The Signal System

(This is part 2 in a series of posts about a possible non-fiction book I’m researching. You can, and should, read part one here.)

Men are creeps. Myself included. I’ve long been an advocate for the coming of the Matriarchy, and I can’t wait for it to get here. Just look at the difference in how the leaders of the world who are women have managed the COVID-19 situation compared to the men. You’ll see what I mean. And if you don’t, let me say it again: Men are creeps. *

*Yes. Yes. I don’t mean ALL men. There’s always exceptions, but I’m a comedic writer and I’m allowed some poetic license here, right? So let’s make that a rule any time you read something I write: There are always exceptions to statements like All Men are Creeps. Except when Nazis are involved. The only good Nazi is a dead Nazi, and there’s no exceptions to that statement.

So when it comes to the practice of BDSM, something that’s entirely dependent on trust, how do you trust an entire gender that’s hardwired to be creeps? Something that’s made worse by thousands of years of society and culture based around private property, which fuels the worst of this creep tendency to ask “Where’s mine?” and only care about what you own and nothing else.

I can’t say what will work for everyone. I’m not a sex therapist. I don’t want to be one. I’m just writing about this stuff because it interests me, and MAYBE, there’s an entertaining book to be found within it. Maybe not. In which case, this blog also serves as a nice therapeutic outlet, which is something I really need in my life.

Either way, I can tell you about the system I use and the philosophy behind it. Your results may vary. I’m just your friendly neighborhood bisexual polyamorous author who really enjoys this stuff.

The above passage is from SM 101: A Realistic Introduction by Jay Wiseman. Fun fact, if you look up the author’s photo for Jay Wiseman, I’m convinced that’s exactly what I’m going to look like when I’m his age. (He’s a year younger than my Dad, I think, at age 70.)

And I can’t stress what Jay says above enough. Because men are creeps, there are some who are into BDSM who don’t understand boundaries. That really bothers me. It should bother you. People are not property, we fought a war over that one (although I’m convinced the Confederacy never really went away, and instead they morphed into what’s now the Modern Republican Party and they’re still waging their stupid, pointless, and racist war against the rest of us. But that’s probably a story, and a book, for another time.) The point is, you can’t own people, even though a lot of men think they can own women. (And yes, I know, the reverse can also be true.)

Where this applies to BDSM is that you can’t just have rough sex or rough play whenever you want. Outside of the bedroom, that can get into pretty scary, and rightfully illegal territory. I’m also of the belief that if you ever raise your hands to your partner in any context outside of consensual adult play, you should be shot into space. Preferably right square at one of those giant city-sized asteroids we have floating around up there. Because at least then you can serve some societal use and knock one of those fuckers off course. As it turns out, you don’t need to nuke the asteroids that could kill us. You just need to adjust their course.

No better way to do that, I think, then firing idiots and creeps at them as they approach.

My Signal System

Every partner is different. When you’re polyamorous, this can get a little complicated. So in truth, I write everything down offline in a notebook of what my partners like and don’t like. The last thing you want is to try out something like race play one partner likes on another partner accidentally. Things can get awkward real fast, believe me.

Since BDSM play can get rough verbally and physically, I won’t initiate it at all unless there’s a green light from my partner. The thing is, a lot of people don’t want to walk around and say, “Hey Pal, can you come into the bedroom and slap me around for a while?” They prefer nuance, and who can blame them? Humans are built for play, and being subtle is a big part of the warm up to play

So what do you do? When consent is desired and needed by both parties before acting out a scene.

For me, the green light can come in four forms:

  1. Superheroine costume: This is the obvious one. If you put that thing on, you know with me that the shit is on.
  2. I have a weakness for strong women. I want to completely dominate them (in bed). And so flexing an arm at me is like flashing red in front of a bull.
  3. Less obvious: A bracelet or some kind of article of clothing or SOMETHING that is only ever put on as a signal to say, “it’s go time” that doesn’t require red boots and a tiara.
  4. Less obvious still but the most preferred: Code words. A word that you wouldn’t normally use in any other context that serves as the green light. For years, I’ve asked my partners to say “Sheetrock”. (If you read my privacy book, you’ll note, hopefully hilariously, that this was also the word I made everyone text me in order to get a free copy of Social Media Is Bullshit.) The trick is to sneak the word into the conversation somehow so it’s not too obvious.

