I’m amazed at the amount of people who seem surprised to find me nice. I think, in some regard,that they expect to be treated like shit by me, perhaps because I do spend some serious time in the gym, and have a particular mode of dress which requires I remain (somewhat) pressed and know, however arrogantly, I am good-looking.

We both know those vapid people who walk in similar shoes to mine. They’ve had the world handed to them - via a lucky draw from the genetic pool - looks or money, and with money you can buy the looks. In short, they treat everyone around them as lesser. Lesser beings simply because their great grandfather didn’t have the foresight to start a hotel chain out of his basement.

However it is, they’ve grown up without the challenges that force them to be humble, that force them beyond the ‘me’ mentality common in children and teenagers. Surely it is a curse of the rich to bear off-spring that will not appreciate every cent in their padded bank accounts, and will not know sweat beyond that which forms on their bottled, designer, waters.

To go hungry is to know an emptiness whose solution is so simple, yet so out of reach. To go without power, or running water is to know that the world goes on without either - just not as smoothly, not as cleanly, not as easily.

So that when people find me nice it is simply because, while I do look like one of those people, I am not one. I’ve lived without food early on; I’ve lived without power, and with water I had to fetch from the stream. I live in the shadow of a God I cannot embrace, yet try desperately too; in the shadow of a father whose voice I still hear in my head. I’ve been taught humility in it’s raw, harsh form, and it did not beat me.

It has simply numbed me to the suffering of others. I still afford a smile to the cashier at my local grocery store, a generous tip to the waitress (and single mother of three) at the local coffee shop. I still let people in during traffic, don’t scream at them (anymore) when they cut me off, and help my aging neighbor with her new deck.

I believe in pride. I workout, dress sharply and walk tall all because I am proud. It never, at any time, came at the cost of my humility, my humanity.

Those apples will rot - but the trees endure.

I’m sinking into my mood again. Allowing myself, really, to engage the darker, right side of my head. While I am stained with sadism, the right side is, what you might consider, the creative thinker, the one that comes up with nasty ideas to mind-fuck my partner. He is the gun carrier, the needle lover, the brash genius. My left brain envies him, even as it tries to introduce the cool precision of the scalpel.

It may seem like two minds, but they blend and complement each other as well as music written by God and yet, conducted by the Devil.

I roll my head back and rest it against the espresso leather of my club chair, my favorite for it’s unique ability to embrace my frame. I stare at the ceiling and think of a mural so obscene that my company here would have to be select indeed. It would be the sort of sweet perversion that makes you stare before you remember to look away.

My fingers toy idly with my knife, the metallic sound of metal striking metal as the motion swings it briefly open and then shut again. I love this chair, but the urge to drive the knife into the leather and wood is compelling. The knife compliments my hands, my fingers, and whispers to me of pleasures I’ve no right to take. The light around me fades and my mind starts to wander…

It’s the chase, truly, that drives me. I am, in this case, no better than the dog chasing after the car, or the cat chasing the mouse. I want the hunt, the vicious take-down. I want to cut and feel the sticky blood on my fingers, feel my face contort with anger.

I want my fingers in her hair, twisting, pulling, until great quantities snap and break, and strike her until she cries the truly emptying, pitiful sobs of the defeated, resigning herself to what will come. I want her so drained, she can’t assemble thought except that of an animal, seeking to avoid the agony, lessen what she feels.

But I won’t let her hide. After the pain would come the most terrible of truths, the pure artistry of seduction, sex, for that is where my sadism truly finds root - in sexuality. Without this, the first part is wasted, harmful energy expended by a beast. To seduce her, I have to know her, know her secret heart of hearts. To turn her against herself, I have to play her gently, run my fingers along her back, coax awakening in her screaming nerves to receive more than just pain.

My voice, ever-present in her ear even as her body begins to vibrate like a finely tuned instrument. The pain lessens in one area to be brought back sharply in another. Pleasure finds its way like an intruder into her belly. Tears lessen, dried onto her skin in salty paths, or rubbed against my lips which kiss her everywhere but her mouth. I want to hear each delicious cut of breath, each cry, each wordless sound that bears my echo.

When my fingers finally make their way to the crux of her need, I want her body arched like a bow ready to fire an arrow. I want her taut, needing, in spite of, or in lieu of the pain. It doesn’t really matter, it simply is sensation at my hand. It is a fire that I nurture, evident in the nipples that never soften, never quite dry out from the moisture of my mouth.

