Monday, November 15, 2010

Territory Both Familiar and Un-

In my last post (okay, I suppose it's now "Two posts ago" due to the fact that the post preceding this one was an explanation/commentary on the mishap/fuckup that occured while writing this post) I mentioned that I had a completed post sitting on my hard drive, awaiting flash drive travel to the library to be posted.

But since my computer is currently in pieces in my brother's workshop, that post isn't going to see the light of day anytime soon. It's title was "Unfamiliar Territory", and it talked about how things were starting to go well for me. Heh. I apparently should not have tempted fate like that.

[For the record: I don't necessarily believe in fate. I am certain, however, that fate is out to get me.]

Since I have no idea how long it will be before I actually have a computer again, I've decided to attempt writing blog entries here at the library. So what you're reading right now is oddly experimental (please make sure that you're wearing an apron and safety goggles).

It feels strange and somehow wrong to be trying to write outside of my home. Plus, there are these signs affixed to every monitor here that include the text: "Library computers are for research purposes only. They are not to be used for word processing - please use the computer lab for this purpose." Of course, since I don't have access to their computer lab . . .

Anyway, I'd be hesitant to try and recreate the curiously upbeat and optimistic "Unfamiliar Territory" post, as that would be poking at fate with a sharp stick again. Fortunately, the typical 'suck' of my life has reiterated itself sufficiently so that I can balance out the recent goodness with some of the usual craptacularness.

Social Circles

There are more people in my life now than there were six months ago. I seem to be developing a new social circle. (Okay, so, in actuality I'm more likely leeching off a subset of Darklady's social circle, but it's got the same basic result.) I've got friends.

Oh, nobody that I could call in the middle of the night to help me dispose of a corpse or anything, but still . . . friends. That's just plain weird. Outside of my siblings and their spouses -- and the increasingly rare appearances by my pal Zorch (not his real name) -- I haven't spent time with anyone whose company I enjoyed in . . . I honestly can't remember how long. Until recently.

And now I get to see these fine people about once a week or so. It's crazy! I'm actually socializing. Socializing with people that actually seem to like me. (Or are good enough actors to hide their distaste of this hideous newcomer. But really, either way is good for right now.)

The Knee

Of course, the whole socializing thing takes place after I've spent a day killing time in shopping malls. By time I get to the Darklady's place, the first order of business is scarfing down pain pills due to the increasing amount of pain in my right knee.

So, when I went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned that to him, and he sent me to the hospital for x-rays, the end result of which was a diagnosis of severe arthritis. There are areas of my knee which are nearly bone-on-bone. And, of course, there's pretty much nothing that they can do for me. "Lose weight" was the only useful suggestion, and that'll be a lengthy process that won't see results anytime soon. Sigh.

Okay, knee pain and ugly diagnosis are depressing me now. ("Bone on Bone" would be a great name for skeleton porn. But I just don't like it as part of my knee pain diagnosis.)


One of the discoveries that I've made while spending time up at Darklady's Wonderground is the ancient and sacred art of . . . karaoke! And while I don't really know if I'm any good at it (I've been assured that I don't suck at it, so I suppose that's something), I do know that I enjoy it immensely. In fact, I loves me mah karaoke!

Standing there and belting out karaoke tunes at the top of my lungs (or actually trying to sing some of the less shout-y selections) is just incredible. I've literally been singing stuff from A to Z. (My very first night I sang both Aerosmith and ZZTop material) Paul Simon, Counting Crows, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Radiohead, Elvis, They Might Be Giants, Leonard Cohen, and so on and so forth. (Sebastian the Crab from the Little Mermaid - "Under the Sea".)

Plus, I get applause that -- to me, at least -- doesn't seem like it's pity applause or sarcasm. None of the awkward social contract applause of 'I'll pretend to enjoy your bad karaoke if you pretend to enjoy mine'. (Not that there's a whole lot of bad karaoke at the Wonderground's biweekly Naughty Karaoke Thursdays. Some, yes. But not a lot.)


Although, accessing my social circle, attending Karaoke (and other Wonderground events), and so on all cost me money. $16.55 round trip to Portland from my crappy little town on a multitude of buses over several different transit systems. Plus food court lunch money and other incidentals. It might not seem like that much, but when you both factor in my ridiculous fixed income, and multiply it by how many weeks there are in a month it turns into a comparative fortune.

Back in September, it proved to be too much for my struggling little bank account, and I overdrew. Whoops. It wasn't too awfully bad, though. No, 'too awfully bad' was saved for when I overdrew again near the end of October. BIG fucking whoops.

I don't have the exact figures with me, but by time I deposited my November checks, over half of my money ended up going to pay for October's overdraft fees. Grr.


There are women in my new social circle. And some of the women seem to like me. More specifically, some of the women have been flirting with me. (With me! I couldn't believe it myself!)

Some of them are flirting just to be flirting, but some of them . . . some of them are open to advances being made toward them. (I know this, because I've asked.)

First was Stormy, who just oozes sensuality/sexuality, and for reasons passing understanding seemed to take a little bit of an interest in me. A little bit of fooling around has taken place at a couple of Wonderground events. Hopefully, more fooling around will take place in the future.

And then came Leanne. I've discovered that I can't seem to put together a coherent sentence about Leanne while sitting in the library with people walking to-and-fro around me. But the post-after-next on my schedule of blogging is an entry tentatively entitled "Leanne", and so it's possible that I might talk about her therein. (You know, what with the post being named after her and all.)

Hopefully I'll be able to grab some more private time on a computer somewhere -- Darklady's computer after Naughty Karaoke guests have left and she's gone to bed, my brother-in-law's computer during a visit there, or something. Who knows.

[Because I really NEED to blog about Leanne. I have things to say, and I'd like to say them before I explode.]


Obviously, the computer going 'snap-BOOM-fizzle' has been a personal crisis of major proportions. Can't write (in peace, quiet, and private). Blogging has become dangerous, as my confusion between 'publish post' and 'save now' demonstrates. Can't listen to music. Can't watch DVDs. Can't watch porn. Can't masturbate. (Okay, I can still masturbate, I just have to use my imagination for inspiration instead of porn. Scary!) There are many, many, many actual 'Can't's associated with 'no computer', and my day-to-day life has become a low-tech prison sentence.


Okay, my brother got everything apart and discovered (in addition to the dead mouse) that my fans were most of the way clogged, and that all of the heat sink compound had kinda melted. Hmm. After far too much time had passed for my anxious and impatient taste, he replaced the heat sink compound, cleaned everything out, put it all back together, hooked it all up to a monitor and keyboard, and pushed the button.

And . . . nothing. Computer still dead. Not even progressed as far as zombie.

So now his theory is that either/or/both the motherboard or processor are fried. Not good. Not cheap. (And remember the bank and it's overdraw fees from a few sections back? Yeah.)

Both of my siblings have recently purchased houses. And in the temporary 'staying with friends for a few weeks' period between leaving their previous residence and moving into their new house, both my brother and my brother-in-law got rid of their stockpile of extra computer parts. Just my luck. My brother-in-law's pile included an actual functioning (mostly obsolete but still functioning) computer that I could be using as a spare until mine is eventually a working machine again. But, no.

Photo Shoot

Where are we? I've lost track. Good, bad, good, bad, good, bad . . . I guess we're back to good again.

I've always wanted to get into erotic photography. I believe I've said as much a time or two here in the blog. Well, there's finally some progress to report on that front.

The Darklady has agreed to model for me! We're trying to find a 'free' day in her ever-busy schedule when this can be accomplished. (A day when she's free AND I'm able to be in Portland.)

I still need to pick up a tripod. (And a couple of important props.) But I'm eager for this. I've got a list of themes/series/pictorials/what-have-yous that I've got in mind for this thing. All of them perfectly normal, of course, having sprung from the depths of MY mind.

I wonder about the consequences of these photos turning out well. Fantasies include Darklady saying, "We should do that again--take more pictures of me!" and other women seeing them and saying, "Ooh--now take pictures of me!"

The Other Thing

No. Uh-uh. There's another entry in the 'bad things of the sort that typically happen to me' column, but I'm not going to blog about that. (At least, not right now. My Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder addled brain keeps telling me that I need to write a blog post about that situation. And I keep trying to stab my Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder addled brain with a ball-point pen, hoping to kill it. So far, we're at an impasse.)

Suffice to say . . . fate REALLY hates me.

Gettin' Thumped on the Head

And the final topic of the post . . . I honestly can't decide whether it's good or bad.

Darklady has started thumping me on the head. (Getting thumped on the head = the kind of thing I'd consider familiar territory.)

It seems that Stormy had made some complaints about my level of self-deprecation and verbal self-abuse to the Dark One, who agreed that something needed to be done about ended up being charitably referred to as "my self-esteem issues".

Darklady's recent solution to this has been to thump be on the head anytime she hears me say anything derogatory about myself. I've been getting thumped on the head a lot when I'm over there.

(People concerned for my self-esteem = definitely the kind of thing I'd consider unfamiliar territory.)

The only problem is that now Darklady has started recruiting. Other people have thumped me on the head, saying, "That was from Darklady."

My life is strange.

Frustration With Blogging (probably #1 of many)

While in the process of trying to write a blog entry at the library (instead of on my computer at home, as [insert local deity of choice] intended) I hit the 'Publish Post' button instead of the 'Save Now' button.


The post in question was incomplete. The unfinished first draft. I cut-and-pasted the unfortunately posted entry into a Notepad file (that's right, the library computers don't have actual word processors installed), then immediately deleted the post.

Of course, not knowing all of the intricacies of how the web-r-net works, I suspect that just hitting the 'delete' button didn't completely solve my problem. I know that some of my readers get my blog through means other than actually going to the Time Delay site and reading it there.

RSS Feeds, Google Reader, Tabbloid Delivery Service, and who knows what else. Blog-to-email. I dunno what's all out there, and how people all read the blog. Anyway, if you received a blog post from me today that looks like it's a half-finished first draft . . . well, it was. Sorry. Hoping to have it finished, proofed, and (re)posted before the library closes at 5:00.

