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Sunday smiles after a number of slammed, over the top days in Dallas. Listening to the Catalyst podcast, an emergent church site, that has strains of tantalizingly real faith flowing through me as I wrestle with my bdsm, freakazoid obsessions.

Where to begin? First off, the Celtics and Mavericks game kicked major steroid-injected ass. KG is the hardest working man in hoops. I have to agree with dickhead Mike Lupica who observed you don’t appreciate Garnett until you see him in person. He works every single possession, at both ends of the court.

Great wine shop, Crush. Up on Knox, methinks. Sharp wine-wisdom dude and a Pinot, “Four Graces”, that proves Oregon puts out something other than rain-soaked, spineless liberals.

Hotel ZaZa, trendily shallow on a scale that appeals to one of my ADD-addled consumeristic, what’s currently hot persuasion. I personally think shallow is an art form and ZaZa delivers. It inspired my little Chi O Norwegian angel to strip down to her Chico’s purple long coat and pointy heals and get obscenely freaky. She’d had enough wine that she unpuckered as I gleefully wiggled my tongue up her ass. She showed me a little urethra love with a Q-tip (that’s unsafe kiddies.. don’t do it..unless you’re wine-buzzed and don’t give a shit) and brought her slender finger into my man-cave which led me to a Jesus shout out, re-access my Navy master’s degree in profanity, body spasming orgasm that absolutely transported me to that little meadow of wonder that makes sex so eye-poppingly cool.

Fast break finish (In honor of my Celtics)-Charmingly coquettish comment from Jennifer LeMonde which left me with the same gee-whiz arched eyebrows that I had as I watched Jason Kidd dish on the fast break. She sooo frightens me….in a drool of anticipation way…And CoCo (Nite Flirt goddess) spinning a cuckold fantasy that gave me a taste of her in a way I wasn’t expecting. She takes you down a delightfully sluttish, sinful road…I salute her..and sick shit in general. It gives me hope. OK..back to recovery..maybe.

I am actually in a groove where I am mostly in real recovery from my sexual addiction. And this is why I want to be an addiction therapist/pastor/counselor at some point. So I can step across the room, grab the poor suffering schlub by the neck and slam him/her up against the wall, nuzzle my head up to his or her ear and whisper…”Do you have any idea how fucking painful and horrific this whole process will be. Your life will feel at times as if you are devoid of hope. One of the few illusions of fun and joy you had through your acting out will be taken away and you will be plunged into a black hole, that eventually lifts into a gray, mindless, numbed-out land called….recovery.”

It’s really that much fun, folks. Not only have I reduced sexual weirdness, I’ve also chosen to reduce my booze intake to a glass of wine a week, at most. Why couldn’t I at least be a 17th century Jesuit priest so I could at least hoist a musket and get to kill someone or many someones as part of my Jesuitical conversion process that spread so much love and joy….

Alcohol triggers my sexual obsessions so after one glass of red last night, this morning I am vibrating with the need to have naughty bits of business done unto me. It led to many brief online sighs this a.m. while alternating NPR and White Hinterlands…love this gal……so before I jump into the shower and re-enroll in the Recovery Shit Brigade I thought I’d do a shout out to all the lasses who led me to the aforementioned sighs…

Mistress Alicia of NYC. Hot new web site. I had one phone session with her and her evil intelligence seeps down the line. Penny Flame…succubus sweetie of Kink.com.. Isobel Wren who is appearing on Kink.com and is elevating her schoolgirl innocence into the realm of submissive icon for the early 21st century…a Nite Flirt girl, Come to CoCo, is brilliant. Voice, mind and after one call a while back I am fearful and excited about being ensnared in her witty charm and my twisted needs. Ms. Jennifer LeMonde, former domme at Rapture and also the star of a new web site that makes me want to be in the presence of someone who would be more vicious than I could handle. And since I’m headed to Big D next week for the Mavericks and Celtics, I sooooo(think the intonation of Dr. Cox on “Scrubs”) want to impale myself again on the sounds of Domina Athena.

Quick sidebar that I hope is not too intrusive. The day after I had my sounds experience with the drop dead gorgeous, I drool just thinking of her lady in question…I was having a little lunch at ‘The It’s All Good Cafe” and noticed her walking her dog…She is stylish, leggy and breathtaking….as for the dog…I just don’t remember..

Recovery…there are moments of emotional and spiritual peace and tiny victory dances and something that is simply more connected to the real and the now. Just not this particular morning.

Peace to us all my brothers and sisters.

I’m a live action kind of guy. While we should all god bless porn for it being there to get us through the arid times, in person freakdom carries a carnal blessing that only could come from a leather-clad nun in provacative pumps..

This review took a lot of time. I recently had a session with New Zealand lovely Princess Aphrodite and I had to ponder what had transpired before I could do our time together justice.

