A new visitor to the message Boards asks Various questions about the BDSM-lifestyle and Cowhideman offers an in-depth, multi-part answer, from pansexual and gay perspectives. Fabulous reading for all.
I have no first hand knowledge of the BDSM-lifestyle, but I am nonetheless interested in it and also in the dynamics of the relationships. So after reading different books about it I want to include some sides of it as a subplot in one of my own stories (yes, I do write from time to time and I am hoping to get something published sooner or later).
But since I don’t know which facts are real and which are just fictional I decided to ask the people (you) who can maybe answer some of the most important questions I have.
If you'd like to cast a little cheer into the life of a serviceman, visit Let's Say Thanks, a site sponsored by Xerox which allows you to pick out and sign a card designed by children throughout the US. Don't worry about being too late for Thanksgiving or too early for Christmas: Xerox delivers these in monthly batch to our men and women overseas, along with various goodies. It's a great idea that helps keep our soldiers' morale up, and will only take you a couple of minutes (they even offer a selection of messages if you aren't feeling creative enough to create your own).
We had quite the little windstorm here yesterday morning. I half expected to see a witch on a bicycle fly by the window. Every time a branch fell with a crashing thud, the dogs went crazy, convinced there was a predator at the door. Like an alarm clock set to snooze, they shrieked out howls every 5-10 minutes. (Those high-pitched yelps that come from the throats of small dogs are as grating on the nerves as chalk squealing on a chalkboard.)
I had back-to-back appointments yesterday but around noon I had enough of a break to catch up on fish-tank maintenance, and was doing a water exchange in all three tanks. Noting that one of the filters was sluggish, I figured it was time to take it apart and clean it, so I unplugged it from the baroque agglomeration of wires, boxes and plugs, just hoping I would remember what went where and wouldn't clumsily deconstruct Will's purposeful web of cords. Deft as I am with a cane, I'm really the world's biggest klutz when it comes to, well, just about everything else.
I finished squeezing out fish poo from the tank filter (where is Mike Rowe when I need him?), reassembled the box, finished topping off the tanks, and finally replugged things. To my dismay, the tanks sputtered, the lights blinked on and off, and the filters died. Fuck. I got down on my knees to stare sorrowfully at the cords, wondering what I'd done wrong, even as the dogs howled for the nth time.
Sighing, I followed them to the front door, opened it and pointed out that there wasn't a fucking thing going on beyond a whole lot of wind: no deer to chase nor squirrels to bully, not even a cat scratching to come in. I challenged them to go out and see for themselves, but they took one look at leaves catapaulting through the air and gave me that look that small-dog-owners know so well, that "holy crap, you don't expect delicate little ME to go out in that mess, do you?" look.
I went back upstairs to find the tanks were fine, bubbling happily, but relief was brief: they sputtered off again. Huh? Then sputtered on, then sputtered off, and then suddenly the whole house seemed strangely quiet. Uh oh.
When you live in a house in the woods, you are all too familiar with the sound of electrical nothingness. An electrical storm, heavy rain or, as happened yesterday, some feisty winds, and you can almost count on a black out. Power poles fall (or drunk drivers skid into them and plow them down), and transformers blow. So it wasn't my electrical ineptitude at all: a local transformer had cycled 3 times and surrendered.
No lights, no heat, no phone. But happily a cell fully charged. I called the power company, and was immediately routed to their automated system, where I punched in the info to report an outtage. Called back a few minutes later to see if they could give me an estimate on when it would be repaired, and couldn't even get through. Apparently all my neighbors were calling in too.
I called my next appointment to warn her we might not HAVE an appointment.
Did I mention I live in the woods? When the power goes here, a strange magic moves in. The chorus of low hums from the dozens of appliances and gadgets that keep us connected to the 21st century comes to a sudden hush, and the forest's song rises. One minute you're an Internet-surfing, Napster-listening, capuccino-drinking modernist in a climate-controlled home: the next, you are a 19th century Southern farmer, listening to cattle lowing over in your neighbor's fields and checking the woodpile to see if you've got enough to keep the fireplace filled tonight.
Though I was vastly relieved when power was restored a mere 20 minutes later, there's something about a power failure in the woods. You go off the grid. You are conscious of fundamental aloneness. The outside world goes away. The things that men have built lie down and the things of God stand up. The turning leaves aren't powered by electricity. You feel your existential insignificance as nature flaunts its healthy, fulsomely independent system at you. I imagine that more than a few tiny critters were displaced by the powerful gusts that blew them from one acre to another, but no matter: they were light enough to fly on the winds, carried violently but not shattered as a human would be. When the world goes away and it's just you and the natural world, you feel an exquisitely profound humility.
Fresh from my email, this call for nominations by the National Leather Association for its 2008 writing awards.
may be sent to the committee chair, Steve Vakesh, at: email@example.com.
A variety of erotic cabinet cards, all dated ca. 1890.
I've been seeing dribs and drabs of publicity for this movie which sounds like an absolute must-see if
OMG, this movie appears to have it all: a tragic story of immense psychological suffering, with giant doses of sexual perversion (watching Dafoe force Goldblum to be his pet dog is bound to be a memorable cinematic experience).
Nearly 15 years after the release of “Schindler’s List” the Holocaust continues to figure prominently as a subject for the movies. The latest one, which had its official premiere at the recent Toronto International Film Festival, after a sneak peek at the prestigious Telluride film festival, is “Adam Resurrected.”
The film, a drama set in the early 1960s, centers on Holocaust survivor Adam Stein (Jeff Goldblum), once a beloved clown-magician in pre-war Berlin, now struggling to overcome his demons while housed in an Israeli mental hospital for traumatized survivors.
Unlike other cinematic mental patients in classic movies, such as “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” Stein isn’t up against a cruel, inhumane system. The doctors in the asylum, for the most part, are supportive of his idiosyncrasies, which include hiding bottles of liquor for regular consumption. They also look the other way as he engages in a mildly sadomasochistic sexual relationship with the institute’s head nurse, played by Israeli actress Ayelet Zurer. No, Stein’s main obstacles to regaining good health are his horrific memories, notably the hideous reality that he survived the war by acting, literally, as the pet of the commandant of a concentration camp (Willem Dafoe) in the vain hope that by debasing himself, he could save the lives of his family.
Watch a clip of the movie:
And if you can't get enough Goldblum, here's an interview with him about the film.
To me, he's gotten sexier with age. Check out the long lean legs on this Hollywood icon. Oh, Jeffie, I'd gladly comfort you by licking those kosher sticks from toe to thigh.
Over at MSNBC.com, sex columnist Brian Alexander tackles topics most mainstream journalists are too chickenshit to touch. Here Alexander offers some advice on visiting a professional dominatrix.
Q: Paying for sex is illegal in most of America, but what about paying for fetish services? Can you legally hire a dominatrix or escort for any of the countless things besides intercourse? Where is the line drawn?
A: If you have a hankering to strap on a codpiece and pay a woman for the privilege of scrubbing her floors while she drips hot wax on your back, the legal line is drawn at the border of the state or country in which you live.