If you’re curious: My sister’s first cat was named Sheetrock. Originally it was Susan, but she fell into this giant hole under the sink that nobody knew about; and after spending a couple of days running around the interior of the house, I heard her scratching at the wall. My grandfather was there with some tools, and we cut the wall open to rescue her. And hence, “Sheetrock”.

I like these signals. I think especially in 2020 they’re so, so important to make sure everyone is on the same page, and it also eliminates any ambiguity. Or cuts down on it. I mean if you’re in a Home Depot and say the word “Sheetrock”, I’m not going to go looking for my whip, you know?

There’s also a signal system during play too that I borrowed from Kink.com. Yellow means “ease up”, Red means stop completely. Green (which I don’t know if Kink uses) means “More”.

So, like I said, this is just the system I use. I don’t know what other people do. It’s just the one my partners and I like and have agreed on.

Men are creeps, and boundaries are important. Nobody owes you anything, especially their body. So never let anyone use BDSM as an excuse to treat you like shit.

What men should do is follow my philosophy: I’ll treat you like a Queen* everywhere except the bedroom. Once that door is closed and boundaries are properly established and agreed on, your ass is mine.

(Or King … but only if you have abs.)

Cold Hilarious Fate

(Since my goal, over the next three years, is to write and publish a best selling fiction book, I thought it’d be fun to dig out some of my earlier attempts at fiction writing for you to enjoy. Some of you have seen these before, but most haven’t.

Below is Parts 1 and 2 to Cold Hilarious Fate. I didn’t finish it because I got sick in 2018 with the nervous system disorder, and doctors appointments consumed my life for the next year while I felt like crap.

I’m much better now, so I may go back to finish it if enough people tell me they like it though. You can email me at bj@bjmendelson.com to let me know what you think.)

Cold Hilarious Fate
By B. J. Mendelson and Bram Stoker

I’m on my way to Romania to see a client on behalf of Carlin, Prior, and Hicks. It’s my first trip abroad, and since I’m footing the bill for my travel, I decided to take a minor detour through Germany. I’ve always wanted to travel across Europe, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to do so.

My detour took me to Munich and the Hotel Beckenbauer Palace, where they offer complimentary drives around the German countryside.

Noticing the hotel manager, I walked to my designated vehicle as fast as I could. I hoped he didn’t see me, but Mr. Jonathan P. Heidenreich saw everything. He stared at my ride with a look similar to what the Nazis must have given Poland moments before invading.

Heidenreich was an odd character. Each night, I heard him roam the halls of Beckenbauer Palace, knocking on every door under the guise of checking in on his guests. When the guests answered, Heidenreich would then say in pitch-perfect English, “May I read you my latest poem? It is about my cat, Ilsa.” He would then go on for some time about his aging cat’s matted fur, missing eye, and endless supply of spit.

When I saw him making his way toward my car, I rolled up the window and said to the driver, who had introduced himself simply as “Johan,” “I hope he’s not going to read us any more of his fucking poetry.” 

Johan did not respond in any discernible way. He had no sense of humor, and it seemed the very thought of laughing was repulsive to his inner nature. 

I tried to smile at him, which was greeted with a frown. I guess smiling is also prohibited within the confines of this vehicle. Although truthfully, if I drove a Yugo, I wouldn’t be smiling either.

Heidenreich curtly wished me a pleasant trip. Perhaps this was his way of saying he knew I warned some of the guests about his unsolicited acts of literary aggression. Heidenreich then said to Johan, “Show our amazing American Bavaria’s beauty, but be back before early evening. You know what nasty night it is.” 

Johan, not impressed at all with excessive alliteration, or life itself it would seem, answered Heidenreich with an emphatic, “Ja.” 

Johan Schulz: Man of many words. I liked him.

As the Yugo roared to life, I asked Johan about what Heidenreich was referring to. What was happening tonight? 

Johan simply crossed himself as he answered: “Walpurgis Nacht.” 

I replied in classic American fashion: I laughed out loud and then asked incredulously, “What?”

Johan snorted in response to my inquiry and looked at his watch. His eyebrows gathered together as he gave me an impatient shrug. I didn’t push any further, but I should have.

An hour into our trip, I got tired of seeing what were apparently the touristy areas. Then, almost as if the universe had read my mind, I saw a little-traveled road. It looked so inviting that I asked Johan to stop the car. He did so with a heavy sigh, and a cross look. 

“What if we just explored this road before we continued on our way?” 

He shook his head. 