But no promises.

Everybody's best friend (with benefits?),
Zeitgeist the Clown

Tuesday, October 19, 2010


What is it about having a written piece finished and ready to bring up to the library to post on the blog that gives me computer problems?

Sure, the computer problems don't happen every time I've got a completed blog entry on my hard drive, but it seems like every time I do have computer problems, there is a finished piece a-waiting that I then can't access.

This time, I think that it's primarily (but not completely) some kind of video card issue, given that the screen went dead in the middle of watching a DVD, and that subsequent attempts to use the computer have seen the video fail during the start-up process. No video, and no sound either.

When I opened up the computer to see if maybe the video card had come loose, or if the problem was something else that I could both spot and fix, I noticed that there were several things that looked like they should have been connected to something, but that weren't. And then there was that other thing . . .

I borrowed my dad's phone and called my brother-in-law. "Hey, computer-repair monkey? I have a question -- when you put my computer together, did you happen to install a dead mouse?"

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there was a dead (presumably electrocuted) rodent with it's jaws locked around a bundle of wiring. What. The. Fuck. ?.

(Turns out that my brother-in-law hadn't installed a dead mouse, and was just as astonished as I to hear of it's presence. Or so he said.)

Sadly, he doesn't currently have time to go through it and figure out what's what and what's wrong. Neither does my brother, who took it anyway, and figures that he'll look at it "when he gets time". No computer for me for who knows how long.

So instead of getting to read the rare optimistic and uplifting post today (two topics: karaoke and girls -- actual specific girls that make me think I might not be doomed to eternal virginity and even more eternal loneliness), you have to read me bitching about my fucked up computer.

[On top of which, I somehow managed to overdraw my bank account by about $35. Leaving me $96.00 in the hole after overdraft fees. It'll go deeper before I get my check on the first. "Yay" (he says sarcastically.) This means no trips to Darklady's Wonderground up in Portland in the immediate future, either. Kill me, kill me now.]

Well, maybe I'll get some reading done. I hear they've now got these things called "books" that are like e-books or web fiction, but on sheets of paper that are all stuck together. (Weird.)

Monday, October 4, 2010

Everything I Know About Sex I Learned From Porn

After making a mere six posts throughout the first half of 2010, in August I finally laced up my blogging shoes and hit the dance floor. I posted on August 11th and 12th. Then thought to myself, “Two posts in as many days? Yikes!”

Then the following week I posted on August 17th. And 19th. “Two posts a week, two weeks running?” I thought. “I’m back!”

I have since realized that those four posts were a false start. I’ve realized that because it’s nearly a month and a half later, and I have yet to write another post. (Whoops.)

So, here we go again.

Let’s Open With a Joke

One day, Mrs. Jones asks her fourth grade class a question. And back in the third row, Timmy excitedly puts his hand up. Timmy knows that the answer to the question is ‘sex’. And since Timmy’s parents never bothered to set the parental controls on their computer’s web browser, Timmy also happens to know exactly what ‘sex’ is.

So Mrs. Jones calls on Timmy and lets him answer her question. Timmy gets up from his desk, standing straight and proud, and begins to speak. Mrs. Jones is so shocked by the unexpected words coming out of Timmy’s mouth that she doesn’t even think to cut him off as he says the following:

“First the guy licks the girl’s pussy. Then the girl sucks the guy’s dick. Then the guy sticks his dick in the girl’s pussy and slides it in and out for awhile. Then they change positions, and the guy sticks his dick in the girl’s ass and slides it in and out for awhile. Then, finally, the guy jerks off on the girl’s face. And that’s how babies are made.”

[Okay, so, I never said it was going to be a good joke.]

Sex Ed Sunday

There’s something new and exciting on the October schedule of events for Darklady’s Wonderground. “Sex Ed Sunday”. Just what is Sex Ed Sunday, you ask? Hmm. I asked the same thing. Only instead of just musing to myself, I mused over the phone to the Dark One herself.

According to Darklady, she’s not yet 100% certain of the format, but she’s got some definite ideas in place. She has a bunch of really interesting documentaries and sex ed films that she wants to play for the assembled throng. She wants discussion – both post-film discussion and otherwise. Workshops are another component being worked on for the new event.

The inaugural installment of Sex Ed Sunday is set for October 10th, and the ongoing event will probably be either a monthly or bi-weekly part of the Wonderground schedule. (Although it looks like it will only happen the one time in October, as there’s already a lot of stuff booked on the Wonderground calendar this month.)

[Since the library I use for my internet access doesn’t like sites that are even aware of the concept of sex, I don’t know if keeps up-to-date information and schedule of events for the goings-on at the Wonderground. But I’m sure that more info can be had by emailing Tell her Zeitgeist sent you!]

Of course, Sex Ed Sunday – something I’d desperately like to attend – takes place on a Sunday (surprise, surprise, it’s only mentioned in the name of the event, after all). And since some of the transit systems I use to get back and forth from here to Portland don’t run on the weekends . . . I end up out of luck for this one.

And I could really, really use some sex education.

My Sexual Education

I went to high school way back in the eighties. In a small, predominantly Catholic town. Now, sex education was indeed taught, but it took the form of a single week-long unit in health class. One week. That’s it.

Guess which week I was out with an severe case of the flu?

I got sick, and missed the entirety of the sex ed provided by the local education system. Yikes.

Back in the fifth grade, Johnny Dirtnap [not his real name] and I learned the basics of sex from our fellow classmate Oroborus [not his real name], who’d had the benefit of an extensive birds-and-bees conversation from his parents. Between that and the content of ‘Letters to Penthouse’, I was an expert on human sexuality. (That’s sarcasm, by the way.)

I do understand the basics of how to fuck. I should, after all, I’ve watched enough fucking. First on VHS, then on DVD, then on Windows Media Player clips, and so on. Fucking, finger-fucking, face fucking, butt fucking, tit-fucking, and so on and so forth.

But sometimes I’m honestly not even sure which nostril you penetrate for recreational sex and which nostril you penetrate for reproductive sex. (Wait – that didn’t sound right. Hmm. I DO need some sex ed, don’t I?)

I know that ejaculation inside the vagina can lead to pregnancy or the spreading of STDs. (Or, as my brother likes to put it, “Unprotected sex leads to STDs, including pregnancy.”)

Speaking of which . . .

Safe Sex (vs. Incompetent Sex)

I’m hoping to become sexually active before too much longer. (I’m also hoping to win the lottery. And gain super-powers. I sometimes think I’m working with roughly the same odds on any of those.)

I need more information on safe sex than I currently have in my brain. Especially since the more time passes, the more elaborate and kinkier my fantasies become. What is safe? What is unsafe? How does the hierarchy of risky behavior unfold?

(These are especially important questions considering how colossally fucked-up my immune system is. CFIDS has turned me into a magnet for illness, and the last thing I want to do is to needlessly expose myself to some of the sexually transmitted nonsense that is no doubt lurking in some of the genitals I’m interested in.)

The safest course of action is, of course, the use of condoms for any and all sexual activity. (Okay, second safest: As a virgin, I’m already deep in the midst of the true safest course of action.) I sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t be using condoms for masturbation. (Who knows where my hands have been?)

But ARE condoms necessary for everything? I honestly couldn’t tell you. I’d look it up on the internet, but as I alluded to earlier, researching safe sex on the library’s computers tells me THIS SITE HAS BEEN BLOCKED.

For example: I knew that the whole unprotected blowjob thing was a risk for the cocksucker. What with the guy’s medically questionable semen shooting into their mouth and everything. But I’d be embarrassed to admit just how long I thought it was perfectly safe for the cocksuckee. The only STD bodily fluid concern I considered in cocksucking was the semen, and since the only semen involvement with the guy getting pleasured was his own on it’s way out . . . no risk.

I have since been made aware that I was incorrect in my assessment of that activity. But who knows what other misconceptions I’m still holding on to?


I actually took my lack of sex education into account when I put together the 101 things to do in 1001 days list. Item #94 reads: “Research STD risks and safer sex methods.”

Sex Ed Sunday would be ideal for this, alas. Plus there’s always the fantasy that I’d get a ‘lab partner’ who’d let me practice the things that I learned. Darklady’s Wonderground IS stocked with safer sex supplies and does have designated snuggle/play spaces, after all. (Not that I’ve yet to benefit from that. Sigh.)

Oh, well. Maybe someone will take notes I can borrow.

UPDATE from TheDarklady's Twitter Feed (found just prior to posting this) --

Just decided on my 1st Sex Ed Sunday topic: Showing & then discussion of "Beyond Vanilla: A Unforgettable Journey to the Wilder Side of Sex"

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Why I Need to Find a Slut and What Kind of Slut I Need to Find

I want to have sex. I need to have sex. (Hey, are you doing anything right now? Would you like to have sex with me?) It won’t be very long before my list of requirements for a partner are simply ‘consenting and has a pulse’. And I’d really, really like to have sex before my standards slip down below even that.

Condensed Synopsis From a Failed First Draft

Okay, so, my first attempt at writing this piece was noticeably way too long before I even got into the subject matter indicated in the post’s title.

I started off with a sort of half-assed apology to anyone who might be offended by my use of the word ‘slut’ (as I know that there are women out there who see the word as their gender’s equivalent epithet to the infamous ‘n-word’). It was about half-apology, half justification, and wasn’t especially all that well written. (I’d like to think it would have polished right up into linguistic brilliance during the second draft, but since I never finished the first draft of that particular version of this post, it never got that far.)

Then I went on to talking about my now legendary status as a 39 year old male virgin living in 21st century America. And how I’d desperately like that status to change so that I was a sexually active etc., etc. Long-time readers of the blog already know all of this (all three of you), as do my ever-growing legion of Japanese spam-bot followers. (Domo arigoto, virtual roboto!) Any new readers have now been clued in to that fact by this paragraph.

