've met many a man presenting as Dom who, likewise, wanted mainly to submit. Rarely would those presenting as submissive be truly Dominant, although obviously many were switches, and others had an idea of "submitting" that, to be kind, needed a lot of work.

But the one constant is that confusion, "deception," etc., are not sex-defined. Are men more prone to a more aggressive approach? More likely to adopt the "best defense is a good offense" style of D/s? Very much so, as saratoga points out. But neither sex has any monopoly on unintentional or intentional deception caused by fear, inexperience, misplaced emotions, narcissism, sociopathy, or confusion. We shouldn't get led astray by the differences in surface manifestations, which are essentially chemical in nature.

We're all in this together . . . a thought at once inspiring and frightening. But fewer arbitrary lines can only help us all.

Governor Fido

2008-03-11T18:57:00.007-04:00

New York Governor Eliot Spitzer has admitted to having used a $5500 a night call girl. And while I wish no one ill, and I feel horrible for Mrs. Spitzer (more on her later), part of Me can barely contain My glee.

See . . . before he was governor, Spitzer was New York Attorney General, and in that role he was no clock-punching time waster with a badge. No, Spitzer was a self-styled Eliott Ness, crusading for truth, justice, and the (Spitzerian) American way. It didn't matter if sometimes no actual crimes were committed. Wall Street executives making too much money? Spitzer the Caped Crusader, calculator and phone taps in hand, was ready to swoop down and set the world to right.

Which is fine, sort of. I personally detest law enforcement agents who draw that kind of attention to themselves, but in career advancement terms it works. Guiliani parlayed a stint as a mob-busting, grandstanding US Attorney into a long and successful run as mayor of New York City. Spitzer moved up from top cop to governor.

But if you're going to be a cop-star, rule number 1 is don't break the law. To be safe, don't even jaywalk, because nothing sells newspapers like hypocrisy in high places. And nasty perverse people like Me eat it right up.

And Governor E-Dawg didn't just use a high-priced call girl . . . his incompetence at criminal behavior got the whole ring busted!

According to ABC News, some time ago a bank reported to the IRS a suspicious-looking money transfer by Spitzer's office. The IRS got the Department of Justice involved and an investigation was opened, since it was suspected that the funny transfer might've been an attempt to cover up bribes. One thing led to another, wiretaps were obtained (does it get any better?) and lo and behold --it wasn't anything as crass as bribes. It was high-class nookie for hire. So down comes the entire operation. Smooth move, Governor.

Yesterday Spitzer met the press and apologized. His wife stood there with him, looking about how you'd expect a woman in her position to look in front of 100 reporters and cameras.

Was it really necessary to parade her out there? Was the tiny PR lift that might provide justified, in human terms? In a way Silda Spitzer standing there was a bigger crime than anything the Governor did with any call girl. My only guess is that having the Mrs. standing there was an indication that Spitzer doesn't intend to resign.

He may not have a choice . . . Albany Republicans, historically some of the most brutal and vindictive politicians there are, are salivating at the thought of an impeachment proceeding.

Not to mention that possibility that Spitzer will be indicted, either under the Mann Act, or under obscure statutes that prohibit "structuring," a fancy name for moving money around in an attempt to conceal illegal activity. If he's indicted I'm sure in practical terms if nothing else, Spitzer would have to resign or at the very least take a leave of absence.

Don't get Me wrong. . . . while I am perversely gleeful that a self-important, holier-than-thou, Mr-Law-and-Order elected official turns out to be just another dog, I don't really want him to get sent to jail. Prostitution shouldn't even be illegal, in My view. So I can't be as big a hypocrite as the Governor and want him jailed for something that I personally think should be legal.

But I do hope as part of some non-jail-time plea, he has to stand up in court and say it all. And get a judge who's in the mood to explain to the Governor about how pride goeth before a fall, and all that.

