Where’s the Street-wise Hercules

I’ve made the mistake and learned from it. Never will I become emotionally entangled with a man who orders well drinks, doesn’t eat grits, and to whom the “Wife of Bath’s Tale” is foreign. RACK had better be the adjective before sub, and he can’t have margarine in the house.

Okay, so I’m back to being completely picky — wanting my custom fit in an off-the-rack world. Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. In a run of the mill fuck puppet, I don’t care. He’s just got to appeal to me for a short time, but a true sub has to have so much more.

Any oaf can order a martini, but it takes a man of taste to know that a Tanqueray dirty is something far removed from a Citadelle (clean).  Keep them seperate, Babycakes, or they’ll start fighting. And oddly enough there’s not room for vermouth in either of them.

And to get things completely, er, straight, you have to know more than Wolves are much cooler than ‘Pires. You need to be able to talk about why. Be a complete slut in my bed and an ice prince in public. Yep, Jack’s a man on a mission again. Look out.

Jack seeks…

…a well-inked, RACK sub, who has a decent paying job, a bear fetish, and shares his gym passion, likes a wide variety of music — castrai opera to Icelandic death metal — enjoys the arts, is shorter than him, is discerning about gin, has similar spiritual interests and, preferably, is uncut.

I can’t imagine it would be difficult to find him. ; )=

The Aristotelian Perversion

Yep, that the Pony Pride Flag. I was talking with a RACK Dom pixel-pal in London about my overworked calf muscle and said that it’s proof that a Leather Bear isn’t cut out to be a pony boy. That led me to thinking that I’ve discussed pup play — even wanted my own pup for a bit — but have never discussed any of the other forms that animal role-play can take.

Pony play is not something that appeals to me. However, “So what if they do?”   That’s my point of view. I’ll also now give the props to Pansy Division for the phrasing. To be perfectly honest though, I have to admit that I found the sulky scene in Preaching to the Perverted most interesting. I can’t help but think I’d also be more than fascinated at an erotic pony dressage show or at the pony races.

I know there are some who would find this sort of sexual outlet degrading to some set or other. But in BDSM circles, that just isn’t the case. The participants are all more than willing players in the scene. Respect by all for all is generally a given, and all are welcome at the feast.

By-the-bye, the phrase Aristotelian Perversion comes from the legend that Aristotle was a fan of being ridden. That’s almost as cool a euphemism as raising dogs in the country. Anyway, you have to wonder what all went on at that school for boys in Pella. Oh for the reality of time-travel.

Fun Frolic Fetish

It’s September’s last Saturday, so tomorrow must be The 25th annual Folsom Street Fair. While Jack will be at the opera on Main Street in Louisville instead of at the festivities on Folsom Street, he will be up for all of the fun, frolic, and fetish. Of course he would like to be at the 12th Street Stage at 1700 for Shiny Toy Guns, but alas, it isn’t quite possible.

One important thing that I’ve learned being part of the Fetish Community is that respect is the biggest part of what we do. I know that’s hard to understand when you see a guy in a pup hood and paws being ordered around or a woman being spanked while a crowd watches. It’s difficult for the vanilla to realize that these relationships are actually quite healthy. RACK or SSC both participants are aware and accepting of what’s happening between them. They’ve established their boundaries and set their limits. While human toilets and electro-stim are not my thing, finding a 6′2″ bear pipe with size 12 feet and making him mine is something I can get into — totally.

Are we freaks better than the vanilla? Nope. We just need more intensity (in some cases considerably more), realize our need, and are willing to work to have it. Like a Gay Pride event, Folsom (or any leather pride event) is a place to be one’s self — something we can’t always be — without fear. Within those confines we can follow Chuck Berry’s advice: “Live like you want to live — ain’t nobody gonna knock it.” It’s too bad we can’t have that sentiment in all places in the world.

The art I used in this entry is one of the 2008 Poster Competition Finalists.  The artist is Christopher Meand of Long Beach California and entitled: Folsom Poster #5.

SM ORIGIN of RACK: RACK vs. SSC

This article was posted to a site I subscribe to:

SM ORIGIN of RACK: RACK vs. SSC

During a discussion of SSC (Safe, Sane, and Consensual) on the TES-Friends list, I proposed RACK (Risk-Aware, Consensual Kink) as an alternative. Here’s my motivation: Nothing’s perfectly safe. Crossing the street isn’t perfectly safe. Remember that it’s technically called “safer sex,” not “safe sex.”

