resurrectedsub

I was asked a strange question the other day which I had no answer for.  I was meeting with one of my supervisors, and out of the blue he asks, ?David, are you a happy man??

It was hard for me not to get defensive.  I had a million things going through my mind.  ?What do you mean?  Do I act like I am unhappy?  Am I humorless?  Is my performance not up to snuff?  What is it that gives you the idea that I?m not a happy person??

I answered in the affirmative that I am content. He seemed to take issue with my response.  ?That?s not what I meant.  Being content doesn?t necessarily mean you are happy.  I mean, there are times I get an odd feeling talking to you.  Is everything okay at home??

He was correct about my original response.  Content and happy are not synonymous.   I was trying to answer his question without answering the question.  However, I didn?t realize that my countenance was sending clues regarding my emotional state.  I considered his question, and responded with one of my own.

?Why do you ask??

I could see he was getting frustrated with me.  I think he wants me to open up more with him, but I?ve never felt comfortable talking to my boss (or employees) about personal matters.  I figure my business is my business.  I hold my cards pretty close the vest and stick to work related topics as much as possible.  I suppose that puts me at arm?s length for some people.

At this point, I thought he was going to give up, but I could see determination in his eyes. 

?Look David, I?m not trying to pry.  You do a great job, and my question has nothing to do with your performance at work.  You come early, stay late, never miss a day, and take full responsibility for everyone at your building.  Your evaluations have been excellent as long as I?ve known you.  I wish all my employees were as conscientious as you.?

The compliments made me feel good, but I knew there was more.  Compliments always come first, and then the concerns.

?But I believe you keep a lot of things bottled up.  You need to be more open with people.  To my knowledge you haven?t made friends with any of your peers, or any of your staff for that matter.  You?re a lone wolf.  You?re isolated.  You?ve been like that ever since your divorce.  People don?t see you in social situations anymore.?

I began slumping in my chair.  I wanted out of his office.  It was true that when I was married I did attend a lot of parties and job related functions with my wife.  I guess it would give the impression that I was more sociable, but mainly I went to those damn things for her.  As for a social life, yes I have one, but it?s not a social life which includes people from work.  He droned on.

?I think you?d get a lot more out of your staff if you worked on building relationships with them.  Let them know you?re one of them.  You?re in the trenches just like they are.  You know there?s a lot of gossip about you out there.?

I didn?t really want to say anything, but felt like I needed to address his concerns.  I told him that he was right in a way.  I do believe in keeping professional distance.  I don?t play favorites at work, and I never gossip.  When I work, I work.  When I go home, I live a separate life.  It?s a private life, and I like things that way.  I socialize with people outside of the workplace.  He was shaking his head while I spoke as though I?d entirely missed his point.  He raised the ante.

?You still like women, don?t you?  Why don?t you bring someone to the Margarita Ball this year?  I?m sure that would quiet things down if they saw you out with a pretty lady on your arm.?

Well, at least I knew the gossip now.  Someone thinks I?m gay.  That?s just great.  So how do I respond?  Should I respond at all?  I decided that it was a losing proposition.  I told him that I?d try to be more sociable and visible, and then I asked him if there was anything else.  I could see that he was upset.

?You didn?t hear a damn thing I said, did you?  Can?t you read between the lines?  I?m trying to help you.?

I told him that I needed to get back to the office, and that I appreciated his time.  I could feel his anger surrounding me from all sides of the room.  He wanted a reaction from me.  He wanted me to be as upset at the rumor as he was.   He wanted indignation.  He wanted disgust.

I turned to him one final time and spoke.

?Look, I appreciate you telling me of people?s perceptions.  That?s always good information to know, but my private life will remain private.  If I am required to attend a social function, I?ll need it in writing and likely I?ll be coming alone.?

I thanked him for his time, and left his office.  On my way out, his secretary gave me an odd look.  It?s the kind of look one gets when being sized up.  A demon crawled inside me, and I couldn?t resist telling her exactly what her boss wanted to hear from me.

?No Ma?am.  I?m not gay.?

There are mars on the doors and walls
Its rooms are empty and wide.
Here and there is a broken pane
Where the night wind creeps inside.

The front porch has fallen to ruin
With vines in possession there.
A shed is tumbled and strewn
And rubbish is everywhere.

Somehow it softens in moonlight
And my fancy wanders free.
That old house is more than a house
It once was a home to me.

Leo VanMeer

I sat on the porch in the swing of the old country home observing the sun slowly sneaking below the clouds.  I admired the colors of the beautiful horizon on a late summer evening far from home in Texas.  There was an orange hue which seemed to reflect off the wild flora of the area, as though the plants themselves were still on fire from the intense heat of the day.  Soon it would be dark, country dark; and the only illumination for miles would be the light bulb from my flashlight which hung from the ceiling precariously with an old wire I?d found on the grounds earlier. 

The electricity was cut off three years ago when my great uncle died, and the bill payments stopped.  My great aunt is still alive, but the effects of Alzheimer?s have left her a shell of her former self.  She is living out her remaining years connected to breathing apparatuses and feeding tubes which keep her alive in a nursing home.  She no longer recognizes me, or anyone else in the family for that matter.  I am hoping there is a better world that awaits her.

