Kleider

On gifts and presents. People say to me, "Now kleider, what would you like for Christmas", and I think, and think, and think: I say "er', I frantically search what's left of my brain for hints and tips - and finally, after scanning the globe, so to speak, I come up with "socks?". It's no good. It's never been any good. I get so much more pleasure in giving than receiving, it's almost embarrassing. For someone you don't know, it's tricky. I mean you want to steer clear of hazelnut whirls from Harrods, if all that happens is a rush to the hospital, with your beloved new Mistress in anaphylactic shock. You see what I mean. You might say 'Don't be an idiot kleider' (it's OK, I'm used to it), 'what about flowers'. Well, as long as you don't mind running the risk of an informative, and possibly discursive, conversation on the subject of hey fever, it's OK. I was told to arrange a weekend away, a while ago. I'd learned quite a lot about her likes and dislikes: The sort of food and ambience for the restaurants; The accessories for the room; The sorts of things she liked to do, on a quiet weekend in the country; The sorts of flowers; and well, various other things. I cannot express the pleasure I had in arranging it, and of course the moment she walked into the room to find it verily festooned (and I use the word with considerable care) with flower arrangements, and no hazelnut whirls..... She was a keen photographer (well, yes, that, but also architecture), and I spent a dizzy Saturday afternoon carrying her equipment around the beautiful little town, changing lenses, measuring light temperatures (hobby of mine too), and so forth, The only slight fly in the ointment was my slight tussle with a Maitre D' - I was damned if I was going to let the wretched little man hold her chair. He may have been the Maitre d'Hotel, but She was Maitre d'Kleider.

It's happened again. Another message from the Americas (I love to visit, by the way). This one is from an extremely attractive female slave who's in search of a new master. I mean, that's fine, and I'm inclined to line up behind and say "Me too". But the question we have to ask is: Why did she write to me? What would I do, exactly, with a slave, pretty and female, or otherwise? It'd be like that old joke: Masochist: beat me, beat me Sadist: No Except there'd be no sadist. So it wouldn't be a very good joke: Masochist 1: beat me, beat me Masochist 2: err See what I mean? It lacks a certain something. I should think that, as a slave in search of a master, the canny thing to do, would - and I hate to be sort of didactic - but the thing to do would be ..... to ask one.

Just had another message - I like getting messages. In fact, I like getting messages so much I'm thinking of finding someone just to send me messages. Anyway, back to the message. It's from someone on the other side of the pond, someone as young as I was when I left university. So far so good, in fact, so far so very good. Nice picture too, so my cup, as you might say, so far, over-floweth. The perceptive amongst you will no doubt have noticed that I keep saying "so far", in a manner that implies I'm a little cynical about all this, but remember, I know the end of the story, I know that it wasn't the butler, so to speak. So I open the profile to read all about her, what sort of person she's looking for, and everything else. It's at this stage that it starts to trundle downhill. I can't, actually, understand what she's written. I know that it's all the rage to treat commas with a disdain rarely seen in polite society, but groups of words usually require a verb in there somewhere, or a word that's 'verbed'. I great blocks of words - with many requirements of 'pampering' and 'tribute' - without any actual meaning. I tried reversing them - perhaps it was a cunning trap to catch all but the most diligent (and I am diligent), and they did make a sort of sense when read backwards, but not enough. I am at a loss. But at least I received a mail. I can still rejoice.

I've just moved to Hove, for all sorts of rather prosaic reasons. So I pull up CM, and look and at what our American cousins rather charmingly call 'cities'. Glasgow, Newcastle, Manchester, somewhere called 'Midlands', Cornwall, Belfast, of course London, Norfolk...... I see a trend. A trend that leaps up and down and shouts. A trend that might be called 'not near me'. Mind you, it isn't without it's humour. One lovely domme was obviously tired of all the chat, and just asked for cash so she could go shopping, and she'd try and remember to ring me and be a bit rude about something or other. I'd like to say I brushed it off immediately, I should be able to say that I brushed it off immediately. I thought about it. Then brushed it off. Still, it's better than nothing, I think........

"Beatings will continue until moral improves" This is a threat, right?

"Henry Paulson isn't a banker, he's a day trader" US Congressman (Rep)

"Every time history repeats itself, the price goes up" Anon.

After a quiet summer, I'm back (to a great roar from my fan - hi Trin! Cor, what a lovely picture!). Had a nice summer, still haven't figured out how to answer requests for information about me, but anyway, today's rant: Time Now, it may be the great healer, in fact, I'm pretty sure it is, but there's one thing about it that I've never got to grips whith, and it makes me feel like poor little Oliver: 'Please ma'am, can I have some more' (with apologies to Lionel Bart). Good grief, some of the ads from Dommes here seem to assume that we're made of the stuff. Clean toilets, hoover gardens, wash metropolitan districts, the list just goes on and on, There was one, may have been here, and I'm pretty sure that she's demanding that someone runs up a large hadron collider, under her lawn, before Christmas. I mean, good heavens! Still, easier than the incredibly beautiful girl who requires a manned mission to mars for a Halloween party for her and all her domme friends. Still, no doubt there's a huge temporal sofa somewhere, and if you pull out some of those veeeery fashionable 'shift' cushions, you'll find as much as you want! But you'll have to be smarter than me, 'cause I'm buggered if I can find any.

