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My First Dominatrix - Mistress Fiera -- Part 2 - August 30, 2006

"Get on your knees," she said in her deep, cold, voice as she walked in through the open door and put her briefcase down. Her warm eyes instantly made me fall in love with her, along with her brazen attitude, delivering her first command before she was even all the way in my house with the door closed so the neighbors couldn't have a chance of hearing.

I got on my knees and watched her every move like a scared cat. She casually took off her coat, taking in my apartment as she did, and laid it over the back of the chair I'm sitting in now if front of my computer. She walked back over to me, smiling sardonically, grabbed a handful of hair from the top of my head and slowly craned my head backwards so my face was looking up at hers.

"I should have made you open the door on your knees you little faggot slut. Awwww, look at those pretty, big blue eyes of yours. Those pretty, blue, puppy dog eyes of yours. Do all the girls say they love those pretty blue eyes?" I relaxed. She slapped me hard across the face. I hadn't been hit like that, I don't know, ever. I saw stars for a second and my left ear rang. She chuckled. This was not playtime pretending. She was serious.

"Was that too hard?" She smacked me again across the face on the other check, sending my head flying back the other way.

"Take off your clothes." She grabbed her briefcase and headed for the bathroom.

"Can I get up to take them off?" She smiled and paused, slightly breaking character.

"Yeah, you can get up to take them off." I seized the opening to lay some ground rules I had forgotten.

"I'm kind of a germaphobe so I don't know what.... "things" you're planning to use on me but I don't want anything on or in me that's ever been touched by anyone else. And I have my own strap on stuff."

"I sterilize everything after every session."

"I'm sure you do but that's not even good enough for me."

She walked back into the room and opened her bag, taking out each implement for my inspection.

"Rope?" It looked white and clean and I couldn't imagine any kooties being on it.

"Fine."

"Nipple clamps?" They were clean shiny steel clothes pins.

"Fine."

"Ball gag?" Straight out of "Pulp Fiction." A red rubber ball suspended between two black leather straps and buckles to fasten it to your head.

"Uhhhh...." It had been in someone else's mouth.

"I boiled it."

"Okay." As squeamish as I was, at two hundred bucks an hour, whatever stock broker or Doctors mouth it had been in, I'm sure the boiling was disinfection enough. The real joke is when I was an active junkie, I used to give a filthy homeless man who would cut his own mother's throat for fun, ten dollars to go into an burnt out abandoned building and get me some white powder that I would trust was, in the best case scenario, heroin, if not Borax, and shoot it into my veins. But now I have to use the paper towel I dried my hands with in the restaurant bathroom on the handle of the door when exiting lest some previous person's flesh eating viral hand germs might attack me.

"Now get on your fucking knees, put your face on the floor, put your little pussy high in the air and shut the fuck up until I tell you to talk or I'll fuck you dry, no lube, nothing... and trust me. You won't like that." She took her bag and went to the bathroom.

I know I've said it before, but I just need you to understand. This girl, and I'm not exaggerating, could have walked down a Victoria Secret runway next to Elle and Cindy and no one would have blinked. She was that hot. I did what she said.

I was getting more and more excited, anticipating I knew not what as I tried to glean any clue from the sounds emanating from the bathroom. I couldn't. She wasn't using the toilet or the sink. Changing? Assembling erector set-like torturous contraptions? I couldn't hear any metal clanking, it was actually pretty quiet. My face was right cheek down on the wood floor, my ass in the air. Formless childhood memories flashed from the smell of the smooth, thin, oak slats and the angle of my view. As a kid the floor was a playground much more than it had been as an adult. I wasn't that close to it these days. A maid cleaned it and the few times I fucked a girl on the floor it hurt my knees or back too much so the novelty wore off pretty fast and we moved to a softer venue.

I heard the bathroom door open and light switched off. My dominatrix was ecologically conscious and polite. Maybe she could be my girlfriend. I mean it was one thing to have a girlfriend who jacked of rich guys into their tits all day, quite another to have a supermodel who supplies rich people the delusion of helplessness while really giving them complete power and gets paid for purveying the myth. One was not much different than being a prostitute, the other not much different than being our president.