I know you hear this a lot, but the photos on Her website truly don’t do Her justice. There’s a coquettish, oh-my-God-I-want-Her quality that discombobulated me from the get go. She’s a damned hot Mama.

And as a controlling, courtly, and mostly veiled Alpha male…I usually top from the bottom and pretty much orchestrate any encounter I have….that was not to be with the Princess. From our first few e-mails She had certain protocols She wanted. This was to be Her ballgame, Her rules and it threw me a tad. It’s not what I typically go for, but I’m also like Davy going into the Alamo…what the hell…. I’ll step inside and see what happens.

On to the session, it was more corporal than I thought I would have liked and unbelievably sensual although Her caresses were few and far between. We did some foot worship which I don’t typically care two hoots for and I was down with those a tad east of Down Under sweet tootsies. Breath play, a little bondage here and there and some sensory deprivation. My leather Angel left me alone for a time…

I’m going to call it a mind fuck in the best sense of the phrase and perhaps my most profound experience of subspace. Even though I’m immensely charming, I’m at heart a distant, cold bastard. Princess Aphrodite connected to something deep within and I very simply would have loved to have been held by Her for quite some time after our session. And that’s so far from me I’m still kind of stuck in mid-jaw dropdom at my feelings.

She is a treasure and I hope She appreciates this review. Peace to us all, my brothers and sisters.

I am a fan of enormous proportions of things being inserted down my urethra (commonly referred to as a pee-hole which I find a little tacky, but I digress) and wiggled about a bit! Of all the bdsm activities I’ve indulged in, that is the one that gave me a focused zen clarity, the likes of which I’ve never known.

I first discovered this sensation in early rites of masturbatory passage, when I inserted a Q-tip into my tiny “forbidden zone”. What led me there, I’ll never know, but a little pain, a lot of erotic intensity and ooh, I was hooked. Later I learned that there is the danger of infection, of course, and the little cotton swab could come loose and be lodged in your urethra. I’d like to be in the ER to see the doctor suppress a smirk when you try to explain that one.

My first sounds experience was with the lovely Domina Athena in Dallas. Holy fuck wads of the onrushing hordes of multiple male orgasms….that was incredible. First, she is unbelievably beautiful, but secondly, the invasion of your privates with a shiny steel rod is the most invasive, all-consuming physical fuck and simultaneous mind fuck imaginable. As the rods get bigger, the mixture of pain and pleasure in your cock is hallucinatory without the peyote buttons. Which taste like poop, or so I’ve been told….tee hee…

Ok, that’s another story for another time that mixes a cast party for “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, a band of cool Kiowas and a pick-up Native American Church moment in my garage….That’s how we roll in the Llano Estacado.

Back to Mistress Coraline and sounds. Mistress Coraline is my long distance crush of the early 21st century. She’s a domme at Rapture in NYC. Fiery red mane and the glasses. The glasses perched on that aristocratic little nose….. That goes back to my Amy Chua, intellectual hottie blog recently…that look of the wanton, hot young professor or attorney is catnip to my twitching sick fuck loins…woo hoo!

I sprang for one of her videos that show her displaying her skills with sounds. Couple that with the voice and that face and that look and….our plans to hit a U.S. Open in NYC in the next couple of years may have been moved up to 2008. I’m envisioning it…great tennis and a surgical steel rod being inserted into my cock by this young lady…and maybe throw in an Obama win and….I could finish the upcoming year sated.

Peace to us all my brothers and sisters….

I fall in lust watching C-Span’s Book TV. The last time it was a prim and proper historian who I believe was talking about Robert E. Lee and I just wanted to drag her down from the podium and perform very inappropriate acts all over her in front of the charmingly stodgy crowd that she was speaking to. Attractive women and ideas absolutely melt me. (editor’s note: the lady in question reappeared on Book TV. Elizabeth Brown Pryor…sigh )
As a Texan, I was appropriately spending some worship time with my Dallas Cowboys this afternoon, but I zip back and forth and suddenly…oh my goodness…there she is……Amy Chua. No. 1, I want to get her book “Day of Empire”. Secondly I’d love to sit in on some of her lectures at Yale Law School where she teaches as she’s a gifted communicator. But thirdly, I want a wild weekend with her. Or a hall pass to watch as she has a wild weekend with somebody else..preferably a coltish undergraduate Yale lass….you see I’ve been thinking this through as I’ve been watching her on ‘After Words’ on Book TV.

I want her appointed as the next Attorney General of the United States so I can think unclean thoughts when she testifies in front of Congress at her confirmation hearings. And…I’ll secretly fantasize about her water boarding me, wearing some sort of leather dress….or most anything from Condi’s wardrobe….

