Originally posted 4/11/2011 on another site in a different format
Situations can go so off-track one questions investing in a friendship beyond a hook up. If there's chemistry in the dungeon, shouldn't the same be true in the glare of daylight and reality? Last week, the script changed yet I was still reading the blue pages instead of the new goldenrod ones.
Across the canyon from Uncle Gustav are my other two uncles: Charley and Martin. They are a couple who aren't a couple, but look after each other in one of those spooky Cielo Drive-like ranch houses. The kind where you can hear ice rattling in pipes up and down the canyon....or maybe it's a blender creating a Rum Frappe next door. Charley and Marty wisely isolate their kink to the back 40 of their rambling acreage. A structure which originally served as a clubhouse in Our Gang comedies of the 30's has been rehabbed as the Treehouse of Iniquity with wall to wall leather, every possible restraint, probe and shackle available. It features Dr. Jekyll's Soda Fountain, which is a fully stocked bar, a room with costumes for a cast of thousands...and if you look close...tiny cameras tucked in every beam. You never play with both Uncles. You click with Charley: Marty's running video editing up at the house. You're making it with Marty: Uncle Charley's in post-production. I love them both and their approach to life in a twisted VistaVision and Stereophonic Sound meets Big Brother live feed way.
But one does not live solely for play sessions that start when the wolf bane blooms and the moon is full and bright. I was off to meet Uncle Charley in Beverly Hills for lunch, but that morning I had two house guests presumed in jail, and before I learned how to post bail, I cancelled lunch. My message never made it to the Polo Lounge.
We rescheduled but getting my Uncles into clothing and back out of their compound ain't easy. Plan B was that I'd pick up lunch at a cafe near their place and help with some spring cleaning that originally was fall cleaning. I looked forward to it.
I'm about to leave, when I get an email from Uncle Charley arrives in my in-box. His third cousin, twice removed, had passed in Scottsdale, there's tons of film to edit and he's in hermit mode. Uncle Martin is there for him, as he always is. Charley wrote me that sex is ok...but not today. Marty mustn't be angered. Don't call us: we'll call you.
How buying lunch and cleaning closets morphed into Frisky Frolics prompted me to call Uncle Charley who reiterated his e-mail. I found this heartbreaking and then I got mad. After numerous nights of intelligent, non-sexual conversation, my Uncles: now viewed me as the Pied Piper of PNP and no more. With a finger pressing the ‘send' key, I was written off their show.
It's a fatal flaw in cyberspace friendships that needs to be resolved: not objectifying each other as triggers, but as brothers in arms. Who better to seek advice from than a guy who's been there? I know the party mantra: ‘don't take it personally' ‘it's them, not you'.
That doesn't keep the sadness away, when one feels so very much alone and so very out of place.
Situations can go so off-track one questions investing in a friendship beyond a hook up. If there's chemistry in the dungeon, shouldn't the same be true in the glare of daylight and reality? Last week, the script changed yet I was still reading the blue pages instead of the new goldenrod ones.
Across the canyon from Uncle Gustav are my other two uncles: Charley and Martin. They are a couple who aren't a couple, but look after each other in one of those spooky Cielo Drive-like ranch houses. The kind where you can hear ice rattling in pipes up and down the canyon....or maybe it's a blender creating a Rum Frappe next door. Charley and Marty wisely isolate their kink to the back 40 of their rambling acreage. A structure which originally served as a clubhouse in Our Gang comedies of the 30's has been rehabbed as the Treehouse of Iniquity with wall to wall leather, every possible restraint, probe and shackle available. It features Dr. Jekyll's Soda Fountain, which is a fully stocked bar, a room with costumes for a cast of thousands...and if you look close...tiny cameras tucked in every beam. You never play with both Uncles. You click with Charley: Marty's running video editing up at the house. You're making it with Marty: Uncle Charley's in post-production. I love them both and their approach to life in a twisted VistaVision and Stereophonic Sound meets Big Brother live feed way.
But one does not live solely for play sessions that start when the wolf bane blooms and the moon is full and bright. I was off to meet Uncle Charley in Beverly Hills for lunch, but that morning I had two house guests presumed in jail, and before I learned how to post bail, I cancelled lunch. My message never made it to the Polo Lounge.
We rescheduled but getting my Uncles into clothing and back out of their compound ain't easy. Plan B was that I'd pick up lunch at a cafe near their place and help with some spring cleaning that originally was fall cleaning. I looked forward to it.
I'm about to leave, when I get an email from Uncle Charley arrives in my in-box. His third cousin, twice removed, had passed in Scottsdale, there's tons of film to edit and he's in hermit mode. Uncle Martin is there for him, as he always is. Charley wrote me that sex is ok...but not today. Marty mustn't be angered. Don't call us: we'll call you.
How buying lunch and cleaning closets morphed into Frisky Frolics prompted me to call Uncle Charley who reiterated his e-mail. I found this heartbreaking and then I got mad. After numerous nights of intelligent, non-sexual conversation, my Uncles: now viewed me as the Pied Piper of PNP and no more. With a finger pressing the ‘send' key, I was written off their show.
It's a fatal flaw in cyberspace friendships that needs to be resolved: not objectifying each other as triggers, but as brothers in arms. Who better to seek advice from than a guy who's been there? I know the party mantra: ‘don't take it personally' ‘it's them, not you'.
That doesn't keep the sadness away, when one feels so very much alone and so very out of place.
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