In one of my many disguises, that of a Brazillian barman, I'll probably get shot at for saying this, but...... I know it's Christmas, that time for throwing cares, and VISA cards, to the fours winds, but I think it only fair to point out to my huge readership (Hi TrinXXXX !) that my ever alert fingers are on the 'Hide User' button like an  undersexed 16 year old on acid. I know that all the men here just want one thing (a couple of hours of trying to out-bizarre you with their requests, in return for a profound, and moving, email, that starts, and ends, 'Hi, here's a picture of my member, how about it?"), but presenting us with premium rate phone numbers, price lists, adult-menus, and Harrod's Domme-lists (like a wedding list, you get the idea), is hardly fair. Especially as I've given all my money to that nice Nigerian woman, who's still trying to get hold of her uncle's ex-chauffeur.....

It's all getting a bit sad, you can tell Christmas is looming from all the price lists that start popping up around here. But, back to the sadness, I'm dragging you back to my, quite frankly pathetic, mailbox. Play nice! It's got so desperate that I get a sudden surge if someone's actually read, nay even opened, one of my finely crafted, elegant, increasingly pleading, missives. I almost burst with joy when, glory of glories, I actually received a reply, and it turned out to be a Nigerian domme who was extravagant in her assurances that I would receive all I could dream of, including a part of her 3rd cousin's, neighbour's, gardner's, previous employer's, $25m, smuggled out of Nigeria in a used pair of knickers - and I'd get the knickers! Of crouse I rang her immediately. Other than that brief moment of ecstacy, I was knocked completely off balance by an accusation that I'd cut-and-pasted my email to someone! Trouble was one of those profiles that didn't give you anything to hang on to - no "I prefer Bosche to Black n' Decker in my negotiations with subs" - just chat about the superiority of German machine tools to indicate you've carefully read the profile: It might be stultifyingly dull, it probably is; it might be completely untrue, it probably is, but it does at least indicate I can read, and what's more, have recently done so. But when faced with a lot of 'I like abusing men and going shopping' without any more clues. Are we talking WH Smiths here?

