Fortune Favors the Bold II: The Wolf

        I met him in a crowded bar down the street from his apartment.   

         I was expecting a man in a suit, perhaps with a steroidal necktie knot and a real gold college alumni ring.  

      What I got (and he found me before I saw him, even though he’d never seen a picture of my face) was a guy with a buzzcut and a heavy gray-black motocross jacket.  It looked functional, too–this wasn’t some luxury imitation shit from Neiman Marcus.  

      “Hi.  Are you Margo?” he asked, as I stood searching the crowd.

      I said yes.

      “Nice to meet you!  How are you?  That pretty red coat–I like it.  Little Red Riding Hood!”  I was wearing my nice scarlet woolen pea coat. 

      Miss Margo’s blog Christens thee: The Wolf. 

      We went to be seated at a table in the back of the establishment, where we could talk.  

                   *                   *                       *                     * 

        We carried on for almost an hour.  He was warm, less restrained than myself.  An outgoing personality.  Seductive, but I didn’t detect predatory intent.  The topic turned to motorcycles.  

       “I’ll show you mine.  We’ll pass it on the way to my place.  Do you ride?” 

        “I learned how to, but no.  They’re a lot of fun, but I’m way too risk-adverse.”

        ” ‘Risk-adverse,’ eh?  You’re not so risk-adverse.”

        “What do you mean?”

        “If you were risk-adverse, you wouldn’t be here.  Shall we go?”

                *                             *                      *                   * 
   
          The Wolf had a damn impressive apartment.  It had real art in it (the joke around Margo Manor is that it is “full of worthless reproductions of priceless works of art,” hardy har har) and floor-to-ceiling windows.  I parted the blinds to check out the view while he regaled me with tales of his bizarre rich-person lifestyle (“When I was scuba diving, an octopus swam up and tried to take my camera!  Want to see the photos?”).

        Then it was time.  

        I ran an internal diagnostic of myself.  Everything was fine.  Nothing about this man alarmed me.  He seemed stable and transparent.  

       “How would you like to begin?”  I asked.

       “Take off your dress and serve me a drink.”

                      *                         *                          *                 * 
       
        J.T.’s Stockroom must send this man thank-you cards–actually, make that thank-you gift baskets–because he had cases and cases full of arcane, quality equipment.  Like electrical stuff with all these awesome attachments (I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I love playing with electricity.  It’s wild.  Nothing like it.).  He kept going to his bedroom closet (or wherever he was going when he left the room) and bringing out more fun tools. It was like Christmas morning, even though none of it was mine and I didn’t get to keep it.  

       He was definitely a Top, but he didn’t hurt me badly at all.  I was manhandled and thrown around then and there, but the next morning there were no signs of injury besides a swollen knot on the back of my scalp where he yanked my hair hard (at least, I think that’s where the swelling came from) and a small bruise on my back.  And a bruise on the knob of the protruding bone on my wrist–not sure how I got that–I think I might have knocked it against his coffee table.  

       This one is a different experience for me.  His demeanor, his personality, is different.  I can’t quantify it yet.  He’s emotional, or at least more emotional than me, which isn’t saying a whole hell of a lot. He’s creative, fluid.
         He was a hedonist.  I did not perceive that he was a sadistic wackadoodle.  And I say that as an unapologetic sadomasochistic wackadoodle.  He took control from the moment I said we could start, and the aura of authority was drool-inducing, but there was no oppression. 

     I’ll end this blog post now–I’m tired.  I didn’t know what to write.  This is such a strange topic and I don’t trust my feelings.    


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