(see-nay kwah nahn)

Prep.

Latin for ‘without which it could not be,’ an indispensable action or condition.

Last week, as most of you know, was sort of an eye-opener for me in regards to this blog. While I have always known I had a pretty loyal and intensely opinionated readership, I really had no idea just how passionate some of you really are.

Which I found both flattering and a little intimidating.

Which led me to declare a “no Fella” zone on these here parts.

Which has led me to a fork in the road regarding the future of this blog.

While I would never be so stupid or obsessive as to make The Fella the center of my world, the truth is that in a very short time he has become a pretty big part of it and many of the things I could/would blog about would involve him whether it be directly or peripherally. And with a self imposed “No Fella Zone” it makes it just a wee bit hard to really write about anything with any degree of honesty. And without that, I can’t see any point in really putting forth the time and effort here. It would be a waste of time on both my part and yours.

This decision came back to back with both DuShawn discovering this blog (Dirk Mancuso friendly tip: when house-sitting, ALWAYS clear the history when using someone else’s computer to blog) and loads of drama on the Lola/Old Boy front. Add to that concoction one part new apartment stress, one part the return of Bruce, mix liberally and you’ve got the makings of a rockin’ awesome meltdown in the making.

And so here I sit, debating whether to continue the blog or pull the plug.

Or reinvent it in another form.

Or go private.

Or continue on without filters.

Two years ago it would’ve been an easy choice, today not so much. It’s not just stories on a blog any more, folks — it’s my life. And life is messy and ugly and hard and sometimes you just want to keep everything in to protect yourself the best you can. Other times having a venue to talk about things is the only thing that keeps you sane. Which is all so contradictory since I take great measures to keep everyone at arm’s length, never allowing anyone to get close enough to hurt me.

God, I really need to get my shit together in at least one aspect of my life.

So until I figure out what I’m doing, I’ll be here…with the fabulous new object of my affection, Mr. Ron Carlivarti who recently won an Emmy for his spectacular efforts over at ONE LIFE TO LIVE (recaps of which may just replace the Y&R ones if that show doesn’t get its shit together and fast). Watch his show — make it number one. That is an order.

Okay…so the Bruce thing from last fall.

Lappy was still having some issues with playing DVDs and cd’s and a couple of other things last fall, and Bruce was going to be in town, and blah blah blah…long story short he said he’d take a look for a little bondage session at his hotel.

Free computer overhaul for bondage…does anybody here think I was going to turn down that deal? If so, the exit is on your left.

The boundaries on this session were a little more, how shall we say, “vague” and since I’d done this before, I wasn’t all that worried. In addition to the bondage, Bruce’s criteria this time were no shirt and a collar…and a couple of other things to be announced. Whatever, I tell him — but no sex, same as always.

Okay, so I meet Bruce at his hotel at 5 and while he works on Lappy, I go to Borders and Best Buy with the proviso that when he’s finished, he calls me and I come back for “payment.”

Insert me browsing books and DVDs here.

About 7pm, Bruce calls and I go back to the hotel. Bruce meets me at the door and tells me to take off my shirt the second I step in. A deal’s a deal so I do. He pushes me face first into the wall and cuffs me, then puts a collar on me. No big. Not the first time I’ve been down that road.

He leads me over to the bed and shoves me down on my stomach. I feel him cuffing my ankles. Then I feel him on top of me and seconds later he is forcing a ball-gag into my mouth. Okaaaaaaay…I start to see where this could go really wrong, but again, we have the no sex rule so I’m not too worried. He flips me over and positions me on my side, head on the pillows, then lays down beside me, looking into my eyes.

This makes me more uncomfortable than anything, but I’m cool.

After a few minutes, Bruce reaches down and unsnaps my shorts. “I’m going to take these off,” he says, a vague question mark hanging at the end of his words.

I just stare at him. What — I’m going to argue with a huge rubber ball buckled in my mouth?