I've been away awhile, it's late, I'm a little bored, so I thought I'd dream, just like at work: "I've had a tiring and bloody awful week, and I'm a generally pissed off". We're leaving the outskirts of town and heading out into the country "so you're going to have to be your most attentive and good", you think awhile "I'll probably give you a hard time anyway, but you may as well try".  I know the signs, like the other evening: you're that dangerous mixture of stressed, irritated, and very, very, horny. I looked out of the window at the racing trees and remembered. I'd was very sore and happy by the end, and you were calm, sated, and very, very, relaxed. Rather different from my arrival, when you'd pushed me to my knees, and my head between to your legs "Get on with it".  You'd cum quickly, leaving me all turned-on and nothing to do about it. I grimaced as I remembered, I'd known that if I'd said something you'd beat me, and I thought that would do just as well, so I had. You'd turned on me a disbelieving look, "You!?!?! You selfish little bitch, get over that fucking chair", the final words hit me between the eyes as you'd left the room. In spite of knowing what you were going to do, I was shocked at the ferocity, and had scurried over and quickly knelt down. I'd just presented myself for punishment when you returned, holding a large leather crop. "Oh God", I thought, closed my eyes and wished that my brain engaged a little earlier, more often. I quite like pain, from you, but not this time. This time there were going to be no pulled punches, you were seriously pissed off. You'd cuffed me to the chair, forced a gag tightly into my mouth, and beaten me viciously. The first stroke bought tears to my eyes and I started to shake, pulling hopelessly at my restraints. After the last, tears were streaming down my face. The world was silent, with only your slowing breathing giving it texture. I was quietly sobbing as you released me. I immediately fell at your feet and mumbled and begged an apology, how stupid I was, how I deserved it, and it'd never happen again, and on and on. My mind, had it been able to do anything so useful as think, would have informed me, rather smugly I'm sure, that beating me makes you horny. Perhaps ignorance, or brainlessness, is bliss. You were calmer, as you always were after punishing me, and told me that you were going to do some work, and for supper at 8pm, and, as an after thought, that there was a present for me in the hall, and to put it on. Having to change first would mean supper for 8pm would be a rush, and what extravagant uniform was she trying this time? I love dressing for you, but I sometimes think, although I keep it to myself (rubbing sore arse), that you could, on occassion, just ever so, ever so, slightly, tone it down.  I changed quickly, and shot into the kitchen, and set to. Chopped vegetables, measured rice, lined up condiments for later use, and had just turned to start the key sauce, when I felt your hands on my back, and froze. You were in no mood for pleasantries, as you pushed me over the back of a kitchen chair and, lifting my new dress, and fucked me, entering me all the way in one, hard, stroke. You made not a sound, except your urgent breathing, as you took me. Holding me by my neck, you thrust in and out of me, with long smooth strokes. I whimpered as I could feel your orgasm started to build, and you started to fuck me harder. I could hear you start to pant, nails digging into my neck and shoulder. I started to push back in rhythm, as you reared over me, lust overtaking you utterly, I could feel your heat, and your urgency, as you penetrated and posessed me. I felt you trembling, forcing down on me, then with a triumphant cry, arch back, ramming hard enough to turn my whimpers into tears. Your whole body tensed for a single, timeless, moment, the world stood still. Then erupted, as time and light, rushed back. The moment cooled, colours returned to their usual hues, and you were back in this, blander, sedentary, world. You put your mouth close to my ear and whispered "best ever", and I was swept with love and pride, all pain disappeared as I fell to my knees and kissed and stroked your legs, and slowly looked up into the kind face, and beautiful eyes, of my mistress. You departed, resetting dinner to 9pm, in a kind gesture to give me one single hope in hell of achieveing it. The sauce had curdled, the vegetables were on the floor, and I realised that moving was a little more painful than when I'd been merrily slaying the spinache. I was just about to put on the final sauce, when you'd called me through into your rooms.  "Wash me". The shower was a mass of splashing heat as entered and I knelt, fully dressed (why do you like that?).  I shaved you, very carefully, making quite sure you were very smooth and slik; then washed your feet, unable to resist kissing occassionally; your calves, stroking behind your knees and kissing as I moved up; I'd carefully washed your thighs with both hands, stroking round, first this way, and then that, and kissing and licking the clean fresh skin; I love washing your front, letting my hands rove across you, soaping and stroking, teasing and licking your nipples until they are stand out beautiful and hard, cupping and stroking your breasts. You turned and I started to wash your bottom and back, running my tongue down the from your back to deep between yor legs. Kissing and stroking, shoulders, neck, and your smooth, long back. You'd leaned back against the wall and I knelt before you and looked up into your eyes, you'd smiled, and pushed my head down, guiding me between your legs, and I'd started stroking you with my tongue. You'd sighed as I pushed my tongue into you, tasting you and feeling your heat growing again. Your passion had built as I teased and flicked your clit with my tongue, stroking harder and softer, then slipping a finger inside you. You'd pulled me in harder and I'd started to lick you roughly and deeply, easing until you forced me in harder. Finally you'd cum, crushing me between your legs, forcing my head back as you forced me down, then finally pushing your head back and gasping.... I felt you shake, spasms shuddering through your body. I'd had to wash you again of course - it's a tough life - gently, soothing, easing the after-tremors away. It'd been a good night. I'd dressed in your favourite outfit, freshly laundered, crisp and clean. While I busied myself in the kitchen, you lay back in the drawing room and watched the television. I'd break off now and again to walk through and refill your glass. You smiled languidly up at me, and once or twice stopped me, lazily lifting my skirt and looking me over. Of course, I was wearing from what you'd brought me that day, and you ran your hand slowly up the silk, the small clasps, along the thin straps, to the hugging satin, and then slowly round, sweeping expansively across what you knew to be yours, and back. You'd elected to have a television supper, so I brought it through on a tray, and placed it on an occassional table, then knelt and waited. I was slightly nervous about the new sauce, it was quite sharp, and I did wonder how you'd like it. But you either did, or were in forgiving mood, because you just complemented me, especially for grilled Turbot. One day, I'm going to find a fish that you don't know. I removed the tray, and brought through your brandy, with a couple of the small crisp, bitter, chocolate mints, of the kind that you enjoy so much, and put the tray down. You were quite engrossed in the film, and merely indicated that I should join you, so I'd knelt quietly on the floor at your feet, and joined you watching. The film was at one with the evening as it had become, quiet, subtle, and erotic. Twice, during the film, you'd spread your legs and gently guided me, eyes fixed on the screen, and for a while I'd slowly pleasured you, before being returned to the film. The film wound to a close, and you'd told me to get ready for bed. I gone through into my bedroom, undressed and had a quick shower, making sure I was very smooth, then hurridly had to decide what to wear. I looked through the rather embarrasingly large range of night clothes that had built up, and chose the dark blue satin, to match the mood, the elaborate white lingerie that you like so much, with the matching blue silk ankle and wrist restraints, and collar. In this mood, I wasn't sure you'd want them, probably not, but better safe than sorry - and 'sorry' would have been right. Anyway, certainly no leather and steel tonight. I walked through and into your bedroom, and waited patiently, kneeling by your bed. You came through from your bathroom in a huge white bathrobe, your hair wrapped in a towel, and sat at the dressing table. I'd taken out the dryer, and we spent a lovely 15 minutes while I stroked your hair with a comb, under the warm air, slowly bring it back to life. You chatted genially about your day, the people at work, your wretched indecisive board, and laughed happily about the very sexy, busty, new receptionist. I changed to the brush you handed me, and still with the dryer, your hair returned to it's silky, healthy, self. There was a gentleness in your touch as you took me to bed, looking lovingly down as I felt your fullweight on top of me, guiding my mouth to yours, feeling your tongue invade me, your body pressing and moving against mine. We'd kissed for what seemed like hours, in a dream of heaven, as you'd roved over my neck and face, kissing, teasing. Holding me down as your hands explored. I could feel your urgency building again, starting to pulse through you. You pulled my mouth up to each of your breasts in turn, and I found hard, taut, nipples, ready for my tongue. Breathing hard, focussed like a hunting leopard, you'd knelt over my mouth, and pulled me up to where you needed it. You were very hot, musky, and I obeyed joyfully, drowning in your pleasure, as you rode me, pressing, pushing forwards, then back, as I concentrated on your lust. With a final, hard, grinding push, you'd come, panting hard, and stroking my cheek. You'd slid backdown over me, and in the calm, you'd spread my legs, and taking me in your arms, entered me very gently, thrusting in and out, gently and quietly, making my soul yours, as you made love to me. Your love making built, became firmer, faster, I could feel another climax bulding, and preyed I'd be good this time as well. You forced my legs wider as you fucked me harder, grunting as you approached your orgasm. With a final thrust, you came. Head drooping between your shoulders, gasping, you slowly withdrew, and came down, calming, as the spasms subsided. I was so happy - a secret dread was that, one day, you'd just stop, incomplete, dissatisfied, I'd have failed to please. Finally, and because I'd been so good, and had clearly not expected it, you took me out of chastity, mounted me, and took me inside you. As you started to ride me, controlling my pleasure, I felt subsumed, marvelling at your kindness and my good fortune - it was only the second time that you'd pleasured me like this. I stroked your back as you pressed down, feeling your breasts pressing against me, that exquisite pressure, and strong rhythm. You put your face against mine, and I looked up into your deep brown eyes, those eyes I'd worshipped from the moment I'd first gazed into them. "Come for me baby", you'd whispered, and a few moments later I'd climaxed, helpessly, clutching at your back, burying my face in your shoulder, as I you controlled my shuddering body, and brought me through. You'd laughed quietly, "And you thought it was only a Christmas treat, well, don't count on it, even then", and I looked into your smile, and felt so hoplessly yours. I lay with you a while, listening to the gentle roar of faraway traffic, and the night sounds of the city; sirens, aeroplanes disappearing on their mystereous journeys, the occassional frieghter out in the estuary. When you'd rolled over, turning away, I'd got up, and I'd crept, silently, to my room, to let you sleep alone. I idly wondered, as I always did, how lovely it would be to wake up next to you, it had never happened, and I knew, never would. A playful slap on my thigh brought me back to the present, "Dirty dreams again?" you were looking where I was looking - down.

