Ah Memories

Remembering one or the other of some Anniversary of Stonewall, thanks to several articles in Takimag.

It was one of the round-numbered anniversaries of Stonewall, the World Cup, some United Nations thing, and a BDSM convention in New York City, all at the same time.

I happened to book myself a room in a “stew zoo” hotel which also happened to be crawling with World Cup fans from all over the world. This has been a repeating inexplicable pattern in my life. I have been to the cities holding so many World Cup events that my CIA/NSA/ABCdefg… record must include the notation that I am a rabid soccer fan. I’m not. I couldn’t care less about any organized sports event even though I was a regular at the hotel which the U.S. team deigned to grace, upon the debut game of the new stadium in Hugo Chávez’s home state. I’m sure that it’s not in the least bit a coincidence that the game was U.S. v. Paraguay. (You guys can thank me for assisting with your menu specifications, albeit a whole lot of good that did you, right?)

It is not the least bit of coincidence that I was a regular at the hotel where Michael Rupert was poisoned (years before he decided to cash it in with poison of his own selection). Actually, it was a coincidence. There have been so many of them that I’m practically the Forrest Gump of transcended former teenaged runaways. But no, I’m not Chuck Barris. LOL

I could go on, because the World Cup and I are apparently karmically linked but it is of no significance. There.

I have often wondered whether the universe has created in me a sports muse, such that my powers of prognostication by way of travel itinerary are only effective when I could not care less about the event in question. My record is impressive!

It is also no significance that I have been present at various other iconic sports events which, when I mention, causes the eyes of some fans to mist over, and have shaken the hands of various iconic sports heroes. Nice guys but, sorry. I could not care less. I even slept with one of them, with ‘sleep’ not being a euphemism. We slept! ZZZZZZZzzzzzz. What a sweetheart. Thank you! You know who you are!

It was all a mistake. I had been mistaken for some sort of _____ groupie by his agents. When they offered to take me to “a party” to introduce me to _______, I said, “Party? Where? OK!”

For the record, he was furious with them. What a gentleman! Big kiss for you! You look so handsome these days! (I should have taken advantage of you and hope the commercial filming went well.)

Back to New York City cerca…’90’s…I don’t care to go look it up: There was a fire or something like it in the middle of the night and so the entire hotel was flushed out onto the streets of Manhattan. I was awake already because my married/not/married/almost divorced/divorced Dominant at the time, a Filipino pacemaker designer/engineer/consultant, who I was desperately in love with, had had a flight debacle which had delayed his arrival. While we were all outside, his taxi pulled up and discharged him.

Rather than accepting the offer to share a room with a world famous bullwhip artist and his (I don’t know) wife/slave/another slave/submissive/whatever(s) I wanted to share the room exclusively with Mr. Designer because I am not designed to be part of a harem. Besides, Mr. Designer desperately wanted to learn what I was all about because he was feverishly in love with me, or as manifested upon some other woman who told me so while displaying the characteristic marks Mr. Designer was so fond of imparting. I didn’t buy it. Asshole. How would you like it if I screamed the wrong name during my orgasm?

So, we went to the BDSM convention, attended a few lectures, and then we left and did the town. Mr. Designer bought me a lovely pair of Ferragamo shoes which, to him, resembled the shoes worn by Catherine Denevue in the movie, Belle de Jour,  and then he left, forgetting his cufflinks in the drawer next to the bed. No. I didn’t pick them up. I didn’t even look in the drawer. I couldn’t care less.

I spent the rest of the weekend, drinking, flirting, and eating. This was before that tanker disaster off the coast of New Jersey, when the clams were big fat and juicy, and cost nearly nothing. I remember my linguini with clams just off Christopher Street, as my consolation prize for not getting nearly enough of the attention I expected for attending a national BDSM convention, where I knew maybe 15% of the attendees on sight if not by anything more. The shoes were for him. I couldn’t care less. I hated them all really. I never wanted to attend another BDSM convention. What a bunch of morons. Why not just have a stupid parade or something. Do you guys have any idea what true connection and intimacy is about? Hint. It’s not just a bunch of costumes, props, and a list of fetishes. Any child can adopt a costume, prop, and list of fetishes. Perhaps that is the whole point, you creepy creeps!

Months later when I crawled out of a bungalow at the Hotel Bel Air Christmas morning in which lay a different married man who I had no feelings for whatsoever, I realized that I could no longer afford a wealthy man. They always cost more than they gave, and all I would end up with would be some clothes or some crap that I didn’t even care about, plus another double scoop of bitterness.

