Steellover

It's funny, but sometimes just a simple mindless image can trigger so many memories, both good and bad, of what might or might not have been, of good times that were had and good feelings that were experienced.  Along with the heartache, too.  

I guess I'm wired that way, for nostalgia.  Maybe that's how we learn from mistakes, but also so we can relive the joys of past good times.

The other day, I came across an image on the web.  It was not a particularly disturbing or provoking image, to most people it wouldn't even mean anything at all.  It was a picture of a wrecked car, sitting in the woods, overgrown with trees, grasses, shrubs and weeds.  It was a crumpled, bright red Chevrolet.  The wreck was adorned with faded, peeling race decals, including a large numeral "8" on it's side, "Bud" on the hood nearly peeled off, and the word "Budweiser" on it's rear quarter-panel barely legible amid the crumpled and mutilated sheet metal.  Forlorn, forgotten, a relic gradually being reclaimed by the forest.

Once, a long time ago- nearly 20 years ago now!  I would watch this car and it's driver race to glory on Sunday afternoons.  He was hugely popular, and hoped to follow in his father's footsteps, after his father had tragically died in a race just a few years previously.  Though he never became as dominant on the track as his father had been, everyone loved him for his cool attitude, laid back, good old boy demeanor and his humorous commentary.  Once, after a win at the Talladega track, he once said, "That don't mean shit right now, my daddy done won here ten times."  And, I rooted for him, too.  Nowadays, I don't follow racing as closely as I did then.  There is just too much to do on Sunday afternoons- like, getting out and exploring and communing with nature- that sitting in front of a TV watching a car race just doesn't have the appeal anymore.

There were so many good memories, feelings, and impressions I get when I think of those years, rooting for the red Number Eight Budweiser Chevrolet.  Riding my mountain bike on the trails and pretending I was him, on the track, hoping to steal a win and live up to my father's legacy.  As a kid, I went through a few years where I was aimless and drifting, and did not exactly make my father proud, and the more I let him down the more I felt like a failure myself.  In those intervening years, when I did get a successful career and made a good life for myself, I felt like my father and I made peace.  Before he passed away, due to natural causes (his career was much less exciting than racing cars!) he even told me, "You are a good man." That stuck with me.

And going to bars, watching friends bands play, at a host of local venues, hanging out with the group drinking pitchers of Budweiser.  Most of these guys now have families, most of those venues have either closed or no longer host local bands, and most of the bands have split up. Life happens. I've lost touch with many of those people.  There was also another group of friends who I hung out with back then, too.  Young, intellectuals, all of us college graduates, we would hang out at more upscale places and debate history, talk about literature and local events, and all seemed like minded, though some of them did razz me a bit about liking auto racing. "Isn't that a redneck sport?" They'd ask.  ("No, that's pro wresting you're thinking of," I'd respond.  And no offense intended to pro wresting fans out there.) We'd go swimming at the reservoir, go on hikes, float the river, and go out to nice restaurants together.  

Most of those people have moved on, too.  Moved away to other cities, married off, or just dropped out of the scene.  Only, one evening, on the track of life, I got loose in turn two, and hit the wall.  Late one night, at an after party, myself and three of the women went to one of their houses.  I was the only guy.  We were all casual friends, as in, we were good friends but not dating or fooling around.  Or so I thought.  Eventually, the conversation turned to "What is it about the opposite sex that turns you on?"  

In hindsight, as the only guy there, perhaps the proper thing to do was to excuse myself from the conversation.  Or offer a non-committal answer.  One of the women, primarily a lesbian, said that while she wasn't attracted to men, she wouldn't mind sitting on a guy's face and getting rimmed.  I didn't say anything, because this girl was hot (!) and lets just say I would have been into that, too.   But naturally I was smart enough not to respond and make her uncomfortable.  Another one of the women said she liked bicycle racers with shaved legs, while the third one liked beards and long hair on guys.  I had cut my long hair and shaved my facial hair a few years prior to that, so...timing is everything I guess. 