I could see a vehicle in the distance turning into the long, gravel driveway that leads to the house.  As the distance closed, I began to get nervous about what I was doing, and wondered whether I should just call the whole thing off and fly home.  My intentions were good, but could be construed by others in my family in a negative fashion.  It was also going to cost me a good deal of money, and in the end my attempts might be futile anyway.  No one else in the family was going to step up.  I had a hard decision to make, yet I had already invested in a plane ticket, so perhaps it was already decided in my mind.

The car pulled up, and parked next to my rental.  A chubby gentleman in a light suit got out of the auto, and brought a briefcase with him that he retrieved from the backseat.  He climbed the stairs and called to me.

?You must be David.?

He extended his hand, and met it with mine as I introduced myself.  He apologized for not having a key.  We would have to conduct business right there on the porch.  He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, then opened his briefcase and started pulling out officious looking papers.

?You know you don?t have to do this.  In fact, in a couple of years you might be right back in the same situation.  It?s throwing good money after bad.  There?s no guarantee that you?re even in their will, and once you write the check there are no assurances that you?ll ever see the money again.  I wouldn?t do it.?

I thought about his words.  I certainly wasn?t doing this for financial gain.  I just wanted to make sure the property stayed in the family.  They had a few years left on the mortgage, and of course, three years of back taxes.  He presented me with an itemized list of unpaid bills, and then an additional list of charges and late fees.   His fee was also included.  The total was much more than I anticipated, and he was correct that even if I wrote a large check, it would just be a temporary fix.  As I stared at the papers, I realized that I didn?t have enough money in my savings account to cover it.  I asked him if I could make installment payments rather than writing him a check for the entire balance.  He looked at me and sighed.

?I?m afraid the time for that is way past.  It needs to be paid in full if you want to keep it.  You?re going to have to decide one way or the other now.  ?

I glanced around the acreage, and a hundred memories flashed through my head.  Even though it had run down, it was still beautiful in my eyes.  We had many family gatherings here, and it was difficult to view the situation with calm detachment.  In fact I had lived there one summer when I was a teenager.  I remember my great aunt could make one hell of a farmer?s breakfast, and that my great uncle grew the largest tomatoes in the county.

In my heart I wanted to save the place, but I knew it was foolish.  The reality was that I didn?t have enough money to consummate the deal.  I shook my head ?no?, and apologized for wasting his time.  I wrote him a check for his fee and services only, and a few minutes later he was back in his car driving away with dust kicking up behind him.  I didn?t accomplish what I had set out to do.  The house would belong to someone else soon, and the thought made me sad.

I sat alone on the porch watching the night envelop the countryside.  I knew it was the last time I would see the old place.  I looked toward the sky in memory of my great uncle.  I thought about my great aunt in the nursing home.  I muttered aloud, ?I?m sorry.  I?m so sorry.? 

Moments later it was pure darkness, yet I couldn?t bring myself to leave.  I sat there for over an hour by myself wondering why I was the only one in my family who gave a damn.  I felt resentful because there are other members of my family who could have helped financially to save the house, yet no one was willing.  Then I realized I was probably being an idiot.  Like the guy said, it?s throwing good money after bad.  Let it go.

I wiped the tears from my eyes, got in the car, and drove off into the darkness.

Earlier in the summer I wrote about my doctor scaring the living shit out of me when my blood and urine stats came back from the lab.  Since then I?ve changed my eating and drinking habits moderately, but not to extreme.  I?ve made changes like drinking alcohol and caffeine in moderation, oatmeal for breakfast, salad for lunch, and a eating a reasonable dinner without dessert.  I?ve also incorporated a light swimming routine with my morning constitutional walk, and I drink a lot more water than I used to. 

Long story short, since I wrote that entry in April I?ve lost about 15 pounds.  Okay, I?m not setting any records for ?biggest loser?, but then again 15 pounds lighter is better than 15 pounds heavier.  I cannot deny that I feel much more fit and healthier.  I?m going to continue this regimen (notice I?m not calling it a diet) until the habits are fully ingrained into my lifestyle.  I?d like to take off another ten pounds or so before scheduling another physical exam, so I can tell my doctor to fuck off (Or maybe say ?thank you? for saving my life.  I?m not sure which yet).

But that?s not what I?m writing about today.  When you make positive changes in life there are often unintended perks that you might not have considered initially.  For me it?s really something that is an ancillary benefit of improving health, at least I think it?s a benefit.  I find myself now masturbating two to three times a day, and generally being as horny as a teenager the rest of the day.   For the first time in a long time the thought has entered my mind that I?d like to get laid.

I have written ad nauseam regarding my thoughts about fucking, and I still hold the same views.  For the most part, traditional intercourse is a colossal bore in my estimation.  I?m sure part of it is my submissive nature that seems at odds being the one who does the thrusting.  I get considerably more pleasure when I?m on the bottom and the female is bouncing up and down on me.  If I?m tied up while it happens, then so much the better.   Intercourse must be on her terms or it does absolutely zilch for me.