From my vantage point I could see black stilettos and black fishnets from the knee down walking towards me very deliberately. Gone was Madison Avenue Advertising corduroy, at least the daytime uniform. I'm sure still Vassar waters run deep.

"What do I say if I want it to stop?"

"You can ask for mercy. I'll decide if you get it."

"So I say, 'mercy?'"

"Yes."

"But you might go farther anyway."

"Yes." I trusted her. I knew that she would stop if I really, really asked her too so I let it go at that. She spread my ass cheeks wide apart.

"Oooooh, what a nice pink virgin pussy you have. I'm going to fuck that hard. Where's Mistresses cock that you bought for her?"

"In the bedroom." After I made the appointment with Fiera and before my run and trip to church, I stopped off at the only remaining porn shop on the upper west side on 74th and Amsterdam. Luckily, the Giuliani led community board hasn't been able to shut it down. Not that I frequent it. In fact this was the first time I had ever been inside, but with the Torontoization of Manhattan nearly complete, I feel on principal, we must protect the last bit of remaining character.

I mean, already they're watered down. They, like all porno shops, had to pretend to be selling candy or school supplies in fifty percent of the store so the front window was as surreal as it could be with used ancient boxes of Jaw Breakers and Russian war encyclopedias on one side and Leather wrist restraints on the other.

I had the cab wait as I dashed into the joint, acutely aware of who was watching me go inside, sure there were surveillance cameras running 24/7 from the apartment across the street, operated by I don't know who. My mother. All girls who I would ever ask out. All good and decent people. Who knew I felt such a stigma about going into a porn shop. I was well aware that most people who went into them were just like me. Normal, sane, nice people. Did I have such harsh judgment against them? Is that why I felt judged? Of course. I've always had battling belief systems.

Good men:
Don't engage in deviant sex.
Don't gamble.
Don't covet money.

Versus

Good men:
Explore their sexuality anyway they want that doesn't harm others.
Gamble.
Want lots of money.

This battle has been one of my biggest challenges. To change my definitions and embrace all parts of myself as human rather than "good" or "bad" instead of trying to extricate parts under the supposition that I would be a "good" man when and if I got rid of all the "bad" things. Some days it works and I applaud myself for living a life on the firing lines of adventure, self exploration and unconditional acceptance. Other days I murder myself with self hatred and shame. This moment I wasn't really thinking about it too much, I just needed to buy a not too huge, high-end, rubber penis to get fucked with by a hot girl.

I felt judged by the macho Trinidadian counter clerk for rushing straight for the strap on dildo section but then realized that I'm sure he'd seen it all and wasn't going to sell very much if he had an air of reproach. I don't think he owned the place and probably made his money on commissions like any salesperson at Bloomingdales. He took one look at me and then went back to his Post. I bought a very life like looking 7 inch dildo and harness for 100 bucks. The nice unjudgmental clerk threw in the bottle of Astro Glide for free. "Oh those nutty 18 year old sisters I got back at the house" I half heartedly mumbled in an attempt to divert his imagination from what else I might be using it for. "I mean, they're sisters... who I'm having sex with. Not my sisters. That's gross, I'm NOT into that!" I stated it for the hidden cameras wherever they may be again with emphasis, announcing it to all areas around and above me, right and left. "Definitely not into incest! That's against God and illegal and I do not do illegal or ungodly things." At this point the clerk was more concerned I was a crazy person than a pervert and I saw him inconspicuously reach for a concealed weapon in case the situation escalated with the insane ranting man before him. It was time to leave the porn shop. I raced back to the cab with my black plastic bag. The kind only used in porn shops or if you buy x rated magazines from news stands so there's no chance of anyone seeing the evil in your possession. I mean, the average person would be horrified to catch a glimpse of the filth hidden in the bag. Certainly they don't participate in that kind of sin. I wonder who does contribute then to this multi billion dollar industry. I've only spent 100 buck this year. You? Wait, oh sorry, $103.99. There was that 3 day membership to AnimalLove.Com. It grossed me out but I had to see a horse dick in a woman one time. Crucify me if you will, but come on. You have to see that. For historical curiosity if nothing else, Mary Queen of Scots or whoever it was got killed fucking a horse, right? This shit has been going on a lot longer than Larry Flint, okay. So get off your fucking moral soap box. You're going to throw the first stone? If you're honest, really honest for five minutes you'll come up with enough dirt on yourself that begging at God's feet for eternity might, might, give you a chance at heaven if he's in a really forgiving mood that day.