He pulls my shorts and underwear down to my ankles, unsnaps the carabiner connecting the leather cuffs, removes the shorts, then reconnects the cuffs.

Insert lots of really boring staring and tracing patterns on my arm and chest shit here. Shit so boring I dozed off a couple of times…at least.

Then around 8:30, he decides he’s starving so he orders calzone and soda from a local pizza parlor. More stare-y shit. Dinner arrives…he takes the ball-gag out to give me a break…he eats — rather messily I might add…belches…goes to bathroom and pisses…comes back and makes me suck his balls.

May I just say that prior to that night I had never had a shaved set in my mouth and I can say with dead certainty I never will again. They were all bumpy like chicken skin, plus they smelled like he’d splashed a lil Nautica on the 3 piece set to cut the musty.

Fucking. Nasty.

So the tea bagging was followed by more of the starey shit…the return of the ball-gag…straddle my chest and look down at me…blah blah blah. At some point in this rather dull repertoire, I just fell asleep. (I mean seriously, show the nips some love or something — the whole “I-gots-me-a-prisoner” shit wears thin realllllllly quick, dude.) I woke up around 4am to find myself still cuffed and being spooned. A couple of sharp kicks later, Brucie boy was awake and reluctantly releasing me.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know — I’m pressing my luck with this guy. Maybe it’s naivete, but in all honesty I can’t really see myself getting all LAW AND ORDER: SVU-ed by him. Anyhoo, the reason I’m finally getting around to posting this because I’m having some issues getting online and after uninstalling and reinstalling Juno 3 times in 2 days, it looks like I may have to resort to tricking for Bruce again.

Which seems infinitely preferable to the dinner date I seem to have found myself wrangled into for Thursday night…

Let’s all just ‘fess up right from the start, m’kay? You know why you’re here today and so do I.

You just want the dirt on my lil road trip.

And since I’m nothing if not truthful so I’ll just tell you what you want to know up front: $162.77

That’s what I dropped in 30 minutes at The Disney Store.

And oh the licensed swag that bought me! A Ratatouille Remy and Emile piggy bank, a Remy figure in a baguette car, Remy and Emile animated figures, Collette and Skinner action figures, and a couple of gifts for friends. Here’s a peek at a few of my goodies:

I was particularly thrilled to get the Collette action fig — a pocket sized Janeane Garofolo of my very own! Hooray! (I have an insane crush on her gorgeous teeth.)

What’s that? You don’t give a rat’s ass about my Disney booty? You want to hear about Bruce?

Well, well, well…suddenly it’s all about you guys and what you want, huh? Fine. Whatever. Mumble mumble, grumble gripe.

As promised, Bruce took me to The Disney Store and let me shop (as detailed above, you impatient bastards), then we went to the hotel to relax a bit before changing for dinner. Bruce made sure we were both ready and was hustling me out the door by 5:30. I wasn’t thrilled since dinner thing didn’t start until 6:30 and I was in no hurry to mix it up with a bunch of businessmen and their wives staring at the nancy boy at Bruce’s side. When we got downstairs, Bruce steered me toward the exit doors.

“I thought we were going to dinner?” I asked, not really sure what was going on.

Bruce assured me were — the hotel hosting the dinner was overbooked so we were staying at this one. Maybe I’m stupid but that made sense to me, so I got in the car and we took off. Now anyone who has ever traveled with me knows I have the attention span of a fucking hammer, so within seconds I was fiddling with the radio, looking at stuff in the glove compartment, reliving my Disney shopping experience via the receipts in my wallet. And while I was doing all that, I didn’t notice that we were actually out of the city until I finally looked up and saw horses in a field.

“Where the fuck is this hotel?” I asked, thinking Bruce had gotten us lost.

“Oh, we left a little early so we could make a stop first,” Bruce replied, looking over and smiling.

Oh hell no. I knew right then and there this was about the onelittleotherthingnotinvolvingsex.