Foreplay holds the same dynamic.  I have never felt comfortable initiating a kiss, and much prefer the woman to make the first move.  If it?s French kissing then I?m much more at ease with her shoving her tongue in my mouth than the other way around.  I like my head being pushed between her legs, ass cheeks, or into her breasts.  It goes without saying that I love being queened or even having a tit shoved in my mouth.  If it is my body she wants, then I like being grabbed and groped rather than touched and caressed.  I like my hair being pulled and being pushed into positions that she likes.  A woman who can perform such acts of confidence and control I find alluring and sexy.   If she wants me to perform as the aggressor, then she?s going to have to find someone else.  My world doesn?t rock that way.

It?s been about three years since I last had intercourse, and as I remember it was not a remarkable experience.  Her expectation of me was to be the one in charge, which of course was not the way I wanted it to be.  While I was on top of her, I maintained an erection by fantasizing about a Mistress whipping my ass and ordering me to fuck her harder.  That was the only way I could derive pleasure about the experience in my mind.  Several times in the middle of coitus I had to stop, because I would snap back to reality and realize what a sham the whole thing was.  She was a physically beautiful lady, but in my eyes her appearance had little to do with it.  After it was over I felt badly for her and me, and vowed that I?d rather not have sex at all than have to be the one performing in the dominant role.

Now back to my overly active libido problem.  I?ve been debating on how to find a ?take charge? lady to have sex with.  I know that sounds terrible, but I'm talking about sex here not marriage.  My first thought was to confide in one of my female friends.  I have one friend in particular, who has expressed the desire to be with me sexually on many occasions but judging from what I know about her the end result might be like the experience three years ago.  I have kept my submissiveness hidden from her and really from all my vanilla friends.  While I?m horny as a rabbit, it?s still more important to preserve my friendships than possibly ruin them by bringing sex into the equation. 

Then there are prostitutes, and the occasional pro dominatrix who will also have sex for money.  That is also a possibility, I guess.  I get nervous about the whole STD thing with people who have multiple partners on a daily basis.  I know they take precautions, but there still is an element of risk. 

So I?m open to suggestions.  I invite you to comment today.   Maybe you have a means to the end that I haven?t explored.

It's better to have loved and lost than to have to do forty pounds of laundry a week.
Laurence J. Peter

I?m truly honored when people ask me for advice.  Asking someone for advice is usually based on their level of expertise in a given area.  I consider myself mostly a generalist and an expert in few things.  Expertise is all relative, however.  You may grill a mean hamburger, but that doesn?t make you a world class chef.  Therefore, I am tempering this advice by stating that I?m only an expert in this area when comparing myself to most men.  I claim much less expertise when comparing myself to females.

I have been asked by a sincere sissy domestic sub about how to perform domestic duties for his Domme.  This entry is dedicated to him and only covers laundering clothes (not the most exciting of topics), but I thought it might be useful to others on this site in the same predicament.  He has very little expertise or experience in such matters (and it appears She's not giving him much direction), and has never cooked, cleaned, sewed, or laundered for that matter.  He doesn?t know how to sweep, use attachments on the vacuum cleaner, scrub toilets, or properly clean windows.  The way he was raised, men didn?t perform such tasks.  Recently, he finds himself in a relationship where those duties have been placed on him, and he is struggling greatly.  He has already bleached out some of Her clothing, burned meals, broken dishes, etc? He?s not off to the best start, that?s for sure.

I was fortunate that I had a mother who in essence was my first Domme.  She trained me from childhood to take pride in good housekeeping with keen attention to detail.  Those qualities have served me well and helped me gain a measure of independence, as well as saved me a great deal of money in dry cleaning and laundering bills.   What I am sharing today mostly are the things my mother taught me.  The others I?ve learned in the school of hard knocks.

So let?s start with laundry.  As you?ve probably noticed, women?s apparel with few exceptions cost much more than men?s.  You can go to Walmart and buy a three-pack of tighty-whity undershorts for $5.95.  I promise you Hers cost a lot more.  You may be able to leave a pair of your jeans in the laundry basket for a week, give them a crack, and hit the town.  Obviously, she can?t do that without looking a mess.  In general the standards for women?s dress are higher than men?s.   You need to take that into account when you are working with Her clothes.  Pride in Her appearance is paramount.  Pay attention to the details, especially the lines of her body and how Her clothes ideally fit.

Most washing machines have multiple settings.  Get to know them.  Knowing the laundry capacity will help you determine the amount of detergent to use.  Don?t assume a regular load is the same on all machines.  Many detergents now come in ultra concentrated forms and you should use much less of the product.  Some folks divide their loads into whites and colors.  I use a further division and will wash jeans in one load, towels in another, and anything that is red in another.  Red items tend to bleed even in cold water.  Don?t try to save time by shoving everything together in one load.  The clothes will take on a grayish hue and you?ll never be able to restore the original color.

Most garments have a label attached to them which give clear directions on the appropriate care.  If it says ?wash in cold, delicate cycle? take the time to switch the settings on the machine.  In some washing machines, the spindle is detachable for clothes that need minimal agitation.  Some fine fabrics should never see the washing machine and should be washed in Woolite by hand and air dried on a rack.  I recommend avoiding hot water and bleach whenever possible.  Besides problems with shrinking, even color-safe bleach is murder on clothes.  It?s better to treat a stain in isolation with Spray and Wash, than to saturate your entire load of clothing with bleach.  By the way, don?t scrub too hard when you?re treating spots.  Spray the product on the spot, then rub the fabric together gently and let it sit for a while before tossing it in with the others.  Scrubbing the spot with a brush should be done only with more extreme stains, and then done softly so that the fabric isn?t torn or abused.