"Get up." Mistress Fiera commanded. She took the rope and in a flash, skillfully had my wrists tied together, suspended heart high on my chest, the rope tied around my neck to support them there. The same rope that bound my wrists was tied to my balls and penis, that were also bound together so that if I tried to move my wrists anywhere it would painfully tug on my dick and balls but if I just left them where they were, everything just felt snugly bound but not painful in any way. I didn't know why but it felt good. Like being covered in sand at the beach, which always felt equal parts comforting and erotic.

The way she tied my balls and penis together tightly, though I wanted to, I was unable to get an erection, which made it all the more enticing. "Come on." She pulled me by the section of rope between my neck and wrists and led me to the bedroom.

"Lie on the bed." I obeyed, carefully falling back onto the bed. I had put an old sheet on top of it in case of any liquid spilled so it wouldn't harm the 1000 count Frette sheets Elle had given me as a present two years earlier. I could now see Fiera's full outfit. She had a sexy black and red bustier pushing up her perfect 36 small C breasts. She was closer to 32 than 22 and they were real, so they were soft and had body to them rather than being hard and firm. They were very womanly as was she. She had very pretty black lace panties and then the fishnets and black stilettos.

"You look pathetic." She laughed meanly and twisted both of my nipples really hard until I had to let out a yelp.

"That's right. It hurts doesn't it?" She took two nipple clamps and fastened them to my nipples. Then she held my head up and moved in, her beautiful red lips inching towards mine.

"Is Mistress being too mean? Do you want a little kiss?" Her lips parted and she revealed her tongue just a little as she moved in for a kiss. I started to close my eyes and open my lips, readying my tongue for hers. Suddenly she spit in my face. Most of it going on my lips and into my mouth. She laughed again.

"You think I would put my beautiful lips on your disgusting mouth? Are you crazy?!" She slapped me again hard across the face. I reached out with my bound hands and gently touched her breast. I knew I would be in for it now.

"Don't ever touch me you piece of shit." She grabbed me around the throat with her left hand and skillfully squeezed harder and harder, choking off my air supply as she repeatedly smacked me across the face in cadence with her admonishment with her right.

"DON'T" SMACK!

"EVER" SMACK

"TOUCH" SMACK

"ME" SMACK!

"AGAIN!" SMACK

I was struggling for air. All went quiet as the ringing in my ears faded from lack of oxygen. I could feel my face swelling red and white spots started dancing around Fiera's face. I was about to lose consciousness.

To be continued ...

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 8:51 AM

My first Dominatrix - Mistress Fiera - August 28, 2006

Even though there's still hope for April, I was so annoyed by that first date in the park that I wanted to get into trouble. Since I don't drink or do drugs that leaves gambling, eating and fucking. I didn't feel like chocolate or the Mets over Philly and this Equinox gym advertisement on a bus stop had me thinking. It's this whole dominatrix/workout campaign they got going on? I had never been with a dominatrix but that got me hard. I don't even remember what it was, I just remember it was dirty and she had a whip. If I weren't already a member I would have signed up then and there if that Chinese chick in the poster would beat me after my workout. I don't know, it was hot.

So I went home and booted up Eros.Com, the whore website. I figured they would have the best selection ... and I was right. There are all shapes and sizes of girls working both independently and through dungeons. I like the look of the dungeons with their theme rooms done up very professionally, with great care and attention to detail. The medieval room which looks like a torture chamber, with dark stone walls, whips, chains, scary looking metal implements on the wall, an Iron Cross and a table with ropes on big round pulleys on either side to stretch you. A medical room for medical scenes; enemas, cutting, penis mutilation, piercing and a classroom for the teacher/student scenes.

My pick would be the torture chamber. I like my dick just the way it is and do not want it butterflied. I enjoy a certain kind of pain, but no abuse to the cock or balls please. I want to maintain my lineage, thank you. The classroom thing is fine but not terribly interesting to me. It's so wonderful and mysterious, human sexuality. What turns some on and disgusts others. It's fascinating.

