***Today’s post is for adults 21 and over. If you are NOT at least 21, leave now. If you are a married man and whipped, go get your wife to give you permission to read further. If you are a single man with a girlfriend or fiancee, go get her permission to read on. If you are Laurie, do NOT imagine Julian McMahon as Dirk Mancuso and yourself as Bruce — that sort of thinking will only make it harder to concentrate on your work. No nakedness occured, nor was sex involved. All acts were safe, sane, and consensual. Actually this was nothing more than a really offbeat adult version of cowboys and indians. With dirty talk. But this is still a grown-up post. Furthermore, this is not an endorsement of any sort. If fact, it is just the opposite. Truth be told, this was sort of weird and kind of boring, so don’t do it, folks. Just say no. Sorry, Bruce.
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Our lead story today: Lappy is resting comfortably and looks to make a full recovery. Dr. Bruce came through and willed that little centrino-chipped bitch back into existence through a combination of sheer determination, lightning fast fingers, and some mad computer skillz. My hat’s off to you, Bruce. You rock.

In other news, never let it be said I welch on a deal. Dr. Bruce used the hands touched by God to fix Lappy, so I ponied up on my end of the bargain. I excused myself to the bathroom where I changed into Mr. B’s “jogger fantasy gear” which included the aforementioned Boystown tank and a pair of blue nylon running shorts (the red seemed a little much with the shirt), which I would have posted a pic of, but Blogger was having a shit hemorrhage posting 2 pics, let alone 3. Whatever. And yeah, I know I’m fat. Deal.

 

 

 

 

 

 So anyhoo, I came out and Bruce reiterated this was strictly a no sex thing which I confirmed. He took out some leather wrist and ankle cuffs which he then used to secure me to a chair. No problem. Once I was snug and secure, Bruce set his alarm clock for 90 minutes and we were off and running.

Regarding verbal abuse: it’s not for everyone. In fact, I’d say it’s for a select few. A very select few. Myself, I was not so much into it. As evidenced by my reaction when Bruce began by walking around the chair and calling me names like “fucking sissy panty waist” and “stupid fucking cum guzzling faggot.”

Allow me to impart a bit of advice: Don’t laugh when you are on the receiving end of verbal abuse. It’s not smart.

An illustration:

Bruce said things.

I giggled.

I got smacked on the back of the head.

“Why aren’t you laughing now, fuckchop?” Bruce asked, holding my chin and making me look him in the eye.

“Mainly because of all of a sudden this isn’t funny, that’s why,” is what I was thinking, but I wisely chose to keep my mouth shut.

Once I realized the rules of the game, it was a piece of cake. After about 5 minutes of “you fucking worthless piece of shit” and “stupid ass piece of fuck meat,” I was totally in the zone, working out a plot problem in my screenplay. Yes, I must admit, whilst Bruce was busy making a raging wet spot in his Kenneth Cole’s, I was off in The Land of Barely There, dreaming about John Stamos and composing a grocery list, not really hearing much of what was being said.

At one point, Bruce pulled out a wild card and put a partial hood on me — it just came over my eyes — and kept leaning in and lightly smacking my face, while he laughed at my attempts to sense incoming blows. I felt like the leather version of Whac-A-Mole.

And so it went with a few variations. When the alarm finally blared, Bruce shut it off, then immediately removed my restraints, a man of his word. He offered me a bottled water, went over a few reminders about Lappy, and 15 minutes later I was out the door and on my way home.

Hey, if nothing else it sure as hell beat dinner at Subway on a Thursday night.