First of all…

Like any juicy blog, we start this one with a confession…

This is not my first blog.

At one time, I was a moderately successful, fairly well-liked blogger, best known for my prolific posting rate (when I get on a roll, I write a lot) and more infamously, perhaps, for my flirting. Things happened that I may or may not go into on this blog; mostly life and drama and stresses that helped turn what was once an exercise in fun, word craft, and fantasy into something not so enjoyable and a source of stress. That killed my will to post, and I went from writing a few times a day to a few times a week, then a month…and then silence. Though I debated merely revisiting that blog (with no idea if I have any readers left), there are still some situations from the aforementioned hassles that would doubtless rear up again.

And yet, I miss this. I miss putting my thoughts and feelings on a page. I miss having an outlet for my passions and fantasies, a place to practice weaving words, a place to vent frustrations and share elation, a place to flirt and fight and philosophize (does it count as alliteration if it makes the same sound?). So I am going to being anew. I can say from the start that I won’t have the time to write as unceasingly as I once did; my life has changed significantly since those days and thus my ability to put time in at the keyboard has diminished as well. Where I once held myself to a thousand word a day posting rate, here I will be more relaxed. I’ll write when I can write. Some times, this will mean one or two posts a week. Some times, two or three in one day. I have many stresses and deadlines in my day to day life, and I don’t want this blog to be one of them.

I won’t be linking this back to my old blog. There may be a few from that blog that know me well enough outside blogging to know my intent that will know this site, and perhaps a few I never got to connect with at that level that figure it out nonetheless. To those of either category, I ask only this – please respect my choice of anonymity. You are welcome to write me, to ask any details you want, what have you, but let me answer such privately and not here. If what happens here brings back what drove me from there, it will doubtless be the death-knell of blogging for me entirely.

I’ve also decided not to have a public comments section on my regular posts. While I love, *love* to hear from people who feel inspired enough to write me, I’ve decided that I prefer to correspond privately, leaving my pages and thoughts here strictly my own. That said, should something we discuss in private inspire an idea for a post, I promise to seek permission first, and when merited, a link to your own page when I make that post.

Last, though certainly not least, a disclaimer/biography/warning:

First, this will be a mature blog. Not every post will be NSFW, but many will. Though I will try to mark the ones that are, I would advise in general that these be grown-up waters, matey, an ye best be aware. I don’t know why I had to say that like a pirate. Well, yes, I do – to also remind you that this won’t all be super-serious navel-gazing or purely smut. I do actually have a sense of humor and will often exercise it here. But sometimes it *will* be smut, and sometimes it *will* be super-serious.

Second, I am a married man. I am not a monogamous one. Some of my non-monogamy has been with discreet permission, and some not. I will likely have many posts that touch on this, as it is an aspect of my brokenness that has a great deal of influence on my life, my thoughts, and my feelings. If adultery is something you abhor, stop now. I do not wish to offend you further with my explorations therein, nor will I be even slightly swayed by being preached at, lectured, or trolled. I respect, absolutely, your thoughts, I will read what you wish to say, but if you cannot keep it civil or respectful, then I must ask both why you are reading a mature blog in the first place and two why you feel like wasting your energy.

Third, everything you read here will be mine (save quotes or the like, or things specifically and clearly marked so), but the images I may occasionally use are not. Lazy, I know, but my time is limited. As a man who has spent over a decade as a regularly freelancing artist, I know it sucks to find your art on someone’s page. I will try to get permission before I use your art, but if I didn’t, and you don’t want it on my site, just ask and I will quickly remove it or add attribution as we may discuss.

With that, I draw this over-long post to a close; tis past the witching hour, and as I’ve had roughly 13 hours of sleep since hmmmm…last Wednesday? I think its time to drag myself to bed. Tomorrow, I will likely post a few times. I’ve got the day off and an itch to get some ideas on line.

Till then, adieu.




A Satyr’s Tale

This is a first draft of a story a friend commissioned me to write for a shared world he’s developing. I liked how it came out – there is a lot of backstory to it that I have tried to allude to. Hopefully he finds it acceptable!