“Okay, well,” I continued, “what if we explore this road, and then you can turn around and take us back to the hotel?” 

There was a pause. Then another. And another.

After some time, I told Johan I would like him to drive us down this seemingly unexplored road, which prompted an endless barrage of excuses delivered in broken English. Many of which were followed by Johan crossing himself at the conclusion of each statement. His reluctance to make a simple left turn piqued my curiosity. I am a lawyer after all, so I know the signs of when someone is trying to conceal the truth, and Johan was displaying all of them.

I started to ask various questions to see if I could get to the facts. But Johan answered fencingly and repeatedly looked at his watch in protest as he did. Frustrated, I then told Johan I wanted to get out of the car. But before I could even take off my seatbelt, he had opened his door and raced out in front of mine, blocking it with his sizable Aryan frame.

Johan towered over me by at least a foot and had 200 pounds of muscle to my 162 pounds of lank. He made an impressive roadblock. If I were in a more joking mood, I would have said something witty to break the tension here, but I wasn’t feeling very funny. I was pissed. What was the big deal about this stupid road? There weren’t any signs and no indication anywhere that there was something to be avoided down it.

There was an awkward moment that followed between Johan and me. I sat in the car looking up at Johan. He peered down at me with all the menace you’d expect from an angered German. It crossed my mind to inform him that my mother was Jewish just to see what would happen. In my mind, I pictured Johan flipping out at this revelation, putting his fist through the window, dragging me out of the car, and then shaking me like a doll to see if any Jew gold came loose from my pockets.

What can I say? I have my mother’s paranoia.

At an impasse, I rolled down the window and informed Johan that I wanted to exit the vehicle. He finally sighed and took a step back.

Once I got out of the Yugo, Johan implored me not to go down the road. He always seemed about to tell me something—the very idea of which must have frightened him, as each time he would trail off, cross himself, and say mysteriously, “Walpurgis-Nacht!”

And each time, I would reply to him by saying, “I still don’t know what the fuck that means!”

I tried to argue further with Johan, but it’s difficult to argue with a man whose native tongue is German. Even the sweetest things said in that language can sound like a chainsaw attempting to cut through vibranium.

A couple of horses from a nearby farm had apparently heard our argument and moved closer to eavesdrop. At one point standing a mere several inches away from my face. Man and beast only separated by the farm’s white fence. Soon after, the two horses started to sniff the air. At this, Johan grew pale and looked around in a frightened way.

The next thing I knew, Johan picked me up over his shoulder, which prompted me to inform him that I did not, in actuality, possess any Jew gold.

Johan opened the passenger door and threw me into the car as if I weighed less than a feather pillow. He then got in and drove a few yards down the road to get away from the horses. 

“Johan, I feel you’re overreacting!” 

He said nothing. 

When I asked again for an explanation, he again crossed himself and pointed to the spot we had left. 

“Body,” he mumbled in English.

Finally, we were getting somewhere. “A body? Like a human body?”

As Johan was about to respond, we heard an odd sound. One that was not made by the horses. 

Johan, for the second time, went pale, and said, “Circus bear.” 

I laughed, which caused Johan to glare at me until I stopped.

“Abandoned,” Johan added. 

I got out of the car, informing Johan, “I have got to see this.”

Johan emitted a deep sigh as he again followed me out of the vehicle, but this time, nowhere near as fast as before. Perhaps he decided it would be best if a hungry circus bear devoured me. At the very least, he’d return home with a good story to share. Perhaps Mr. Jonathan P. Heidenreich could even write a poem about it.

I noticed dark clouds starting to swirl across the sky. A a breath of cold drifted past us, sort of like that creepy feeling you get when you’re talking about someone who died and then the room chills. It was only a brief breath, however, and honestly, it felt more like a warning than anything else.

Sometimes the universe gives you a hint that isn’t very subtle.

Johan looked under his lifted hand at the horizon and said: “Snow.” Then he looked at his watch again and got back into the car. This time, I didn’t join him.

I was now towering over my monstrous German friend as he rolled down his window. “Where does this road go, Johan?” 

Again he crossed himself and mumbled a prayer, before he answered, “Unholy.”

Curious, I asked, “You guys have a circus down there?”