Naturally, by the time I met up with my international con artist husband, I had forgotten all about that vow. I thought that he genuinely wanted and needed me. Scratch that. He needed me all right. But he couldn’t have cared less about me.

Similarly, I started attending BDSM events again with Axel but that’s because we had such magic and the spectacle we made was all part of the fun. It is amazing how easy it is to hide behind a charismatic erstwhile aspiring rock star turned BDSM star. Nobody need know that I am shy and uneasy in crowds. I was admired simply for being with him and I could keep silent and not disabuse admirers of their illusions by opening my mouth.

Here’s the thing. Although I’m not exactly “sugar baby” material now, then, or ever, it would be nice if my time were compensated in some manner for those things which I’m good at and particularly those of which that tend to make my bosses rich, along with the notion that I am adhering to an authority who I can actually accept as that authority. It would also be nice if sex to my liking were involved. It would be nice. Perhaps I might even get some love thrown into the occasion. Such would not be the case if I chose for my Dominant the U.S. Government or any government I’ve ever known or any corporation I’ve ever known. However, it would seem that the U.S. Government wants to be my Sugar Daddy if only I debase myself utterly, abandon my ethics, and submit myself to torture that gives me no pleasure whatsoever, over and over and over again. I do not consent! (Translation: I don’t want or need health insurance.)

I’d rather drink the contents of a super tanker. I’m a great swallower!

The problem with our Atheist Government is that they believe that we all want to live forever and are willing to obey and comply just for that.

Must I write a celebrity-tell-all gossip memoir in order to survive?

If any of you guys are reading this, consider this post a piece of soft extortion for your attention, in particular a certain iconic character actor who drove me out of my fucking mind with desire. Does a hot blonde wearing a black silk shorts outfit just outside of Tana’s, back when it was full of smokers, ring a bell? OK. You’d probably like it if I put your name into my memoirs because all I got from you was a few of the hottest kisses I’ve ever had. Wow. I still rub one off to your movies once in a while even though you never play the character you truly are. Click this Baby.

What a Moon

I’m positively reeling from it. A whole lot happened. Little of it “good”, but there was something. There was a bit of poetry that came to me from a Disqus user which gave me a bit of optimism. Everything else was frankly in the toilet.

I’m pretty pissed off about the world, my life, etc.

Fortunately, I’m today a bit more optimistic. I scared away some threatening creatures. Some other threatening creatures don’t seem quite so threatening today. Others left on their own accord after putting me through my paces.

The rest of the world is going to Hell in a handbasket but I find that I just don’t give a fuck.

Most people are complete blithering idiots who think that what we all need are buckets of babies. Ever hear of technology and automation, people? Do exponential math much? Ever see some of the new crowd control weapons in action? Stop the planet, let me off. I’m not afraid of what’s on the other side. If you are, well then, I guess we know who is the coward and who isn’t. The only worse possible life I could be having would be an inability to die, like what Axel suffered. Such a thing is sure to result in madness.

I miss Axel badly. At least we were mostly compatible “religiously” even if unexplained events at the end make me wonder about Demons or Kachinas messing with my world, then an Angel soon afterwards. All I can do is pray because there are things coming which are beyond my control and the control of a whole lot of other people.

Got my car fixed for way more than I bargained for in more ways than one.

I opened the door of my world, and in came an unexpected force. Fortunately, I believe that it has passed. Meanwhile, I’ve had about enough of “Dominant” men using my mind for sport. I hope you all get exactly what you deserve. I’ve got a trip across Florida to make and if I’m afraid it’s only because it’s something new and untried and I’m just world-weary.

What’s the worst that could happen?

On a lighter note. Here’s my quickie history of the world and how it all went awry (not “the Pill” you idiots!) as quoted from my own comment on Disqus:

If you want to get technical, it all started when Egyptian slaves were fed gruel, as soon as possible after birth, rather than mother’s milk, because more tiny-brained slaves are “better” than a few strong and healthy slaves with maternal bonds.

This practice over time of reducing breast feeding along with forced migrations eliminating women’s synchronizing with the moon resulted in irregular but curiously increased fertility thereby limiting the possibility that a slave could engage in anything approaching “family planning”. Good! More slaves good!

Fast forward to the Civil War, then WW I, and we had a situation of way too many unmarriagable women competing for a narrow field of less-than-damaged men or PTSD-lite, if she’s lucky.