Sex, or the lack of it, is the topic for today's diatribe. And before you (start complaining about beginning a sentence with a conjunction) hop nimbly on to your, well drilled, and not doubt well groomed, high horses, and start lecturing me about D/s relationships being fundamentaly a relationship between two people, with at it's core, a realisation of, and acceptance of, some level of power exchange ...... I should like, if I may, to remind you that you are not, or generally are not, male. For men, everything is about sex, or nearly everything. It's not our fault, so don't look at me like that, it's just how we're made. There was a lovely British woman, journalist I think, who spent a week with as much testosterone in her veins as the average 55 year old, male, bought ledger clerk. She said that, leaving aside her sudden propensity to shout at fellow tube passengers for no apparant reason (the 'tube' - coloc - is the much vaunted London underground railway system, which many deem to be the source of the classic English characteristic of being able to stand with your nose in someone else's ear, and not show any indication whatsoever that you are aware of their, or indeed anyone else's, presence), the one thing that dominated her week, was sex. She thought about it roughly one minute in every three, and needed it during the other two. She started to find lamp posts strangely, and deeply, alluring: standing proudly vertical, unforgivingly and eternally hard ..... and one about every 10 yards. Well, it's true, I'm not referring to the lampposts, although each to their own, but about the sex bit. When I was 21, fresh out of university, I was tall, slim, extremely fit, clever, quite funny, and bouncing with life. As a result, living in central London as I did, I became so worried about my never ceasing need to bounce in other configurations (or indeed, be bounced upon), that I sought the advice of a doctor. Really, I did. No, honestly! A lovely woman, my family's doctor, but she'd known me from an egg, so I was a bit circumspect in my approach. What had occupied my mind, in the moments between considering my chances with the woman in the ticket collectors kiosk (about 1%), or indeed with the kiosk itself (about 5%), was the thorny question of how to say to my family's doctor that I was worried about my seemingly never ending desires to have coition with anything that could be said, using the term in the loosest possible way, to be alive. It was while my mind had wondered, inevitably, on to considering what here 77 year old secretary would look like in a bikini, that I was suddenly called in. I started to sweat as I entered, clammy hands repeatedly folding and unfolding, looking guiltily from side to side, heart pounding, a far off ringing noise in my ears, a suddenly silent, eerie, world. Mind racing up and down my long and intricate story leading up to an accident while riding a bicycle down a cobbled street... sudden unstoppable urges .... exhaust pipes ... lamposts! .... could she help ...... my mind a whirl ... forever lost in lust ..... a lost cause! ..... She looked up. A moment of dead silence. I looked further up. "I want to have sex all the time doctor, I'm worried". She look back down. "21, male, I'd be worried if you didn't. Anything else...no... good... say hello to your mum...close the door on the way out. Next", and I was back out in the sunlight. So, there it is. Absolute proof, and if you don't like it, you know what you can do. That's right: get me over; dress me up; tie me down; and beat it out of me. I'd be so lucky.