If we want to limit BDSM to what’s safe, we can’t do anything more extreme than flogging somebody with a wet noodle. Mountain climbers don’t call their sport safe, for the simple reason that it isn’t; risk is an essential part of the thrill. They handle it by identifying and minimizing the risk through study, training, technique, and practice.

I believe that this approach will work better for us leatherfolk than claiming that what we do is safe. We want to foster the notion that we develop expertise, that to do what we do properly takes skill developed through a similar process of education, training, and practice.

Negotiation cannot be valid without foreknowledge of the possible risks involved in the activity being negotiated. “Risk-aware” means that both parties to a negotiation have studied the proposed activities, are informed about the risks involved, and agree how they intend to handle them. Hence “risk-aware” instead of “safe.”
The “sane” part of SSC is very subjective. Who’s making the call? Person A might think fisting is insane; persons B and C might enjoy it very much. “Sane” always reminds me of Pat Paulsen’s campaign slogan from the old Smothers Brothers show: “Vote for Paulsen; he’s not insane!” If you go around constantly reassuring folks that you’re not crazy, they’ll start to wonder. I’ve heard “sane” interpreted as: “able to distinguish fantasy from reality” and “not intoxicated,” which are both perfectly valid, though the latter is similar to the above — you don’t go around constantly reassuring folks that you’re not drunk, either.

“Consensual” is the crux, implying negotiation which implies being able to distinguish fantasy from reality, as well as dealing responsibly with risk factors. If you don’t know the risk factors, if you don’t know what will happen in reality, then you don’t know what you’re consenting to. Meaningful negotiation must always take place on the common ground of consensus reality.

The “kink” part went in to make a snappy acronym and because SSC doesn’t tell you what you should be SSC about. Safe, Sane, and Consensual trout fishing?

Alluding to the rack, an archetypal torture instrument,has been criticized, but to me it signifies our transformation of atrocity into ecstasy, and admits that though we may enjoy some dark fantasies,we realize them harmlessly.
RACK is admittedly more confrontational than SSC. It’s defiant, the same way the GLBT community uses “queer.” RACK allows us the freedom to have non-PC fantasies. Don’t a lot of us enjoy non-consensual fantasies, either from the top side or the bottom side? We enjoy them in our literature; we may very well enjoy them while we play.

But we act them out responsibly and consensually.

by Gary Switch, Contributing Editor, Prometheus magazine, GarySwitch@aol.com

Emmet’s Initiation

Warning: This story is an explicity kink tale with mature themes and circumstances.

The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

~Oscar Wilde

It was one of those hot humid mornings when those who weren’t raised in the rolling hills of Kentucky would be all but certain a storm was moving in. The natives always know better. The air will lay heavy with a thick, sticky moisture, but rain will not come – not for days any way. Gabriel led Emmet on a hike across the property. At one time Gabe’s family had farmed this land by the sweat of their own brow, but now the crops weren’t theirs. Other families rented the land, and the majority of Gabe’s money came from his dealings in the city a four hour drive northeast. He and Argos came down so Gabe could relax and Argos could run to his heart’s content. Emmet was new. He hadn’t known either of his hosts long. Gabe stopped at the low wall surrounding the cemetery.

“Are you okay,” Emmet asked.

“I’m fine. I just like to take a look at what’s become of those who came before me. It’s a bit morbid to some people, but it works for me.”

“I never thought I’d come across country to visit a guy with his own grave yard.”

“I told you I was different from any other man you’ve been with,” Gabe replied with a sardonic smile.

“Well, you didn’t lie to me. Didn’t Argos want to come with us?”

“I didn’t ask him to, and he knows better than to force himself. I enjoy your company, and I wish you could stay longer.”

“It’s been a nice visit.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” Gabe said pulling off his damp t-shirt.

“Gabe, I like you…”

“But,” Gabe said furrowing his brow.

“You’ve barely touched me since we met at the airport.”

“I told you I need to get to know you first,” Gabe half-sighed.

“We’ve talked for hours on the phone. E-mailed, IM’d, chatted, texted, for months. I’ve been here for nearly two weeks, and I wonder if I didn’t waste  my trip,” Emmet huffed.

“No, you didn’t waste anything,” Gabe said as he let loose a punch that struck Emmet squarely in the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. Gabe’s next move was to place his hiking boot firmly on Emmet’s left glut while he delivered a hit to his right forearm. Emmet yelped. “Time brings all things, Emmet. Learn to be patient.” Gabe turned and walked toward the house. Emmet had recovered enough to run after him – not to seek vengeance for what happened, but to beg for more.