Time for another war to even further reduce the pool of healthy men and increase the pool of bitter spinsters who now had men’s jobs and the vote! Still! Even after Prohibition! Even after Abolition! Thanks to that, the costs of slavery are now fully socialized! Well done Federal Income Tax!

Meanwhile, we have the Flexner Report whereby it was seen to be of paramount importance to reduce the mortality of infants and women in childbirth particularly the poorest of the poor and thereby produce more industrial workers thereby lowering the cost of labor. To that end Medical Schools were accredited based on Flexner’s study of French prostitutes and midwives were put out of business.

Americans then proceeded to reproduce themselves out of any sort of reasonable chance of opportunity (other than to be a slave of course) and so stopped pumping out slaves, or to be kind, slave support system administrators, because after all, that’s a great job with a title!

Others started simply coming out “defective” or like the various actors known as “rats in a cage”.

Kinsey normalized the manufacturing of more and more “defective” children.

While meanwhile The New Deal and the Great Society rewarded poor women for producing more and more of them.

Eventually, the “defectives” came to believe that they were approaching the numbers of the “normals” and that soon the tide would turn and they would be…the majority…and thereby “normal”!

Others desperately tried to convert to “normal” and had more and more “defective” children while engaging in that “normal”.

The moral is, we should all have more babies, because more babies good! Fewer babies bad. Poor babies extra good. Let’s import more of them.

Passive-Aggressiveness is Not Dominance

The title of this piece is a difficult concept for many to comprehend and perhaps requires judicious application of tobacco smoke to the brain in order for this comprehension to be accomplished.

A negotiated power-exchange relationship is a very risky endeavor for both parties. The notion that the submissive shoulders all of the risk is entirely fallacious. Rather both parties shoulder significant risk unless the relationship is one of those mild, “normal”, play-acting ones which require group dynamics, costumes, and affectations such as what is known as “slash speak”.

Here is an example of “slash speak” as spoken by a Dominant:

I seek a woman who will serve Me in all ways. W/we will embark on an amazing relationship. I will Dominate you. you will serve Me.

In a relationship where the Dominant takes responsibility for all decisions which the submissive is required to obey (albeit perhaps some discussion period of politely phrased objections is permissible) part of the justification for that dynamic is that even when the result goes awry it is then the Dominant’s responsibility for making the decision, assuming that the submissive wholly obeyed, and he further has the responsibility for making things right.

A submissive woman who does not have a mind of her own to give is incapable of fully consenting to such a dynamic and therefore such a dynamic is a form of statutory rape.

A woman who willingly yields ownership of her body, decisions, life, etc., or whatever and however the relationship is negotiated, to anyone who merely calls himself a ‘Dominant’ is an idiot which is not to say that he also is not an idiot.

A man who calls himself a Dominant who says to a prospective submissive, “Let’s meet. You decide the place.” who then waffles upon her compliance with this request such as to question her submission, has not taken responsibility for the request he gave her. That’s passive aggressiveness. I call it a “request” because she is still a prospective submissive.

A prospective submissive who is incapable of complying with a request has a responsibility to politely phrase her objections (in most cases). A prospective submissive who complies with a request has demonstrated that she is not only capable of compliance but, in this particular case, has demonstrated that she has enough of a will of her own to intelligently make a decision and is thereby an adult of agency. Without agency, she cannot consent to a negotiated power-exchange relationship because she is incapable of consent.

A man incapable of shouldering the risk of responsibility does not deserve a woman shouldering the risk of obedience to him. That said, the risk of Dominating a woman whose mind exceeds his own capabilities is great and he may therefore be wise to exhibit his true passive-aggressive colors such as to save face. That doesn’t mean that he is wise enough to call himself a ‘Dominant’.

That said, such a man is equally likely to find himself a frilly retiring ultra-feminine manipulative ‘submissive’ who will have him effectively castrated and ritualistically slaughtered in a fortnight. Pity.

He’s Alive, Maybe

I’m digesting the possibility given new evidence that my international con artist husband may actually be alive.

It is possible that my upcoming court case will result in a judge’s orders which will start a chain of events to actually conjure up the insane old drunken vicious incompetent surgeon busily spending down my money with what is no doubt feverishness.

I’ve decided to write about it rather than say hunting him down and killing him, which, I suspect he might even welcome.

Given my experiences in Venezuela, the possibility that I would be capable of executing such a maneuver has never fully played out, but is doubtless a whole lot closer than for the average whitebread woman of my “breeding”. Given that the monster I married robbed me and essentially “killed” a part of me using brainwashing, gaslighting, malevolent hypnosis, isolation, and sleep deprivation over a course of 13 years, I suppose to some murder would be justified however to others I would simply never be trustworthy again, which is why I won’t. The opinion of those sorts of people matter to me. Therefore, my capability shall remain unknown.