If you are going to use a fabric softener, I recommend avoiding dryer sheets.  They tend to clog your lint filter and I?m not real keen on the artificial smelling scents.  Regular Downey is my personal preference because it is eliminates static, clothes come out soft, and it?s biodegradable.  I add it to the final rinse, but if you?re worried about getting it right, there are Downey balls which you simply fill and put in the wash with the rest of the clothes at the beginning of the wash cycle. 

You also need to be careful with the high heat setting on the dryer.  Clean the lint filter before starting.  You should place your washed clothes loosely in the dryer so that there is plenty of room for the air to circulate inside.  For items that don?t need ironing, I take them out a little early and place them on a hanger or drying rack.  Some folks like taking their wet clothes to a drying line outside which is ecologically friendly.  Make sure clothes are completely dry before folding them or you?re going invite mold.  You?re generally safer to that end if you use hangers instead.
 
Do you fold or hang?  Clothes made of woven material, such as khakis, are generally hung, while knits do better folded and stacked. Hang slacks and casual pants over thicker, more rounded hangers, or clip their waists and hang lengthwise; jeans can go either way. Place dress shirts as well as blouses on hangers.  I fold my t-shirts, but if you chose to hang them insert the hanger from the bottom, so you don?t stretch out the neck. Keep suits and any formal wear hanging at all times (they should be professionally dry cleaned).  When hanging towels on a bar, I find a tri-fold method looks nicer than simply folding them in half.  Hang skirts and dresses from the loops you'll find inside the garment. Slip the loop into the hanger grooves or dangle it from hanger hooks for nonslip storage.  When you hang Her clothes in the closet, make sure you leave a little space between hangers so that items are easily accessible.  Stuffed closet rails will lead to clothing on the floor.  It?s better to do it right the first time, than to have to pick up a stack of clothes off the floor every time she dresses.

People have a wide variety of methods of combining socks or stockings.  Some roll them up into a ball then wonder why they?re stretched out.  Others throw them all into a drawer so that you have to spend a half an hour finding the match for a sock.  My suggestion is that you stack socks by pair in a drawer so they are easily accessible and not stretched.  By the way, the missing sock is not really missing.  Socks often cling to other items that you may not notice when you?re folding them.  If you do lose a sock, find a separate place for it, but don?t throw it away.  The other one will generally turn up in time.

I?m not going to lie to you about ironing by telling you it?s easy.  It?s a skill and to get it right takes lots of practice, especially with women?s clothes.  I could write six pages of tips, but I?m going to give you the barebones basics.   Start by making sure you know what kind of material the garment is made of.  Cotton, for example, may require a higher heat setting to get out wrinkles than delicate polyester.   Decide whether you?re going to need steam, and if so how much.  If you use steam, be careful not to overfill the iron with water or you?ll make a complete mess.  Clogged irons can be a nightmare, too, so it?s best to empty your iron of water after every use (you can also clean it by pouring 1/3 vinegar to 2/3 water solution in the reservoir and letting it steam for three minutes).  Steam can help with the wrinkles but too much can be harmful to the fabric.  You?re better off going over it a couple times with a cooler setting, so that you don?t scorch it. 

Collars should be ironed first on the wrong side, starting at the collar points. Work the iron in to the center point, leading with the point of the iron. Then flip over to the right side of the fabric and repeat the process. Don't press down; instead, use the heat of the iron to glide over the fabric. Line up sleeves and press the inside of the sleeve cuff first, letting the heat of the iron do the work. Stop the iron short of the seam edges to prevent unwanted creases. A good tip is to work the iron on the inside of the garment, especially if there is embroidery or ruffles or material which doesn?t iron evenly.  It's also is a good technique to work from the inside of the garment when ironing buttons along a wrinkled crease. When ironing hems, stop ironing just short of the hem to avoid creating a line over it.  I would avoid starch until you gain a measure of expertise with an iron.  Too much can lead to spotty, cardboard looking shirts that are easily scorched.

One final piece of advice, don't be in a hurry.  Take a shortcut, and you'll end up ruining her favorite blouse.  Plan on making a day of it, because ultimately washing is going to take all morning, and ironing all afternoon.  Tell your buddies, you'll go golfing tomorrow.  Your performance in the laundry room reflects upon your level of commitment and service to your Mistress.  

So doesn't this sound like fun? Actually it can be, if you have a sincere desire to make Her life better.  Now put away those golf clubs and get to work.  

It was getting late and I was getting tired.  We had conversed at the dinner table for over two hours and had consumed two bottles of wine and opened a third one.  We were both tipsy.  No, we were both drunk.

?Play some guitar for me, David.  I love to listen to you play.?

Shit.  That?s the time when people want to hear your best effort.  You may be three sheets to the wind and barely cognizant of pitch and tone, but they want to hear your best.  You can?t really say "no" once they have it their heads.  They'll ask you over and over until you play.