YouTube Tuesday: Back In The Day

2008-03-11T18:43:00.003-04:00

Still in the hip-hop vein, tonight's clip is "Mistadobalina" by Del The Funky Homosapien.

This video dates from the time when hip hop still had "the shock of the new" going for it. Before it was about your Escalades or your hos or how many gazillion dollars your last record/tour made. When it sounded, looked, and felt fresh and new.

"Mistadobalina" is (very) loosely based on "Zilch," an a capella experiment by, of all people, the Monkees.

"take a little tip from the tabloid
because I know I'm not paranoid
when I say I saw ya tryin' to mock me
now you and your crew are on a mission tryin' to hawk me
but it isn't happenin' ya fraudulent foes
you used to front big time now I suppose
that everything's cool since the style of apparel you adopted
you used to make fun of but now you wanna rock it
so you gotta kick it with the homies"

YouTube Tuesday: Hillary's Farewell?

2008-03-04T19:46:00.002-05:00

I was in the hip-hop frame of mind tonight, and found this excellent clip: Rockstar (Remix) by N.E.R.D. The director decided to create an editing showcase and has taken clips from other music videos and put them together.

It sounds and looks great. But as I watched, some of the lyrics made Me think about Hillary Clinton's campaign, apparently hanging in the balance tonight.

You think the way you lives OK
You think posing
Will save the day
You think we don't see
That you're running
Better call your boys
'Cause I'm coming

You can't be me
I'm a Rock Star
I'm rhyming on the top of a cop car
I'm a rebel and my .44 pops far
It's almost over now
It's almost over now

YouTube Tuesday: Picking What Can't Be Picked

2008-02-26T20:03:00.003-05:00

Tonight's clip is a compilation of one youtuber's top ten all-time "Seinfeld" moments.

I give the person credit for even trying . . . there's no way I could begin to limit My favorite Seinfeld moments to ten.

But all these certainly belong up near the top.

Snow Day Musings

2008-02-22T11:32:00.003-05:00

The predicted snowstorm actually came to pass, and is actually a bit worse than the forecasters predicted (which is rare -- the trend these days is for weather forecasters to irresponsibly overpredict snow amounts and storm severity, leading to the moron in the checkout line in front of Me having her cart stuffed with nine gallons of milk and 22 pounds of ground beef).

Anyway, I took the opportunity for a well-deserved, totally justified, cosmically-mandated snow day!

I've been visiting blogs on My link list. I'm making an effort to keep it clean, removing dead links, moving inactive blogs to the "Emeritus" section, etc. There is more work to do, however.

1. When you make your blog invite only, bear in mind that you are leaving no way for readers to reconnect with you. Is that really the intent? The net result is that I have to remove all these blogs from the list.

2. Some blogs I just have to get rid of. Their authors are either so clueless, so self-absorbed, so ridiculously full of themselves, or just so immensely self-important that deleting them from the link list seems the only reasonable choice.

Part of Me wants to call these people out, and in fact, I've come very close to leaving comments on those blogs from time to time, and I've started and then trashed several posts here addressing the topic. But confrontation serves no purpose -- the on-line universe is already too plagued with rants, call-outs, threats, and simple obnoxious stupidity for Me to add even one direct drop of venom to. Does anyone remember restraint? Self-editing? Simple manners?

The saddest part is that these delusional bloggers are all women. I'm sensing the world was better off when men had the monopoly on crass egotism. One more item to file under "Unintended Horrible Consequences of Feminism." Yikes, that file is getting gigantic! Oh well.

It's still snowing. Yay.

YouTube Tuesday: Something Else Again

2008-02-19T18:21:00.004-05:00

I have a subversive streak -- I take great pleasure in a commercial product put to unintended uses for the sake of art, or for juvenile fun, or for both. Such perversion of concept, when successful, I find highly entertaining and even strangely uplifting.