Most laws are made with the understanding that ordinary people wish to preserve their good name and wish to make an honest living.

Since my husband doesn’t care anymore about his good name and has no need to make an honest living (thanks to me) he can easily elude the pathetic private and state apparatuses that would suppose to fulfill the multitude of court orders I’ve obtained at great cost but which have resulted in very little. Very little.

In other words, only “good men” are punished by the divorce courts. Bad men go right on being bad men right up until the moment they decide to be “good” and either emerge with their “good name,” which allows them to be identified, or attempt to make an honest living, which allows their money to be taken from them. Only poor men have to resort to petty crime, which also usually leads to identification. Wealthy, well-bred exotic foreigners with unusual manipulative skills have a whole field of easily misled overaged white women to feed on. Perhaps my husband has already landed his next victim.

Perhaps the two of them are reading this blog now. No. It won’t matter. Whatever she may read here will only validate what she has no doubt heard with regard to my madness and I’ll guess “selfishness”. That last needs to be part of the narrative so that she’ll deliberately behave otherwise, and out of “trust” in his judgment, give to him complete control over her own finances because he has “trust issues” and she means to resolve them by her “trustworthiness”. I remember how it works.

Sister, he doesn’t actually “distrust” you. Not at all. He “trusts” you to fall victim to this level of manipulativeness. He trusts you to believe that your heart and generosity with “heal” him. No. He only means to feed on that heart and generosity.

Amazingly, I found that I still had some left both in heart and generosity when my husband was done with me. I gave it all to Axel. Now I heartlessly educate others who chance to read this blog with the truth that I won’t “let go”.

My husband would need to fly back and forth to Europe and Hong Kong frequently in order to obtain cash but not so much as to not appear “cash poor” to his new lady fair, but oh well. He enjoys travel, as do I (when I could afford it). Funny how his enjoyment of travel itself is because of me, who shared with him my joy and experimental nature in the process. My joy and creativity were what was missing in his life and so he stole mine from me. I wonder what joy he intends to steal from his new lady fair.

His joy was in manipulating me like a tiny dancer in a music box by my heart and emotions and all things dear to me.

Perhaps I’ll one day find another job which gives me joy. It was Axel who gave me back joy, through him, through his joy and my joy in serving him. Now Axel is gone. His family is gone. His actions in his final days are inexplicable and disturbing. Of course I know that he was in terrible pain, had gone into psychosis, was under the influence of powerful narcotics, and had started drinking again, after being sober for 14 years.

I remember the good times which were what made up those four wonderful years together and miss him terribly. Eventually, the pain of the final days will recede. I hope that he is still with me, watching over me, as himself, not the strange person he transformed into during his final days but whom I did my level best to continue to serve every way that I could.

I suppose I should just “let it go” and somehow find joy doing something else since it would appear that the chance of there being a “someone” for the likes of me is unlikely.

I write this from a cheap motel in Northeast Florida where I was treated to the sounds of white people drunkenly yelling. The young male Indian proprietors had their hands full. They were making an honest living. Perhaps they’re hiring.

Perhaps I’ll find joy like my husband found joy, in my own destruction.

Thank you to all of you who contributed to my cause. At least I now have this new information which I wouldn’t have had otherwise, and so I’m glad I went. Meanwhile, the greater enterprise has been cancelled until further notice.

Power vs. Love

It is impossible for an outside observer to tell the difference between power and love simply by outward manifestations, particularly when there exists those odd persons whose internal notions of “love” deviate outside of the norms.

It would seem to me that ultimate power rests with he or she who dictates the course that “love” should take with others. Whether one is talking about men behaving chivalrously toward women as a demonstration of love for those women, or women behaving subserviently toward men as a demonstration of love, social norms might call one “good” and the other “bad”. Whoever defines those social norms has a lot of power.

Whereas I think that it is strange that there isn’t a linguistic equivalent of “chivalry” when the actor is a woman. Since men are generally physically stronger than women it would seem to me that the social equivalent of “chivalry” is “modesty”. Specifically, a woman who physically and materially subverts her outward appearance (the primary source of “power” in a woman particularly a young healthy one) such as to recede into the shadow of her beloved man is essentially behaving “chivalrously” by subverting her own power in his service, assuming that it is a service.