He caught up with him on the back porch. “I’m sorry Gabe.”

“You aren’t sorry. You’re afraid.”

“No, Sir. I’m not afraid.”

“Oh you aren’t afraid of what I’ll do. You’re afraid of what I won’t do.” Gabe fired another punch that landed soundly to Emmet’s stomach. “You’re making this too easy boy. But I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Argos, has prepared something very special for you. Before you leave, I may even get out my gloves.”

Emmet looked at him blankly, and found an open hand striking the back of his head. “Good Boy,” Gabe exclaimed to Argos. “Is everything ready?” One bark from the pup affirmed that all was well. “Strip down,” Gabe ordered.

Emmet complied kicking off his shoes and peeling his off his socks without taking his eyes from his current Dom. His shirt landed behind him. His cargo shorts dropped and he stepped out of them. Gabe raised his eyebrows in appreciation. Emmet had talked about his work-outs and his place on the rugby team. Both bad paid off quite well. Gabe stepped forward and knelt in front of the sub. Gingerly he ran his hand up his thighs as though he would frighten away his quarry with too quick a motion. “You’re good and hard. Let’s keep you that way.” Gabe pulled a leather strap from his back pocket, put it in place, and secured it snugly. “It’s easier to use than a cockring, and it’s more attractive.” The strap had a place silver metal loop on it. Gabe pulled one of Argos’ leads from the wall and attached it. “Come along, and don’t make me tie your hands,” he ordered.

Emmet crossed his hands on the small of his back and followed Gabe through the house. He had expected to be led into the kitchen and down the stairs to the dungeon, but they turned and went through the parlor and up the main steps toward the bedrooms. Instead of heading to one of them, they went to the bathroom where Argos waited. The tub was filled with water hot enough for the steam to rise visibly. Argos motioned Emmet to approach. It was one of the few times he’d seen his stand upright over his visit. He was naked – none of his pup accouterments except his dog collar with the lock. Argos poured a thick amber liquid into his hands and rubbed it onto Emmet’s erection.

The sweet smell inched its way up, and Emmet realized it was honey. He couldn’t imagine why he was being massaged with honey, but the feeling was nice – if a little too gentle for his tastes. Argos stopped his attentions abruptly. And guided him into the tub. Emmet sat down. The water was shallow, but Argos added more until it was nearly to his groin.

“You thought it was a vanilla time here – despite my devoted dog’s attentions,” Gabe began. “Well, I’m about to add a couple of quarts of bourbon sauce.” He pulled a vial from the window sill. “Fire ants are always greedy for honey. Try not to scream out.” He opened the vial and dropped the ants into Emmet’s pubic hair. They began going after the honey, stinging and biting to get their fill of the sweetness.  As the first batch finished Gabe added more – from a rival colony apparently as they fought each other (inflicting more pain on Emmet) as well and gorged on the honey. Emmet didn’t scream but tears did fill his eyes, and slight moans escaped. “Go ahead Argos,” Gabe commanded, and the pup poured a bucket of ice across Emmet’s now whelped and swollen penis. Putting a hand under each arm, they pulled him to his feet, and Argos poured water over Emmet to clear off the last of the ants. “You okay,” Gabe asked.
 
“I think,” Emmet panted. “But a couple may have gotten in.”

“You’ll be okay. Lots of coffee and cranberry juice – starting now.” Argos handed him a glass of red juice. It had a bitter tinge to it. “It’s laced with dipenhydramine. It will probably make you sleepy, but it defiantly will help with the healing.” Gabe pulled a bottle from the shelf behind him. He took off the strap as Emmet yelped.

“One just bit my foot. Amazing. It’s bearable when fifty are chewing on my dick, but I yelp with one bites my foot.”

“You’ll be okay.” While Argos dried Emmet’s hair and beard, Gabe rubbed aloe onto his very red and extremely swollen member.

The drugs were taking their toll, and Argos was ordered to carry Emmet to Gabe’s bed. “I can stay an extra week,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Decided you liked it here?”

“Yes – much better now.”

“Go to sleep my sub. I’ll have more for you when you awake.”

Pride in July?

Gay Pride has ended. Let Leather Pride begin!

That’s right. Kentucky Leather Pride is set for July 11 – 12. For information on this year’s event visit http://kyleatherpride.com/. I can’t hardly wait, but of course I’ll have to — just like everyone else. All events will be held at Starbase Q (http://www.starbaseq.com/). Hope to see you there.