After that I went on (and on (and on)) about self-esteem issues, feelings of failure, being the outsider at ‘sex-positive’ gatherings, and the like. Wow, did I go on. I recently had an experience at a Darklady event that made me want to step out into traffic, and I think that heavily influenced some of my thoughts there. Plus the heat and light of the sun had been playing havoc with my ever-present headache that day, so much of it was written while on Vicodin. (“Do not operate heavy machinery while on this medication” is all well and good, but where’s the warning about writing while on the stuff, huh?)

This section is about 350 words long. It encapsulates about 1600 words worth of stuff from the first draft I clearly wasn’t all that happy with. You’re welcome.

What Is This ‘Slut’ You Speak Of?

Slut. Back in olden days of yore, the word referred to a woman who was dirty, untidy, or slovenly. Basically, if you had poor hygiene and/or a messy house, you were a slut.

It could also mean a scullery maid. If you worked in the kitchen, you were a slut.

(And, it was apparently sometimes used as a synonym for ‘bitch’. If you were a female canine, you were a slut.)

In more recent days . . . of . . . yore(?) . . . the word slut came to mean a woman of loose morals and low character. But what they really meant by that definition was an unmarried woman who (Gasp! Shock!) had sex. And enjoyed it.

In these modern days (probably yoreless) the sex-positive crowd is reclaiming ‘slut’ as a positive word rather than the insult and epithet that it’s been used as for the past 600 years.

The Kink/Fetish/BDSM crowd tends to use ‘slut’ as a term of endearment. Sometimes a term of empowerment.

Last time I checked (back before the library blocked access to the site from their computers), one of the most popular groups on FetLife was “Sluts, Cunts, and Whores”. The group description said it was for people who either wanted one, or who identified as one. Or just generally for people who were comfortable with and enjoyed their sexuality.

And the first book I always hear recommended during any discussion on the topic of polyamory is entitled “The Ethical Slut”.

Oh, there’s still popular culture’s interpretation of a slut as the party girl who will sleep with pretty much anybody. (Oftentimes because there’s something wrong with her, psychologically.) But more and more, ‘slut’ is starting to simply mean ‘sex-positive’.

Someone who has sex. And enjoys it. (No gasp. No shock.) Claims their sexuality as part of their identity, and presses forward, full throttle. God bless ‘em!

Why I Need to Find a Slut

Actually, I think I already covered this. 39 year old male virgin living in 21st century America, remember?

Wouldn’t I like to have my first time be with someone I have an emotional attachment to? Yes, but it’s been proven to me time and again that this is a scenario that’s just not in the cards for me.

What about turning to a professional for help? Heh. I toyed around with the idea of saving up money to hire an escort. But that didn’t really go all that well.

A couple of months ago I set some money aside, figuring that if I did that every month, I’d reach my ‘escort payment’ goal in about six months or so. Sadly, not having that money in my account where it really belonged caused me to overdraw. The massive overdraft charges caused me to overdraw the next month as well. I did everything I could to not overdraw a third month in a row, including neglecting to pay a few bills. Which led to my electricity getting shut off. It’s on again now, but I’m paying a $150 deposit in installments over the next three months. (Which may well cause me to overdraw my account. Aaaaaaarrrrrrrggggghhhh!)

No, what it comes down to is that I need to find myself a naughty girl. A horny chick. A sex-positive woman. Yes, ladies, I’m looking for a modern-day slut.

What Kind of Slut I Need to Find

The easy (and obvious) answer is ‘a slut who’s willing to have sex with me’. But that’s probably a far less specific definition than is required here.

I’m constantly informed by my low self-esteem that what I need is the pop culture slut – the uber-promiscuous sex-addicted party girl who will have sex with anybody. (Yes, even with me.) But I keep trying to ignore my low self-esteem, in the hopes that it will go away.

So, I sit here and consider the possible options as logically as I can. What kind of slut DO I need to find?

There are rumors and legends among my people (my people being great big fat men) of women who are sexually aroused by, well, great big fat men. So much so – the mythology goes – that they simply can’t keep their hands off of us. Sluts for the larger gentleman.

I’m not sure exactly where I place these stories on line of credibility. More likely than the Roswell crash? Less likely than the Loch Ness Monster? I don’t know. I just know that I’ve been classified as obese for going on twenty years now, and I have yet to meet one of these so-called ‘chubby chasers’.

However, if these women really do exist, then – yes, please! The thought of meeting someone who is turned on by my 450+ lb frame rather than revolted by it is definitely a winning option in my book. Someone for whom my being tagged by the ‘BHM’ (big handsome man) euphemism is such a fetishy turn-on that any other potential physical shortcomings fall by the wayside would be a perfect option. So a female ‘fat admirer’ tops my list of potential sluts.

One of the universal sexual fantasies for a guy is that of deflowering a virgin. Dude breaking in a fresh chick. (Or some prose that’s more flowery and poetic, if you prefer.) Virile man bedding an inexperienced young girl and taking her into womanhood on a cascade of pleasure.

It doesn’t seem that the reverse-gender variant is as popularly sought-after a scenario for her – the experienced woman seeking out the virgin male to grant him his magical ‘first time’ – but I have heard that there are women out there who do seek out this situation. Sometimes it’s an addendum to the ‘cougar’ philosophy, where it’s not just the older woman seeking the younger man, but rather the specifically inexperienced younger man. But other times it’s just the joy of running around taking the virginities of men.

Cherry-poppin’ sluts. Another big grand hope in my life.

Then there are those with a specific yearning for the hard-luck case. The sexual charity-work slut. The woman who gets off on the idea of helping satisfy the carnal needs of the disabled, differently-abled, and sexually unable. Similarly would be submissive-leaning types into the service aspect of things, with an special interest in potential tops/doms who fit into the kinky and disabled category.

I can’t believe I didn’t stop and write a few thousand words about my host of medical problems during the aborted first draft of this thing. I could have. I qualify for kinky and disabled. I should qualify for the attentions of those attracted to them.

What Do I Do Once I Find an Interested Slut?

Okay. The overwhelming focus here is/had been/will be the loss of my virginity. I want to fuck. I want the heretofore unexperienced PIV intercourse.

[I’ve been informed by males who have lost their virginity – and women who have taken the virginity of males – that the actual PIV section of my first time is going to last a MAXIMUM of three minutes. So, greedy me, what I really want isn’t just a woman who will let me have sex with her, but a woman who will let me have sex with her twice. Because really, three minutes? I’d like my memories of my first time to include more intercourse than that, with lots of foreplay, afterplay, and betweenplay.]

Of course, I want the full spectrum of sexual activities. Sex. Oral sex, anal sex. Mutual masturbation. Groping, stroking, probing, fondling, licking, sucking, etc. Foreplay leading to sex. Foreplay-style activities for their own sake. Catering-to of fetish and fantasy. And so on.

I’m attracted to all types of women. And I AM hot for the BBWs. But . . . about fifteen years or so ago I found someone (a very sexy, soft, round and plump someone) who had been willing to take my virginity before the realities of physical geometry interfered. Before the discovery that I am (hey, welcome back low self-esteem!) too fat to fuck a BBW. Our interlocking parts did not – could not – get close enough to actually interlock.

I want some sexual playtime with all different types of women, but as far as the actual sexual intercourse thing goes . . . not only do I need to find myself a slut, I need to find myself a thin-to-average sized slut. The classic HWP (height/weight proportionate) girl.

Yeah, I’m not asking for much, am I?

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

101 in 1001 - The 101 Things to Do in 1001 Days List

. . . and, of course, the old obsessive-compulsive brain insisted that post #101 be about a list of 101 things. Go figure.

So many goals, so little time.

The Backstory

Several years ago I discovered something called the ‘uberlist’. Intended as a replacement for the classic New Year’s Resolutions, which – let’s be honest here – no one ever follows through on anyway, the uberlist was a list of specific goals to accomplish throughout the course of the new year. 95 things to do in 1995, 99 things to do in 1999, 101 things to do in 2001, 110 things to do in 2010, and so on.

I’ve posted about the whole uberlist thing before. In The Top Ten List I talked about how in 2008 I decided to do an ‘naughty’ uberlist in addition to my normal one. A list specifically for Zeitgeist the Clown as opposed to the name listed on my ID cards. Then in 39 Things to Do in Year 39, I did a smaller sex-based uberlist for ZtC, this one being based on how many years in my personal lifetime calendar rather than the more popular one marking off Jesus’ birthdays.

But while I was cruising along, trying-and-failing to make progress on the 39 Things list, I discovered the existence of the Day Zero Project, more commonly known as the 101 Things to Do in 1001 Days List.

The Day Zero Project

The 101 Things to Do in 1001 Days list works just like it sounds like it’d work. You make a list of 101 tasks. You have 1001 days in which to complete those tasks. Simple.

I like it much better than the Uberlist concept.

First of all, my obsessive-compulsive brain approves of the uniformity of the number of tasks as opposed to the constantly increasing calendar-year based list. One hundred and one. Regardless of when you start it. (I also like the fact that – since it isn’t tied to a year – you can start the project whenever you damn well feel like it. January 1st, February 29th, June 9th, August 5th, December 23rd, etc. Whenever.)

The longer stretch of time is also a vast improvement over the uberlist format. Roughly 2.75 years is a much more manageable period in which to tackle 101 tasks than is a single year. It allows me to take on tasks that I can prepare for ahead of time, waiting until year two or three of the list before actually starting.

The only real drawback is that when jotting down the name of the list by hand, there’s really no place on either ‘Day Zero Project’ or ‘101 Things to Do in 1001 Days’ to conveniently stick an umlaut. Did the ‘U’ in ‘Uberlist’ require an umlaut? No, but I sometimes stuck one there anyway. (Hell, I sometimes put an umlaut in the word umlaut. Sometimes I’ll stick in two.)

Umlauts forever! (It’s entirely possible that I’m a wee bit goofy.)

The Day Zero Boilerplate

Originally, the Day Zero project required you to start a blog, reprint their little boilerplate ‘rules’ section (verbatim), and then link your blog back to their main site. Since then, they’ve revamped and upgraded everything, and now the whole project is run off of their website. All centralized. Everybody’s list in one place. No need for your own blog.

I don’t like it.