Tonight's video clip is a great example -- the music is Sal N' Pepa's classic "Push It," and the video features characters from the The Sims 2 dancing along and generally acting strangely. [You might recognize the song from its appearance in the Amp Energy Drink ad in this year's Super Bowl.]

The director pulled off some very nice choreography and the result is funny, and cool.

(No Sims were harmed in the creation of this video.)

Happy Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T19:38:00.004-05:00

I've written before, more than once, about how love can complicate D/s, and how the Dom/me has to be careful of all these things and bla bla bla . . .

Sometimes, a day like today, especially, it's good to forget all the intellectualizing and the theories and to stop and remember why any of it matters in the first place.

Not only to remember that, but to express it.

iris, storm, tasha: I love you. More than I know how to express or really to even understand. Today and every day I'm amazed and grateful beyond words that you are Mine.

Thank you for being you, girls. There is no better way I can say it.

Happy Valentine's Day.

YouTube Tuesday: Beautiful Disaster

2008-02-12T19:33:00.000-05:00

There are few things more satisfying than the perfectly put together, two and a half minute rock song.

And here's one: "Beautiful Disaster" by American Hi-Fi. It's a song that I need to hear again as soon as it stops.

There is a good official video on YouTube, but apparently Vivendi/Unidersal would be irreparably damaged by My embedding said video here, so in lieu of the official video is a nice little anime video. Good job by the director.

"Break it down now
What you want anyway?
Right about now
What you want anyway?
I'll fuck it up again
What you want anyway?
We keep fallin' in love
What a beautiful disaster . . . "

YouTube Tuesday: Anthrax

2008-02-05T19:35:00.000-05:00

Thrity years ago a sub-genre of punk sprang up in Britain, featuring what can only be described as Marxist punk/funk.

The best of the lot were Gang of Four, from what I can dig up. Their album Entertainment is brilliant (politics aside).

Tonight's clip is Gang of Four's song "Anthrax" set to some eerily-modifed 9/11 footage (fittingly enough).

Powerful song, and a strangely powerful video.

Sports Interlude: How Good Does It Feel?

2008-02-04T18:09:00.000-05:00

If you happened not to have seen the Super Bowl last night, the New York Giants, My New York Giants, beat the previously-undefeated, perennial recent Super Bowl winning, ready to be crowned best team of all time New England Patriots, 17-14.

My girl iris is a huge Giants' fan too, and last night we talked a little about where this win ranks compared with other big wins by our teams in our memory.

I told iris that "this feels as good as 1994." That's the year that the Rangers (that's hockey -- sheesh, keep up here!) won the Stanley Cup after a 54-year drought. It's hard for anyone but Ranger fans to understand how big 1994 was.

I told iris that this was "bigger then 1996." 1996 was the first year the Yankees won the world Series in almost two decades, and it was big for Me since it was the first win I could experience and appreciate as a thinking adult. 1996 is huge for Yankee fans, young and old.

So why is last night bigger than either of those two?

1. It was unexpected. The Giants were double-digit underdogs. They kept winning road playoff games, despite the odds. They were playing a team that was 18-0, in a game that the "experts" with few exceptions were billing as the Patriots' coronation.

And the road here wasn't so smooth. The Giant's started 0-2 and looked bad in the process. They then reeled off six wins but mostly against inferior teams. Then it got a little rough again, and Eli Manning looked fair to bad, with a couple of very bad games too. Entering the playoffs as the #5 seed at 10-6, everyone said they needed to win one playoff game or the season was a failure and the questions about Eli would intensify.

2. The game itself was a classic, as a football game. It was an incredible, involving, thrilling game to watch, irrespective of rooting interest or lack thereof. Arguably the best Super Bowl ever and certainly in the top handful. That adds to the intensity, the joy of having won it.