If I were going to use a dungeon I would go to Pandora's Box. They have one of the hottest looking dominatrixes except that no matter how clean they keep it, this germaphobe doesn't want to go anywhere anyone else has ever been. It totally grosses me out so I must have an "incall" session as my first.

As I scroll down the "independent Doms" Mistress Fiera catches my eye. She looks like a young Charlotte Rampling. Deep, searing eyes and a soulful expression. 5'8, dirty blonde shoulder length hair and a slim frame. Her interests included:

Prolonged teasing, CBT, and Denial
Foot, Leg, Boot and Heel Worship
Corporal Punishment and Discipline
Humiliation both verbal and physical
Sensual to Severe Flogging, Caning, Paddling and Spanking
Mental and Physical Bondage
Sensory Deprivation
Slut Training and Forced Feminization
Nipple Torment
Smoking Scenarios and cigarette torture
Elaborate Rope Bondage specializing in Japanese Bondage
Candle Wax and Ice Treatment
Breath Control, Mummification and Asphyxiation
Enemas
Trampling
Electro Play
Knife Play, Needle Play, Branding, Piercing (Don't be afraid, I have trained under a professional body piercer and use only sterile techniques)

Golden Showers
Face Slapping
Spitting
Dildo Training
Sounds

She was my girl. I was like a kid in a candy store with her tawdry menu. I didn't know what half the things were but they sounded fucking great.

"Yes, hi, I'll take the trampling to start, then have the electro play for the main course and for dessert...? Let... me... see... Ah yes. The choking. Thank you." I dialed her number. I felt like I was back in seventh grade calling a girl whose number I got from her best friend and was told to call after dinner.

"Hello?" She had the perfect voice for her face and my fantasy of what she would sound like. Deep, sultry, sexy and smart.

"Mistress Fiera?" I felt a bit stupid calling her that but had a feeling that it was part of the game.

"Yes?" I was right. She seamlessly flowed into her alter ego with a subtle change in tone. She was the boss.

"I was looking at your ad on Eros?"

"Uh-huh?" She was perfect. Not "acting" the part, just seeming like a regular nice, cool, chick ... who was deviant as fuck all and would kick the living shit out of you for fun.

"I've never been with a dominatrix before." I wasn't jerking off to her. This was not my shemale - masturbate - while - talking - but - never - meet script. This was for real. I was going to have her over to my house.

"That's okay. What are you interested in?"

"Um ..." I was scared to say it out loud. As if this woman hadn't heard everything in the book. But what if she laughed at me? Judged me. Cuckolded me. I took the leap.

"Strap-on play?" I've had chick's fingers in my ass and it felt nice, I figured why not try it. If I was going to be dirty, I might as well be dirty. And since guys and shemales were out, this would be as close as I would ever get.

"One of my specialties. What else." Oh my God!

"Breath play? Is that you strangling me?"

"Yes. I love that. What else."

"Um, just like, abuse me? Verbally? Like say mean things to me about how pathetic and ..."

"I understand. Anything else?"

"Golden showers?"

"Okay. I think I have a clear understanding of what kind of session you want. Is there anything you specifically don't want to do?"

"Um ..." I quickly perused the list.

"I don't want to be electrocuted"

"Okay."

"Or have my balls abused."

"Okay."

"Or have my penis mutilated in any way."

"Okay."

"And I don't want any smoking in my house."

"I don't smoke."

"Okay but you listed smoking as..."

"I understand. No problem. Anything else?"

"What are "Sounds???"

"Oh. Sounds are my absolute favorite. They're long, thin steel rods that are inserted into the flaccid penis at the tip of the head and drop down until stopping at the sphincter. They're divine."

"Yeah, no. I specifically don't want to do that please, if that's okay. But everything else we talked about sounds great."

"Whatever you want. What time do you want to see me?"

I don't think I've ever had more excited anticipation. Everything was heightened. Hyper real. Like the night before Christmas as a kid. Like at the seventh game of the 1986 World Series at Shea. Opening night for My Life's In Turnaround, my first movie, in New York. That indescribable pure joy. When you feel perfect. You love everyone and everyone loves you.