Apparently annoyed by my nonchalant retorts and eagerness to push the issue, Johan burst out into a long story in German and English so mixed up my I could not translate everything, but I did gather a few things:

  • There was a famous circus located just down this road many years ago. I didn’t catch the name. Something happened that caused the circus and the town next to it to shut down. Something bad.
  • The bears and other assorted animals have managed to survive through their wits and abundant water and food supply thanks to the local wildlife. Bears in Bavaria, as it turned out, were not so abnormal an occurrence.
  • The circus and all of its employees were from Romania.

He was afraid to speak those last words.

Johan was now looking around as if expecting some circus bear would manifest itself right then and there and maul him to death. Doing so while wearing a silly hat.

Finally, in an agony of desperation, he cried, Walpurgis Nacht! and started the car. 

I’m ashamed to admit, I lost my temper here. I could only take so much of this “wild rumpus” crap. 

I’m an American after all. Nobody tells me what to do in a foreign country!

“For someone of your size, you should be ashamed of yourself, Johan. Your Rumpus Room crap doesn’t concern me, and it shouldn’t concern you either!”

Johan excitedly implored me not to do anything foolish. He was genuinely earnest, but all the same, I turned and walked away as he continued to jabber on. With a despairing gesture, Johan began his journey back toward Munich without me.

I watched as he drove off. He went slowly along the road for a while until there came over the crest of the hill a husky, dark-skinned man. When the man drew closer to the vehicle, the horses began to jump and kick about, then scream as if the farmer had arrived to send them to the glue factory.

I looked at the horses and then back for the stranger but found that he too was gone.

I was now alone, left with nothing but guilt for my rude treatment of Johan and irrational behavior. Just what was I thinking? I’m not an outdoorsman by any means. The last time I spent any significant time in the woods was when I was eight. I was stung by a bee, I cried, and I never went outside again.

What was he trying to warn me about? And why did I feel this sudden attraction to what was down that road? 

I was about to find out.

***

I turned down the road. There was not the slightest visible reason for Johan’s objection, and dare I say, I frolicked for a while without thinking of time or distance.

After more frolicking than I care to admit, I sat down on a tree stump to rest and began to look around. It struck me that it was colder than it had been when I left Johan behind.

Looking upwards, I noticed thick clouds that hadn’t been there before. Sometimes people think they can see in the clouds shapes of things they know, but I’m not one of them.

What I did see, however, were signs of a coming storm, something Johan had forecasted that I paid little attention to. I was already a little chilly. I was dressed for a nice spring day, maybe early summer. Not whatever this looming wintery bullshit was.

Realizing that staying in one place was a poor idea and not one that would keep me warm, I resumed my journey down the road.

I had no idea what the time was. I realized that in my haste to see the circus bear, my phone had flopped out of my pocket and into the back seat of Johan’s Yugo.

Without any way of telling time, I took little heed of it, and it was only when the deepening twilight came that I began to think of how I should find my way home. The circus had been located next to the town, but was that town still there?

I was a couple of hours drive from the hotel. I don’t suppose I could double-back and borrow one of those frightened horses I saw earlier. That would be a sight. Not only am I not much of an outdoorsman, but my only experience riding horseback involved a crazed pony that had the look of Satan in its eyes. Needless to say, I’ve been traumatized for life by the thought of riding another horse, let alone anything that can be described as having “intense horsepower.”

So that was not an option.

The air was colder now. Windy. The only sound that could be heard beyond the wind was a periodic grunt or growl of the alleged circus bear that would come from nowhere and fade just as quickly as it came.

For a while, I hesitated. Perhaps this was common sense returning and warning me about a dangerous wild animal that I decided to gawk at. Perhaps not. I had said I would see the deserted circus, and I had come so far already that it would be a waste of time just to turn back.

It’s also worth pointing out that in the back of my head, I still had some sort of urging that I couldn’t explain. An urge that demanded I continue on. This despite not being appropriately dressed, lacking a phone, and if we’re honest with each other, also a complete and total lack of knowledge about the great outdoors.

I only knew what these dumb clouds meant because I had almost been struck by lightning when I was eight. This was just after my misadventure with the pony, which had been dubbed by my family as “the incident.”

Ever since the near miss with the lightning, I took an unusual interest in trying to figure out when and how God may try to strike me down again, and that involved telling the difference between cumulus clouds and cumulonimbus clouds. The latter being the clouds that brought the potential for a terrifying death from above along with them.

Not far in the distance, I saw what appeared to be a circus tent. Just in time, as the snow began to fall. I thought of the miles of country I had passed and then hurried on to seek shelter beneath it.