Of course, the difficulty is that male subs on CollarMe are just too focussed, and too damn many: 2.7 million men focussing their not inconsiderable, hormone crazed, intellects on how to persuade someone to satisfy their ever increasingly bizarre lusts, to crucify them on the ancient willow of Ynys Mon , dressed as a theatrical starfish, and beat them with a steel stud-enhanced version of Marlyn Munroe's last pair of stockings (ok, you'd never get it out of the White House, but you get the idea), until they've had enough, and need to creep back to their wives. With respect, I'm not altogether sure that Dommes always help: Some just sit there with their VISA machine on a hair trigger; to others, the offer of a slow and lingering death, seems a perfectly reasonable requirement, and get filled with a righteous indignation when someone dares to refuse their generous offer; Others would probably, if the truth be known, be happier with a pet hamster, they'll eat little, just squeak now and again, and the local "Pets R Us" is very happy to provide another - for the very reasonable price of £3.00, or 2 for £5 - when you finally completely lose it. and hit it with a hammer. Me? I'm not so crazy about the starfish outfit - really, those who know me would probably agree that I'm more of a 400lb gorilla in pinny and heels, kind of guy...

Dreams and stories.  It's a warm and humid day, here in central London - the trees are leaning heavily, catching their thoughts, and so am I.  I've written a D/s story; a sort of dream, to laze away such these heavy, sultry, June days.   My final, lethargic, thoughts, edge slowly, with many meanderings, towards what on earth I should do with it. Suggestions?

Of dates and mistakes. I had a date last week, a very beautiful domme. I couldn't believe how I felt, terrified, delighted, like spring after winter, sun after rain, my heart just beat ever, ever, faster. As the seconds grudgingly gave up their minutes, with a sullen 'tick', I sat transfixed by time. An hour after 2pm, it was 2.05pm. A week later, it was 2.15. I left "with enough time to spare", so of course was 45 minutes early. The sun was shining, and the gods had ganged up to drown me in smiles. I sat in the cafe and had a cup of green tea, a well known calming draft, except this green tea was obviously a differnet brand, and I started singing to myself: My neighbour asked me to stop. I've been on tv a number of times, being interviewed about this and that. I don't know whether you have, but it's a funny experience, for the inexperienced. I felt those old sensations start seeping through my soul. I was on BBC News 24 once. You sit in studio, wires on the floor, lights beating down, and everyone ignores you. The presenter chirrups away merrily, looking, as it seems, into space, and on one knows you're there. There's so much going on, and you're not any part of any of it. Like a pair of swimming trunks under the chair of one of the band members on the deck of the Titanic. Suddenly out of a clear blue sky, the presenter turns and smiles at you and has already asked you a question. Well, up until this point it'd been plain sailing, after all, I can sit doing nothing, and being ignored, as well as the next man. The tiny problem with this new situation was that I hadn't actually heard the question. So she sat and smiled at me. I opened my mouth. I shut my mouth. She, talented and charming, repeated the question. Again, I failed to translate the words into anything I could understand. They were nice words, I was quite sure of it. They were English words, I was fairly sure of that. But what they meant? I hadn't the foggiest. So I started chatting haphazardly about my company. I was later advised, with a mixture of tired patience and ill-concealed irritation, that I only need not answer questions when they were nasty. Well, sitting the sunshine on that evening last week, the lovely Mistress came up to the table and looked at me. The lights were on, the microphone light had gone red, the presenter had turned to me, this was my moment of glory, of fame and fortune, of eternal life, and the power of all the ancient British Gods! My mind did a good impression of a freshly laundered sheet, except there was no hint of blue. From 6 feet up in the air, I curled up and wept as I watched myself starting to chatter. She left. I walked slowly down the street as the vicsious rain whipped across my face. An arctic wind siezed me, and I was enveloped in a freezing fog, with barbs of ice cutting into my flesh. In a blinding flash of blackness, the god of stupid people appeared in front of me, gave me half a look and said "twat", before vanishing in an implosion of dark smoke. "The world is grey, the mountains old, The forge's fire is ashen cold; No harp is wrung, no hammer falls: The darkness dwells in Kleiders halls" (with profound apologies to JRR Tolkein). Let that be a warning, although I'm not sure who to.