Now in addition to having no attention span in a car, I also have a morbid fear of mosquitos (don’t laugh — those little fuckers carry West Nile virus, malaria, and who knows what else. The threat is real people. Recognize.) and the country since that is where families of inbred mutants live, waiting for unsuspecting teenagers and homosexuals to get lost so they can rape, torture, and eat them. Put those two together and I’m ready to don my Level 7 haz-mat suit and an ass-chastity device.

Bruce kept driving, finally pulling off on a side road.

“Get out of the car.”

“Why?” I asked, really not liking this whole deal what with the potential for disease and the title role in PULP FICTION 2: THE GIMP STRIKES BACK.

“Hurry up — we have to get back for dinner.”

I looked at him, my heart beating like crazy.

“Do it.”

I opened the door and got out. Bruce immediately hit the automatic locks. Seconds later the moderately tinted passenger window lowered a couple of inches.

“Take off your clothes and hand them to me, Dirk.”

I leaned in and peered through the crack in the window. “You’re fucking nuts. No way.”

“We had an agreement. Take off your clothes and hand them to me through the window.”

Exhaling, I looked around and weighed my options. I could say no and try walking back to wherever the fuck civilization might be, but that would risk both further exposure to the mosquitos as well as my rape and eventual death at the hands of the inbred mutant cannibal rapist-slash-murderers watching from the brush. Or I could do what Bruce wanted.

I really didn’t want to get naked out there, but I also didn’t want this whacking me over the head with the femur of some other unlucky faggot and shoving his cock up my ass without even the courtesy of some spit:

“What happens after I do that?” I asked.

“You get in the car and we go to dinner,” Bruce replied. “Now hurry up.”

I stood there, playing with the buttons on my freshly pressed lavender and blue striped shirt.

“Dirk. Do it or I’m leaving your ass here.”

And those were the magic words that got me in gear. I took off my shirt and gave it to the hand which appeared out the cracked window. Next I slipped off my shoes, removed my pants and handed them to him.

“Underwear.”

Off came the boxer briefs which I gave to him with one hand while trying the door with the other. Still locked.

“You’re forgetting something…”

Wanting nothing more than to escape back into the safety of the car, I took off my socks and shoved them through the window.

“Good boy.”

I heard the click of the door unlocking and quickly got inside. We sat there in silence for a few moments, Bruce looking at me as I stared straight ahead, arms folded over my chest.

“Can I have my clothes back now?” I asked, turning my attention to the jumble of fabric between Bruce and the driver’s door.

Bruce smiled. “When it’s time.”

Knowing it wasn’t a good idea to argue with Bruce since I was naked and he had my clothes, I put on my safety belt and shut up. We made our way back in silence, Bruce stealing glances over at me and smiling. I kept my hands folded in my lap, lest a truck driver or unsuspecting soccer mom in a min-van glance over and catch a glimpse of the naked faggot out for a drive.

After what seemed hours, Bruce turned to me, grinning.

“We’re almost there.” With his left hand he grabbed the wad of clothes and pitched them in my lap. “Get dressed.”

With the hotel suddenly in view up ahead, underwear were forgotten as I unbuckled my safety belt and began struggling to get my pants on. Socks were also optional at this point as I slid on my shoes. I was just pulling my shirt on as Bruce brought the car to a stop and put it in park.

“Give me one minute!” I hissed.

Before I was even finished speaking, he was out of the car and the valet was getting in. We exchanged glances, then I got back to the business of buttoning up my shirt.

“Could you let me out around back?” I asked, cramming my socks in one pocket and underwear in the other.

He didn’t say a word. He just drove to the last row of the parking lot and let me out.

My heart pounding, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger, I made my way into the hotel and found the men’s room where I went in to a stall and finished getting dressed. Finally starting to calm down, I went looking for Bruce. I found him in the lobby, waiting for me.

“Fuck you.”

He stood up and began walking, motioning for me to follow. “You have to admit, that was pretty hot,” he said as we were walking. “Next time, I’m going to have you strip in an alley.”

