ENCLAVE IS CLOSING"
Here's how things will work over the next week or so: (subject to change)
Wednesday night will be SKALES. Cross and rain are presenting. Well worth the trip, they do a great presentation.
Next weekend will be the last parties. Both nights are play parties. Same rules as always. Same prices as always (15$ for members/$20 for guests) Same hours (8pm - 2am)
Sunday, the 9th, at noon, we'll be having a "going out of business" sale. Raffles, auctions and a kick asss BBQ courtesy of Blackwulf and MtDancer. Just about everything in the building can go. In addition to a few bucks to put towards the debtload, anything we sell I don't have to move and pay storage on. So, here's your chance to own a little piece of things. And it's not just the play equipment. There are some really nice couches, tables, artwork, chairs, etc in there. Easily nice enough for home use, if you needed furniture for your house. Some of the artwork is racy, but much of it is nice enough for home use.
For a gallery of auction items click here
Our address is: 6040 E 50th, Commerce City.
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for Issue number 27 Sunday, June 17, 2007 Intensity By Jack Rinella The new guy's name is Brian. There. I've written it, taken one more step in making this man part of my life. "Take it slowly," I wrote? Well, here's just another example of my not practicing what I preach. In any case, there's yet another aspect to this falling "in love" that I would like to consider. It has to do with passion, as in being passionate. It is the consuming desire, the great longing, the over-powering emotion that can, and sometimes does, overwhelm the reason, disturb the status quo, propel us headlong, irrationally, into the abyss of desire. There is nothing slow about it. It is the insanity of Dionysius and the abandonment of his half-brother Apollo. Effete Dionysius, the agrarian god of wine, of ecstasy, of insane passion. Manly Apollo, the beautiful urban god of law, order and reason, of mathematics, geometry, and music. It is drunken lust; be it the drunken-ness of wine or of love, that expels sober rule and social propriety. Here, then, is the other "Jack," the one of whom my readers (or most of you anyway) never conceive. My carefully self-censored columns are written for public consumption. I preach safe, sane, and consensual BDSM, abiding by it even as I am tempted in the privacy of my basement dungeon to transgress. What I write here is of the hidden Jack, the one whose dark heart dreams wildly, wants to live passionately. Is it the influence of Cupid's dart or just the full-blown lust of one too many glasses of wine? (He writes carefully, wondering how much he really wants to commit to print.) I want obedience. I want to inflict pain. I want to tear him to shreds, devouring, drinking, controlling, dominating, owning, possessing, commanding, taking, keeping. I want blood and tears, as he grovels at my feet. I want him to descend into the depth of lust, abandon everything to please me, to excite, arouse, and to satisfy the craving, thirsting, controlling demons within my heart. He responds willingly, but I will not be satisfied. I will want, nay demand, more. More deeply I will thrust into him, ripping his anus with my bloated cock. More deeply I will thrust into him, gagging his throat, chocking him, strangling him with my swelled, heated, raging shaft. I want. I want. I am never done, never satisfied. There are not enough ropes to bind him for my pleasure. I want straps, chains, collars, and leather restraints of all kinds to take away his every ability to move, to flee, to resist my will. Round and round the nylon cords (though they are in fact rather thick so as not to injure -- Apollo will not flee altogether) will encase him, captivate him, make him immobile. Willing victim that he is, he knows not what I desire and how deeply I desire it. I am a sadist. I want him here for my sadistic pleasure. I tell him that in so many ways. I teach him to answer my ritualized questioning in just the right way. "Why are you here?" I ask. "For your pleasure, Sir." "And what kind of pleasure, Brian?" "For your sadistic pleasure, Sir." It sounds like scene-talk. Hot, sexy, erotic lines out of some pornographic movie, stage-acting only, merely a script to arouse, fantasy play-talk. But it is not. I will feel the same in the morning, though he will hardly remember what it was that I asked of him, demanded of him, instructed him to say. In the morning I will seem to be the sweet man, the beautiful new boyfriend, friendly, gentle, generous, loving and caring. In the morning he will not know that he arouses my intensity even when he makes coffee and tidies up the house before his mom arrives. Yes, I am at his place this weekend, seeing his haunts, going to his favorite restaurants, meeting his friends, the ones who know he's "dating this guy named Jack." It's Father's Day and so arises the chance to meet his family. I will be congenial, friendly and well-mannered, never letting on that I really just want to fuck their son, have their brother on his knees in abject worship of my phallus, transform their friend into a slave, a toy, an object that lives solely for my pleasure. Last night I used a marker that I found on his kitchen counter to put the words "Jack's Property" on his chest. I want to own him for my use. "USE HIM." The words pour forth from the deepest part of my unconscious. My psyche sees in him the archetype of slave and it arouses in me the fullness of Master, at least that would be Jung's interpretation. "Is that what it is?" I ask myself in the morning. Or is it rather the projection of my needs, my selfish desire to own, to command, to control, thereby elevating, inflating, bloating my own dark heart into an ugly ogre of pride? Is it I who climbs onto the pedestal? How do I think I am worthy of worship, of adoration, of praise? What makes me the master? Who do I think I am, when the passion rises and reason flees? By what right does this come to be? For the intensity in me wants him to beg, to grovel. It tempts me to degrade and humiliate him, to desire, nay order, him to crawl, to worship even the soles of my feet with his worthless slave tongue. To surrender his tongue to my pleasure, to taste the nectar of my pre-cum, to lap the sweat from my armpits, to lick the spit off my lips as if it were a holy gift from his dark lord. Yes even clean the hairs of my asshole. For I want to strip him not only his clothes, not only of his will, but to rip away his limits, his resistance, anything that might remain in him that would keep him from being every bit, every cell, mine. This is why I am a Leatherman. It is the call of some inner, hidden, darkly sinister, Dionysian desire that propels me in this direction. Yet Leather is no stranger to Apollo. The god of law and order sets protocols, limits, dungeon rules. He will let us dream but not transgress, taste but not violate, feel but not fall. For his part it is Brian who shapes this partnership. It is a creation that wells out of his love, his dreams, his desires as much as mine. It was he who sought slavery, or at least wanted to learn its secrets. It is he whose passion arouses mine. It is his gift of self that allows my dark self to spring to life. And the next morning I quiz him. "What didn't you like? Was everything OK? Should we talk about it?" In trepidation I want to know that our passion is mutual, that the road I walk him down is every bit as much his as it is mine. Last night I talked with Brian's friend. She couldn't comprehend why a slave would willingly be naked at a MAsT meeting. In studied, well-chosen words I spoke of being authentic, of expressing by one's nakedness the inner feelings, the hidden desire to love, to obey, to serve. The naked flesh, the exposed cock, the bare ass say "I am slave. I am owned. I obey my master's will." The naked flesh says "Here is where I belong." This morning I wonder where we will go, and how fast we will get there. Have a great week. You can leave me email at This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it or visit my website at http://leatherviews.c.topica.com/maagMOLabziw0bqowrVb/ where you can subscribe to this column and receive it weekly. Copyright 2007 by Jack Rinella, all rights reserved. |
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