"Hold the front page" (well, come on, "Hold the content management system" lacks a certain glamour)! I have an admirer - sigh, I feel like a 13 year old with their first Valentines card.

I was looking down the buttons on the left hand side, and I noticed, just to show off enormous powers of observation, one called 'Admirers'. I was grinning to myself as I thought about it, full of anticipation. A lovely long list of admiring dommes, who knows what it might lead to, a happy and delicious future as we walk, hand in hand, into the sunset ....... so I pressed. Now I don't want to seem to be ungrateful, or a winge, and I especially don't want to come across as a total loser, groping around, as it were, for some suitably sour grapes, but NO ADMIRERS AT ALL? It really is a little uncalled for. I mean, I know there're a lot of 'smiling is extra' dommes around here, but as I sit here, cold, lonely, wet, unloved, and unwanted, does no one feel even the smallest, slightest, drop of sympathy for me? Is the milk of human kindness so firmly in the fridge? Have you lost all your compassion? Have you at least looked down the back of the sofa, or under the car seat? Not even an "Admirer but I never want to meet you, or hear from you. At all. Ever." sort of admirer? Nothing? Nada? Zip? I feel like a round the world yaughtsperson who just realised that there's no one except the fish. And I don't even have the fish. Well (chin out), I'll show you, I'm thinking of becoming my own admirer: I admire me, and my mum admired me. That's 2. Not bad, give me time and I'm sure I can come up with someone else. I'm sure I can. Don't hurry me - always in a rush these day, rush, rush, rush..... "You have sixty seconds to list as many admirers as you can...... starting...... NOW"......"er...er... me.. er...my mum.... er ... er.....". No good at all. I need time, and space, and, lets face it, a fantastic imagination. I'm not a demanding chap, an occassional request for a mildly irritated text (none so far by the way) , and perhaps an admirer (you can send the caveats by email)?

While I'm on a journal trip, there's something else that's been on my mind: Distance. You look down the, sadly short, list of dommes, mentally remove: those who are clearly men (see previous journal entry); those who are clearly VAT registered, or should be. One's left with quite a satisfying list, but of course it's a con, and trick of the light, they do it with mirrors, at least for we who are geographically dyslexic. Reading the profiles, admiring the pictures, the sap in one's veins rise, and suddenly Carlisle is obviously close to London. Sense vanishes in a swirling sea of images, restraints, laughing faces taking their pleasure, ominous brooding faces of displeasure........ The phone rings, it's the gas man making an appointment to check the condensing boiler that you don't have. But, in the surging depths of that other world, you were already saying "Narvik?, no problem, I'm sure I can get over there at least twice a week", and the mouse was hovering over the 'send' button. But it's a lie! it's all a hideous, and hienous, falsehood! I have trouble 'getting over' to the local supermarket twice a week, let alone the ourter reaches of what I believe was once called Mercia. Such are the failings, and foibles, of men. I sit here and meditate, dreaming of when the world was young, the mountains tall, before the fall of mighty kings..... when Adam had Eve pinned to the ground and was shagging her for all he was worth - or in the New Revised Kleider Translation, Eve had Adam pinned to the ground and was shagging him for all she was worth. Golden days..... but close to London.

I'm struggling with that old saying 'little things please ...' - you know the one. I have a confession to make: In the 1980s (early 90s?) there was a tv programme called "The Good Sex Guide". It was a sort of C4 arty excuse to ask mugs like yours truly to answer unnecessarily personal and embarrassing questions under the guise of 'market research'. I was just heading off to the bank for another jolly chat with my stoney faced bank manager (remember them? I think I prefer the machines). I was walking up towards Ken High Street, rehearsing my new set of excuses, when a very pert TV crew muscled over and asked me whther I'd mind answering a few questions about sex - they were doing research for a new tv series. I was just honing the excuse about the 2 week funeral I'd had to attend in Antigua, so was caught somewhat of my guard, "Sure". Silence. Click. Lights. Clunk. Shit. Click. "Does size matter". Well, I mean to say, what sort of question is that to ask a chap on a cold morning in February? I presumed they didn't expect me to unzip, whip it out, and say "well, what do you think?". I put on my mature and serious head, and pointed out, in what I believed to be an urbane and debonair tone, that having something of a size that would have impressed the guys who bult the pillars at the Colleseum, would not only make running tricky and dangerous, but would scare the bejesus out of any possible 'partner'. Which I was quite proud of, until I remembered that the Colloseum doesn't have much in the way of pillars. Anyway, a few months later, I walked into my bank (2 week job hunting expedition in the Greek Islands), and all the counter staff started to titter. It's no good, I mustn't watch women body builders, it clearly does something to my mind.

