went to the Pavilion Saturday night with a couple of housemates, my first visit in years (X has jumpstarted my dancing gene . . . i had forgotten just how sensual it can be, or maybe now i'm just less inhibited) . . . everybody always complains about the physical space which hasn't changed a bit since i first began coming to the Pines in 1988 . . . still, what more do u need than a wooden floor and Susan Morabito spinning some "nasty boy" music (all beats and no melody which drives the guys who remember Studio 54 just crazy) . . . actually a water fountain would be nice . . . what has changed for the better is the body of your typical dancing queen . . . the crowd probably has the highest testosterone levels among adult males on the planet and the competition is fierce . . . i've always managed to pass the chest test and my arms are more defined than they used to be thanks to my Jane Fonda workout routine, but the body culture competition now is so fierce that the blatant appraisals of how u measure up now include your abdominals . . . sigh! . . . i could have done without the lame party favors they tossed from the balcony sometime after 3 a.m. (the red glow worms and white adhesive starfish impeded some of my fancier foot movements) but i gladly accepted invitations to join a couple of clusters . . . D calls them amoebas because they suck u in and spit u out . . . the experience of dancing with strangers reminded me a little bit of Let's Make A Deal, if u can believe that . . . my butt bumps and grinds very aggressively on the dance floor which means any invitations usually came from behind, so to speak . . . everybody must think u are a bottom, R insists . . . who cares what people think when u are getting down? . . . i deliberately don't turn around, basing my decision to join on how well someone can follow or i can follow someone else's movements, rather than what he or they look like . . . as usual the lemons outnumber the prizes but oh when i pick the right door! . . . welcome to circuit worldcommented D2, a housemate who knows the scene much better than i and who could barely conceal his "been there, done that" attitude . . . guess there are advantages to being a late bloomer . . . of course the chemical that keeps me dancing for five hours straight does have a downside: the prize cluster rejected me when one of the guys reached into my pants and found less than a handful, not the first time this has happened . . . how come nobody ever expects u to dance in bed?

once the Chelsea Boy May/December romance departed (now that he's gotten off, he'll finally be able to sleep whispered the bait as they walked out into the dark humid night), i discovered that i had been abandoned by all my housemates . . . after cleaning up and eating i headed back west, logging a third mile on Fire Island Boulevard and banging up my left shoulder in the process by refusing to yield to the steady stream of Muscle Marys who expect u to get out of their way . . . instead of traffic jams, u have "hunk jams" in the Pines . . . the meatrack already had begun to fill up, right on schedule . . . i picked out the silhouette of a guy much bigger than me and soon found myself refusing an introduction to Tina whose reputation scares even someone who includes trying heroin (along with riding in a horse driven sleigh through the woods on a moonlit night) on his "10 things to do before i die" list . . . pig training, however, did go better with coke as i was soon to discover when my 6'4" Swedish master, after tying up my balls with the rope he carried just for this purpose, asked me if i wanted to return to his house . . . rarely do i crave domination, but i decided to throw myself into this scenario with uninhibited enthusiasm and possibly learn a thing or two . . . thankfully he lived nearby . . . a nude black man with a huge cock lay on a couch when we entered . . . introductions were exchanged without the slighest bit of awkwardness tho a part of me wanted to grip something more than Doug's hand . . . my master led me into his bedroom and took a long swig of bottled water . . . are u ready to be my slave? . . . yes, master . . . he expected me to limit my conversation to this one phrase, a much more difficult task for this coked-up Chatty Cathy than some of hygienically challenged things he asked me to do, which included licking his nostrils like a good little pig and sucking on his fingers after he had stuck two up my asshole . . . so, did u learn something tonight? he asked when he realized that i was not going to have an orgasm even after he rimmed me with my hands tied to the bedpost and my feet behind my head or when he consented to smoke during sex, something that does turn me on . . . yes, master i responded, determined to stay in character right up until i walked out his door . . . i learned he had not been masterful enough . . . he certainly never came close to testing my limits . . . isn't that the point, after all? . . . early on in my "training" he told me he likes to be "gentle" the first time . . . gentle, schmentle . . . i like my men hot and my music loud . . . and i suspect i like my masters rough, preferably in black leather!