3. The Boston thing. Lately, Boston (Foxboro, where the Patriots play, counts) has been leading a charmed sports life. The Red Sox have won two World Series in four years -- they are the new Evil Empire. The Patriots had won three Super Bowls in six years, and this year had as dominant a season as could be drawn up, especially early on, crushing everyone in their path en route to an 18-0 record. The Boston Celtics made some key acquisitions this past off-season and are currently terrorizing the NBA and looking very good in the process.

So, lately in professional sports it's all about the Bostons.

Until last night. And it's impossible to convey how good that feels, that the Giants, out of nowhere, threw a monkey wrench into the increasingly arrogant and distasteful Boston sports juggernaut.

How good does it feel? Words fail me.

Go Big Blue.

Helpful, Powerful, Cliches

2008-02-02T18:48:00.000-05:00

I'm constantly amazed at the utility and power inherent in certain cliches.

The other night I was talking to someone who wasn't in a very good way. Her concerns were real, and serious -- she wasn't exaggerating or making things up. There were good reasons for her to be upset and depressed.

And I found Myself eventually saying something along the lines of this:

On any given day, there are 244 reasons to be depressed, but only one reason to be happy. The trick is to embrace the one and to reject the 244.

She of course asked what the one reason to be happy was.

The only reason to be happy is that today, you wake up, alive and healthy (presumably), and you have an opportunity today to feel, and to be, someone different from the you that you're unhappy about/unhappy with.

I have no problem saying those things, corny as they might sound. Because I honestly, totally, unreservedly believe them to be not only true but also incredibly important. I strive (not always so successfully, alas) to live that way. That they are much easier said than done in no way lessens their value.

But the surprising part is that those statements helped My friend a lot. Not because she had never heard them before -- I'm sure she's heard them in similar forms a hundred times. But there are times when, reminded of something simple but undeniably true, the simple cliche takes on a meaning far beyond the surface sensibleness being communicated.

I don't attribute that amplified effect to any wonderful magical abilities I might have, certainly. I attribute it to the fact that we are constantly in a torrent of emotions, thoughts, and feelings, both our own and countless foreign ones as well. It's not unlike diving into a pool heavily packed with objects of various consistencies -- some bounce off of us, some buffet us and change our path, others are capable of truly injuring us.

And in that environment, when we lift our heads up and focus on something not in the pool with us, it has the capability to really reach us, quickly, deeply, and efficiently. And when that thing we "run into" in that state is something that does have underlying truth and value and a certain inarguable quality to it, its impact is magnified greatly.

The utility and power of certain ridiculously simple ideas truly can be staggering.

You Tube Tuesday: The Perfect Pop Song, Crossover Funk Division

2008-01-29T18:02:00.001-05:00

Tonight's entry is "Brick House" by the Commodores, a brilliant little jewel of a song -- every time I hear it I just have to hear it again.

Now, about the video.

I love how many crazy creative people there are out there. Someone got the idea of trying to match up the lyrics of "Brick House" to mouth movements in clips from the Star Wars movies!

To call that non-obvious is the understatement of the decade, but the video is really pretty funny in parts. If you are one of the 12 people on Earth who has never seen any Star Wars movies, um, never mind and just enjoy the song.

Goin' to the chapel and . . .

2008-01-28T19:39:00.000-05:00

News Item: Piper's Gettin' Hitched!

Congratulations of course to Piper and Steve.

I wonder, though, what becomes of Piper's crazy poly adventures now. While theoretically, marriage doesn't have to change anything, in reality it often changes everything.

I'll still love reading about whatever you choose to blog about, Piper -- and while I know you said you don't want it to become an "all things wedding" blog, don't go too far the other way and starve us of all the good wedding-related stuff.

All the best to you and Steve and however you work things out, I can't wait to read about it.

YouTube Tuesday: The Cowboys Have Fans Allllllll Over, It Seems

2008-01-22T19:58:00.000-05:00

I love football, specifically the New York Giants. And one of the best parts of making it to the Super Bowl (coming up a week from Sunday) was beating the highly-favored, #1 seed, Dallas Cowboys in the process.