I think it’s funny when Feminist men practically sputter with indignation when it turns out that I don’t appreciate being put on a pedestal. If I don’t like it, then, it isn’t an honor or signifying of love. I only appreciate it when a professional subordinate does that for me, and not for long. To be waited on requires a certain level of responsibility unless the whole point is to be an annoying “diva”, which I understand is a fantasy held by many men. If a narcissist of a woman can be made to smile and bestow approval for even just a fleeting moment on her supplicant, then a man raised by such a woman to believe that such an action signifies “love,” will always seek it. However, such a relationship is one of “co-dependence” rather than love because such an act is not necessarily in the best interest of the one so cultivated as the bestower of fleeting approval, unless that actor has been both consensually and deliberately bestowed that “honor”.

Ironically, it would seem that those persons whose spirit is best nurtured by engaging in acts of servitude often compensate for the lack of opportunity for performing such service by ostensibly seeking some form of power or notoriety. However, those who are capable of accepting the limelight will naturally attract supplicants, even if such is not necessarily within one’s heart’s desire. Therefore, generally speaking in my experience and observation, the person with the most “power” tends to be the one who is solicited to enter the limelight rather than the one who deliberately seeks it.

Plato, it would seem, would tend to agree.

Just how much “power” does one who is obsessed with controlling others really have? There is actual or net power and then there is imaginary power. I suppose a certain level of faith held by the supplicant or supplicants is necessary in order to feed the feedback loop. At the same time, “modesty” in a person who holds power tends to result in more power.

Meanwhile, martyrs can “control” a disproportionate amount of power which is why power-mongers tend to suppress martyrs’ stories. However, does it actually do a dead person a favor to bestow power posthumously upon them? Perhaps it could even be a form of abuse such that the humiliation of unwanted power might even cause a spirit to fail to transcend.

There’s a part of me that believes I’ll be doing Axel a “favor” when I succeed in moving on such as to find someone or something else to inspire my daily life. I’m still waiting to see who or what that might be.

So-Called Justice

I’m having a devil of a time finding a lawyer with the confidence to take on either of my cases on a contingency basis and therefore I assume that these are lost causes. If I were to pay such a lawyer up front, how do I know if he has any confidence that we’ll prevail when it would appear to be in his advantage to just string things along indefinitely? I’m not only not made of money I’m losing confidence, energy, enthusiasm, etc.

Sure, if I want to fork over a couple of thousand dollars (if I had such to throw away), there are lawyers willing to take on the “gamble”.

Here’s the first case. It will be uncontested.

My missing international con-artist husband purchased this plot of farmland in South Carolina and then did absolutely nothing to it, i.e., it is unused, taxes haven’t been paid, the neighboring farmers probably want it to eventually go for auction at a loss. See: The Parcel.

Some other party, probably an adjacent property owner, is mowing it.

Said husband owes me twice the value of that property in unpaid spousal support.

It looks like I will be once again visiting the courthouse, authoring my own motion, then put through my paces if the judge isn’t feeling magnanimous that day or if the court says that I can’t because I’m not a lawyer.

Here’s the second case. I assume that no one else has beat me to the fact. I am my missing husband’s sole heir albeit there are estranged adult children from a previously dissolved marriage. (We’re still married albeit we too are estranged. Yet, it  was my money, for what that’s worth.)

There are bank accounts in Germany. One of the banks wrote to me to inquire about my husband’s address. This tells me that he is dead. I need to make a claim on those accounts pending the possibility that I’ll one day be able to declare him legally dead. The main thing is to get statements such as to inspire me and whoever else to press forward that the accounts aren’t depleted, say. One account that has my name on it (as a secondary account holder) is still in good standing, and getting the rights to it would give me the funds to pursue the other accounts that just have my husband’s name on them.

I think that I should try to get a job with an international law firm and otherwise ingratiate myself with persons who might see the opportunity in helping me on a contingency basis. Not as “a favor” but for the possibility that we would all get a payoff. However, it is my experience that ordinary people don’t believe my story until they review all the evidence and get to know me. That’s the best thing I have going that I am in fact a person of character if not substance.

The Truth vs. the Untruth

Because of my history and experiences therein, generally speaking, any consensus wrought by emotional manipulation is one which I will reject. If emotional appeals and threats of exclusion or rejection accompany any argument whatsoever whether it is political, scientific, sociological, religious, etc., if non-faith in the assertion means that I will be rejected or excluded from benefits then I assume that it isn’t true.