The road around the tent was crude. There were potholes the size of Buicks, and as I drew closer, the tent itself looked like it had been on the receiving end of Mother Nature’s baseball bat.

If I thought this tent was going to provide me with any semblance of shelter, I thought wrong.

Do I turn back now? Was this old tent all there was to see of the abandoned circus? No, a voice in my head said. And then I got that odd sense again that I should continue down the road.

The air became ice cold then, and I began to suffer. The snow was now falling so heavily that I struggled to keep my eyes open. Fortunately, there was a glimmer of light up ahead just beyond a thick line of trees.

As the snow relented, I walked out from under the trees and began to investigate my surroundings. In my rush, I hadn’t noticed that I blew right by the remains of the old circus.

There were empty trailers, animal cages, and weathered ticket booths. I must have passed under what was the big top and was now seeing what remained of the attractions around it. In truth, there wasn’t much to see. It’s not often the things we build up in our minds are as entertaining or frightening as we think they are.

Disappointed, I turned back toward the light, and it was then that I saw it. Sanctuary! A gas station. I can call for help here, get some food, and maybe even hang out for a while. Especially if the attendants don’t mind the sight of a strange American loitering around while waiting for their ride.

Rumpus room my ass!

I ran toward the gas station excited and noticed on the door an odd sign that read, “Under new management.” That part of the sign wasn’t odd. The second part was. “The Countess Dolingen of Gratz invites you to share any and all customer complaints with her directly.” That was odd.

What kind of countess owns a gas station? 

But I guess this is Europe, and they do things differently over here.

If I had my wits about me, well, I wouldn’t have come down this way in the first place, but I also would have taken further note of the graffiti on the side of the building. Graffiti that I would later find out said in Romanian, “The dead travel fast while driving in compact executive sedans.” Throughout my journey, this would not be the last time I heard this phrase.

And just like the other time I would hear it, I wouldn’t much enjoy what happened next.

My mind was on fire now as I opened the door to the gas station. One side of my mind was now relieved; the other had its spidey senses tingling.

The worried part of my mind began to wish that I had taken Johan’s advice. Here, a thought struck me. One that came with a terrible shock. What if Rumpus Room was a thing after all, and that thing was happening right now?

Later, I would find what Walpurgis Night meant. I’d like to stop here to define it. Especially for those of you who may have trouble believing the rest of my story.

Walpurgis Night was when, according to Wikipedia, the night the devil was alleged to walk the Earth. And not the fancy, charming Devil you’d like to fuck on his self-titled Netflix television show. No, we’re talking the real thing. And as he walks the earth, all the graves open, and the dead come forth and walk with him.

It was a night, the page said, “when all evil things of earth and air and water held revel.”

I heard the sound of a bell chime.

Inside, there was a woman behind the counter, asleep. She was beautiful. I mean, all people are beautiful, each in their own way, but there was something about this one that grabbed my attention, and for a moment, I thought I had died and met the person I was supposed to spend eternity with.

Her feet were up on the counter, and she was leaning back against the wall. In front of the woman was an old VHS/television combination. Something I hadn’t seen in at least a decade. Maybe more. On this television played an old Don Rickles special called Buy This Tape, You Hockey Puck. The cover for the VHS was on the floor not far from where I was standing.

Meeting the girl of my dreams would have to wait until she woke up, so I took the opportunity to look around. For now, there was food and water to be sought!

But to my surprise, most of the shelves were empty. It looked almost as if the world had ended and the living ransacked the place before it did. Only leaving behind in their wake items even the dead wouldn’t want, like Funyuns and Coors Light,

As I made my way toward the back of the store and the expensive bottled water, I stepped on a piece of glass. It had apparently fallen from the freezer door just to the left of me, which had been smashed open.

As the glass crunched under my foot, I felt a set of eyes lock on me and what my gut had then told me was the sound of someone licking their lips.

I turned and saw the woman of my dreams now looking right at me. She was mesmerizing. So much so that before I knew it, she was now standing right in front of me.

I knew right then that it was her that had been urging me down the road. She confirmed my theory. “It took you long enough,” she said in a thick Eastern European accent. One I would later learn was also Romanian. They all sound like they’re from Romania, even when they’re not.

She held in her hand a remote control and pressed pause on Mr. Rickles just as he was about to say something racist about the cute Puerto Rican couple seated in front of him.

My dream woman then grinned at me, and it was then that I saw her teeth. Teeth that made her mouth look more like that of a smiling great white shark than any person I’d ever want to marry.