Some Cowboy fans in high (low, really) places were not pleased. The first time I watched this the tears were literally running down My cheeks from laughing so hard.

Find more videos like this on www.truveo.com.

Discipline and Motivation and the X Factor

2008-01-20T09:36:00.000-05:00

One blog I look at regularly is Submissive Journal Prompts.

Every week there, luna posts five questions/topics/quotes, intended to spur the reader for the reader's own journal. I find it's handy not just for submissives -- I use it to sometimes get unblocked.

This week, the following quote is listed:
The secret of discipline is motivation. When [one] is sufficiently motivated, discipline will take care of itself.” -Sir Alexander Paterson

Taken at the first level, that's certainly true. Many of us have experienced the phenomenon as children, with musical instruments. I liked playing the piano, so practicing wasn't an issue -- My mother never had to nag Me about practicing. I had many friends who went through every instrument in the orchestra and failed at all of them because they were being forced to do it by well-meaning parents. Almost no amount of cajoling can overcome a lack of desire.

It's the same in D/s. If a girl is a bratty bottom, let's say, no amount of punishment or lecturing is going to make her into a submissive (and will likely be counterproductive). she will either become something other than she is as a natural consequence of time and experience, or she won't.

So on the level of raw desire, yes, certainly motivation creates discipline. We are drawn to what we like and want.

Taking up the case of Me and the piano again, My devoting time to practicing wasn't an issue, but a funny thing happened. I never really got very good and over time My interest eventually waned and disappeared. This was frustrating and hurtful because My desire to play well was no less than it had been; I just ended up feeling as though I wasn't capable of it, that perhaps I lacked the appropriate artistic temperament or "God-given gifts."

All of which, I later learned, was nonsense. The reason I hit a wall and eventually lost momentum was because I had teachers who did not help Me to practice correctly. Thus much of My practice time was wasted and might even have been hurting My progress. I of course was in no position to understand this at the time, nor were My parents. It was no one's fault -- a classic case of the operating principle of the universe: Stuff Happens.

submission is not so different from learning to play the piano. Desire to succeed fuels the investment in practice time, and the presence of a knowledgeable teacher is extremely important. Not so much (but partially) to ensure that "practice time" is efficiently used, but more to provide a clear and consistent groundwork for the submissive to follow and refer back to. To help the submissive understand that progress is going to be so slow as to sometimes be imperceptible in the short term. To set the submissive back on the path when s/he falters. To not tolerate sloppiness or laziness and to immediately correct those. And to properly reward achievement.

That outside influence, in the piano, in submission, in many other human endeavors, is the X Factor. Motivation may create discipline, but often too late we discover that for long-term success, discipline will sometimes create motivation, and said discipline often must come from outside ourselves.

How terrible, and how absolutely wonderful, is that?

(Still) On The Way There

2008-01-16T18:19:00.000-05:00

Daddy's lil pig wrote:

i have debated heavily as to if i was going to write this post. For a number of reasons i have gone back and forth as to if i should or not. One of those reasons, is that i think that i will come across as a bore. Once again the silly slave lamenting about her woe's of life...i really hate coming off like that. Also, another reason is that as i reread portions of this blog over the past year, i find these entries that were written months, even over a year ago..that strongly resemble how i feel now. And that frustrates me, because it give me the feeling that i have not grown much, or that i am sinking, or that i am just floundering.

I think the things she worries about are fairly common among submissive women. [This is one of those rare areas where I draw a strong distinction between male and female in D/s terms -- for whatever reason, in My experience male submissives always feel entitled to their feelings, in a way that female submissives often don't.]

Her first concern, that she will come across as a bore, is almost universal. Few of us are narcissistic enough to never wonder whether the minutiae of our lives and emotions are as fascinating to others as they are to us.

