na foine ting
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
I'm fortunate in knowing, either by correspondence or actual in person kind of "I drink with them from time to time" way, some really cool people.
Some of whom I cop to knowing, some not.
(Leaves you wondering, don't it?)
Today I met, by correspondence, a blogger by the name of Alexa, who is among other things - those things being smart, a great writer, interesting and I suspect hot - an escort in NYC.
You can read her here, and should.
So while on the topic of sex and things that make you go "yum," I mention in passing a visit last weekend to Power Exchange in the city, which is, as always, its usual charming, seedy self.
It was Fetish Ball night, which didn't seem any different from any other night except the presence of a handful more tourists, and the mysterious upper levels, normally home to the boys, open to all the rest of us.
I've never seen those levels before. Always wondered.
They have a boxing ring up there.
The mind boggles.
What do I do to have to get an invite up there on fight night? That's what I want to know.
Speaking of fight night, godDAMN that man is a hunk:
I mean, even penalty minutes aside, he's hot. Serious.
One wonders what he's doing with his spare time these days and if he's up for some private
lessons. I mean, god knows my wrist shot sucks.
Tonight we play the Ice Monkeys, after getting our butts kicked by the Y Guys over the weekend.
One of the Ys - apparently known outside his assuredly small circle of friends as Harry Potter - actually had the nerve to come over to our bench and "commiserate" with us when it was all over.
"Well, you know, you were just outmatched," he said, all but putting an arm around B's shoulder. Then, lowering his voice a little more, "and really, your goalie just wasn't up to it."
"Nothing wrong with our goalie," I snarled as he skated smugly away.
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