I sighed and grabbed a guitar from the music room, and then we retreated to the living room couch.  I began playing some acoustic standards that even in my condition, I thought I could pull off easily.  I was sloppy, but she didn?t seem to care.

?I know all those songs.  You?ve played them for me before.  Is there something you?ve written?  Please play something from your heart.  I want to hear words.?

That was the wrong question, because there are so many songs that I have written from my heart that I don?t ever want people to hear.  In fact, I stopped writing many years ago for that reason.  When I paused, she asked me what was wrong, and why I didn?t write anymore.  I lowered my head into my hands, and took a trip into my past.
_________________

It was the summer of 1985, and I had been saving for three years to make a trip to a professional recording studio to lay down tracks of my original material.  I was young and naïve, and didn?t have the first clue about the business aspect of making music.  I had about two thousand dollars, and an old car which would carry me from my home in the Midwest to California.  Before reading further, I must warn you that California has made failures of many people with aspiring dreams.  In some ways it had that effect on me, in others this experience drove me toward a different kind of success. 

After driving day and night, I eventually made it to Los Angeles.  I was fortunate to have a friend from high school who had moved there a few years before I arrived and could put me up for a while.  I knocked on his door at 3:00 a.m., and by 9:00 the next morning we were on our way to Sound City recording studio where many artists from that era had recorded their hits.  I stared at the various endorsements hanging on signs outside the building:  Fleetwood Mac, Tom Petty, Cheap Trick, Foreigner, etc?the list went on and on.

We pulled into the parking lot, and shortly thereafter I was in a line trying to book recording time.  I waited in line for about two hours with so many other people with dreams of making it.  Obviously, none of the big names on the signs outside were standing in line with me.

When my turn finally came, I reached into my wallet and pulled out $1200 cash and placed it on the reception table.  At that time, it was nearly my entire savings and a small fortune to me.  I wanted to record three songs. She looked at me like I had offended her.

?Are you fucking kidding?  That will get you one hour here and WITHOUT an engineer.  What do you think you?re going to accomplish??

I asked her if there might be a cheaper way.  I looked at her with pleading eyes.  She knew nothing about me, or whether I was any good, but she could see my sincerity.  She motioned me go to the waiting area.  I felt like I was a character in ?Grapes of Wrath?.  I had no idea where I was or what I was getting into.  I just knew I had traveled a great distance, and I was praying for an audience with someone.  I waited for about fifteen minutes then a man approached me.  He pulled me aside and then whispered in my ear.

?You got any coke??

I started to smile then looked in his eyes and realized that he wasn?t joking.  He continued:

?Look, I don?t know who you are, but I have an intern who works the night shift who will record you.  I can?t say he?s all that great.  Give me your money and I?ll schedule you after midnight day after tomorrow, but you?ll need about two grams of blow to keep him interested.  You?ll need to come up with another hundred dollars for us to set the tones on the tape. (at that time, recording was done on two inch tape which had to be aligned perfectly before starting)?

After traveling all the way to California, and going through all the hassle I wasn?t going quit and go home.  I booked the time and wondered where I was going to get the drugs for my sound engineer. I got into my friend?s car and we began roaming.

First off, I realized that I was going to have to get more money, but how do you tell someone that you need money for a coke-head to record your music?  My father ended up wiring me $500 so that I could continue the fiasco.  Now the challenge was finding the blow.

I ended up in a bar in a seedy part of Hollywood late that evening, and found someone who had the drugs.  I ended up making the deal in a back ally that stunk of garbage, sex, and urine.  I had the drugs for the sound engineer, and just enough money to pay to get me back home. Maybe there was hope yet of pulling this off.

It was 3:00 a.m. two days later and we were finally in the studio.  My drug addict engineer was snorting coke and drinking Jack Daniels before I was even set up.  He was barely coherent while I recorded my music.  As the sun was coming up in the morning, I had two songs recorded, but certainly not to my satisfaction.  He was hardly paying attention to the dials and the recording reflected his lack of interest.  After he passed out on the recording board console, I realized that I had wasted my time and money driving out to California.  I was so angry that I threw the tapes into the trash.  I didn?t want anyone to hear that shit, ever.  It had been a hard lesson, and shaped me into believing that music was better as a hobby than as a career. 
______________________

We finished the last of the third bottle of wine on the couch, and I begin playing the intro line of a song that I had written 24 years ago.  I don?t know why I played it, because it was a song I wanted to forget.  I was surprised the notes rolled off my fingers so easily.  She looked at me in amazement.

?That?s beautiful, David.  I love that song.  Why haven?t you ever recorded it??

I felt a lump in my throat.  I reached for my wine glass, gulped the last of it down, then turned to answer her.

?I have, my dear.  Believe me, I have.? 

I've been on vacation this last week, and I'm happy to share that I have one week in front of me before I go back to work.  I don't know if vacation is good for me or not.  Psychologically, I'm already dreading going back, and yet my free days are not even half over.  My year starts the in the third full week of July and end the last week of June.  I look forward to those two weeks all year, yet when they come I don't appreciate them as much as I should.  It's still hard for me sometimes to live in the moment.