“How long I’ve waited,” she said. “You know, they say after you are bitten, that you must feed to live, but this is untrue.” 

I started to back away from her. But my potential escape was thwarted by a pile of Archie Comics that had been left behind on the floor. It would seem that not even during the end times that readers wanted to join the Riverdale gang on one of their wacky adventures.

I slipped and tumbled to the floor. On my way down, I could see Jughead’s dumb face looking up at me, wondering if I too was a hamburger he could eat. As I twisted around to face the woman, she leaned down and looked me in the eyes. I began to feel as if I was under her spell as she finished speaking.

“You just wait, and you wait and you wait … until your next meal comes along.”

And Now For Something Completely Different

I was never a big Monty Python fan. My older brothers and sister loved it. My friends in high school loved it. But it just didn’t take for me. I’m not saying they’re not funny, they are. But it just wasn’t for me. I did; however, always love their segue line of “And now for something completely different”. The line fits pretty appropriately for what I’m about to share with you.

Just a couple of quick things first:

  • My blog posts tend to be long. So if you make it to the end, let me preemptively congratulate you now. They’re long because this isn’t a professional blog. It’s a personal one. And I more or less write on here for therapeutic reasons than anything else. I have pretty severe depression and OCD, so having space where I can think and vent out loud is valuable. And, having it be a public space, makes it especially so because I have trouble communicating in non-professional settings. At work, I’m great. In my personal life? Well, let’s just say the therapist may agree with me that I’m the type of person you fuck, but don’t date. So this blog lets you know what I’m thinking.

  • You may find typos, spelling errors, and other grammatical mistakes in these blog posts. Please don’t point them out to me. I know you’re trying to be helpful. I am very aware of them. But if I put as much time into editing these blog posts as I do my professional writing, it’ll take forever for me to publish them. Part of having OCD is that I will write something real fast, and then read it out loud about a hundred or so times and fine-tune every last period and phrasing until I can’t possibly edit it anymore. That completely defeats the point of “blogging for fun”. Grammarly (highly recommended, but don’t rely on it completely) will catch most mistakes, and I run the posts through there before they go live.

So, What’s Up?

I read somewhere that you should plan your decades. I’m willing to be it was in “Zero to One” by billionaire Peter Thiel, but he’s an evil prick, and I read a lot of books. So if I don’t write something down in Google Docs somewhere, everything sort of blurs together into this gross Eastern European tasting soup. The kind my family’s ancestors probably shared between rounds of Borscht to liven things up.

(Note: Having money doesn’t make you evil. I think capitalism can be great, provided it has the appropriate guard rails in place. So my issues with Thiel have nothing to do with money and everything to do with the actions of his company, Palantir, (more on that here too), his funding of Trump’s presidential campaign, his revenge against Gawker via Hulk Hogan’s sex tape lawsuit, and once referring to rape as “belated regret.” )

I don’t think you can plan your decades. I don’t think you can even plan five years out. You absolutely should have an emergency fund in your savings account if at all possible, you should absolutely plan for retirement and invest your money properly. But if you’re a member of my micro-generation (us elder Millenials, or Xennials, born between the late ’70s and early ’80s), think about what you’ve lived through so far: 9/11, a completely botched 2000 Presidential election, a possibly stolen 2004 presidential election (if those voting machines in Ohio were rigged), a Dot Com boom and bust, two pointless wars, Hurricane Katrina, Super Storm Sandy, a second Depression (because calling that thing “The Great Recession” was a marketing trick, not an actual description of what it was), Donald Trump, COVID-19 and previous coronavirus outbreaks like SARS, global warming, and that’s just the stuff I can think of off the top of my head.

Think about the other things we don’t often talk about, like that time 227,000 people died in the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake and tsunami. And all of this stuff happened as we came of age and turned 18. If you told me at 18 that most of these things would happen by the time I was 28, I wouldn’t have believed you. Let alone all the stuff that happened between 28 and 38 (which I turn next year in April.)