For Me, it's not boring. How a submissive deals with his or her role, the struggles, the triumphs, the sidesteps, missteps, and backsteps, the glories and horrors of this life, are endlessly intriguing to Me. I learn from what I read of others' journeys, and since submissives blog more, and with a greater degree of heart-on-the-page intensity, I learn more from them.

Then lil pig mentions the concern that she hasn't moved or grown, or has even gone backwards, because her emotions today seem so similar to emotions she wrote about a year ago. I can certainly understand the concern -- personally I have a hard and fast rule that I never go back and read old posts. Some things I'd rather not re-discover!

But here again, that the emotions are similar isn't a sign of lack of progress, necessarily.

The process of touching one's submission, then wading in, then finally jumping into that vast ocean isn't predictable. There are rough road maps, guides of sorts, but no one can really predict for a given person what will come easily, and what will be a monumental struggle. Certain activities, certain ideas, will need to be learned 100 times before they fully "sink in." Given that, should it be surprising that one finds one's self feeling the same way (or close to it) over and over?

It's very difficult to come to terms with that. There is a natural tendency to feel that we need to be constantly moving ahead -- and when the "competition" is with our own idea of ourselves, or with an abstract idea, the self-flagellation can be truly frightening.

The truth is that there is no linear path to or through submission. Heck, there isn't even a destination, really, in the sense we've come to know that word in other walks of life. It's a narrow, rocky, dangerous, shaky path, full of rickety bridges, lava pits, enticing detours, and things that go bump in the night.

Remember to enjoy the ride, especially when enjoyment is the furthest thing from your mind.

YouTube Tuesday: Volcano Girls

2008-01-15T19:53:00.000-05:00

Tonight's clip is a very well put together montage of clips from Buffy The Vampire Slayer, featuring Buffy and Faith, the show's two poles, set to the snappy "Volcano Girls" by the late and lamented (at least by Me) Veruca Salt.

Intentionally done or not, it's a nice fit. The lyrics talk about pressing on and giving up both, just as the protagonists in Buffy often seemed caught between their committment to their increidbly important mission and the gnawing, growing possibility that it's all for naught.

Leave me Lying here
cause I donlt wanna go

Tell me tell me what you really want from me
Youve got me let me know
I'm falling off and I need you terribly
One down and one to go
Volcano girls we really cant be beat
Warm us up and watch us blow
But now and then we fail and we admit defeat
We're falling off we are watered down and fully grown

Leave me Lying here
cause I donlt wanna go

A million miles of running and I hit the wall
I bounce back and I run some more
But this is it, Im giving up, Im calling quits
So get down and meet me on the floor
Way to go to flip off everyone
I steal your thunder then I try to bolt
But I could stand a little pity now and then
I'm falling off I am watered down and fully grown

I told you bout the seether before
You know, the one thats neither or nor
Well heres another clue if you please....The seethers Louise

Leave me Lying here
cause I donlt wanna go
Go I donlt wanna go
I don't wanna go
I don't wanna go
I don't wanna go

Keeping A Lid On It

2008-01-14T18:37:00.000-05:00

The often-repeated old saw about how a Dominant must exercise a great deal of self-control came up in conversation the other night.

It's been on My mind.

It is, 100% true of course. But as with many simple, well-circulated, and non-controversial concepts, a funny thing happens: We stop thinking about the idea in question, and assign it to some convenient but not necessarily primary part of our brains, somewhere between the times tables and the lyrcis to the theme song from Cheers.

In this particular case, letting the idea of Dominance and self-control sit unused in the attic does us a disservice -- there is a lot of value hiding, or at least not obvious, there.

And what's hidden is this: The value of self-control for a Dom/me lies not only in controlling the negative emotions but in controlling the positive ones as well.

Sounds . . . ridiculous, perhaps. It fairly easy to see how not reacting in anger is key for the One in control, but why should One ever hold back any positive emotions?