I did go to Florida last week and walked on the beach for a few days.  That was nice, and I suppose I could write about that today, but now I'm home and have started several projects that have given cause for reflection about living today and letting go of the past. 

Let me begin by stating that I don't consider myself a pack rat.  However, I have a way of making objects multiply in my home.  For example, I am in the habit of saving hard copy documents; therefore, I have two three-drawer file cabinets which are now filled.  They contain 95% crap which I'll never need, yet there have been many occasions when I have gone to my files and retrieved a warranty, or an old bill, or an owner's manual. 

I enjoy shocking the people at customer service, and letting them know that the frying pan they sold me ten years ago is guaranteed for life.  Nobody saves those kinds of tags and receipts for that long, except someone as neurotic and compulsive as me.  I am the person who ALWAYS fills out the owner registration cards, makes a copy, and sticks in the file drawer.  It's as natural to me as breathing.

It has come to the point now that the files are squeezed as tightly side by side as possible.  I needed to either throw away some of the old stuff or buy another cabinet.  I wheeled in the large outdoor trash can into my den, and decided to make a day of it.  You would think cleaning out a couple of file cabinets would be a tedious chore, but as I got into the task, I saw that the files contained much more than just old receipts. I was about to take an emotional journey into my past.

I pulled out a thick file labeled "Psychotherapy, 2002-2003" and a shiver ran up my spine.  I shook my head in amazement as thumbed through the documentation of that period of my life.  I probably kept a thicker file on myself than my therapist did.  She was big into having her patients write letters, and every time I went for a session I had to bring a letter with me.  These letters would never be sent, but you would compose them and I guess it was supposed to make you feel better writing people without them knowing it. She had me write letters to my mother, father, ex-wife, step-daughter, best friend, grandmother, etc...  I took the assignments seriously, and wrote some pretty lengthy letters, all hand written.

I had some of the original prescriptions in that file.  She put me on Trazadone for a while for depression, and I tried it for a few weeks.  However, that stuff didn't do a damn thing but make my dick limp, so I stopped taking it.  I figured I'd rather be depressed with a hard-on than a happy eunuch.  With some of the other medications I never filled the prescription, mainly because I didn't want to get hooked.  I wanted to get cured through self-actualization rather than numbing myself with drugs. I was drinking too much at the time anyway, and I could see myself delving deeper into addiction by adding medications to the equation.

I had receipts for her services which I never could have afforded without my insurance.  She charged upwards of $200 an hour for her time, but I had a co-pay of $35 per visit.  I thought that was an exorbitant amount at the time, but in retrospect it was probably a bargain.  After all, I wonder how many men and women came through her office, blubbering just like me after a bad divorce. I would think that would get pretty old, very fast.

I continued browsing the file.  I had made little notes of affirmation to myself, but I remember they never did take the pain away.  There were other self-serving notes I had written to myself that I had forgotten about.  Was this really me?  My God, how did I function in the world?  The people around me must have thought I'd gone mad.   

There was one document left in the file.  It was a short note my therapist gave me on our last session:

"David,

You can make it on your own now, but only if you stop punishing yourself and forgive yourself.  It's all in the past now. It's time for you to move on with your life.  Make it a beautiful one."

I stared at the words for a moment and tears filled my eyes. I swallowed hard and regained my composure. I know what she would have wanted me to do.

I closed the file and threw it in the trash.

I was in a chatroom last evening and struck up a conversation with an interesting lady from Europe who claims to own several slaves, as well as being in a relationship with stud bull who serves her basic sexual needs.  She is married, but her older husband has no interest in bdsm or sex for that matter, so he accepts her lifestyle and provides her with companionship and love.  He is well to do, and they want for nothing.  She has been afforded the luxury of being able to live a life which meets all her needs.

I am fascinated with those who stray from the beat and path of a traditional, monogamous, husband-wife relationship.  My Midwestern upbringing conditioned me to believe that there really were no other relationship options.  In fact, anyone who was even tolerant of those who lived alternative lifestyles was shunned and ostracized in my hometown community.  Gays and lesbians were banished to one part of the city, that is unless they were in the closet.  Of course, that presents another set of problems.

When I was in my teens I was amazed to find out that one of the prominent pastor's in the community was arrested for lewd behavior.  When his wife found out he was caught on his knees sucking cock in public restroom, she immediately divorced him and left the area with the children.  He tried to stay and rehabilitate himself in the community, but eventually was run out of town.  His credibility as a clergyman was shot forever.  I mention his story only because it repeats itself over and over in cities and towns across America.  When it comes to any kind of alternative relationship or sexual deviance, there are few communities where it is openly tolerant to live outside the norm.

As we chatted into the evening she began to peel back the layers of her relationships for me to see.  I must confess, I hung on her every word, and wondered how she made it possible.  For starters, she is a sadist, so she has two masochists (one male, one female) who primarily are objects for whippings, cbt, and impact play.  The female slave lives with them, and also provides domestic care for their home.  Interesting that although both Domme and sub are bisexual, she doesn't use her slave girl sexually. 

The male slave is a local politician and married.  She told me the whole town (and his wife) know all about his pain-slut activities, but don't seem to care.  He continues to get re-elected because he's a hard worker and a good public servant. I laughed when she told me that whenever he is to give a speech, she makes him wear women's undergarments under his suit.  It reminded me of "Bull Durham" when Susan Sarandan made Tim Robbins wear panties before pitching to keep him "balanced".