Then, the one who was turned on by shaved-legged bike racers asked me directly, what turns YOU on.  I didn't want to go into every deep, dark kinky fetish I had, so I said, I just like girls in short skirts and knee high boots.  And I like girls that are up front about wanting to receive oral stimulation.  And that was as far as I went.  But: I made a mistake by even offering that much.  "Trouble... turn three! The number eight is into the wall!" screamed race announcer Darrel Waltrip out of the TV speakers.  "Caution is out!"

The girl who would have loved my lost facial hair and long locks had just gone through an ugly breakup.  For some reason, without meaning to, what I said triggered her.  Again, in hindsight, it was a mistake to be a part of that conversation, or to respond in ANY way.  So, while I had thought I was among friends and that what was shared would not leave the room...it did. She went around telling everyone who was NOT present what a pervy creep I was, taking what I said out of context, spreading all kinds of rumors about me, and even telling people that I had gone into the bookstore she worked at and bought porno mags (which was a total lie.)  When I found out that she had been back-stabbing me like this I was horrified. Some of the people in that group, including the other two women who were there that night, took it in stride.  "Oh, so those two have a conflict; whatever...I'll stay out of it."  Others were supportive of me, as they realized that it had badly shaken me up to be betrayed among a group of what I thought were intimate friends.  But with some people in that group, her words carried weight.  There were some who never treated me the same.  And so, things were never the same after that. 

Eventually, everyone in that group either paired up and dropped out of the social scene, or moved to other parts of the country.  I never spoke to my betrayer ever again after that.  And because it would sometimes be awkward if she was around when we were in a group, I suppose I started drifting away, too. 

But all of this went down so long ago it is hardly relevant now.  Back then, I would root for the number Eight Budweiser on weekends, but that car now lays wrecked and abandoned and decaying into the forest floor, it's driver long since retired from the sport.  I myself recovered from my own social wreck and learned from it and moved on.  New friends, new experiences, so much has happened since then.  But every now, something reminds me of those good times from back then, good times that, while fun and magical, didn't last forever, because nothing does.  Something like an image of a wrecked and derelict race car sitting in the woods.  And then I think of the good times I enjoy now, with the wonderful people I know now, and cherish them.  

Maybe I'll watch the race tomorrow, and root for the number nine Nampa Auto Parts Chevrolet.  That driver is the son of a famous racer himself.  But on second thought, it's summer, the weather is beautiful though pretty dang hot, so maybe I'll go up into the mountains and hike instead.  Yeah, actually that sounds better.  

Thanks for reading.

I have accepted that I am submissive by nature. Doesn't mean I'm a door mat, or that I'm one of those mousy, shy, or timid personalities.  It just means, in a relationship, I am attracted to a dominant partner.  Teach me how to make you happy, tell me what you want, guide me to your happiness because your happiness is my happiness too.  And I'm okay with myself being kinky.  Doesn't mean though, that I'm going to talk about my innermost kinky fantasies with everyone I come across.  Sometimes, deeply personal stuff like this should remain, well, personal.  

I mentioned the Folsom Street Fair in my last post.  If I had someone to go with, even if it's just a casual friend who I was not dating who would rope me (not necessarily literally!) into going with them, I would not feel so uncomfortable about attending it while on a family visit.  My hesitation stems from the fact that, well, deeply personal stuff like this is, to me, too personal to share.  My parents were raised in an environment where anything beyond the most vanilla of sex acts was considered too risque.  It is probably at least partly out of respect for them that I have never really discussed my latent kink /BDSM tendencies with them.  If I had a "kink buddy" (or even just a friend,) I could say, 'Hey, Mom, my friend Lori wants to go to the city for lunch today and maybe go to the beach.  We'll be back later this evening."  To which she'd reply "Lori is such a nice girl.  I wish you could move here so you guys could date for real!  But be careful up in the city.  I hear there's lots of freaks up there today!" 

MUSIC CORNER:  TSOL "Dance with Me."

Back in 1982, to us kids, there were levels of coolness for bands.  There was KISS, but by then, KISS was just about over; they were that band that was cool in like 3rd or 4th grade, but which we had outgrown by 6th and 7th, and in any case Peter and Ace were gone by then.  Then there was AC/DC, but Bon Scott was dead and those new Brian Johnson records, "Back in Black" and "For Those about to Rock" just seemed to be missing something.  So, if you were one of those into the cool bands, you liked Ozzy, Rush, Iron Maiden, Van Halen, and Def Leppard. 