The way things are going at the moment, I'm rather expecting to logon to Collarme and start seeing price lists, or even menus. Good grief, what a thought. "3 for the price of 2". Loyalty points anyone? A little swipe machine, next to the VISA machine; swipe your loyalty card, and 'bing', a free beating with a device of your choice! I've never really been tempted to pay, and in spite of the lovely dommes who I have conversed with, I still sit here like that famous man who'd lost his pet gazelle, or whatever it was. Forget the kinky sex; forget being dressed as a Christmas fairy and hung upside down with an Indonesian cucumber stuck up one nostril; forget the demands for ever more complex and unlikely forms of personal gratification; at the moment, I'd die for a marginally aggrieved txt message. Anyone got a phone?

Talk about slow off the mark, it's just occured to me to see what the statistics of this site are like. Good grief. Searching for dominant women (age 25-50), by page 4, there women who were last on in November. A similar seach, but as a dominant woman looking for sub males, produces the rather extraordinary fact that by page 4, the men were on an hour ago. This cannot be a reflection of life in general, he says, with the optmism of those Norse sailors who set off westwards from Europe - "can't be far now', as  they passed Ireland....

The trouble with January seems to be that a lot of people have clearly had a wonderful, and rather expensive, 'festive period', and have decided that they need to make a few quid to keep VISA happy. Never has the 'Hide user' button been so useful.

The question of what some call "Hen-Pecking" came to mind today. I know quite a number of husbands who reckon that they are 'hen-pecked". Their wives seem to start all sentences directed at their loved one with "For goodness sake...". It occurs to me that these people are living under a simple misapprehension regarding their roles. No doubt when they met (and I mean 'no doubt', because I knew them then), he was all bravado and 'male' preening, and she was conversly a coquettish follower. They married, jolly nice (or not. I was at a wedding somewhere in Hertfordshire in about 1988 which was completely colour coordinated, everything was pink and blue, and I mean everything: Flowers, tent, clothes, champagne, canape, even the cake. I wore black, I knew them both), and then they started actually living together. Little by little, they started to settle into their true, natural, roles, her dominant, him submissive. It might be the case that if they could stand back and look, they might live considerable more harmonious lives. There again, a lot of people just like to bitch.

What's worse, I ask myself, receiving too many emails, or too few? I read exhasperated dommes recounting the seemingless endless approaches of almost all conceivable forms. I then look at my 'Received' box with a languid eye: Replies from just five different people to date, and three of them offering very kind support, and useful advice. I've even thought about signing up as a female domme (10 mins), finding some reasonably outrageous pictures on the web (2 mins), and writing myself emails. I doubt I could fool myself for long - probably longer than you might imagine - but for 12 minutes of effort I could at least make my Inbox look less anemic. Less like a child who hasn't learned to feed itself, sitting there with it's mouth open. The problem seems to be varying forms of insincerity on the part of the sender, and of course, I suppose, their knowledge of the insincerity of many of the domme-look-alikes. Also, I guess, the sheer numbers problem of finding a domme. I suppose that my own view is that an early-ish physical meeting is probably a good idea. The place is awash with nice coffee bars, and there're fewer more enjoyable things in life than meeting an interesting person, if only for half and hour, even if only to find out that you'd rather be dead in a ditch than see each other again. I suppose that's where manners and etiquette swing into play. This site has them, and I'm learning them curtesy of some very lovely dommes, and so does having a coffee with a comparative stranger.

Thankyou for the lovely messages. 'Looking for needle in a haystack' may be a good metaphor, but it can be mighty dispiriting when the haystack is awash with small, silver, pieces of hay. I was idly watching a game of ladies football the other day, and before you all jump to conclusions about that meaning anything, I would like to remind you that a facet of sports people is that the sport requires of them to make decisions fast, stick to them, and a certan amount of mental agression. They can be feminine and lady-like off the field, sometimes even on, or butch with no front teeth, it means little. I rather feel that a female footballer has many features of a dominant person, whether they enjoy being strapped down and beaten (as I do) or not. Goalkeepers are probably the exception, they are to a very large extent, reactive. I was a goalkeeper. Anyway, I was watching this match, and I started wondering about what sort of relationships I would like. OK, we all have our fantasies, but this was a more sober train of thought (it was cold, wet, and I was on my own in a public place). The lifestyle that suits me, and I don't flatter myself that I chose it, is at odds with the perceived manstream - thus no head to my picture - but is in many ways need not look, from the outside, so very different. I'm not a 'scene' person, I'm a conventional, rather, OK, very, old-fashioned type in many ways: I feel uncomfortable with being unfaithful (which in my own personal language means it's 'wrong'); relationships have their rough times, and it's worth working through them. I'll leave that there for now. I see a life with someone who takes the lead in many things, is dominant in the bedroom (I use the term loosly), and who is essentialy demanding. I'm quite a physical person, symbols effect me, for for example kneeling and dressing up, are strong physical displays of how I feel. No doubt there are others which I'd love to learn about. I love giving pleasure, so with someone who loves to receive, and demands to receive. I appreciate punishment, by which I mean that I feel that it expiates things I have done wrong, or badly. I don't generally want to do things that require punishment, but I'm human and do, and sometimes I'll do it on purpose. As a couple, seen strolling through a spring afternoon, people would envy us: me, tall dark and very handsome, and you, falling about laughing uncontrollably because I'd just told you that I think I look tall, dark, and very handsome. At dinner, a film, or the theatre, maybe just a normal couple out for the evening. On weekends away, you may tie me to the corners of the four-poster and have your wicked way, or we may just curl up with hot chocolate and a good book and murmur 'till dawn. Socially, I can be full of energy, debonair, or quiet, and perhaps intellectual, sometimes. A normall life, in fact, with just one (major) differenceto the norm.