Because . . . everything is temporary. Anger fades, as it should. And when angry we rarely put forth what is truly deeply inside us. But euphoria is equally temporary; I have seen many more bad decisions made when people get caught up in the moment (of intense happiness or closeness) than when people are angry. We seem to have (most of us, anyway) a certain innate recognition that anger will soon cool, but no corresponding warning flag that suggests to us that our current state of absolute happiness is not likely to last in its intensity either.

Both anger and intense positive emotoins create states in which decision-making and judgment are impaired.

The Dom/me shouldn't trust any intense states when deciding on reward, puinishment, or certainly any "big issues" concerning the state of the Owner/owned relationship. Who each person is, is shown, over and over, every day, in the mundane, otherwise unremarkable, ebb and flow of a being in each other's presence. And that real person is known to us, without words, without having to think about it.

The rest might look good and feel great (or look really bad and feel horrible). But in the end it doesn't matter so much an hour later.

YouTube Tuesday: Dani California

2008-01-08T17:59:00.000-05:00

Great song, and a cool video, wherein the Peppers channel various bands starting with Elvis and working their way forward.

And more insight into the Peppers' love/hate relationship with the place they call home.

"She's a lover baby and a fighter
Shoulda seen it coming when it got a little brighter
With a name like Dani California
The day was gonna come when I was gonna mourn ya
A little loaded, she was stealing another breath
I love my baby to death
California rest in peace
Simultaneous release
California show your teeth
She's my priestess, I'm your priest"

YouTube Tuesday: Happy 2008

2008-01-01T21:24:00.000-05:00

This post and video have nothing to do with New Year's, specifically, but New Year's (which I pretty much loathe) gets Me thinking about the obvious stuff -- what's old and what's new, but also about how starting over really means pulling the best out of the worst, sometimes be recovering what we once had and sometimes by being something completely new. Of course. we're no different just because the calendar changes, but we cling to the possibility that we can be, that we might be.

That's the brilliance, and the hopelessness, of humanity both at once.

But, you might rightfully ask, what's a video of the Beatles performing on a rooftop got to do with any of that?

The rooftop concert was a completely spur of the moment thing; basically they said let's do it, got the equipment hauled up to the rooftop of the Apple Records building, and played a few songs before a growing crowd of midday Londoners.

It took place in 1969, very close to the end of the group. Too much fame, too much money, too much infighting, too many drugs, and too much of everything had long since determined the outcome -- that the Beatles actually stayed together as long as they did is surprising. By all accounts that last eighteen months of the Beatles' existence was a living hell for all concerned.

And yet, out of that morass of negativity, rising straight up for a brief moment out of that vortex of fear and loathing, four guys from Liverpool who never expected to do much more than make enough to get by on rose above, and just made music, like they used to, what it was always supposed to be about. With a sense of fun, with reckless abandon, with no tickets, no agents, no contracts, no groupies, none of it.

And we get to go along for the ride, on film.

Happy 2008 to all. Get back to where you once belonged.

YouTube Tuesday (close enough): Christmas Edition

2007-12-24T11:44:00.000-05:00

Rock Christmas songs . . . generally suck.

There are a few (very few) exceptions, and the best of the entire lot never gets any airtime at Christmas, by and large. And that's "Father Christmas" by the Kinks.

Leaps and bounds better than Springsteen's goofy, boozy cover of "Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town," not even worth a comparison to that Christmas rock junk from the 50s and 60s, "Father Christmas" is the goods.

I couldn't find a good quality video of the Kinks performing the song, but this video is fun, set to the Kinks' version.

Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays to all.

"Forces Of Chaos And Anarchy"

2007-12-18T19:08:00.001-05:00

"We are forces of chaos and anarchy
Everything they say we are, we are --
And we are very proud of ourselves."

Those Jefferson Airplane lyrics are almost forty years old now. The 60s are longer ago than most people realize.

But on hearing the song by chance the other day, I got to thinking about D/s, and "forces of chaos and anarchy."