Then we- some of us who were in the know- discovered TSOL. (Which stood for "True Sounds of Liberty.")  And liberating it was, for a sixth/seventh grader in the early 80's, to hear this.  A band so cool, so on the cutting edge of cool, that it made even Ozzy, Rush, and Van Halen seem passe.  It was one of those records that straddled the line between underground punk and mainstream rock- too punk for the mainstream radio, but yet still rock enough to blow the socks off of us kids raised on KISS.  I mean every song on this fucking thing is great.  "Code Blue" (about sex with dead people) was gross and shocking enough to offend our parents, so that right there gave it cred.  "Sounds of Laughter" and "80 times" are fast paced, hyper energetic and fast- rocking harder than anything AC/DC had ever done. The Title track "Dance with Me" was brilliant- one of those songs you would want to play over and over again, while the horror-themed track "Silent Scream" with it's haunting atmosphere is mellower- but still excellent.  No cheesy love ballads (well, Love Story wasn't really a ballad) just great songs- every one of them.  The band went on to record a couple other albums but this was their best one by far.  A sound track to us 80's kids who loved doing stuff like lighting firecrackers off, hanging out in houses under construction, ripping around on our BMX bikes and, well, other assorted beavis and butthead type stuff. .

Save the date, Kinksters; Sept 24 is the Folsom Street Fair in San Francisco.  Just 71 days until the ultimate kink fest and street party.  I have never attended anything like this but I've always wanted to.  I'm not really here to promote that event, well maybe subconsciously, partly, I AM, actually, but I'm not involved with organizing it or hosting it. (So I hope this post doesn't violate any rules.)

If you've read some of my blog posts in the past (I sometimes wonder if anybody actually DOES read these things) then I've stated that I've always been kind of ambivalent about public displays of BDSM and kink.  It's not that I'm adamantly opposed to it.  It's more complicated that that.  A part of that stems from the fact that I live in a city that, for all the wonderful things it does have to offer, it just isn't the kind of place where people can "let their freak flag fly," so to speak. In fact, even if such an event were held here, I might actually be afraid of the repercussions of being seen attending it. 

However, if I lived in San Francisco, you can bet I would be there!  Out and proud, in a big safe space with other like minded, open minded people; it would be like an erotic dream come true!  I can even imagine how I would be dressed; slutty tiny shorts, fishnet stockings, shaved chest, with Her (whoever She may be, it's my fantasy after all) holding the end of a leash tied around...wherever She wants it tied around.  Humiliating AND delicious, and out in public, yet still in a safe place.  I am, admittedly jealous of those who live in places where there are not only events like this, but where nobody judges you for attending them.

The city of San Francisco has many social problems, among them sky high rent and high crime, with is the main reason I don't live there.  I don't want to go too far down that tangent, San Francisco is a great place, but I still love it here for it's access to nature and it's relative lack of urban problems.  I only wish my city was as open about sexuality as they are there.  Living in a BDSM Backwater, my only safe space is behind closed doors.  I once visited the Bay Area at a time when the festival was going on, but as I was visiting family, even though I tried to find an excuse to go up to the city and check it out, I still wasn't able to.  In part, because I was afraid of my family judging me.  

Teach me, Goddess, to be a better person, so that I may be more patient, loving, tolerant and kind.

Teach me, Lover, to be a better partner, so that I may be more attentive to your needs.

Teach me, Mistress, to be a better lover, so that I may better please you in ways both intimate...and kinky.

Teach me, Goddess, about things you know, things you have learned, so that I may be a smarter and well rounded person, and better connect with you.

Teach me, Muse, new ways to rhyme the words "Fire" and "Desire" that haven't already been done a bazillion times. 

For if you "Want it that way" then let me be your backstreet boy, and that way you shall have it.

Teach me, Mistress, to be in sync with you, so that your dominant ways and my willing submissive worship create the perfect boy-band music of a mutual dream crush.

And on a couple random notes:

Goddess Fest in my town is in just over a week.  Maybe I'll meet my Goddess there.  Probably not, but I will always keep my heart and mind open for Her in case I find Her.