I ignored his comment — as well as him — the entire evening.
______

(***AUTHOR’S NOTE: Just between us, yeah — it was pretty fucking hot. Not to mention the idea of that alley thing and the part where he paid me for taking the day off work and being his dinner date. For a few seconds there, it was almost like my childhood dream of being a teen-age prostitute had come true.)

Got back from my road trip later than expected and consequently late to work, so not much time to update. I do, however, have two things to say:

(1) You are an asshole, Bruce.

(2) Hotel housekeeping ain’t what it used to be. Witness the horror on the toilet at our hotel:

I’m not sure why the pic is so small, but in case you cannot see what it is, it’s a friggin’ pubic hair on the porcelain part by where your dick would be if you sat down to piss (which I most certainly did NOT do with God only knows what germs copulating with that crotch foliage in the Hot Zone).

Updates through out the day if I get a chance…if not, tune in tomorrow for details.
_________________

Just a reminder, Mailbag Monday is only 4 days away. Send your questions, queries, and comments to dirk.mancuso@gmail.com and remember to include Mailbag Monday in the subject.

While it wasn’t exactly the Middle East Peace Accords, Bruce and I have finally reached an equitable agreement.In exchange for his work on Lappy, Bruce will receive a compensatory 4 hour scene involving no intimate contact whatsoever. (The 4 hour concession is contingent on a deal codicil stating he will install any cartoon/animation software of my choosing at a later date; the latter part was a matter of mutual agreement from the get-go — um, hello? Celebration of Celibacy…ring a bell anyone?)

Yeah, yeah, I know — “blah blah bitty bitty blah blah…cut to the chase, Dirk. We want details.”

So in the interest of sating your prurient interests, here’s the deal: I will show up at a hotel of Bruce’s choosing at an agreed upon time at some point during the next two weeks. After entering the room, I will strip, place my neatly folded clothes on the bed, then take a shower. Once dried off, Bruce will tie me spread eagle to the bed, take my clothes…and go out for a sit down dinner.

Yep, you read that last part right, gang. He’s going to go out for a fancy dinner lasting at least 2 hours. Maybe 2 and 1/2 depending on service and the entree ordered. And all I have to do is take a nap.

At the conclusion of his culinary excursion, Bruce will procure a dessert of some sort — either a lovely mousse or cake from the same restaurant or perhaps a pint of Ben and Jerry’s from the local Jewel — and return to the room where he will enjoy the rich whatever-y goodness of said dessert while watching Letterman.

As the World Wide Pants Logo fills the screen, marking the end of Dave’s show for the night, I will be released and my clothes returned.

Quid.

Pro.

Quo.

Comments? Questions? Concerns? If last time is any indication, I know at the very least that someone is going to want to send me some scripture , so let the “you dumbass nancy boy”s begin.

Two things on my mind today:First, did anyone watch Monday night’s back-to-back episodes of 24?

That had to be one of the most shocking things I’ve seen in a looooong time. (**WARNING: SPOILER AHEAD!) C’mon, did anyone really think that Fayed’s man would detonate that suitcase nuke? With a mushroom cloud rising over Los Angeles and the revelation that there are 4 more of those suitcases out there and all scheduled to go off during Jack’s latest day, the producers have now opened the door to anything happening which makes this show more addictive than ever.

And then there is my computer. As I’ve documented here previously, Lappy is once again making his own kind of music, singing his own special song: no volume — unless I am in chat and some 80 year old guy in Boston is beating his meat on mic and screaming “You like dat? Huh? You like dat?”, then the volume mysteriously surfaces at 10 decibels; playing cd’s or dvd’s? surely you jest; closing out windows for absolutely no reason whatsoever? Yeah, he does that too.

Sure it’s frustrating, but what’s a computer illiterate, tech challenged fag in the new millenium supposed to do? With no raise this year, Lappy knows he isn’t going to be replaced anytime soon.

Enter Bruce.

Again.