I worked out so I would have a glow and be as thin as possible and then went to a spiritual meeting so I would be grounded and as present as I could be. Sitting in the pews in the massive church on 60th and Park surrounded by 300 people, mostly dressed Republican, I couldn't help but smile. I wasn't raised any religion and couldn't tell you what sect this church was, they're all the same to me. From the little I do know, I had a feeling if I were a member of their belief system, I wasn't supposed to be feeling giddy about what I was about to do 30 minutes after this little get together. But we were a non secular group of people who just rent this church to hold our meetings, all gathered to help one another lead a happier, more spiritual, empathic and helpful life. Few of them would judge me. And it's my belief that God doesn't judge me for exploring my sexuality as long as it isn't hurting anyone else. Still, having the secret knowledge of what was about to transpire in my apartment, imagining the tidal wave of repentance I would be chastised to seek were this church filled with its normal congregation, made me laugh. And for a brief moment I adopted the sin/guilt paradigm of Catholicism so I could get really turned on and understood the whole repressed Catholic school girl/slut thing viscerally for the first time. It was lovely. And very hot. The one thing the idea of a punishing God is good for I guess. The feeling you get when defying Him. The ultimate power. Playing God yourself.

I didn't hear a word that was being said in the church, my eyes were focused on the clock on my cell phone. 7:34... 7:37. 7:41. Fuck it. 8 was too far away and I wasn't listening anyway so I left early. I jumped in a cab and flew up Madison. I was dressed in my favorite outfit, like for a first date. We drove through the park heading for the west side. I was having her come to my house of course; infinitely less afraid of her knowing where I lived than having to touch anything in a dungeon where anyone else had ever been. She was arriving at 8:30. It was 8:17. I lit some candles and put a Portishead disk in the CD player. I pressed pause so it wouldn't start playing until the doorman called up to announce her arrival. Portishead was what I played whenever any purely sexual event was occurring in my house, deviant or otherwise.

What Tom Waits was to shooting heroin, Portishead was to sex.

All of my credit cards were safely stashed in my "If Lucy Fell" lunch pail behind my computer, my little safe. I keep a couple props from each movie as art work. Some of it functional art. I put the 200 bucks on the glass table that used to be my desk before I had an office but now the TV sits on, then thought it still might be a little out of sight so I put it on the Crate and Barrel distressed wood coffee table in front of the couch. No, too obvious. I put it on the speaker next to the tall thin black mettle IKEA CD rack in the foyer and placed a rubber water bug on top for a cute aesthetic touch. I love this water bug. My lesbian priest best friend, Patty gave it to me. She loves that I do crazy things like this so she would love that the incredibly life-like, disgusting rubber water bug was the marker on top of the dominatrix's money. Naaaa, too cute. The dominatrix might think I'm an idiot. I took the water bug off the cash.

I straightened my outfit, smelled my armpits and checked myself in the mirror. I was in good shape and smelled okay. I get concerned because that nervous sweat is always the smelliest sweat. I was squeaky clean. Or was I? I had luffa-d myself from head to toe, concentrating on the areas she would be dealing with so I would be immaculate but I had run a round a bit to the meeting and back. I still had 6 minutes so I stripped, jumped into the shower and gave myself a man whore's sponge bath. Underarms and ass and dick and balls. I redressed and sprayed a bit too much CK ONE on just in time for the phone to ring. They were little short rings, different from the long rings that occur when a regular outside call is coming in. These rings only happen when it's the doorman calling. She was here.

"You can let her up Jake."

"Okay."

"Jake, wait. Is she alone?"

"Yeah, she's alone." Just making sure I wasn't going to get murdered. I trusted her implicitly, she sounded cool on the phone but obviously always need to double check. A few minutes (which seemed like hours) later, the doorbell rang. I pressed play on the CD and Portishead came on loud. I turned it down, sure she was laughing on the other side of the door, mocking my virgin move of just putting on the sexy music for her arrival, and clumsily doing it conspicuously at that. I looked through the peephole. Fuck, she looked hot, even through a blurry, fish eye lens. I opened the door. She was outrageously stunning. A young Jacqueline Bisset in a fall palate. She was straight out of a Madison Avenue Advertising firm that her grandfather owned; Senior VP at 28, not because of nepotism or her Yale schooling but because of her innate brilliance.

"Hi."

"Get on your knees."

to be continued ...