It's 98 degrees out.  Maybe once it cools down, I'll go take a short ride around the neighborhood.  I went and rode up into the hills last night but it was almost too hot.

Late last fall, Jenny Lynne passed away.

We had the memorial service last weekend. It wasn't until afterwards, after all of our friends, and family of hers that I had never met, got together to share stories, that it just hit me hard.

I wish I could give her real name, but on an adult fetish site, I feel it would be more appropriate if I did not. I apologize for that.  She never knew about my kink side, because I never told her, but that's okay; I haven't told very many people, as that stuff's pretty personal. And this post isn't about that.

But yet, Jenny Lynne was a friend.  Not just to me, but to everyone around her.  She was much older than I was.  She graduated high school the year before I was born, and taught school herself for many, many years.  

I wish she had been my teacher.  Although, I still felt that I learned from her in many ways (no not in THAT way; because this post isn't about that.) Because age was just a meaningless number to her, and I always felt like I could relate to her, and hang with her. 

I wish I could walk the trails with her again. She was an avid outdoors lover, active in many local causes for conservation and wild lands protection. Causes I passionately share.  And she was an avid hiker and explorer, her whole life.

I wish I could party with her again.  Young at heart, she was always the life of the party, wild but yet never obnoxious or sloppy drunk.  Among our friends, many a raging evening was spent with her.

She was a kick ass skier, white water rafter, and painter.

And kind and accepting of everyone. 

As the world darkens, it needs more people like her, more than ever.  I miss her terribly. It hurts that I won't get to see her again.

Good buy, Jenny Lynne, until we meet again on a distant trail, in a perfect forest, unmarred, where the bright sunlight shines undimmed forever, far beyond the shadowy veil of this world.

Sometimes, in my dreams, I'm still in my early 20's.  Maybe still in college, a couple years out of high school, or maybe just a couple years out of college.  Still young, with my whole life ahead of me to explore.  Still enjoying the fun old times that never seem to happen anymore.  The parties in packed houses.  Meeting new, fun people on a daily basis.  Every day's an adventure:  Going to the beach, outings to the caves, long hikes in the woods and you're not even tired when you get back.  Heck, so we just got back from a 10 mile hike?  Lets go party! Or watching the sun set over the ocean out the back porch, during a long roll-playing game session, "dinner" being a couple  $1.50 microwaved burritos from the corner store and a fourty ouncer of Mickey's to wash it down. 

It's fun being that age, again, in dreams.  Except those times when you realize you are behind in your classes and it seems like you can't even remember what you are taking again. The same bad dream, moving back into the dorms again, with a whole year ahead but uncertain plans. Or of visiting home- yeah it's fun to relax at your old childhood home, but what are your plans for the future, Dad asks.  In my dream, I don't yet have an answer.  This is where it's even more fun to wake up.

On another note....I have always preached in favor of love, acceptance, and tolerance.  And I have always spoken out against bigotry, hate, and intolerance.  This has apparently rubbed someone the wrong way.  Twice now, my posts have been flagged.  Whoever it is that is doing it, I am sorry if my speaking out against intolerance, bigotry and hate has rubbed you the wrong way.  If that somehow violates the forum rules, then I apologize to the administrators, though I could not find anything in there which prohibits ANTI-hate speech (only the opposite.)  If it is not against the rules, then, maybe, whoever it is that finds my words so upsetting will hopefully open their heart and one day learn to be a more kind and accepting person.  

Last night was a beautiful night.  After dinner, I took off on my bike, and rode up into the hills.   How I love the long evenings in mid June!  There is a loop you can take up there in the hills.  The trail head is only about 3 or 4  miles from my front door, so there's no need to drive to it.  Then, its roughly 6 or 7 miles of single track the climbs, dips, and flows among the hills, and along the narrow valleys and ridge tops.  I loved the feeling of speed, and of exerting energy to climb to the next ridge top, and of flowing down the side hill paths snaking along the contours of the valleys. Then dropping back down to the canyon bottom, and back to the trailhead as the sun set and the light started rapidly fading.  Just the feeling of motion and control, winding through the sunny grass lands.  I was racing with the coming darkness, trying to get out of the hills before it got too dark to see the trail, and by the time I arrived home, it was just past dusk, and night had fallen.  