Then there is her stud bull who is the only man she sleeps with. I found this relationship interesting only because relatively speaking, it sounded tame.  They engage in one-on-one sex, and occasionally go out for dinner or to a movie.  Again, in our society this would be called having an affair, but she suffers no consequences kissing her lover in public.  Once again, nobody seems to care.

There is more.  She has a girlfriend who serves her needs when bisexual urges hit.  They go shopping and dancing sometimes.  She also has an internet chastity slave, and she has recently met a cross-dressing sissy who aspires to be a cuckold.  She told me that has dozens of submissive men and women who write her daily professing their adoration for her.  They send her money, gifts, and pictures.

After she was done explaining all this to me, I felt a bit like a piker in terms of my own experiences.  I have been in one long-term D/s relationship in my life where I was one of many who served, and I must be honest, it was difficult not to get jealous of others who shared in service.  Yet, the way she explained it to me, why would anyone get jealous?  Everybody is getting exactly what they need.  Then she asked me a question.

"What is it that you need?"

I reflected on her words, and then responded, "I have many needs."

What a stupid answer.  The light bulb was going on in my head.  It was then I realized that what she had done made perfect sense.  She couldn't find everything she wanted nicely wrapped up in one person.  She needed a husband, she needed a male lover, she needed a female lover, she needed masochists and submissives, she needed friends, she needed domestic service, she needed fantasy.

She had to leave, and so our on-line conversation was cut short.  After hearing about her life, it made me think there was a much more interesting venture waiting for her outside the message box. 

I understand the pursuit of a soul mate.  In rare instances, I believe it can happen.  Yet with over 50% of all marriages ending in divorce, perhaps it's time to start being honest with ourselves and be more accepting of those who have found happiness in non-traditional relationships.

It?s been an on-going struggle for me to reconnect with my stepdaughter.  I wrote an entry about this a couple of years ago, and I was optimistic at the time I had written it.  It seemed like there was hope, and that perhaps we would be able to patch things up one day.  I hadn?t seen her in several years but she seemed open to the idea of having me in her life again.  I thought that was something to build upon, but there hasn?t been much communication between us since then.  I?ve called her from time to time, e-mailed, and invited her to several functions which she?s always declined or not responded at all.  I?m not sure how I should take it, but I continue to keep trying.

There was a time when I believed we were very close, but since divorcing her mother 7 years ago it?s been difficult.  She?s 23 now, obviously more grown up now than when I left.  As I?ve never had biological children of my own, she means a lot to me and in fact feel like my flesh and blood.  I was her paternal unit from the ages of 3 to 15, and I tried my best to teach her well and give her unconditional love.  Those teachings included music, specifically singing and playing guitar.  To those ends, I was a success.  She is an outstanding singer and writer and performs her original music throughout the DFW area now.  I couldn?t be more proud of her.

I?ve tried to arrange some time with her, but she?s always busy with one thing or another (or at least so says). She?s going through a period of trying to find herself, and I don?t think she knows where I belong in the grand scheme of things.  She tells me she?s not angry with me, but down deep I know there are a lot of unresolved issues about the timing and circumstances when I left.  She got one version of the breakup from her mother, but never got mine.  The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle, although it doesn?t really matter I guess.  I was the one who left, and at the time I?m sure I was an easy target to vilify by her mother.  I was an unhappy man in an unhappy home, but I know that I gave up a lot when I walked out the door.  The most valuable of those things was my stepdaughter.

And so I decided that I needed a new strategy.  My unreturned calls to her have become disheartening and pointless.  I knew a way I could see her, but was worried how she would react.  My plan was to show up somewhere when she was performing.  Primarily it was to greet her and show support, but not invade her personal domain or do anything that would embarrass her.  I would make sure she knew I was there, but find a seat in back and listen.  I knew there is a creepiness to all this which I will not deny.  On the other hand, 7 years have passed between us.  Do I wait another 7 years and hope that she comes around?   Do I just give up?  I decided the best thing to do was to continue to make the effort until she told me differently.

I looked her name up on myspace and sure enough she had a site there.  I opened the page, and at first, I didn?t recognize her.  Her hair was in dreadlocks and she had a long funky dress she was wearing.  Her look was sort of a cross between hippy-chick meets Rastafarian.  She had several tracks downloaded, and I enjoyed listening to them all.  She has a soulful voice with a bit of growl to it.  She did her own guitar work.  Mostly it was simple chords and strumming, but it had a clean, bright sound to it.  Her sound was unique.

As I looked at her friends list I realized that she had built a huge local fan base.  I scrolled down and read the comments from those who had posted, and felt uncomfortable as I read several entries referencing drug use and illicit activities.  I had to keep telling myself that she wasn?t 15 anymore and made her own decisions now.  I scrolled back up and noticed her calendar which listed her upcoming gigs.  I found a show at a local bar that I could attend about 15 minutes from my house.  That was last Saturday night.