Bruce has agreed to work on Lappy once more and update him a bit (goodbye Internet Explorer – 6th Edition, hello 21st Edition or whatever you cool kids are using these days). And like last time, this will be quid pro quo.

But this time, Bruce has another scenario in mind. One much less intense than last time, yet no less bizarre to me.

Currently we are negotiating a time limit, because hey! — I’m an old guy and my bladder is the size of a chick pea. I am angling to keep it under 3 hours; Bruce is pushing for 4. He knows I need Lappy fixed, so that’s his leverage. I know no one else is lining up to indulge him in these weird fucking scenes, that’s mine

And so we continue to mediate.

More on this as it develops.

***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.
________

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.

As faithful readers may recall, I had a little trouble with Lappy earlier this month. Enter a fella I’ll call Bruce.

Bruce is a frequent reader, but non commenter around these here blogging parts. When he first heard of Lappy’s special needs status, he dropped me an e-mail and offered up any help he could provide. (If you’re reading today, Bruce — again, domo arigato and tres bien, mein freunden!)

Anyhoo, I have been wanting to post pics but when I replaced the hard drive and reinstalled the disks, I was missing a lot of the programs or whatever you call them that I really liked and used a lot. Like my cam for instance.

Shut up. Some of you have filthy minds.

When I mentioned this problem to Bruce, he walked me through finding the program via instant messaging and in less than thirty minutes, I had found the hidden program and created a shortcut as well. And the cam works good as new.

Then last week, I went to play a cd in Lappy and “Sweet Mother of Pearl!” — I couldn’t find my media experience icon thingie whatsit. I mean, seriously…you hear about this shit happening to other people, but you never think it will happen to you. And then it does.

There I sat, all needing to hear me a lil Justin Timberlake and Timbaland and I could not get muh groove on. Fuck that shit. I shot off an e-mail to Bruce asking for his assistance once again.

Within minutes, I had a reply.

And an answer.

And a propostition.

I bet at this point many of you are leaning in, thinking things are about to take a savage turn here, with me finally getting to live out my dream of essaying the role of man-whore.

Sighhhhhhhhhh.

You people really do think very little of me, don’t you?

First off, I would never accept money for sex: (A) It’s illegal and (B) I’m very good at what I do and one really cannot put a price on that. But you are welcome to try , Mr. Stamos.

Second of all, I don’t really know Bruce very well, so again, we’re in the no sex zone.

And third, I have given up on men. No offense fellas, but the majority of you are fucking pigs looking out only for yourselves and never giving one goddamn moment’s thought to how your words and actions affect others or how sometimes the exterior may have a few dings and dents but the interior may be all new car smell and sweet extras. No, you are all about the young and hot and all that shit. I know you and your non-aging/always anorexic thin/parroting your view boy toys will be very happy — provided they are still around when your carpet matches your graying drapes. So fuck you very much, I’ll pass on your head games.

Diatribe over. Sorry about that.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, Bruce’s proposition.

As I said, Bruce is a faithful reader, and it turns out, a pretty careful reader too, as he offered up this:

“I would be happy to spend whatever time is needed to get your computer up and running the way you want. In return, I would ask only that you allow me to tie you up for 90 minutes and verbally abuse you. No sex, just you, wearing a wife beater and running shorts, in bondage and some v.a. Would this be a fair exchange?”

Let’s see…he fixes my computer FOR FREE and all I have to do is dress like Richard Simmons and let him call me names? And it doesn’t involve me camping out on the phone for hours waiting in queue for the tech support guy?

Hmmmmmmmmm?

C’mon people. Use your heads. How fucking stupid do you think I am? Mama Mancuso didn’t raise no dummy.

I told Bruce fo-shizzle.

So tonight I hope to have Lappy at peak operating strength and all it will cost me is my mobility for an hour and a half.

Okay, so tell me…Is this weird?

I really want to know what you all think (and yes, that means you too, lurkers — today’s the day you earn your keep) so help a faggot out and pony up an answer for the Dirk-ster.

Operators are standing by.