So, I’m doing it more-or-less the old way. Plugging the 101 in 1001 data into Time Delay, starting with the inclusion of their little boilerplate rules, thusly . . .

The Mission: Complete 101 preset tasks in a period of 1001 days

The Criteria: Tasks must be specific (ie. No ambiguity in the wording) with a result that is either measurable or clearly defined. Tasks must also be realistic and stretching (ie. Represent some amount of work on my part).

My 1001 Days

My stretch of 1001 days began on March 1st, 2010. It will end on November 27th, 2012.

I started working on the list sometime around August, with the intention of ‘officially’ putting it into effect last fall, but – well, it’s my usual excuse. Massive pulmonary embolism, hospitalization, etc. I finally decided to start the thing at the beginning of March so that it was up and running before KinkFest, in the hopes of maybe accomplishing some tasks while there.

The actual list of 101 things comes a little later on in this post. And it may look like I ignored some of the criteria. ‘Tasks must be specific (ie. No ambiguity in the wording) with a result that it either measurable or clearly defined.’ Hmm. Whoops.

Here’s the thing – My list is just that. A list. A little checklist of 101 tasks. Yes, there’s ambiguity, and yes, there are examples of undefined results. But that’s because most of the line items on this list aren’t even full sentences. That will be addressed . . .

Progress Reports and Expoundments

In my last post (“The Unavoidable Anniversary Post”) I mentioned that this post was going to be the first of the new ‘category’ posts. And so it is. This first ‘101 in 1001’ post contains the bare bones list. If I’d fleshed the list out and explained everything to my satisfaction, this post would be eleventeen uhquabazillion words long.

After this, the 101 in 1001 category will primarily be concerned with Progress Reports and Expoundments. (My spell checker doesn’t like the word ‘expoundment’. But that doesn’t really surprise me, as it didn’t care for the numbers ‘eleventeen’ or ‘uhquabazillion’, either.)

Progress reports are, simply enough, little updates as to the state of completion of my chosen tasks. During these reports, I’ll let you know when I complete tasks, or when I make notable progress toward completion. Or if I miss the deadline on task #01 and end up blowing my brains out in a state of deep despair. Things like that.

Expoundments are when I expound on the list items, more fully explaining them by turning ‘not even sentences’ into multiple paragraphs.

Okay. This brings us to the list itself.

The “101 Things to Do in 1001 Days” List

001.) Lose my virginity before 12.23.2010

002.) Have sex
003.) Receive oral sex
004.) Penetrate someone anally
005.) Perform oral sex on a Woman
006.) Perform oral sex on a Man
007.) Lose anal virginity

008.) Have sex with Darklady
009.) Have sexual intercourse with Freya
010.) Participate in a group sex experience
011.) Be approached by someone for play (sex, BDSM, or similar)
012.) Set up play partners for events prior to those events
013.) Find a recurring BDSM play partner
014.) Find a(n at least) temporary submissive for the Leatherwoods event

015.) Masturbate a woman (vaginally) with a banana
016.) Fist a woman (vaginally)
017.) Gently masturbate a woman (vaginally) with a baseball bat
018.) Indulge my foot fetish
019.) Engage in ‘watersports’ activities with a woman
020.) Write on a naked woman with Crayola Washable Markers (or the like)
021.) Play with a woman in a hot tub
022.) Play with a strap-on equipped woman
023.) Play with a woman who is in full clown make-up
024.) Engage in age play activities with a woman
025.) Play with a woman costumed as Batgirl
026.) Enjoy Some Non-Penetrative Sex (Tit-Fucking, Axilism, etc)
027.) Beat the previous year’s National Masturbation Month masturbation count (both solo and mutual)
028.) Masturbate for an audience (of at least one)
029.) Be seen naked/reverse barefoot by a crowd
030.) Undress a woman (or women)
031.) Keep a pair of panties as a souvenir

032.) Play with an (otherwise-naked) collared and leased woman
033.) Bind a woman with cuffs, chains, rope, duct tape, or other likely materials
034.) Play with a bound woman (BDSMI)
035.) Dom somebody
036.) Perform some nipple play/breast torture
037.) Spank a woman (and other impact play)
038.) Do some wax play

039.) Have someone suck on my toes

040.) Put together a toybag
041.) Put together a first aid kit
042.) Obtain some sex toys
043.) Obtain some bondage gear
044.) Design/make permanent duct tape bondage gear
045.) Get some creative and odd things for my toybag
046.) Get a flogger and learn to use it
047.) Get a violet wand
048.) Get fetish clothing
049.) Make masks

050.) Get internet access

051.) Blog more often (ideally on a regular schedule)
052.) Go through all of my old Time Delay notes for as-yet unwritten posts, & either write or abandon them
053.) Create a stockpile of written material
054.) Expand the ‘Yes Brodie’ post into a book-length essay
055.) Write a porn screenplay
056.) Script a sexually explicit comic (book or strip)
057.) Write a letter to Penthouse
058.) Reorganize my mammoth stockpile of notes for as-yet unwritten erotic stories
059.) Write some erotica
060.) Enter (and place above 16th in) Literotica Survivor
061.) Write (and ideally perform) some spoken word style performance pieces intended for erotic open mic night

062.) Start selling adult-themed stuff (t-shirts, etc.) through CafePress
063.) Put together a work of erotica (or pornography) to sell through CafePress or Lulu

064.) Find an artist for projects needing art
065.) Collect/commission erotic art

066.) Develop Zeitgeist the Clown as an actual persona
06?.) Build Zeitgeist the Clown as a brand
068.) Pimp the blog and get more readers
069.) Spread the word about BDSMI
070.) Keep FetLife page (and other networking sites) updated
071.) Start a FetLife group
072.) Get a POBox under my scene name
073.) Give a workshop or presentation

074.) Podcast

075.) Start taking erotic/pornographic photos
076.) Open Tumblr site for reposting erotic photos from other Tumblr sites
077.) Take at least one photo for each of my preferred Tumblr tag/categories

078.) Organize my porn collection
079.) Build a better porn collection
080.) Make my own porn compilation
081.) Make my own porn

082.) Make more friends on FetLife
083.) Make real-life friends in the BDSM/kink/sex-positive community
084.) Find/build a network of rides to and from events
085.) Start attending munches
086.) Attend a BDSM/Kink/Sex event (in addition to KinkFest)
087.) Put together a BDSM resume/negotiation worksheet/what-I’m-into list
088.) Give Craigslist another try

089.) Learn some basic rope bondage
090.) Learn a demonstrable BDSM/Kink/Fetish/Sex skill
091.) Read at least 30 non-fiction books on BDSM/Kink/Fetish/Sex topics
092.) Learn how to kiss
093.) Learn some pedicure skills
094.) Research STD risks and safer sex methods

095.) Lose enough weight to have sexual intercourse with a BBW
096.) Build up stamina (sexual and otherwise)
097.) Find a way to fund my BDSM/Kink/Fetish/Sex life
098.) Develop necessary social skills for participation in BDSM/Kink/Sex-positive community
099.) Work on eliminating my OCD-based ‘full disclosure’ problem
100.) Start acting on potential opportunities when presented instead of first endlessly deliberating
101.) Find a brand/make/style of condom that fits

Thursday, August 12, 2010

The Unavoidable Anniversary Post

This is Time Delay post #100. Today is the second anniversary of my first post. (First two posts, actually.) It strikes me as the blogging equivalent of one of those rare planetary alignment thingies.

How could the big anniversary post NOT happen when it’s a double anniversary convergence? Really, there was no way to stop it.

This Hadn’t Been the Plan

I hadn’t planned on doing anything big here in the blog for either post #100 or the second anniversary. I figured I’d throw in a little self-indulgent celebratory paragraph between the title and first subheading, and then ignore it thereafter, going onto whatever was the topic at hand. (The intended topic for post #100 has been relocated to post #102.) This was the plan for both #100 and for the 2nd anniversary.

It wasn’t just that I hadn’t planned on devoting a full post to this stuff – I’d actively planned NOT to. Post #100 should have been done ages ago. The fact that it’s only now finally coming out is embarrassing. And the whole second year of the blog was . . . let’s just say ‘disappointing’.

Even when I realized the opportunity to bind post #100 and the 2nd anniversary into a single unit, I wasn’t planning on doing anything more than a simple intro paragraph.

So, what changed?

Mainly, it occurred to me that an anniversary post didn’t need to focus entirely on where the blog has gone – it can just as easily look forward at where it’s going. I’ve had a few changes in mind for awhile now, and I think that maybe by posting an intention to implement them there’ll be a better chance I’ll actually stick to them.

A Quick Chunk of Backstory

Okay, I’ll try and make this slice of personal history as concise as possible: In 1989, I accidentally wrote a novel. (Whoops!) Sat down to write an original short story for a friend’s small press publication, and didn’t type ‘The End’ until I’d written over 77,000 other words before it.

In 1990 I began work on a ‘monthly’ (it averaged more like bimonthly from start to finish, but not that cleanly) Max Headroom fanzine.

From 1991 to the beginning of 1993 I didn’t do a damn thing.

[Okay, I did some small stuff. I wrote a few things for other peoples fanzines. I started writing a few stories that were doomed to incompletion. And, of course, somewhere during that time period was the stuff with Dot (not her real name). Which, in addition to being a catastrophic pseudo-relationship, also managed to produce a doomed-to-rejection Star Trek-The Next Generation screenplay.]

Yes, I was having medical problems, but there were long stretches of time where my word count was zero, and the health stuff really only counted for a diminished output, not a ceased output. So, I was excuseless.

Then, over the course of about a week in 1993, nearly everybody I knew got on my case for not writing anything. To this day I don’t know if it was extended coincidence, or an elaborately planned episodic intervention. But it caused me to start a new zine.

No real consistent theme or topic. Just whatever was on my mind at the time, I guess. Over the next four years, I produced somewhere between 36 and 39 issues (depending on how you count them). Just over half a million words.

From there I moved on to a different zine, from there I moved to an e-zine, from there I moved to a blog, and so on and so forth. Several blogs and a couple of screen name changes later, and here I am. (Hi!)