A picture change was necessary, since it was clearly giving all the wrong messages. I'm a bit new to all this - I rather assumed that being dressed up would be taken as symbolic - not as literal. Can you seriously see me strolling through the park in a pink tutu and heels? I'm over 6 foot for goodness sake! My only experiences of dominant women have required me to dress up for them. Don't look at me like that - if I'm asked to wear something, I might initially shy like a startled mustang, but I will. All being well, my brief career as a provider of photos will come to an abrupt and final, end.  On that point, it stil amazes me how a 6"6' lorry driver from Cardiff (I speak metaphorically), quite possibly called Colin, with a face bedecked with an impressive range of flora, could possibly think that I could be fooled into believing that he was female, merely because he squeezes his impressive frame into an ill-fitting frock, and applies some lipstick while trying on a blindfold. No offence, merely surprise. Anyway, hopefully it will now cease - we all live in hopes.

I'm thinking of setting up a website so people can just go and download my pictures - would cut out the necessity for me to send them out to people. If you want picures, just ask, but don't pretend you're interested in anything else if you're not. 1 or 2 emails, compliments on the pictures, more emails, more pictures, more compliments - then nothing. All I'm looking for is a strong woman who wants to dominate me, instruct me, mould me, make me purr as she gets so very much pleasure. The search goes on.

Careless talk costs lives. OK, perhaps 'lives' is an exageration in this context, but let this be a warning to all you thoughtless letter writers. I saw a beautiful profile, beautiful picture, and wrote off. She wrote back (yes!), and I then so did I. Later, I did two extraordinary things: 1. I wrote again on the same day, before she'd had a real chance to reply, and 2. I wrote what I was thinking, without giving it the usual "how would this read in the cold". Well, quite understandably, she wrote back leading with an elegant left hook. I'd had a hard day at work, it was late, (you can probably see what it lining up for) and I wrote things like I was "pissed off that she hadn't replied" - well, I mean, how completely appalingly that reads in the cold. Of course, what I had in my mind was that I was pissed off (which I was) from a purely personal point of view, and she hadn't replied, I was not pissed off with her in any way at all - it was a purely selfish thought. Well, no excuses, and I'm sure someone like that has a mailbox exceeding it's allotted. limit. Let that be a lesson to me.

OK, hands up all the dominant women here who are just out to collect photos? Come on, i know you're there, all of you, that's it, hands right up.... listen, it's tiresome. OK? Anyway, what do you do with them? The internet's awash with every conceivable photograph of an 'adult nature', and many of which you probably, hopefully, cannot conceive. And I'm not going to form a life long relationship with a bloke pretending to be a girl, irrespective of my privates proclivaties, so guys, just stop it. /rant over

Reading some of the message boards here, I was remembering my only real experience of exhibitionism - it'll no doubt seem tame to many. I'd been dating a big beautiful doctor for a few months, and had been assiduously trying to encourage her to take a more dominant role generally - so dominant at work, and so otherwise everywhere else. We were on quite a long car journey, she was driving. I was telling her how much I admired the movements of her breasts as she changed gear, how it made me feel watching her dress ride up. We were both getting turned on. I lowered the back of my seat, and started stroking myself through my jeans. She repeatedly glanced down at me. I spread my legs and started to rub myself harder, slowly undoing my belt. She was getting quite frantic as I started to clearly enjoy myself. I opened my trousers to show myself clearly outlined in my clinging silk panties. Her left hadn suddenly came across and pulled them down enough to see how horny I was. She told me to pull my trousers and panties down more. I pulled down just my trousers, leaving my panties where they were, and started to seriously play with myself, half thourgh the thin material. She pulled over to the side of the road and demanded sex on the back seat. How perfect it would have been if she'd have held me down and ridden me to heaven - it was almost as good, conventionally. I still dream of someone, maybe here.

Since work is playing up at the moment, I'll come back to it noticably. But it'll come and go generally. A tiresome day, felt like hitting the marketing director with a chair, and the sales director was a real fusspot. The airconditioning's on the fritz, so everyone was in jerseys and wooly hats. You sould try going over last month's P&L with a guy in a red bobble hat & a yogi bear scarf - he has 2 kids, neither of whom, clearly, were wearing a yogi bear scarf today. I saw a most beautiful amazonian woman on the train today, with a body and face to command - there are times I wish they sold bromide tablets in health food shops.