“She is…exquisite,” Lord Ricard Dafaar spoke, almost in a whisper. His hand reached gently, reverently forward, before finding rest on the cool marble statue that stood before him. “Never have I seen such mastery in stonework; it is almost as if she were alive.”

Baeyn smiled lazily and gave a slight bow to the aged, portly man, the bells woven into his long tangled hair jingling lightly at the motion, his ribbon adorned horns dipping gently. A human gesture, but one he had adapted to seamlessly. He approached the man slowly, his cloven hooves clicking musically against the stone floor.

“My people sing the song of stone, “he said, his voice a strange, melodic harmony, “our talents passed from generation to generation. Masters of masonry and sculpture, our works beloved and demanded by kings and priests and all great men.”

Baeyn paused, and turned his square pupiled eyes towards the masterpiece that stood before them both. She truly was perfect – every detail, every curve, every feature a mark of perfection. An illusion so perfect that the coldness of her stone betrayed the warmth in her image.

“But yes…she is a masterpiece even amidst masterpieces. Lady Aileen Dafaar…an ancestor of yours, yes?”

Lord Ricard nodded, eyes never leaving the statue, mouth agape but speechless. Again, Baeyn smiled.

“She was not easy to obtain. The mountains are more dangerous than ever, the caverns of my people infested with darker things I shudder to mention in such…refined company. It was a costly expedition, in more ways than one.”

The human lord’s mouth closed, his stance straightened. His awe, though not completely vanished, was shadowed by his greed. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, as he cleared his throat.

“I am sure we can come to an arrangement. What is your price?”

“Can there be a price placed on such a piece?” Baeyn replied. “Could you place a value on something so perfect? My ancestor, blood of my blood, shed that blood, and tears, and sweat, to capture her so perfectly. Wars have been waged over lesser works than she…”

Lord Ricard face hardened. He’d heard such tactics before.

“Come now! Don’t play games with me, satyr – your kind always has a price. Name it and stop this foolishness.”

Baeyn’s horns tingled, skin flushed. He forced a nonchalant chuckle.

“For anyone else, she would be beyond price. But you? You can have her for a song.”

The lord’s face collapsed into confusion.

“A song?”

“Yes,” Baeyn answered, “a very specific song. Sing it, and the Lady is yours. No further price.”

Try as he might, Rickon could not conceal his glee. He was a known patron of the arts, and prided himself on his knowledge of all the popular tunes, which he loved to sing. Badly.

“Name it then!” he cried. “Name it and I will serenade you more sweetly than any lover has ever been serenaded!”

“Sing me the Song of Shattering,” Baeyn said, his voice low and suddenly mirthless, melody-less.

Lord Rickon frowned.

“I don’t know tha…”

“You know the song,” Baeyn interrupted, “or you should. It’s been sung to you many times.”


“With every brick that was laid in your courtyard, it was sung. With every stone that was placed in your manor, it was sung. With every rock and stone and sculpture you’ve commissioned, it’s been sung.”

Lord Rickon’s face paled, trembled. Had he? He tried hard to recall. He’d hired plenty of satyr stonesmiths over the years, and yes, they were always humming in their strange double voices, but the song…what was the song?

“I’ll remind you,” Baeyn said, as if he read the nobleman’s mind. He closed his eyes, and began to sing.

In truth, no one can sing like a satyr can. They are born with two sets of vocal cords, and through them, sing harmonies unimaginable to any solo singer. They sing with every task that has meaning, with every moment they wish to mark. They sing their histories, their memories, their wishes and dreams.

This song was a memory, and a promise. A memory of lands once held by his people. A dream of a better time. An anguish for what his people lost. The bitterness of betrayal, when they sought help from allies that failed to give their aid. Even ancient allies…like the noble line of Dafaar.

Lord Rickon found himself paralyzed by the sound, the voice. His heart pounded, his body shook. He felt to his core the weight of his family’s past, of their use, abuse, and abandonment of the satyrs who had sought their aid. As the song grew in fury and tempo, he fell to his knees.

And with a final, trilling, mournful note, the marble statue shattered. The perfect image of the matron of his line, a work of art so perfect its like would never again be known, crumbled to dust. Sobs overtook him. He buried his hands in the dust. He felt lost, helpless. He had not realized how much this connection to the past had meant to him.

