I was standing in the shower the other day enjoying the hot water falling on my back. Almost involuntarily I began repeating “Yeah” just as one might during sex (not me of course, but one might). That expression of pleasure seems almost innate, as if it’s not even speech, but a noise, like a cry of pain, an ouch, perhaps a sneeze, or a shout of fright. But then once in a while I’ll see some porn and the boys will begin moaning “Ja. . . ja” and I’ll realize they’re German boys, and it all suddenly seems peculiar, as if what they’re saying shouldn’t be translatable. But “ja” is so close to “yeah” that I’ve now gotten used to that… not that I watch a lot of German porn, of course. (Why is the only foreign porn that I ever come across always German porn? Are the Germans especially lusty?) I was just thinking that it would be funny to see some boys begin saying, “Oui . . . oui” It just doesn’t seem as sexy. “Oui” seems too wimpy.

Today is my birthday. I care so little about it, except that it is a good excuse, a license to be slovenly. Ann got me a cheese cake, which was delicious. Will I gain the weight that she is now losing?

A few days ago I chatted with some guy from Kentucky. The photo he presented of a young man lying on his bed in his t-shirt looking away from the camera seemed to me how a southern teenage boy in the 30’s might have looked. He might have been a young Faulkner-- an eager but wary young man, rapt with his own views of how the world should go and unaware of his own beauty. But, of course, this boy was no young Faulkner. He wasn’t even a boy. In fact, he may have been the same person in the photo, but that photo was taken well before the 20 years of mirthless toiling he’d suffered as an entry-level bureaucrat in the Bureau of Waste Management, sapping his eagerness as well as his romantic notions about good an evil. When we began chatting he was leaned against the backboard of his bed, naked from the waist down, his keyboard across his lap, his head out of the screen and his erection poking up over his white t-shirt.

What I thought was fun about our little exchange was what he wanted from me. He was looking for a master, someone to dominate him, lead him, command him, train him, subjugate him. He was unemployed but had a bachelor’s degree in English and a master’s degree in public administration. This alone was enough to ruin much of his appeal for me. I had in mind some young dreamer carrying a pocket reader of Stephen Crane, perhaps some Whitman or even Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy--something. A master’s in public policy. . . it’s a bit disappointing. Anyway, his exact words were, “seeking work have a BA ENglish Master of PUblic Admin - you own any leather?” hehe

He wanted me to tether him to a chain, walk him around in public, make him drink my piss, etc. Like many of these types, though, he was demanding, almost pushy about it. He had very definite ideas about how he wanted to be treated, things he wanted done to him. I usually try to play along when I’m chatting, returning what I think the other really likes. And I think I’m not bad at reading people and playing along. But sometimes I just can’t muster the attitude that’s expected. He’d call me SIR, and I’d chuckle and try to strike the proper tone of authority, but I could’t quite pull it off with conviction. I’m no actor, and I’m not too good at role playing or pretending to be other than what I am. The only hope is to actually find something about it that I like. I have to actually be into it in some way. But at some point I was. I’m not into leather, but this seemed sort of fun. I’m wondering if it might be tapping the hidden master within. Do I have leather tendencies? Could I see myself, leash in hand, leading some lad by a full body harness through the darkened corners of the Forum? Probably not, but I might be able to force him to serve me in various degrading ways. [Use your imagination here.]

This guy from Kentucky is not unusual. I seem to meet a lot of guys who want to be dominated. And how many girls want the very same? I think I could enjoy it too—being dominated. I’m really very suggestible, up to a point, and then I can’t get beyond. Actually, I think I could be a master to someone I really liked. I could also be dominated by someone I liked… at moments. I mean, I could comply with isolated requests and enjoy it. I’d enjoy being bossed around, but I couldn’t sustain it as the basis of a relationship. Well, I couldn’t be a master as the basis of a relationship either.

I’ve been chatting with some guy from a town in the southeast of England. He’s a little odd. The text he puts together is appallingly poor, and I can’t decide if he’s an extraordinarily bad typist or if he’s semi-illiterate. That’s not the only thing that’s odd about him. He also seems to take things a little too seriously. Last Saturday we were chatting briefly in the morning before I went to the gym. Fond as he is of men’s sports apparrel, our conversation quickly turned to what I’d be wearing that morning to the gym. He favored a big black jock strap, but I didn’t happen to have one in my drawer. (I’ve never understood the jock strap thing. Why do gays like them so much? Men simply don’t wear jock straps to the gym anymore – unless they’re old men. . . with big droopy testicles . . . and spongy penises that swing like the pendulum of a Bavarian grandfather clock. These days jocks are only worn during sex play by gay men, which makes them ultra unsexy. A little syllogism: Gays like straight men. Straight men don’t wear jocks. Therefore, gay men don’t like jocks.) Well, anyway, I had little to offer him in the way of interesting gym clothing, so I suggested that I wear nothing under my shorts. I was joking. Of course, I was joking. I must wear some form of underwear under the shorts I wear to the gym. Well, he was delighted with the suggestion, and I said something like “Nothing it is” and signed off to do my workout. The next day I signed on and there he was again. He immediately asked how the workout had gone. Fine. And how did it go without underwear? He was following up on my joke. But he wasn’t joking, and when I told him that of course I had not followed through, he became a little angry. “When you say you’re going to do something, you should do it.” Those were his words. I had lied to him. I was a liar.

Some stranger (Angel, I think was his name—a misnomer I’m certain) out of the blue contacted me last week after stumbling upon my web page. It was nice to hear from him. It’s always nice to hear from strangers. So here is my shout out to him, so to speak.