Still On My Feet.

My day is starting to wind down. Feeling… like I could drink a case of you.

The Click of Red Heels.


It’s been a productive day. Productive week.

Working at home can be a real challenge. I’ve implemented MBM Mode: Made Bed Method. I make the bed when I get up and it’s off limits for the next twelve hours. Amazing how much one can get done with that method alone.


Patriarch on a vespa…

American  Dreaming…

Running up that hill…

Don’t give up…

Once in a Blue Moon…

I want to be evil…

I put a spell on you…

Two to Tango…

The Latest Read.

Good afternoon my dears. We’ve made it to March and I’m days away from my 34th Birthday. I’ve got to say I’m looking forward to it. Good things are happening and I can smell the earth waking.

A special sub of mine got me a book from the wish list… “Female Domination: An Exploration of the male Desire For Loving Female Authority.” by Elise Sutton. What a delightful book, and I’m absolutely loving it. It’s packed full of pertinent information about Dominant Females and Their submissive male counterparts. Not only have a number of her books been published but she also has a site worth a browse, or three.

It’s Friday night and I’m thinking oysters for dinner. Have a lovely weekend.

Mission Accomplished

(A note from Scratch)

I think it was roughly this time, about two years ago, that  I was buried under some pretty hefty shit:  my relationship was on the verge of crumbling, I was losing my dog, being circumstantially forced out of my apartment, and watching my four-year career as a college student come to a swift end with no known mile markers ahead.  There were periods when I needed something, anything that could take the teeth out of reality’s bite, even if it were for only a little while.  Too much was changing too fast, and at the time, I didn’t fully realize the futility of self-destruction via self-medication until I was near the brink.

My Mormon background, having been fraught with guilt for nearly any biological reaction yielding an erection over my fellow males, caused Jesus’ kool-aid (ala Joseph Smith) to take effect: I believed that my life was falling apart for a life of sin; and that because I’m one of Heavenly Father’s faggot children, my choices had brought about this justly meted suffering.  I supposed that I somehow deserved God’s punishment for a biological lottery lost.

During the darkest turns of my spiritual spelunking, I started training with a woman who coached me through the worst of it.  She’s a professional domme — an unusual preoccupation for a Zen teacher by traditional standards, perhaps, but she was exactly what this budding buddha needed.  Combined with the foundation of mindfulness, meditation and intellectual intercourse  — a praxis I developed over six precious years with my best friend, Jeremy — my unfinished buddhist robes were transmogrified into a plastic chastity device, the “無 3000.”

A year went by.  Another miserable Utah winter muddled through.  My recalcitrant depression staved off via submission to my kinky teacher, who loved watching me suffer through another round of pushups on her emerald carpet.  After months of active, daily recovery I had successfully pulled out of a drug-addled tailspin, especially after realizing that sackcloth and ashes do not a comfortable flower bed make.  I was ready to get back to growing.  I made it known to my Mistress that I would need to leave her tutelage – didn’t know when, but soon.

Mid-November was fast approaching; my arbitrarily chosen moving day couldn’t come fast enough.  My father and I loaded up the H.M.S. Emmawreck, the family minivan whose ports were dashed and mangled by my little sister many years ago on its maiden voyage.  Miraculously, we fit a full-size mattress in the belly of this maroon prairie schooner and I was on my way to the promised land.  Go west, young man… go west.

The land of Oz.  Sparkly sidewalks and rolling mounds of greenery rolled up into a cigarette the size of your thumb.  There’s good medicine out here.  Alien creatures hailing from great gaseous planets board the underground trains, carrying lengths of PVC pipe and adjusting their wigs with glittering attitude… lalala!  Yes.  I’ve been transported to a land far more surreal than I had anticipated.  And it’s perfect.

The lessons learned from my Mistress couldn’t be any more important than in the last few months of settling into the bizarre meta-dimensions of the Bay Area.  Boundaries!  Saying “no” when I mean it.  Pushing myself through discomfort.  Stepping up to bigger challenges with faith in myself and my community.  Surrendering to the power exchange.  Don’t let the world crush you, push it back.  Get angry if needed.  GROW!

And grow I have.  To succinctly describe the garden of flourishing experiences I’ve had over the last few months since being repotted in San Francisco wouldn’t do them justice.  I’ve been pushing through the soil at an alarming pace, but breathing through it all – not fearing the heat of the sun but welcoming its warmth and light.  It’s a little awkward, but I’m getting the hang of it.

Ma’am, you took in a lost and bedraggled cat from the street and taught him how to grow, no matter the soil; to turn the shit into fertility.  That’s some pretty good magic you have.  What better accomplishment could be had than to have nurtured and grown a man?