Other than that, I’m going to buy her damned book. Brilliant mind and….well you know…

I thought I should dash off a stirring salute to you all as we ring down the year. I’ve been on a lengthy vacation at the end of 2007 that’s been positively fab. Sucking up politics, too many sweets and an actual deep and abiding enjoyment of this particular holiday season has been akin to floating on a stream on a warm summer day, although you suspect an 18th century Huron warrior is lurking behind a tree waiting to open up a gaping, sucking chest wound in you with a blast from a Brown Bess musket. Such is the nature of my equanimity of soul, I suspect Magua is out there somewhere, ready to cut out my heart and hold it aloft.

In my guise as marketing guru to the Southwest, I’m hitting the road next month to help another wing of the company launch a sister operation to my little advertising agency. An isle of creative chaos within the corporate bean counter world of p&l and endless reports on everything from sales to bowel movement flow charts.

It was bringing me in the vicinity of Stacy, my domme-in-a-thong, who I’ve written of with a for real lust that few other people have ever matched. She’s cute and curvy but her best asset is a wickedly sharp mind and instinctive feel for things freaky. We’re My Space friends so I checked to see if she’d join me. Now she had officially retired a while back but in my sexual addiction I’ve always applied the rule of sales….just keep asking for what you want, in endlessly inventive and charming albeit bulldog determined ways.

A little back and forth and she confirmed her retirement. She’s met a guy who seems like a very decent guy in their photos. And she’s happy. God bless her. She asked me if I’d read her blog on the death of Benazir Bhutto on her My Space page and I had. She’s a lefty and I admire her commitment and I keep up with her musings.

I would link you to it but I feel compelled to respect her privacy. However I will share it. It comes from a lady with a lovely, compassionate heart writing about a lady with a lovely, warrior’s heart.

Today I was nauseous and depressed. I was yesterday too. I got a phone call with a mistake on my account at Cox from when I had the miscarriage and had to make a couple of calls and deal with that. Which made me cry my eyes out and call in sick because I couln’t deal with reality and thought the world as we know it was falling apart.

So I cried myself back to sleep, not knowing that the world as we know it really did fall apart at that aproximate time. My hero, Benazir Bhutto, was shot in Pakistan today.

I know that you may not know who she is, so I’ll tell you that she was the former Prime Minister of Pakistan and a leader in the opposition party. She was one of our best allies against the Taliban and Al-Queda.

I don’t know what this means for the world, all I know is that I felt this physically.

My hope now is that she be reincarnated into this world to finish her work to free oppressed people.

Peace to us all, my brothers and sisters…

I have been susceptible to lower back strains since I jumped on top of a desk at an after hours office party and broke into a revivalistic boogie of sorts. It was around 30 years ago and that “strain” put me flat of my back and introduced me to a level of agony that few dommes would ever be able to match.

After a yoga class, run and make-good tennis match from our local tennis league weekend, I managed to re-injure my lower back so I’m home for the day and feeling as if I’ve neglected my blog. But there is a reason.

I’ve torn down the walls of my sexual addiction on a pretty cosmic scale. Except for this retired stripper, who violates my backside man-cave just about every other week. I’m not paying, although a few bones have been thrown her way.

However, when your prostate is getting inner noogies (sp.?) on a pretty regular basis, I find it hard to find too much distress in much of anything. I don’t think we really care much for each other though she goes through the motions. And I access my courtly 21st century gentleman schtick to get my occasional violation and get the heck out of there. She also showers me with teasing tidbits of humiliation and other tiny torrents of verbal emascualtion, so I’m pretty much sated.

This blog has been way helpful. While much of getting healthier and more open is tough, sprint into a brick wall bullshit….this is more of a breathing space. Here, in this particular format, you can celebrate or cock a jaundiced eyebrow at the sick shit one does in the throes of addiction. You can smile, sigh and gird your loins for the next day or the next minute. If it grabs your forearm and lifts you out of the muck and back on a path towards the light, I’ve done my job.

And if it doesn’t, maybe you’ll just be vaguely appalled and that too, I will accept. Peace to us all, my brothers and sisters.

     I am haunted by the closing moments of Mike Nichols’ “Carnal Knowledge.” Jack Nicholson’s character is getting a blowjob from a hooker but first requires her to ritualistically say something about his mighty sexual prowess or something close to that kind of pathetic (but hot if it works for you) scenario.

     When I saw that as a young man and followed the arc of your basic randy college age whore dog guy to that particular disquieting conclusion, I mentally muttered something about weirdness and went on…Now some 30 years on, I get it. I’m in part, that guy. Boy, that’s a real victory.