D/s clearly is a disruptive force in society, or could be, and I mean "disruptive" in the best possible way. That D/s is not a political entity is solely the result of its practitioners being overwhelmingly, tightly, closeted.

D/s people are not in a dissimilar place to where gays and lesbians were when the Jefferson Airplane was singing "We Can Be Together." And our society is just as uninterested and hostile to exposure to any form of alternative sexuality as society was 40 years ago regarding same-sex love. But D/s people rarely if ever feel like an oppressed minority, since most are happy to be private or at most involved with small groups of trusted like-minded people.

Nor are we monolithic; a D/s voting bloc is not ever happening -- I've met plenty of people in this life who I wished I lived in the same state as simply so that I could nullify their vote with Mine. I have no illusions that D/s people, numerous as we might be, will ever be a political "force" in traditional terms.

But as forces of chaos and anarchy? As an invigorating disruptor beam fired into the increasingly conformist, complacent and rapidly darkening, hardening, collective heart?

It's not an unappealing thought . . .

[In the spirit of anarchy, no YouTube Tuesday post tonight. Hey, it's a start!]

YouTube Tuesday: Too Hot For YouTube

2007-12-11T19:01:00.000-05:00

Tonight's video was created by yours truly, and actually was posted on youtube for a couple of days before the youtube sex police caught a glimpse of partial nudity and the video was taken down.

Anyway, here it is in all its unabridged glory. It's just a little slide show, the theme of which quickly becomes evident.

YouTube Tuesday: 80s Rule, Part 4

2007-12-04T19:26:00.000-05:00

I was sitting here, drawing a total blank for YouTube Tuesday, when it came to Me: "Dancing in the Sheets" by Shalamar.

This one's got it all . . . disco Zorro, a swashbuckling guitarist, headbands that defy description, a little robot dancing, and 80s wonderfulness by the truckload. Plus it ended up on the Footlose soundtrack -- I mean, is there any higher 80s honor?

It seems like yesterday I would listen to this song and 1) wish that I were old enough to go to cool nightclubs, and 2) probably thought that stuff like that actually happened in said cool nightclubs.

"grab your coat and wave goodbye to your friends
i wanna take you where the night never ends
i feel the need to sweep you off of your feet
you and me we should be dancing in the sheets"

Change Time

2007-12-03T19:55:00.000-05:00

Every season there is a day heralds the change. The day can fall right at the "right" time or it can fall way early, or way late.

It snowed yesterday morning, an inch or so. But yesterday wasn't the day that winter jostled its way into My thoughts to stay. That snow was followed by a dreary drizzly misty day and by this morning no trace of the white stuff remained.

But today was the day that snubbed out the last embers of fall. Cold, blustery, a peek of sun in the morning and then slate gray overcast the rest of the day. It doesn't matter that some trees still have leaves on them. It doesn't matter that the first frost was three weeks ago. It doesn't matter that officially, it's two weeks plus until the Winter Solstice.

Fall is dead. Winter is here.

I find my thoughts wandering to that day, so far away it seems now, that drives a stake through winter's heart and tells Me it's spring.

YouTube Tuesday: 80s rule, Part 3

2007-11-27T19:12:00.000-05:00

Tonight belongs to 80s hearthrob Rick Springfield, soap opera hottie turned rock star. It was close between "Jessie's Girl" and this selection, but "Don't Talk to Strangers" won out by a teased hair.

Springfield just sells this song so well . . . he doesn't betray one iota of being in on the joke, which would've ruined the whole thing. And, is that two of the band members doing a little homage to the Hall and Oates "Private Eyes" video there for a couple of seconds?

Well, you could never reach the pop icon status that Hall and Oates ascended to, Rick, but, for a little while you were the 80s. Hubba Hubba.

"Now who's this someone I been hearin' of?
Love hurts when only one's in love
Did you fall at first sight or did you need a shove?
I'm beggin' you -- please! -- don't talk to strangers . . . "