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 3:29 PM

So I can have my tongue in your ass but can't pee with the door open? - August 24, 2006

"I want to acknowledge something which I fear you are already aware of, but by doing so, it will alleviate the pressure for you not to stare at it, and for me not to be obsessed with whether you are or are not staring at it... and that would be the final stages of this massive herpetic chancre on my lower lip."

"Yes, I've seen it."

"I'm not saying I'm going to, but did I want to, well of course I want to, I've wanted to many times already, but if I were to actually kiss you at the end, or even in the middle of our date, you can rest assured you can't catch it from me."

"Of course I can."

"No, you can't. It's almost finished. It's dead. If I kissed you in some more sensitive nether regions there could be an issue, but not on your mouth which is much stronger."

"Well I must do some research on Web MD before any kissing occurs with that thing on your mouth. As much as I'm fond of you, I'm not getting herpes from you on our first date."

"Fair enough, but don't go on Web MD, we won't be able to kiss until 2042, you'll freak yourself out so much."

We strolled along the running path that overlooks the Hudson River on the lower level of Riverside Park, chatting about whatever, I was lost in her sexy mouth. We sat on the benches overlooking the baseball fields at 108th street.

A pause as the sun set... then...

"You know what I just realized?" She said, strangely solemnly but with an edge of hopefulness.

"What?"

"Do you know what Valtrex is?" Was this the set-up of a joke that had no chance of being funny which concerned me, or did she really think I didn't know, which also concerned me but in a cute and harmless way.

"Uh, yeah. It's medicine to suppress Herpes."

"Right. See, the thing is, I just realized, I've been taking it for the last five years."

"Sooooo, you have herpes."

"Yes."

"Upstairs or downstairs?"

"Upstairs."

"Right. Okay. So if I were to have, or did kiss you on your mouth, it wouldn't matter what stage my cold sore was in because..."

"Right."

"And so why did you say that you had to look on Web M...?"

"I don't know."

"Okay."

If my life were a bad car insurance commercial this is the moment when that big black guy who played the assassinated president on "24" would walk out from behind a bush, stand in front of our bench, and talk into the camera.

"We at Allstate know that you are a skillful, experienced, conscientious and safe dater. But unfortunately, you can't control other insane daters out there who might smash head-on into you despite your best efforts, annihilating you in a moment's notice. We think you should be protected. That's Allstate's stand."

My new writer friend Rose set us up last week. April (we'll call her that until we see how it all turns out and whether out of love or spite she loses her anonymity) is a writer too. I don't know why, the day before I was to sit down and start writing my first book I fell into this group of girl writer friends and possible love interests, but I have.

I actually thought it was sweet that April's nerves manifested in abject memory loss. It endeared her to me. If I were to dismiss a possible wife simply for committing a pharmaceutical faux pas, then I would probably still be single at 44, which of course I am, but not because of eliminating for such insignificant gaffes as that. No, I've dismissed girls for far less egregious things to earn my bachelorhood at this mighty age. We continued strolling.

"So you're saying I'm not allowed to rape that," I said dryly but since I'm not the devil, obviously joking, and testing for a possible sex abuse in April's history.

"I understand what you're saying. I mean, the hot pants, halter top and make-up do make her look thirty instead of thirteen," she said with a breeziness that boded extremely well for our chances, like-minded non-PC comic sensibilities being crucial, and a lack of sex abuse in her past.

"But no. You're not allowed to rape that." She passed the test... Or had she?

"I mean, where's her father when she's getting in that outfit?" I said with earnest condemnation.

"Dressing her in it. After he's raped her." She wasn't joking. Serious trouble.

It's not that I minded that our conversation strolling back from the 108th street basketball courts had suddenly gotten that serious on the heels of my very off-color joke, designed to act as a barometer of my date's sensibility on our first date, I was concerned that my possible new wife had just revealed her own incestuous background.

It must be the most unimaginably heinous thing to live through and my sympathy and compassion for anyone who has and my rage at their abusers is endless, but it's a scar, that in my unfortunately vast experience with girls who have that history, is a hard one for them ever to overcome in a way that enables them to get close to me or often anyone at all. Except in so far as they want to draw me in to get me close so they can annihilate me, as they were annihilated by the closest, most important man in their life. But hey, I'm a recovering alcoholic-drug-addict-food-addict-single-at-44-guy who's ravaged with sporadic insecurity, self-loathing, depression, envy, lust, greed and a resulting hatred for everything and everyone in the world at times, so I'm no picnic either. I figured I'd lighten the tone.