Blog! Do it! Blog!

So the posts on Time Delay have been embarrassingly few and far between here of late. It’s like I’m not doing a damn thing. Oh, sure, a rare post here and there, but nothing worth bragging about. Hell, nothing even worth admitting to.

I like to place the blame squarely on the massive pulmonary embolism back in October that filled both my lungs with blood clots. Nearly killed me. Landed my ass in a hospital bed for a week. Put me out of commission for a long while. (Made me miss Darklady’s Halloween party – now THAT’S how you know it was serious!)

But in all honestly, I’d been in a posting slump even before that, and that whole thing was long enough ago that I should be firmly back in the blogging saddle again.

The last week in July, my obsessive compulsive brain realized that the 2nd anniversary was approaching AND that I was just a post away from the 100th. And it started screaming inside my skull. “Two posts by August 12th!” It was insistent.

So now I had this goal of getting posts #99 before and #100 by the 12th of August. Plus I had the accompanying fear that I’d fail at even that simple but seemingly vital goal.

And then . . . one day last week I logged into Twitter and found a DM (direct message) from an old friend of mine with whom I’ve all but lost touch. (Someone who I’d completely lost touch with before I found him on Twitter and we started following one another..)

The message was a mere four words long. (Four words, and three exclamation points.) I don’t know whether he was suddenly curious about what was going on in my life, or if he was struck by the urge to play Jiminy Cricket, chirping conscience-chatter in my ear. But whatever his reason, the writerly ‘call-to-arms’ from out of the blue added fuel to the fire of my ‘must blog OR ELSE’ mentality.

Sitting there at the library, reading that short little message, I had a flashback to 1993 when he (and practically everyone else I knew at the time) told me I needed to write something.

Oh, and the Twitter DM? “Blog! Do it! Blog!”

So here I am. Blogging.

Looking Back on a Disappointing Year Two

I wrote and posted 81 entries in the first year of the blog. Year two brought us a mere 18.

I suppose it’s lovely for symmetry, following 81 with 18, but it’s not all that great for volume.

Once again, the report on this year’s KinkFest proved problematic. (Part one is up on the blog, but doesn’t really cover the event all that much. Part two exists only as a placeholder. And as for the rest of it . . . well, we’ll get to that later on in this post.)

There’ve actually been a bunch of things I wanted to post about whose topical expiration date has come and gone. Other event reports. Not to mention an intended multipart post on my whole medical ordeal.

Looking Forward to a Magnificent Year Three

Year three on the other hand (he says confidently) is going to be nothing short of fantastic!


Obviously, the first change from it’s current condition is frequency of posting. I’ve decided I’d like to post a little more often than almost never. My thought here is an official policy of ‘at least once a week’, with an actual weekly goal of two posts. Maybe a third post when I’ve specifically got a third thing to say, but not as a regular thing. (I’ve noticed that posting three times a week for a month or two is the best way to drain me of all interest in posting more than ‘rarely’.)

I’d like to put some more effort into the ‘second draft’ stage of the blog. I still get complaints that my posts are too long, which is something I’m never quite sure how to fix. (And no, the advice “Make them shorter” is not at all helpful. Thanks, though.)

In addition to posting miscellaneous and scattered topics all willy-nilly, I’d also like to start posting some stuff within structured categories.

The next Time Delay post will be the first post in it’s own category, for reasons that should become obvious once you read it. And I’ve got other categories in mind, besides.

‘Fetish and Fantasy’ seems like a decent category for (and an excuse to finally write) some of the posts on various fetishes that I’ve been putting off, seemingly forever. (The foot fetish stuff, more info on clown fetishism, and so on.) Plus, some of the classic fantasy scenarios that especially turn me on (and some not-so-classic fantasies that turn me on even more).

I’m thinking about a category tentatively entitled ‘Blog Therapy’. I’d like to use my two or three human readers and seemingly infinite number of Japanese spambot readers as a therapist, and just talk stuff out.

[Oh, by the way – I’d like to apologize to Time Delay’s Japanese spambot audience for the fact that I keep disallowing your comments. But the sites you link to are all blocked by the library’s filters, and since the majority of your messages are ‘cleverly’ clickable links . . . I just feel uncomfortable allowing your posts, not knowing where you’re sending people. Sorry, Spambots.]

And then – (okay, deep breath Zeitgeist, you can do this) – I want a category called ‘Erotic Fiction’. I want to start writing short stories that are either erotic or pornographic in nature (that’s step one, and it’s a BIG step considering my writer’s block problems regarding fiction), and then post them here in the blog.

Other categories exist, but have yet to make themselves known to me. Isn’t that always the case?

The other change in mind is to some of the topics that have been sitting on the schedule for awhile. One day, while staring at the list of posts I needed to write, it occurred to me that both the KinkFest Report and the 10th Annual Portland Masturbate-a-Thon Report would have to include some hefty chunks of text on foot fetish. This made me start musing off on tangents, and the next thing I knew, I was preparing an alternate list of blog posts based on commonalities of content within some of the posts I was finding it difficult to write.

I’m still planning on (belatedly, at this point) covering this past KinkFest. It’s just that I’m no longer planning to do it in something called ‘The KinkFest Report’. Instead, I’ll be inserting little chunks and snippets of what went on at KinkFest into other posts, like “Sucking on Sexy Bare Toes” and “Why I Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Run Around Naked”. (Among others.)

Still No Cake, Ice Cream, Or Dancing Girls

When I wrote the self indulgent pieces for both post #50 and the 1st anniversary, I made noises about wanting the blog to be so popular and successful that when I hit the next big anniversary (which would have been either of the two that combined to form this thing), I wanted cake, ice cream, and dancing girls. Or strippers. Or prostitutes. (Not real picky, me.)

Maybe next time. Post #150? Or #200, maybe? Or the 3rd anniversary?

Hey, the traditional 3rd anniversary gift (yeah, wedding, but still) is leather – and if August 12th falls in the middle of Oregon Leather Pride Week again next year . . . hmm . . .

Cake, ice cream, dancing girls, and leather bdsm gear (to maybe use ON the dancing girls).

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Escape From My House

Lately (the past month or so) I’ve been starting to meet new people. Meeting people means introducing myself. [Hi! I’m so-and-so.] The traditional introduction usually either includes or leads to a description of oneself. [I do this for a living, I do that for recreation, I listen to this type of music, watch this type of television, and man-oh-man, do I ever hate dogs!] Which in my case (thanks to how my obsessive-compulsive brain works) oftentimes means having to justify myself. [This now, is the long and involved story behind why I’m in the current shape that I’m in – physically, socially, occupationally, financially, etc.]

Anyway . . . one of the self-referential snippets I keep dropping into these description/justifications is: “I’ve been practically a shut-in for the past 22 years”.

Chronic illness, and a lack of things like a vehicle and/or driver’s license have kept me house-bound much of the time.

In the beginning, I had friends that made sure I got to where I really needed to go. They’d take me to the odd social function. I’d go to the occasional movie. A concert, now and then. The yearly science-fiction convention. And so on.

But these people have all long since moved on. They’ve either developed their own lives and moved away. Or things like weird tumors or self-inflicted gunshot wounds had them move on in a completely different way.

Suffice to say, the more time passed, the more isolated I became. And the more isolated I became, the more excited I got by the occasional opportunity to flee my house.

The Bus

My crappy little home town is one of the stops on the route for something called the CARTS bus. (Chemeketa Area Regional Transportation System). An arm of Cherriots (the transit system serving Salem), the stated purpose of the CARTS bus is getting students from outside its city to and from Chemeketa Community College. But it’s available to anyone with bus fare, so it’s become much more than just a glorified school bus.

Sadly, my crappy little home town doesn’t offer enough traffic to justify anything more than the bare basics – a start-of-day pick up at 6:30 am, and end-of-day drop off at 6:45 pm.

Several years ago, it had been a different story. I can remember looking at the schedule for the bus and seeing stops several times throughout the day. Way back when, I even rode the bus, once. Went to Salem. Almost had a seizure on the bus during the ride to Salem. Then nearly panicked when the bus was five minutes late that evening, thinking I’d missed my ride home.

I pretty much decided that a trip to Salem wasn’t worth that much hassle.

Yeah, I’ve got reasons to be in Salem, but for most of them, the bus isn’t of any use to me anyway. The Salem Munch, for example. This is something I really need to start attending, but it runs from 6:00 pm to 9:00 pm. And the last bus home leaves town at 5:55 pm. Helpful? No.

And, of course, it only runs Monday through Friday. So anything going on over the weekend is out. Very limited usefulness.

Multiple Transit Systems

Several months ago, I started looking into bus travel again. Not so much to get to Salem, but using the CARTS bus as a springboard to elsewhere. Once the CARTS bus gets you to Salem, you can use the Cherriots system to get you all over Salem and Kaiser. As well as two other places.

Cherriots does a run to Spirit Mountain Casino at Grande Round. Which would be great if I had a stake – either a renewable stake, or luck with things like cards and dice. But I don’t so I chose to focus on the other non-Salem/Kaiser destination. Cherriots collaborates on a Salem-to-Wilsonville (and vice/verse) run with SMART (South Metro Area Regional Transport).

SMART – in addition to servicing the mass transit needs of Wilsonville – also does a run to the Barbur Blvd Transit Center in Portland. A once you’re in Portland, the legendary Tri-Met system can take you all over the place.

A trip to Salem might not be worth the hassle of a bus trip. But a trip to Portland? That’s a whole different story.

Parties at Darklady’s

So there I am, talking to Darklady during the 2010 Portland Masturbate-a-Thon, when she says to me, “I wish you lived in Portland. We’d hang out.”

Well, as soon as I got my brain started again, I told her that I’d recently discovered that by getting up at the crack of dawn, I could take a series of busses up to Portland. The only problem being that while I could also take a series of busses home from Portland, I couldn’t really do both in one day the way the schedules were set up.