When I do speak, after this dance where she was the music, I ask her - ‘What do you need?’

There is only one answer on her lips. It echoes in your head now if you followed the steps. So, when I tell her to beg…

You know she does.

I’m back from my trip to parts of the world unknown - that’s right, I didn’t tell you. To say that I am jet lagged would be a massive understatement of truth. For the most part, however, I stuck to my American schedule, that is, I didn’t bother to sleep except on the airplane. The trip through O’hare was fun, considering that was supposed to be JFK I was flying into. I’m thinking to myself again, why not Boston?

The hot dogs in Chicago are pretty damn good. I dared eat one at the airport while I awaited my flight home. I don’t think I’ve had one in years.

I’ve missed the view outside my window. There is something relaxing about looking out of the window onto all that water - the vastness of it. There are no motor boats allowed on my side of the lake, my neighbor, quite a distance away, is a judge and doesn’t like to be woken up with the sound of early morning or late night mischief. Motor boats over here will earn you a 500$ ticket, I’m told.

I like to row out in the center of the lake and just lay back and watch night fade into day. You can see stars here that you’d never find with light-blinded eyes. Enjoy the black felt tapestry that seems within reach if you can just climb that last branch of the cottonwood tree out front. I missed the lightening bugs that dot the air, the crunch of leaves in the trees that indicate something is out there.

It’s a peace I never found in the city and while the drive is exceedingly long, while my mother whines about the distance (and I celebrate it), while the walls still remind me of N, and the voicemail still haunts with her voice, I am at home. Finally.

I always like to be involved in anything that has my name on it, even indirectly. You could say my image is important to me, in terms of my name, my stamp of approval, etc. Beyond that, I like to have control over what transpires in my life.

Money - I know it down to the cent. Every penny, how I spent it, what percentage that expense consumes out of my savings, what my interest percentage is on any loan or banking account etc.. I can tell you just by whipping out my wallet and/or PDA, what I did today, and even without those receipts, I can recall it.

• Qt’s $47.00 (gas)
• The little shop inside my building downtown $3.48 (Water, gum, etc.)
• The Keg $87.00 (Business lunch - rounded for the tip)
• Galleria $381.79 (New work shirts / My arms are so freaking long, it’s impossible to find off the rack that fits.)

I could go on, but really, it only shows just how NORMAL my life can be sometimes. The point is, I know where it all goes.

Exercise and Physical Health - I’m there. I can tell you the average calorie content of just about anything. Or at least, tell you if you should bother eating it or not. I’m good at playing with weight loss and weight gain. It’s all numbers, you see.

I review any document that leaves my hand twice, at least and I sign everything, every check, every authorization in person. I like to have that kind of hands on role in my work, with my books. I could hire other people to do these jobs, but I don’t bother….

So as I’m sitting here, balancing my checking account down to the cent, I am struck by something out of place. I don’t have a hands on approach with my relationships. N was rather able to come and go as she pleased. I didn’t outline her day, I didn’t demand to know where she was at all times.

Part of that, granted, is because she needs her freedom, and also because, were she to ask it of me, I’d have told her to kiss my ass. I’m a big believer in ‘if I wouldn’t do it, I can’t expect you to do it.’ I’ve felt damn near everything I’ve done to her - Needles, whips, suspension, belts, nails, canes, glass… razors.

I digress, the point is, I didn’t have a hands on with her. Perhaps this is because we’ve been together so long, I sort of had her, I hate this word, trained, on how to relate to me. She knew my expectations and could meet them with very few exceptions. Relationship auto pilot.

I knew I could (yes) trust N with her tasks. I didn’t check on her, I didn’t micro manage her, I simply didn’t. I left her to work, to play and to be there when I needed. I took her for granted.

She’s left and those things don’t move as smoothly. Hm. Relationship auto pilot. Sex. Work. Dinner. Sex. Work. Dinner. Sex. Work. Dinner.

As I’ve gotten older, those odd curve balls my moods would toss me into have gotten less and less. I don’t have jealous meltdowns or undirected anger. Those episodes, as destructive as they were, were equally renewing for us. We tore at each other in brutal ways, but were always scarred, but ultimately better for it. Stronger.

I don’t miss the imbalance, that isn’t what I’m saying. I doubt my ability to even conjure such a spell. I simply think that while N was quite competent and strong and capable - she still needed to be put on her knees. Reminded just who and what I was.