"Your breasts are really, really nice." She laughed, bowed her head to stare at her black Converse, anywhere but my eyes, and turned beet red. If she could have choked out a word, it would have been "stop." I was scoring, so of course I continued.

"I mean, to the extent I can see them. You know, the tops of them, and the cleavage, and the shape of them in that really nice lacy thing you're wearing."

"How can you say something like that when I've known you for an hour?"

I kept the pressure on. "How many times have you thought of kissing me so far?"

"Do you know how long I would have to know you before I would answer that question?"

"I love how you act all Spence prude when I know you're a freak. What, you're gonna tell me that I can have my tongue in your ass but can't pee with the door open?"

"I would vote no to both."

"But you're half Jew on both sides, right? What I love about the Jews is that they're not precious about bodily functions. They embrace the humanity of them. I had a girlfriend just like you, half wasp, half Jew. She would sit on my lap while I was taking a shit and rub my back, teaching me that that would help promote a nice movement..."

She was caught in the undertow but not fully drowned yet. I had a few more moments before I would have to revive her. I took them.

"See, most people think you rub your stomach, but your bowels are closer to your back than your front. Who knew?" She was out. I began resuscitation.

"See that building?" I pointed to a prewar that stood majestically guarding the park and the river on 102nd street and Riverside.

"That's where I grew up. My mom still lives there. Let's go talk to her. She has to do your chart anyway." She laughed. She was back. I bought myself at least until the end of the walk in the park. But I wanted more.

I pointed to the little park that separates upper and lower Riverside Park. "I played in this park as a kid." She was softening.

"I was always so lonely." I said. And she started really listening to me for the first time.

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 11:26 AM

Either way, I'm fucked - August 17, 2006

Since I was seven years old I was starved for more. More sex, more money, more love, more drugs, more booze, more food, more excitement, more God. If it existed, I wanted more of it. The obsession for more rules me even though I hate it. It's the antithesis of how I want to live my life, but I feel powerless over it. My mind is like a pit bull when it locks its jaws on an idea of how I can get something. Because if I can get some, I can get more. And I need to worry and figure and plan until I come up with a way to get it. I'm sure if I just keep thinking, against all odds, I'll find that perfect plan.

Try as I might, I rarely visit the world outside my head, which is sad to me. The few moments I've been lucky enough to be there, it seems an amazing place.

It's my fantasy not to fantasize.

It's my dream to be present.

But it's very scary in the real world so my crazy mind convinces me I better worry about the impending cloud of doom that's just around the corner or obsess on how everything I have is going to be taken from me so I won't be in danger of actually going through it for real. As if worrying about it will somehow control its outcome in my favor.

It's exhausting, my fucked up-mind. It's my enemy. My brain feels like an evil force led by a diabolical dictator whose grand scheme is my abject ruination, yet I'm somehow under its spell to keep obsessing when I'd rather just be happy and watch the beautiful city walk by... Why don't people know how to walk in New York? I mean it was bad enough before cell phones and IPods and Blackberries, the meandering purposelessness. This is New York, not a daffodil hillside in The Sound of Music. There's no aimless Sufi twirling, singing, looking at birds that's supposed to go on. You walk in a fast, straight line to get to where you're going.

See, that's what I mean.

My brain sabotages me at every turn.

This is how my mind goes every day from when I wake up until I go to sleep. And that's just the prologue. And by the way, I'm a very happy, loving, fair, compassionate human being who wants the best for everyone. I don't want to want to hold you down while a bus with an "Everyone Loves Earl" ad on its side drives over and crushes your head to death just because you suddenly veered a little to the right as you walked in front of me, causing me to have to alter my course six inches. Yeah, I know a plane is off course ninety percent of the time and is constantly correcting its direction. That's a beautiful spiritual metaphor but you know what, I'm not a plane, and I need to get home to check the barometer of my self esteem, the blinking red light on the answering machine. It will contain all the fabulous jobs and women that will make my life perfect.