This is when she tells me that I should take the bus up for some of her mid-week events, and just crash overnight on one of the beds or couches down in the Wonderground (there’s a forthcoming post about Darklady’s Wonderground in the works) for the night.

So since mid-July, that’s what I’ve been doing. About once a week, heading up for whatever the event-of-the-week is. I’ve been to a couple of ‘Potluck and Porn’ events, a Game Night/Social, the beta-test for Naughty Karaoke (which I wasn’t supposed to be at, but – well, long story), and most recently, Darklady’s birthday party.

I’m taking this week off (the actual premiere of Naughty Karaoke, which I hate to miss, but it’s taking place on a Friday, and the lack of weekend busses would strand me in the Wonderground until Monday.)

Killing Time in Shopping Malls

Last year, I did nearly all of my Christmas shopping online from the internet terminal up at the library. This year, I suspect that the bulk of my Christmas shopping will be done at Lloyd Center. (And Clackamas Town Center. And possibly Washington Square, home of Oregon’s LEGO store.)

Yes, I’ve been hanging out in Portland area shopping malls.

In theory, I’m looking for other things to do in Portland between my pre-noon arrival at the Barbur Transit Center and 6:30 ‘doors open’ time at Darklady’s Wonderground. But it’s summertime, and I don’t take well to things like heat or light, so I tend more toward indoor stuff. Shopping malls are simple. I can window shop. I can refuel at the food court. I can sit and read a book. I can sit and watch women going by in flip-flops, with various shades of toenail polish and toe rings, and other forms of social contract that say, “Hey, I WANT you to look at my feet!”

Untapped Potential

So, I’ve been riding on CARTS, SMART, and Tri-Met.

But there are other transit systems that connect up with this network at points along the line. I know that both CAT (Canby Area Transit) and SCTD (South Clackamas Transportation District) share some bus stops or transit centers with some of the rides I’ve been on. Meaning that I could expand my travels to Canby and Molalla.

CAT covers Canby, but also does a run from Woodburn through Canby to Oregon City and back again. Woodburn has it’s own transit system. I haven’t checked on Oregon City, but I’d be surprised if it didn’t. (The Oregon City Transit Center is also a Tri-Met stop.)

One of the things that’s kept me from making another attempt at using the Craigslist personals has been my basic housebound-ness. That, and having to limit myself to a small regional area.

But Silverton, Salem/Kaiser, Wilsonville, Portland, Oregon City, Molalla, Canby, Woodburn, etc.? And me now theoretically able to hit any bus stop in that range? Hmm. The prospects are far more encouraging.

Sitting at home masturbating, hoping an appropriate woman falls from the sky vs. taking some action and traveling beyond my four walls to search for appropriate women? Even if it’s just a one-afternoon-stand with a woman from the casual encounters section of the Ctaigslist personals, it’s infinitely better than I’ve been doing.

Bad (Bus) Trips

Of course, there’s a slight problem with the bus schedules. They never seem to take into account my tendency to get on the wrong bus. (Usually the same number/destination as the bus I’m supposed to get on, but the one on the other half of its run, heading in the direction opposite the one I need to be going in.)

Because of this, I’ve started asking a question when I get on board. “Will this bus take me to such-and-such?”

So, my last trip up to Portland, I get onto a Tri-Met bus, and ask the driver, “Does this bus go to the Lake Oswego Transit Center?” He tells me it does. And while he’s not exactly lying, he doesn’t volunteer the info that it won’t get there for hours and hours, and that the bus I want is the one going the other way, that’ll only be something like 40 minutes away from the LOTC.

To make matters more annoying, before I can figure out that I’m going the wrong way, he gets off the bus, switching out for a new driver.

So when we hit the last stop and it’s Portland College, I’m justifiably confused. I have to wait through the (new) bus driver’s 20 minute break before we get back on the bus headed to where I’m going. I update my internet-supplied travel itinerary in my head, and realize that I’m now three hours behind schedule. By time I arrive at Washington Square (to finish shopping for Darklady’s birthday present) it will be about the time I planned to leave the mall, heading for her place.


And then, as if to properly cap off the trip where the busses all hated me . . .

Going back home the next day, there’s heavy traffic from Portland to Wilsonville. The bus driver warns that we might not make the bus from Wilsonville to Salem. Which has me rightfully nervous. But we do indeed make it in time, and all looks well. Then the bus from Wilsonville pulls into Salem five minutes AFTER the bus heading for my crappy little home town has left. Aaaaarrrggghh!

Stranded in Salem. Without a celphone. In a world where the fact that everyone has a celphone means that payphones no longer exist. And I apparently don’t look like the kind of guy you want to lend your celphone to.

So I started walking. After about fifteen blocks in what turned out to be the wrong direction I heard rumors that there was still a bank of payphones at the Salem Center mall. Another twenty-plus blocks and I still hadn’t found/reached the mall . . . but I had located the Salem Grand Hotel and Convention Center.

I figured if there were pay phones anywhere in the city, a convention center was a good bet to locate them.

It was a bet I would have lost. No pay phones. They did, however, have something even better over in the hotel. Right next to a big soft cushy leather chair. The legendary white courtesy phone. Dial 9 for an outside line.

I knew that my sister was working until 10:00 pm. I knew that Dad (and his girlfriend) were at the coast, having been given a pair of tickets to an Oak Ridge Boys concert. That left the rest of my social circle unaccounted for.

My brother-in-law, apparently, doesn’t answer his phone if he doesn’t recognize the number. Nor does he place any importance on listening to any voicemail anyone calling from an unfamiliar number may have left. (Sigh.)

My brother was unable to answer his phone when I called. And Zorch (not his real name) also opts not to answer his phone if he doesn’t recognize the number. But unlike my brother-in-law, he does listen to the resulting voicemail right away. So when I called back five minutes later, he answered (huzzah!) and informed me that he was actually in Salem at the moment, and about twenty minutes from getting ready to head back to our crappy little home town. Forty minutes later (and the realization that Zorch either can’t count or can’t tell time), and we were heading home in his Dad’s convertible. Which was a much more stylish ride than the bus, anyway.


So, anyway . . . I’m on the loose. LOOK OUT! Hee hee hee!

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Procrasturbation - Writing About May in June

Well, here I am, once again posting 'something completely different' in the middle of what should be a consecutive string of multi-part posts. If you’re sitting there in the future, reading this in the blog archive, then nothing else should seem amiss to you (hopefully). But those of you reading this more-or-less in realtime may have noticed that the space where Part Two of the KinkFest report is supposed to be is still occupied by a placeholder for that particular post. Because while the computer is once again up and running, there was some file loss, and one of the newly corrupted files in question was that one. And I haven’t yet started the post’s reconstruction from the (also partly corrupt) memory systems packed into my skull.

That post – along with the two final posts in the ‘KinkFest Report’ series – will happen, they’re just taking longer than I’d hoped.

Anyway, I’ve finally convinced my obsessive-compulsive disorder-addled brain to drop it’s insistence that parts #3 and 4 of the KinkFest Report be Time Delay posts #98 and 99 so that I could move on to other things in the meantime. Like the now belated report on National Masturbation Month. Speaking of which . . .

Guess What I Did In May?

May. National Masturbation Month. The time of year when it’s okay – not only okay, but actually expected – for you to put on an outlandish costume and go door-to-door, begging for candy.

Wait, no – that’s not right. That’s not right at all. That’s Halloween, not National Masturbation Month. Now I understand why my neighbors were all looking at me funny.

Never mind. Start over.

May. National Masturbation Month. The time of year when it’s okay – not only okay, but actually encouraged – for you to stroke your erection until you ejaculate. (Or if you’re a girl, spin your vulvawheel until it lands on ‘Orgasm’. Yes, everything I know about female anatomy I made up while watching ‘Wheel of Fortune.’ Why do you ask?)

Anyway, I spend part of May jacking off. Whee! Although, not as much of May as I had originally intended . . .

Oh! I Was Just Supposed To Fuck My Hand?

The first week in May was the key. I spent the first half of that week fucking my hand, just like the good little celebrant I am. But by the end of that week, instead of continuing to fuck my hand, I had somehow managed to fuck up my hand instead. Couldn’t hold a pen or a pencil. Couldn’t use a butter knife. Couldn’t jack off.

My body has been host to a revolving inventory of aches, pains, and cramps of various intensities for over twenty years now. I’d been having minor problems with my right hand since mid-to-late April. But that first week in May, a pain developed in the middle of the night that woke me from a sound sleep. Bad but tolerable in and below my middle and ring fingers if I’m not doing anything with them. Excruciating if I bend them or try to lift any weight with that hand.

Like an idiot, I just typed the words, “It’s better now” and then had to delete that. I’ve said it so often to people who have asked, “How’s your hand” out of a sense of duty-bound politeness that it’s become a stock answer. The truth is, I’ve simply become accustomed to the pain being there.

The doctor wants to wait and see if it goes away on it’s own, but if not, he’s pretty sure it will mean another injection of cortisone for me. Whee. (The period instead of exclamation mark at the end of the single-word sentence ‘whee’ denotes heavy, heavy sarcasm. Just in case you were wondering.)

Weird Little Aside

I just used the word ‘sarcasm’ in a post about masturbation, and somehow it seems like it should have a different definition, or at least be used in a different context. Just the sound of it. Sarcasm. Follow my train of thought here:

I pumped my dick until I had an orgasm.
I pumped my wit until I had a sarcasm.

Maybe not. I don’t know.

The Running Total

Just as soon as the release of orgasm meant more to me than not suffering the pain of wrapping my poor fucked up hand around my cock and pumping for however long it took, I went right back to it.

Last year (when I still had a celphone), I used my Twitter account heavily throughout May, sending out a tweet every time I jacked off. My official 2009 National Masturbation Month Masturbation Count was 42. (Which, if you’re a big Douglas Adams fan, raises some interesting possibilities for the Ultimate QUESTION to Life, the Universe, and Everything.)

I’d hoped to beat (ha ha, I said ‘beat’) last year’s count, but that was just not to be.

I started the month out well. At the end of May 2nd, the running total was 7 acts of masturbation. But the total at month’s end was only 30. Just fractionally less than an average of once a day.