But it was a perfect evening and a nice sunset.  When you don't have anyone to sit and watch it with, maybe this is the next best way to enjoy it.  It was a great ride and a fun time.

Maybe next time instead of racing along the trail alone, I will have someone to sit beside up in those hills, and we will quietly watch the sun go down together.

I read an article the other day, about a violent, black metal satan-worshipping crackhead double murderer out of North Carolina named Pazuzu Algorad.  Well, he originally had a normal, Christian name.  But after being neglected, alienated, abused, and cast out, he grew his hair out, then shaved his head, then grew it out again, tattooed his face, filed his teeth into points, and got heavily into the occult.  And changed his name. Before the authorities finally caught up to him on the murder charges, he had grown a following of similar disaffected, alienated young people who lived, hung out and partied at his squalid, filth and graffiti ridden cesspool of a house which he lived in (rent free of course) with his ailing reclusive mother, who lived in a separate back apartment.

As a kid, I actually knew someone who was a lot like this Pazuzu guy.  This dude came from a dysfunctional family, dropped out of school at 15, became alienated and anti-social, was drawn to the dark side both in music and the occult, and tried to be the most militantly extreme person around.  Lots of other people were drawn to this friend of mine, as well.  And, back when I was a teen, I am ashamed to admit there may have been a little of that darkness in me as well.  I, too, was alienated and anti-social but for different reasons: I had a good family and good education but felt alienated and isolated, largely from a few experiences I had in high school.  I felt rejected by the preppy, rich kid, superficial pastel-shaded pop culture that seemed to run things in my home town, and instead embraced violent anti-social music, dress, and nihilistic attitudes.

So I bonded with this buddy of mine, much like those fucked up and dysfunctional kids bonded with Pazuzu Algorad, and probably not unlike a different group of misfits became drawn to a certain murderous cult Family figure in southern California in the late 1960s. 

But I am not that guy anymore. Happy to say.  And I don't WANT to be that guy anymore.  I want to choose life, to embrace the light side, embrace love and goodness, and leave those feelings of abandonment and rejection behind.  And I don't want to follow anyone else down the same path of nihilism, darkness, and despair that others might lead me.  I luckily never got into hard drugs back then; though I was tempted.  Had I done so, I might never have been able to crawl out of it.  And I thankfully no longer feel like an alienated outcast.  In short, I am grateful for every day and for the chance to grow up and grow out of the darkness.  Not saying my life is always happy and perfect but, you know.

As for my friend, I have no idea what happened to him.  I moved a couple states away, and he moved to a separate city with his family, since he had no real job prospects I'm assuming he ended up working for his dad as a carpenter, but who knows. We went our separate ways and that's that.  Maybe he, too, is doing fine, as a thriving and well-adjusted adult, but who knows. 

I was going to post something else entirely, but I changed my mind-  and so instead, I just want to say thank you to our fallen heroes, who laid their lives on the line and gave their lives to make this country a free and wonderful place.  In these dark times, it seems like some have forgotten the value of the freedoms they fought for, and some are now even fighting to take those freedoms away from us.  Maybe it's time our generation once again, like our forbears in the 60's, takes up the fight to reclaim our freedoms that are being threatened and even rolled back in many cases.  But for now, I salute those who fought overseas against tyranny and oppression, and made the sacrifices to protect the things that we take for granted.

So where are all the kinky people?  This is not a rhetorical question.  We are everywhere.

One of us could be that barrista guy at Starbucks with the nose ring and earrings. 

One of us could be that guy in the buisness suit walking down 9th street downtown. 

One of us could be your boss's wife.  Or your boss's husband.  Or your boss.

One of us could be the guy who just repaired your furnace. 

Or the lady who cashed your check at the bank.  

Or the woman sitting next to you in church, 

Or the woman standing behind you in line at the grocery store.

Or that respectable looking semi-attractive guy you meet jogging on the trail.

We are everywhere, but you won't know us until you get to know us.  And even when you get to know us, we may not choose share our most intimate desires- unless, perhaps, you wish to be intimate with one of us, and we wish to be with intimate with you.  

Sometimes, even knowing we are out there, does not necessarily make it less lonely for those who are seeking.