     When I bailed from my first marriage in my late 20s, I started on about a 10 to 15 year of what I thought at the time was an impressive blitzkrieg of womanizing. I was a ladies man! In hindsight, golly gee, it was a fab launching pad into a more complex and dispiriting sexual addiction. After I blew up a few relationships that could have been long term  and fulfilling, I found myself emotionally wounded and scarred. I’d broken my own damned heart with a vengeance and left some neat women in my wake. I had fully marched into my own personal kingdom of Dumb Fuckdom!

     From that point on, I made sure my depredations were with strippers, dommes and those lovely working girls that co-inhabit that world. Costly, but allegedly emotionally safe. We addicts get to know the real cost of that.

     My little non-beauty school dropout, Cheyenne, and I are going to meet for drinks. She is my aforementioned Emily Dickinson of the naughty text and other gifted turns of phrase. I mentioned she should bring her molestation gear in case we decide to get frisky afterwards in some sort of bdsm quirkiness.

     Cash is usually involved so I went from boyish anticipatory gee whiz to….ah fuck, we’re in a B rate “Carnal Knowledge.”

     Of course, all of this is fictional, and I’m merely a guy who loves his wife, works his recovery on the high wire daily and suddenly realizes that some days it doesn’t look like there’s a fucking net down there!

    Peace to us all, my brothers and sisters.

     As the years have rolled by my kinkiness has deepened like a river full of sexual sludge. Or perhaps it flows like the rush of eros-addled BDSM Bass heading upstream to spawn in a placid pool of perversion…

     Bottom line, the acts I would reallllllllly like to indulge in involve those things that I think might no. 1, kill you or no. 2, lead to an open and forthwright conversation with your wife about this new STD you’ve contracted and perhaps given her. Immediately after which, she cradles you in her arms and jams a fork in the back of your neck and starts vigorously trying to sever your spine or at least make putting on a dress shirt chafe.

     I remember the first time I looked through a microscope in 8th or 9th grade. I saw those squirming entities and I immediately developed low grade OCD on cleanliness. Later on, as I read about Howard Hughes and his mania vis a vis germs, my first thought was…dude…how sensible! So, combine the two and as my sexual addiction took full flower, I was hobbled. (not in the bdsm sense, which might actually be cool but in the metaphysical and logistical sense…)

     If I stick this there and let it become exposed to that….the being that is moi may die a hideous and prolonged cessation of life dance. I’m still appalled that I’m not immortal. Althought I think my dog and I might actually live forever. We’re neater than most folks. Then the actual acts themselves, that in my head stirred my other head, left me going…my tongue is actually going to be placed in that particular orifice….ewwww.

     So, it leaves my fascination with cuckoldry on the mental meltdown shelf. It gets me thrashing when I am taunted with it…..but in terms of clean-up detail after the fact, I’m back looking in that microscope going, damn…if it would all just stop wiggling. And as a fluffer…there again…pretty hot in my ricocheting thoughts….but let me get lab results first, second and perhaps every minute and a half to put my mind at ease.

     And finally, the Olympus of woo hoo tease and denial scenarios…ass worship. In grand concept, parting those lovely cheeks and diving in to clean up my leavings or those of someone else or just rimming for the grand giggles of it…oh my god! I’m wide-eyed and smiling just doing the pondering. But offered the posterior of a number of nubile lasses that are tripping through my brain right now…I’m looking at my WWHD bracelet. Mr. Hughes would back peddle, grab a kleenex and dab at imaginary microscopic globules of demon somethings.

     So to my science teacher, Mr. V and to the man who brought us the Spruce Goose, a big thank you. I may have been robbed of some actual experiences….but I’m not hauling around any virulent hangnail from hell “thangs” in my little ol’ Llano Estacado personal eco-system.

     She called earlier today and it made me smile. I have done many, many twisted, fucked up sleazy, hot little scenarios with this lady. She got out of rehab a few months back and felt it was best to get away from the Llano Estacado and go elsewhere to get healthy. She’s back and wants to lead me into some sort of bondage, cbt, breathplay bout of head spinning release.

     She’s just under 6 feet tall, usually has a punked out hairstyle and in her prime a few years back, she had a body that was truly Xena warrior princess taut and tantalizing. As the booze and other substances took their toll before she hit rehab, she got a little chunky but she is still a dear, sweet nasty bit of business.

     She was raised by a family of bikers and has retained that rough-hewn quality. When she manhandles you, you keep your safeword handy or she would seriously inflict ouchy harm from hell.

     And she is comfortable with deviancy. Years ago I was fussing about my sexual predilections trying to stir up a good ol’ case of down home guilt. She said in a no-nonsense and (for her) nurturing manner, “you’re just a freak.” Bless her heart, she meant it as a benediction, a moment of acceptance between damaged, lost souls and then returned to trussing up my privates with some cord of some sort.

     She’s a sweet kid and I may buckle now that she’s back in town. My good old girl biker punk stripper chick with a flair for the ol’ bdsm.