Of course, these 30 acts of masturbation weren’t accomplished in a mental void.

While my hand was a blur on my cock, my brain was in it’s exercise wheel, running as fast as it’s little anthropomorphic brain legs to carry it. Processing the story or letter to Penthouse I was reading. Or processing the porn I was watching. Or processing the sexual fantasies being projected onto the big screen in my head.

The letters from Penthouse are all from my stockpile of Penthouse magazines. (Obviously.) The stories were all things I found on on the rare occasion that I found myself somewhere with uncensored internet. The visual porn is courtesy of old, old downloads, and a company called SugarDVD (which is basically Netflix for porn DVDs). And the fantasies all sprang from my fevered imagination.

I couldn’t begin to tell you what I stroked myself to, story and letter-wise during National Masturbation Month. It was always just whatever I was in the mood for.

The video porn I can be much more specific about. I can break it down into three categories. About 10% of the time it was – just like with the stories – whatever miscellaneous piece of porn I was in a specific mood for. Roughly 30% of the time it was the Rebbeca Riley scene from “Footsie 2”. Little foot fetish girl getting fucked on a casting couch, her bare feet all over the guy fucking her. Yes, please.

The other 60-ish% of the time, it was a Violet Blue scene from “Kick Ass Chicks #45 – Pigtails”. VB played a nerd girl seducing a musician away from his (unseen) cheerleader girlfriend. That scene just absolutely mesmerized me. [Keep this in mind, we’ll come back to it later on in the post.]

And then, of course, beyond other people’s written or scripted sex, I did actually have a few naughty thoughts of my own. Almost all of my May masturbation fantasies involved the Darklady’s forthcoming Masturbate-a-Thon party. Fantasies about meeting new people and doing things to them. Thoughts about meeting new people and having them do things to me. Fantasies about being a bad boy and ignoring the ‘masturbation’ theme, and finding somebody to take my virginity. (Usually my core heterosexual virginity, but sometimes the fantasy ran to me losing one of the more non-traditional virginities.) Fantasies about a physical encounter with Darklady herself. Oh, my – the physical encounter with Darklady fantasies I had. Masturbation-themed, mutual masturbation-themed, BDSM-themed, and generally sexually-themed. (At least twice my brain fell off its exercise wheel it was so shocked!)

Another Weird Little Aside

Baby New Year. Cupid. Leprechauns. The Easter Bunny. Uncle Sam. An entire catalog of monsters, spooks, practitioners, familiars, and pumpkin-headed weirdos. The turkey. Santa Claus. The ‘old man’ counterpart to baby new year.

Most of the major holidays have one. A symbol. Mascot. Spokesperson. Mythological character. However you define it and whatever you want to call it.

So who represents National Masturbation Month?

I asked myself this question . . . at about 3:30 am. After I’d taken the pills that let me sleep, but before they’d kicked in. The next morning, according to the notepad I keep on a clipboard next to where I sleep, my initial thoughts on a National Masturbation Month representative were a two-headed hermaphrodite named Pumpy (alternately spelled Pumpie), with a tattoo of a pumpkin on one ass-cheek, and a tattoo of a spider on the other.

What. The. Fuck?

Pumpie, sure. Pump your cock. Pump a dildo in and out of your pussy. Pumpkin tat, sure. Pumpie being stylistically short for pumpkin. I have no idea what the spider tat was for. I have no idea why I thought any of it had seemed like a good enough idea to write down.

I still want to know who represents National Masturbation Month. But I’m now pretty sure I shouldn’t have a hand in that selection process. Certainly not at bedtime.

The Portland Masturbate-a-Thon

Usually held right at the end of May, this year, Portland’s Masturbate-a-Thon – much like this National Masturbation Month report you’re reading now – is being held over until June.

And Darklady has had a long, weird road getting this one off the ground. This time, the event is taking place right where she lives – literally. Because after a venue mishap or two, the tenth anniversary Masturbate-a-Thon is returning to its house party roots.

The party theme has gone from “A Decade of Decadence” to “Back to Basics – And What’s More Basic Than Masturbating In a Basement?”

[I swear, there’s got to be some crude anal sex joke based off of a permutation of the phrase ‘I’d like to masturbate in your basement’, but I just can’t seem to locate it.]

I’ve managed to find a ride to and from Darklady Estates, and the stalker in me is so excited to finally see where she lives. [Kidding. Sort of.]

In all of the pre-party information, we’ve learned that among the entertainment for the evening will be a handful of performers from the adult entertainment industry. Including Amber Chase, Sofia St. James, and Noname Jane. None of these three were names that I was familiar with, so I attempted to research them as best I could using the heavily filtered internet at the library. And while I couldn’t really get any info on the first two, it turned out that Noname Jane had a Wikipedia page.

Her current moniker of ‘Noname Jane’ is a response to losing a court case brought against her by a sex journalist whose pseudonym was the same as Noname Jane’s original working name in the adult film industry. The courts decreed that the sex journalist had the rights to the name, and so the porn actress would have to find a new name.

So just what was the name in question? Violet Blue. That’s right. Appearing at Datklady’s Masturbate-a-Thon will be the porn actress I kept jacking off to all throughout May. The woman I kept staring at and thinking, “My God, I’d like to suck on her toes” while playing with myself. (Oh, and I thought a few other things, too.)

Next Year

Next year’s National Masturbation Month will be better. I’ll masturbate more. My overall masturbation count will be higher. And not only will I jack my cock, but I’ll find someone who will let me stroke their clit to an orgasm as well for the whole mutual masturbation ‘points’.

Time Delay’s National Masturbation Month coverage will be better next year, too. There will be some sort of ‘Welcome to National Masturbation Month’ post to open up the month, in addition to an end of month report discussing how my celebration of the month went. And I’ll discuss the topic throughout the month. I’ll post about all of the places I’ve masturbated in my life. I’ll talk about having masturbated CJ way back in the day. (Maybe I’ll even talk about having masturbated ON CJ way back in the day.)

The above statements are things I believe to be true. They are my plan. Of course, last year, that was all kind of my plan for this year, and that all fell through. But next year for sure. Really.

I know it. So . . . it’ll either happen just like it says in the above paragraphs, or it’s a fantasy that my obsessive-compulsive brain is currently masturbating to.

Friday, April 16, 2010

'Cause that's how I roll? [placeholder for REAL post]

Step One - Outline all four parts of KinkFest Report

Step Two - Write parts one and two of KinkFest Report

Step Three - Post part one of KinkFest Report

Step Four - Begin writing part three of KinkFest Report

Step Five - Have computer crash

Step Six - Post temporary piece on blog stalling for time

Step Seven - Bang head against wall

Okay, looks like my work is done here. See you all later.

Monday, April 12, 2010

The 2010 KinkFest Report (part 1 of 4): Pre-KinkFest (and Christmas in March)

At first glance it might seem like the rarest of all possible occurrences. So rare, in face, as to be literally unbelievable. Like spotting Elvis. With Bigfoot. The two of them co-piloting a UFO. During a solar eclipse. On February 29th. Right before the announcement that the winning lottery numbers are the ones on YOUR ticket.

But this is not a mere figment of your imagination, dear readers . . . this really is the beginning of a KinkFest Report. I went to KinkFest 2010, and now – unlike last year – I’m actually writing a full event report about it. And in a reasonably timely fashion, no less. (Reasonably timely, at least, for a blog entitled ‘Time Delay’.)

To Go Or Not To Go?

The plan had actually been to NOT write a KinkFest report this year. Oh, not because attending the event and then procrastinating-to-infinity on writing the report worked out so well for me last year. No, this year’s lack of a KinkFest report was going to be because I had decided to not attend this year’s KinkFest.

“Stay home,” I had told myself. “Save money, save the hassle of finding transport to and from the event, save yourself all the drama of trying to find a play partner for the dungeon parties. Save what little sanity you’ve got left.”

Then the list of presenters came out.

I’ve been a longtime fan of Lee Harrington’s work. Both as Lee Harrington, and in a previous incarnation (pre-gender transition) when he worked professionally under the name of Bridgett Harrington. Writer, educator, photographer, bondage rigger, model, former porn actress, focus of many of my foot fetish fantasies (along with other miscellaneous depraved sexual yearnings) in years past, and so on and so forth. Former resident of Oregon, currently living in Arizona.

I’ve been promising myself for years now that if I ever had an opportunity to meet him, I’d seize it. If I become aware of Lee returning to Oregon to make a professional appearance or teach a class or whatnot, I’d be there. Someway, somehow.

Since initially making myself that promise, I’ll occasionally discover that he’s just BEEN here and already left. (Way to keep up to date on stuff. Go me.) The last time I discovered that he was coming to my state, he was scheduled to be teaching a workshop in Salem. Salem! I can get a ride to Salem. Of course, this workshop ended up taking place while I was in the hospital recovering from my massive pulmonary embolism.

So what’s all this got to do with the price of beans in fairy tales, you ask? (It’s a milk cow, by the way.) Lee Harrington’s name was on the list of presenters for the 2010 KinkFest.

Which meant that despite my earlier decisions, I was now going to the event.

The Road to KinkFest

Between the first of the year and the week leading up to KinkFest, I posted a grand total of TWICE. Not my most post-intensive period to date.

Last year, I posted an entry entitled “The Road to KinkFest – 57 Days and Counting”. This was eventually followed up by “The Road to KinkFest – 43 Days and Counting”. And so on. The pattern continued with 29 days, 14 days, 5 days, and 3 days. (And between 14 and 5 there was also a post entitled “Beds” that was ‘pre-KinkFest’-centric.)

What I didn’t post, (following all of that ridiculous build-up) was an actual KinkFest Report.

So I promised myself that if I attended KinkFest again, I wouldn’t lead up to it with a bunch of prelude posts. I did run the one prelude post this year, two days before the event, musing about what I wanted in a play partner.

The Nametag

In the days before the KinkFest, I made my usual preparations for this sort of event. Packed clothing. Bought food. Made notes based on the schedule found on the official website. (Hoping that said schedule wouldn’t change, invalidating what was intended to be my personal schedule.)