In the old days before you could check your machine from the outside, even though I drove a cab and lived hand to mouth, I would go to Greece on my credit cards for two months every summer, mostly just to let the messages pile up so the chances of the dream girl and job calling for me out of nowhere for no reason would exponentially increase. In ten years of summering on a Grecian rock the only meaningful message I got upon my return in the fall was from a very, very angry English man who said he spent three years in a Moroccan jail, knew where I lived, and was going to kill me if I didn't stay away from his girlfriend. I'm fairly sure it was a wrong number but I took it to the police anyway. I mean if I'm convinced the ConEd van out front has me under surveillance, you better believe an actual furious, obscenity-riddled taped message on my home machine threatening my life, whether an accident or not, is going to earn a trip to the DA.

So I sit in a chair, finally able to resume the planning of the plan. You may ask, "Why don't you get up out of the planning chair and do something, instead of just sitting all day planning?" Listen, I realize you're probably smarter than I am, but I have thought of that. It would be foolhardy, my well meaning friend, to just jump up out of the chair and recklessly attempt an action in the real world to try and manifest my goal until I have the perfect plan. It would definitely do more harm than good and set me back, possibly irreparably. I don't know this from experience but in the marrow of my bones I feel it might be so, and I certainly don't want to test it lest I be right. Not that I'm not a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants fellow. I am. But I'm a pragmatist when it comes to self destruction.

That I want to carefully plan.

So I sit. In the chair. On the bench. On the exercise bike at the gym, and think. Devise. For hours. Nothing can distract me. Unless of course I catch myself in the mirror that lurks behind that pretty girl who just did her runway walk down the aisle that leads from the front door of the 92nd Street Equinox to the locker room. This is the first moment the gym patrons can glimpse their future wives and husbands so it's of utmost importance. Everyone utilizes different styles. The "look straight ahead with shades on, locked jaw" sprint. The "power Blackberry" walk. The laid back, "I'm not really here to look for a spouse, I just wanna work out" saunter. And my favorite and most utilized, the "Upper - West - Side - kinda - down - to - earth - yet - still - kinda - cool - look - around - like - you - might - have - some - friends - on - various - machines - but - is - really - just - an - excuse - to - pose - in - many - different - angles" walk. It gives everyone a chance to see and subsequently, in my case, reject me because I'm not all lithe and cut up like some fucking Cirque de Soleil fire walker. I mean I'm not fat but I could lose, oh I don't know, 40 pounds. Or 30. Or 20. Or 10. Or 1. Depending on how not fat I am.

I've never ever looked exactly the way I wanted to. I once added up all the time I take to look at myself in the mirror to check how not fat I am. The glances in my living room mirror as I pass to go to the bathroom. The quick look in the bathroom mirror on the way to the toilet or the shower. The prolonged look shaving. All the quick moments with the reflections in store windows, passenger car windows, brass elevator button panels, Irish people, anything shiny enough to give me even a blurry silhouette of my frame and I'm there. Even though they're just seconds at a time, so far they've added up to two years total. I know that sounds crazy but do the math. Three seconds each time, a hundred times a day. That's 300 seconds which is five minutes a day. That's 35 minutes a week. Two hours and twenty minutes a month. One day a year times every year since I'm seven, that's... 37 days. Okay, so not two years but you get my point. That's 37 days worth of time that I could have been doing something other than seeing myself not change. I mean, do you every really look different from the first glance of the day to the fifty-fifth? No, but the hope. The hope keeps you checking. Thirty seven days. I could have learned French, or at least enough to say, "Where's a mirror?" So this is my question. Is there any chance at all, even the smallest, that if I cut my head off, I could still live? Wait, wasn't I worrying about something? I love that question. As if it would be a bad thing to have forgotten and moved on to something that might bring me pleasure. No, better regurgitate that devil thought or it might get me when I least expect it. I need to have it right where I can see it in the forefront of my mind.

My thinking may seem fragmented and nonsensical, but like the trillion maddening possibilities of a Rubik's cube, that for years of trying add up to failure, frustration, and distraction, it's safer than the real world, and there's still the hope of one day finding the perfect combination. That last turn that clicks in completion. Victory. And I'll be nailed to the gorgeous here and now. That's why I must keep worrying and figuring and planning.

That hope.

Although, in Buddhist philosophy, hope is the enemy of the now. So actually, either way I'm fucked.

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 8:37 PM