Saturday I was not performing myself, but I had a brief appearance to make on behalf of my drummer at a different venue.  The plan was to stop in, shake some hands and kiss some babies, then cut out and head over to my stepdaughter?s performance.  It would put me there around midnight, so I would catch at least one set.

I honored my commitment to my drummer, and was on my way over to the bar where my stepdaughter was playing.  I felt increasingly nervous as the distance closed, and soon I found myself in one of the sleazier neighborhoods on the east side of Arlington.  She was playing at a dive, and I wondered if my Mercedes would make a good target for the neighborhood felons.  I parked near the bar under a light.  It was the best I could do.

I got out of my car and stood next to it for a minute or two and debated whether to turn around and drive home.  It was hot, and I was perspiring heavily both from the Texas heat as well as my own nerves.  It was then I noticed something which would give me the strength to enter the establishment.  I looked up and saw her name on the marquee outside the entrance.  My heart swelled with pride.  I took a deep breath and headed toward the entrance of the bar.

I opened the door and smoke immediately billowed out.  There was a bouncer at the door inspecting the clientele as they entered.  He looked me over, then spoke.

?Five bucks.?

I paid him the cover charge and moved inside.  I looked around and as expected, it was pretty much a typical dive bar.  It had pool tables, an internet jukebox, a stage, a small house P.A., and a dance floor.  Led Zeppelin was blasting through the system, so I figured I came when she was on break.  As I proceeded toward the stage, I looked at the faces and nearly fainted.  They were all people from a previous life I had lived.

My old dentist was there with his wife.  When he saw me, he stood up and shook my hand and asked me why I didn?t require his services anymore.  I politely let him know that when you divorce, you tend to get divorced to everybody.  I have a new doctor, dentist, lawyer, barber, etc?  That?s just the way life goes.

It was easy to notice that the place was packed with attractive young women.  Somehow their countenances were familiar, yet I couldn?t place them.  I felt a tug on my arm. 

?Mr. ______.   Is that you??

Who was calling me Mr?  I turned to look at the face and after a second it came to me.  It was one of my stepdaughter?s childhood friends.  She was holding a lit cigarette in one hand a bottle of beer in the other.  It was quite a bit different from my remembrances of her holding a teddy bear and a sippy cup filled with Kool Aid.  I smiled and returned the greeting.

I surveyed the room again and realized that several of ladies in the bar had been at sleepovers at my home many years ago.  It was beyond surreal to see them now in this setting, but there was also something reassuring.  The fact that they were still around my stepdaughter in this setting showed me that she indeed picked her friends well.  If they would come to this kind of place to support her, they would be there for her always.

Sitting near the corner of the bar was my stepdaughter?s biological father.  He looked drunk, and did not acknowledge me.  That was okay by me.  My ex-wife was at a table in the middle with a couple of her friends sipping on wine.  She immediately spotted me, and our eyes locked for an instant.  Then she looked away in disbelief.  It must have been extremely uncomfortable for her to be in that place with two of her ex-husbands around.  I decided to take the high road, and went over to her table to greet her in a civil manner.  She did not reciprocate.

?What the hell are you doing here??

I shrugged my shoulders and told her that I was there for the same reason she was.  I stood there in silence and I could see that she wasn?t going to engage me in conversation.  ?Fine,? I thought to myself, ?at least she?s not making a scene.?  Her friends were now scowling at me, so I didn?t need to be told twice that I wasn?t welcome.  I excused myself and left their presence.

I had brought a set of guitar strings as a peace offering.  Steel strings in smoky bars rust quickly, and you can never have enough of them.  I pulled them from my hip pocket and approached the stage. 

She was performing solo that evening, so she was alone on the stage with her acoustic guitar.  I am convinced that playing three one-hour sets by yourself is about the hardest gig in the music business.  You are naked musically with no others to rely on.  The fact that she does all original music makes it even more difficult to hold an audience.  It?s a fine line between being hailed as an artist, and being viewed simply as musical wallpaper.  It takes a lot of guts to take that risk, especially in a little redneck bar on the east side of Arlington.  She was smart to fill the room with family and friends.  She could win the others over through them.

As I got closer to the stage she recognized me.  I tossed the guitar strings on her music stand, and saw that my presence there had brought warmth to her face.  I told her that I was looking forward to hearing her last set, and apologized for not showing up sooner.  I wished her luck and then turned away from her and found a seat at the bar. 

She started her set, and her rich voice filled the room.  Overall, I was impressed, but there was a part of me that wanted to coach her and help make her performance even better.  She is someone who has been blessed with incredible vocal talent, but sometimes lacks discipline to do the little things associated with being a professional musician.  Yet I?m well aware that my days of critiquing her are long over.  I added my ovation to the crowd?s at the end of her set.  I glanced at my watch and saw that it 1:30 a.m. and time to go home.

I started to approach the stage again to say goodbye, but she was surrounded by her friends and fans.  She was trying to sell some CD?s from the stage.  I decided it was best to leave quietly.  I was nearly out the exit doors when she saw me out of the corner of her eye and yelled: 

?Thanks for coming.  I?ll call you!?

I don?t know that she will, especially after her mother gets done talking with her.  However, there is hope and I do not regret showing up unannounced.  I know it is incumbent upon me to make the extra effort and to keep trying. 

At least it?s a step in the right direction.