Something that is true does not require democracy or a cheerleading squad. The truth is that which is borne out by evidence over a long period of time. Very few scientific, psychological, or economic studies are afforded a long enough time horizon to demonstrate the irreversibility of a “truth” given a changing environment. Therefore, a single study that represents a radical change in thought is useless.

Meanwhile, history shows that mob hysteria tends to drown out truth.

In an Idiocracy this will happen sooner than later because conformity and “belonging” to a tribe of idiots would appear to be more important to the idiot than truth.

However, if the appearance of a single dissenter is enough for all the “truth-tellers” to collapse into a fit of hysteria then as far as I’m concerned, even if my stance (for I am a born rebel) happens to be incorrect in the long run, by simply refusing to keep company with such idiots, I am vindicated.

On the other hand, any man willing to sacrifice his own views and closely held beliefs simply for the benefit of the pleasure of my company isn’t worth much to me. If he is willing to consider my opposing viewpoint and then come to a reasoned change of his own, alone, without any pressure from me, that’s a different story. If we discover that there are simply things in which we must agree to disagree, that is also acceptable. Similarly, I may come to my own reasoned change of viewpoint based on his own arguments.

Unfortunately, this stance means that I must confine my aspirations of romance to a very small pool of men who likely as not are already getting pussy thrown at them from all directions. If instead, I am forced to simply be a teacher of men who then go forth to create their own converts with the ideologies and viewpoints I have imparted upon them then I will be celibate.

Deep down I hope that an unrepentant sapiosexual is looking for just such a woman as myself and is open-minded to the possibility that my own sexual fantasies and psyche are not the same as those women of his experience such that he is willing to learn of my unusual “truth” and not be put off by my nonconformity. I would expect such a man to be patient enough to wait until I feel so inclined to share with him my truth rather than force me to let down all barriers based on blind faith.

I am not willing to sacrifice my truths and principles purely for sex. If my choice is between truth and sex then I choose truth. If this demonstrates that I am in fact biologically female (I am), then so be it.

Bad Advice

I get lots of well-meaning advice from nice people who somehow believe that if only I was more like them I would be happy like them. So happy I would be that I would be brimming with equally well-meaning advice to interesting and unusual people such as to urge them to conform to my views, such as to be less interesting.

When it comes to “Dominant” men who would like for me to be a silent and willing body for them to experiment on, and this would magically result in both my own pleasure and theirs, I suspect that the “well-meaning” part is to give me a dose of enough pain that I recoil, regroup, and become even more individualistic and particular. In other words, it is a destructive sort of “tough love” that makes me reconsider seeking a relationship of any sort with anyone.

Whereas, if I am a mere low-hanging ripe piece of fruit desiring to be objectified by someone who is obviously less intelligent than I am, then I am happy to be that compliant bag of flesh. Such an object isn’t concerned about the character of the “Dominant”, and has no care in the world as to what sort of physical or psychological damage is to be enacted. It’s all the same. All men are the same. Might as well do them all.

I assume that such impatient sorts already know themselves to be shallow, uninteresting, and otherwise of no more depth than they hope that I myself lack. By doing them the favor of rejecting them, I can be “the one that got away,” and thereby be either elevated or degraded in myth alone.

My favorite bad, well-meaning advice, is to tell me to “relax,” and “let it happen,” and otherwise ignore my inner voice full of warning signals. I suppose it is useless for me to protest that if I am sure that I want to surrender, I beg for it. I don’t need to be seduced, urged, or persuaded. I certainly don’t need to be manhandled above my objections.

I’d rather earn the right to present my surrendered self to someone who I have come to trust has managed to retain his own self-respect rather than one who thinks of Dominance as the indulgence of an infant reaching out to grasp a toy while having his diaper changed.


I have visited or lived near Philadelphia on numerous occasions. It is familiar to me in many ways and unfamiliar in others. There seems to be a condition that I find both engaging and troubling about it. On one hand, the stress of an uncomfortable and unpredictable climate, poor road maintenance, crime, and poverty seem to together to add enough stress to make for a city of interesting conversationalists. There are also beautiful natural and architectural masterpieces to include a sense of history reminiscent of European cities.

It is no accident, in my mind, that great beer, coffee, and food compensate for the stress of the environment.

It is my first visit since Axel’s death and I enjoy the good will of his many friends and admirers by extension.

Just the same, I am unsure whether I am safe here as it would seem that I attract persons who believe that my apparent good will and health mean that I am a fruit ripe for the picking. It is all a mirage however, much like the sense in Los Angeles, that everyone is in some form a participant in show business. Since my self-confidence is a sham, I fit right in. My smile is my parasol.