So, planning your decades is dumb. Don’t do that. Even five years is kind of tough. I can’t tell you, nor should I be the one to tell you, how to live your life, but for me? I plan everything in a three-year cycle. So right now, I’m in a three-year cycle professionally where by 2023 I want to have a New York Times Best Selling FICTION book. So 2020 is all about reading as much fiction as I can. 2021 is about planning and researching the book, along with making sure I’m studying the tips and tricks on how to write a successful fiction book. And 2023 is about editing and (probably) self-publishing the thing. If that sells well enough, a publisher will snap it up and put it out, which will give me a shot at the NYT Bestseller list. Maybe this leaks into 2024, maybe it doesn’t. But that’s not the point. The point is that I have the next three years highly structured because three years seams reasonable, and I can safely bet that the world won’t end within that time. Or, I can HOPE the world doesn’t end in that time. The probability would be low, but like we’re seeing now with COVID, who knows, right?

Ok, but what about this blog?

Well, you’re not reading fiction on here right now, right? So I have something different I want to do on here. In addition to the things I already mentioned. And here’s where we start to get really personal. So jump off the train if you don’t want to come along for this ride. It’s ok. There’s plenty of safe places to land, and if you jump off the train at El Paso, there’s plenty of beautiful scenery to look at, and Mexico isn’t looking too bad in comparison to whatever Trump has in store for us if he gets re-elected. Seriously, I am already researching how to move to Canada and become a Canadian citizen if he gets re-elected. I know it was fashionable during the Bush years to say that, but Trump is far more dangerous than Bush, and that’s saying something because Bush killed a whole lot of people with his pointless wars and reckless mishandling of Hurricane Katrina.

PS: There was, at one point, a burrito lady at the El Paso Amtrak station who was known to sell amazing burritos. I have no idea if she’s still there, but if she is, you’re in good hands in terms of food. God bless that sweet, sweet lady.

Ok.

Still here? Great.

Some of you may know this about me, but most don’t: I am a polyamorous bisexual who is really into BDSM. (I’m 100% a Dom. The switch and bottom life is not for me.)

Why Would I tell you that?!

Because I’ve been thinking about what a new non-fiction book would look like. I don’t want to write about marketing and technology, because the good news (For me) is that I was mostly right about the stuff I wrote about, and it’s just now all happening. So I’m in the fun position of smiling and nodding a lot while people tell me shit I wrote about almost a decade ago. There’s no reason to revisit any of that. Especially because human psychology hasn’t changed much, if at all, in the past few thousand years. So on the marketing front, I don’t have more to add other than saying, “Make something that’s simple, fun, cheap, and easy to understand, because if you do, people will do the marketing of it for you.”

So if I’m going to write a new non-fiction book, which is currently not part of my three-year plan, it has to be something completely different. Something that’s fun and I won’t get sick of researching, because that’s what I’ll need to do for a couple of years before I write it, and talking about because if I publish the thing, that’s what I’ll need to do for a good five years.

The only thing that fits that criteria, for me, is a book about my dumb quest to become a professional Dom.

It started as a joke. I was talking to my therapist about how it’s really hard for me to work for other people. I’m very fortunate to be in a situation right now where that’s not true, and I like everyone I work with and what I do, but this is incredibly rare for me. And when you have OCD, you constantly worry about when the good times are going to end. Even if I know I’m doing a good job right now at work, which I’d like to think I am, there’s a voice in my head that tells me every morning I’m going to fuck it all up and be unemployed tomorrow.

So the joke was that the therapist asked me what I’d like to do for a job, since we all need money to live, and I said without thinking “Professional Dom”. We both laughed. It was the same kind of moment I had with my agent a long time ago when I was in his office pitching him a fiction book I was working on. And he said, “What else do you have for me?” Without thinking I said, “Social Media is Bullshit” and we both laughed and that one joke then consumed my life for about a decade.

I’m not saying this is my new career. But what I am saying is that the idea of this neurotic, sweet, and (hopefully) likable guy trying to learn how to do something that’s completely out of character from what most people would perceive would make for an interesting story. And then you throw in that this something involves sex, which is always taboo in America even in the 21st Century, and BDSM, which is even more so, and I think the elements are there for something really funny and captivating (for you) and fun and stimulating for me. (And this is before we even get to the bisexuality part because I like dominating guys with abs, which makes the book doubly fascinating, I think.)

All of this is important. Because like I said, I gotta live with whatever non-fiction thing I choose to write for about a decade.

So, I may use this blog as a research lab. I’ll tell you what I’m reading, what I’m thinking, and if after a year I think there’s a “there there” (whatever that means), then I’ll consider adjusting my three-year plan so that I write both books. The fiction book and this non-fiction book, with a lot of the non-fiction work living and being posted here.

And so we begin this weird, fun, and hopefully entertaining journey together on this blog.