I tried to get up to the library as often as I could to read what was going on in’s KinkFest group.

The major controversy to be found there was news of the decision that the conference committee had made regarding proof-of-membership. Instead of the traditional convention nametag, they were opting to go with bright red hospital-style plastic bracelets. No bracelet, no admittance into the dungeon (or anywhere in the hotel but the welcome desk).

Reading some of the posts in the discussion, you’d get the idea that this decision was sure to cause the end of all life as we know it.

There were some valid complaints. People who weren’t staying at the hotel would have to go home each night to family and friends wearing a bright red bracelet with ‘KINKFEST 2010’ printed on it. (And not all of these attendees were ‘out’ as kinky.) Some conference attendees were meeting up with photographers during the event for BDSM photo sessions. And now nude photography had become nude-with-a-plastic-bracelet . . . not quite the effect they were going for.

My only complaint about this whole thing was that they were doing the bracelets INSTEAD of the nametag, and not in addition to it. The name badge was a necessary thing. Not only was it how people could identify others by scene name, but it’s also where I traditionally keep my hotel key during these kind of events. (And so how am I supposed to get into my hotel room if I don’t have a name badge? Use my pockets like a philistine?)

So, I dug out my clear plastic badge-on-a-lanyard from the 2008 KinkFest (2009’s name-badge is covered with event-specific stickers), pulled the card with my name on it out of the thing, cut a 3x5 card down to size, and made myself a new name card.

Then, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that not having to have an official name badge might not be a bad thing. Because instead of a single name card, I could have several which I could swap out throughout the event for different purposes.

I cut several more 3x5 cards down to size, and started making myself more name cards for the event.

“…We Interrupt This KinkFest Report…”

Okay. The subject matter now deviates from the topic of KinkFest. Why? Because I’ve decided to talk about something that went on far longer than I initially thought it would, and which finally culminated during KinkFest weekend. So it kinda fits in a KinkFest report. (One that I’d write, anyway.) But it also kinda doesn’t.

This year at Christmastime, Santa Claus failed to deliver a present to the Darklady. He put a little something together for her, but wasn’t able to get it into her hands during the holiday season.

That was the official version of events. The reality behind that statement – for those of you who don’t believe in Santa – is that I put together a Christmas present for Darklady this year, and despite my best efforts, couldn’t get anyone to transport it from here to there in a timely fashion.

Despite being perennially broke, my OCD-addled brain mandates that some money does get put away throughout the year and ‘forgotten’ so that by time November/December rolls around, I’ve got money for Christmas shopping. (This is one of the very few actual benefits of my obsessive-compulsive disorder.)

In the months leading up to the 2009 holiday season, I decided that I wanted to get something for Darklady. I’d been reading her Twitter feed (and listening to some of the buzz during the various Darklady parties I’d attended), and she’d been having a really crappy year.

I wanted to give her some kind of opening-of-present-moment-of-wow during the Christmas season. Something intended to make her day. Fill her heart with joy, and all that other crap they drone on and on about in all that Christmas music.

So I decided to do a Christmas stocking.

Now the problem was this: I could count on one hand the number of days when I’d had any face-to-face social interaction with Her Darkness. I didn’t know her well enough to know what to get her. How do I fill a stocking for someone I didn’t really know?

I started making a list, and found that I actually did have a few gift ideas based on things I knew about her. How did I know these things about her? Via Twitter. (Huh. Twitter.)

Once I realized that, I mined Twitter for more Darklady info. But even with a bunch of Twitter-supplied info, I still wasn’t prepared for the project at hand. There were some things that her Twitter page suggested, but that I needed more info about. Specific preferences, and so on. How do I get this info, I asked myself. I couldn’t just email her in early December and ask gift-giving questions. Could I? No.

But one of Santa’s elves could . . .

So I created a new email account under an assumed name (a Christmas-y one) and wrote her an email pretending to be one of Santa’s elves, trying to update her file following some data corruption. (Hey, it’s not like I was claiming I was the Nigerian Minister of Finance or anything.)

I figured this was a shot in the dark. She might answer it. She might ignore it, as an email from a potential stalker. Turns out, I was sort of correct all the way around, because her reply to the elf’s letter included the words, “In answer to your flatteringly stalker-like questions. . .”

Her answers (to my flatteringly stalker-like questions) helped me figure out what was all going into the stocking. I did my shopping. Internet shopping via the library computers, real life shopping by proxy, sending my sister out into the December madhouse shopping-mall world with money and a list. (I’d made a lot of recovery progress since my early October hospitalization for having lungs full of blood clots, but I really wasn’t up to the Christmas shopping crowds yet.)

Then stuff happened which I’m not really at liberty to discuss which made the person who had previously agreed to deliver the stocking for me no longer able to do so.

Trying to find a substitute to play ‘delivery elf’ was a comedy of errors that makes me want to cry. After Christmas had come and gone, Darklady received another email from Santa’s elf, explaining that her package had been sent out with one of Santa’s delivery elves a few days before Christmas, but that the North Pole had lost contact with the elf, and that a search (and possibly rescue) effort was underway to locate both him and the present.

More time passed, and I still couldn’t get anyone to run the thing up to Portland for me. Darklady continued to get updates from the Elf, until finally the week before KinkFest, she was informed that the package had been located. (That email also went on to explain that the delivery elf had stopped at a strip club to ask for directions when he got to Portland in December, and ended up going on a two month long beer-and-stripper bender. And had since then defected from the elves, joining the classically hard-drinking leprechauns.) Anyway, Santa was now in possession of her present, and would be in Portland March 19 – 21 . . . and would like to meet with her to hand over the package in person.

She agreed to meet ‘Santa’ in the lobby of the KinkFest hotel Friday afternoon before the event officially began.

Darklady’s ‘Christmas in March’

So there I was. Sitting in the hotel lobby wearing a Santa hat and a nametag which read ‘Zeitgeist the Claus’. Reading a book to pass the time and help keep my nerves at bay. (This IS Darklady we’re talking about, on whom I have this massive crush.)

One of the hotel employees did a double-take at my Santa-ness as he was walking past, then stopped and said, “Are you really early? Or are you late?”

“Late,” I told him, “But I blame the elves.”

I had actually gotten into the book by time she arrived, so she was able to sneak up on me. I’m sitting there on a couch reading, and all of a sudden, there she is – standing over me, and saying, “You were second on my list.”

The last email from the elf implied that the person she’d be looking for was kinda Santa-looking. And after reading that, she tried to figure out who her ‘Secret Santa’ might be, based on that visual clue and the letters from the elf, and not only did I make the cut, I was her second guess. Deep down, I was all manner of giddy and giggly just to know that I was even on her radar.

She looked incredible, by the way. I’ve never seen her not look eminently desirable – in person or photo – but she’d dressed up to meet her Secret Santa, and the effect was just stunning. I, of course, neglected to mention this to her because I’m completely socially inept to begin with, worse around women, and worse still around women I’ve got a thing for.

I told her that the present was up in my room, and asked her if she’d mind accompanying me up and opening it there. She was fine with that, so up we went.

The reason why I didn’t have it down in the lobby with me: Over the years, my Christmas stockings have gotten a wee bit out of hand. I haven’t been able to fit all the contents of a ‘stocking’ into a single normal-sized Christmas stocking for years now. Usually, during the Christmas eve stocking exchange at the family get-together, whoever ends up getting the stocking from me is handed a brown paper bag full of stuff with a construction paper stocking glued to the outside.

But with the whole Darklady/huge-crush thing, I was going for presentation. No reused grocery bag for her. No, she got something else. Something . . . large and awkward. Two normal-sized stockings. Five tiny stockings. All safety-pinned to a base made from a cut-to-fit piece of foam-core board inside one of those novelty 3-foot tall stockings. The big stocking was empty save for the foam-core (and a jigsaw puzzle that wouldn’t fit anywhere else). All the other stockings were filled with holiday swag.

And THAT whole apparatus was ‘wrapped’ in two (clean, obviously) black garbage bags covered in ‘Do Not Open Until Christmas’ stickers.

On the way up to the room, in and amongst other small talk, she pointed out that she’d even worn her titleholder’s vest to meet Santa. (Darklady was the 2004 Ms. Oregon Leather.) Reference to her outfit. Fishing for a compliment? As a fish, I’m just dumb. I should win a prize for social ineptitude. I still didn’t tell her how incredibly hot she was.

Anyway, we entered my hotel room, and I told her the true story behind all of the delays in getting her present to her. She then told me that even if there hadn’t been a present at the end of the correspondence, she’d thoroughly enjoyed getting emails from the elf during the process. (And once again complemented me on my writing skills.)

Upon presentation, she eyed the package with suspicion, noting that by size, shape, and body bag-like wrapping it kind of looked like I’d gotten her a corpse. I assured her that it wasn’t and joked that it was more likely a full-sized cardboard cut-out of myself, stark naked. (Yikes!)

She had brought her digital camera with her to document the process, and unwrapped it in stages, stopping to take photos as she went. When finally fully unwrapped, it was standing on the floor, leaned up against the bed. She started slowly emptying the stockings of their contents. At one point she had to readjust the position of the big stocking, and discovered more stockings pinned to the back of it. Surprise!

Between Twitter and what Santa’s elf was able to learn, I’d apparently made the right calls on what to stuff the stocking with. The stocking seemed to be a success. She appeared happy with it’s contents. Merry Christmas in March!

Then she packed it back up and went home. And apparently, once home, she took more photos. Laid out all the loot with the stocking in the background, and posted that photo on Facebook, along with a note about what a great Secret Santa I am.

She also changed her Twitter user icon to that same picture, and tweeted: “@ZeitgeistClown is the best Secret Santa! Sweets, rubber duckies, soap, Slinkies, sexy panties, pocket duct tape, booze & Sarah Palin comix!”

It took months to actually deliver the present, but when I finally did, it looked like it was worth the wait for her. And her reaction to it was definitely worth the wait for me.

NEXT – KinkFest, Day One