Until it was gone.

Baeyn left him there, weeping in the rubble. His hooves clicked rhythmically as he exited the hall. A breeze caught his hair, his bells jangled, and a weight lifted from his soul. He sighed in satisfaction. It was a costly vengeance, but it had spent a long time building interest.

A tune came to his heart. He smiled, and sang.


I’d wanted to post something sexy today…

But today has not wanted to cooperate.

Right now, I’m feeling frustrated, lonely, needy, and fuck if it isn’t hard to feel sexy when I feel like that. Even the hottest passions have a hard time lighting up a completely soggy blanket, and right now, that’s kind of what I feel like.

It’s not a new story that I tell here. It’s one as old as stories themselves I guess. One of a life and love and lust taken for granted just long enough that they go from being ripe, delicious fruits bursting with juicy potential to parched, shriveling things that still try their best to be appealing, to finally dropping altogether to rot in the dirt, tasting of not but bitter remorse. Melodramatic? Maybe. But goddamn, it’s how I feel right now. I’ve tried  everything.  Hints, frankness, pleading, compromise. None of it has had a bit of impact. 

It’s late right now. I have a lot I want to say about this, but typing on my phone sucks and my laptop is in a room I just don’t want to be in right now. So I’ll curl up here on the couch, and try not to stew all night. And maybe I can have a clearer perspective in the morning.

Let’s start with the broken…

With my obligatory first post out of the way, I think it only natural that the second delve a little deeper into the why, the thematic reason behind my blog.

I am broken.

Not just a little broken. A lot broken. A long, devastatingly abusive relationship ended and completely shattered my…well, my everything. My world-view. My ability to trust. My closest friendships. My family. My very life. I verged at the time between madness and suicide. I won’t spell it all out here, as I’ve done so before, reaped the catharsis it provided, and it no longer overshadows my life as it once did. I may dig up a post from my old site to rehash here about it, but I may not. Again, it’s past, and I am not sure yet whether I’ll repost from there.That said, its important to acknowledge, because it is a huge part of why I am who I am. The experience shaped me in a very real way.

What I have found is that in assembling the shards to reform who I am, there were holes. Parts of me that needed filling in very specific ways. Perhaps those holes had always been there, but I had just never noticed until all was broken. Some of those holes were experiential. A realization that I wanted to do more things, that the life I’d led for fourteen long years was a life vastly unfulfilled. Some of those holes were material, a need to obtain comforts that I’d long denied. Some were psychological, places I’d long denied existing that suddenly were screamingly obvious. Some social. Some romantic. Some purely sexual. I made a vow to myself that I was going to start filling those holes. That I was going to reassemble the mess that was my heart, and that I was going to find the shards that fit those spots best.

And I have! Not all of the holes – I am not so self-delusional to feel that I have remade my heart to perfection. I don’t know that I ever will, fully. But I have found some very important, very vital pieces that clicked, and those pieces remain an important part of my internal narrative. A few of these pieces are important enough that they will regularly be subjects of my writings here. In the past, I often purposefully crafted my writings to be a bit vague; my idea being that a broader audience likes to see themselves in a piece, and ones that are specifically addressed might be less appealing…but I think, in this blog, I want to deal with specifics. There will still be general fantasies and works, but there will also be ones that are clearly and specifically for one of my shards.

Which brings me to the last bit that I want to cover before delving further.

I am, at heart, a polyamorist. I do not believe that there is a limit to how much a person can love and desire. I do not feel that there is a limited spring from which to draw, that the love I feel for anyone diminishes when I feel love for another. It’s not the way I’m wired. Often, I love different people for different reasons, for the different aspects of me that they complete. That love and desire is true, absolute, and unchanged by the presence of any other person in my life…and it is likewise unique. That person is a specific shard, an individual, unique shape that fits a hole in my heart that only that person can fill. When I lust for and long for that person, it is because my heart hurts for the part of me they have become, that without their presence (be it physical, mental, or emotional) I am less than whole.

So there we are. I know these first two posts are perhaps less than sexy, but since I’m starting fresh, I wanted to take the time to establish “me” before I get into the fun stuff. 😉

I hope you’ll stick around for them!