Free Me From This Bond

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 1 ]

Date: Thu, 15 Mar 2012 21:47:56
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Dearest Eleanor:

I beg your forgiveness in my conclusion that promoting your book for
free, or for as little money as possible, is no more simply
accomplished than should the Internet not exist. Where would
we be then…laundromat and university bulletin boards? calling in to
radio talk shows? parading oneself around at various coffeehouses,
bars and clubs, like some evangelist of your glorious novel? Ha!

THAT! (Would’ve said “he” instead of “that”, but out of respect for
the noble, gracious, and heroic history of Woman’s Struggle, I give
you: that. And, of course, to mock the patriarchy…a foolish notion
if ever there was one!)

For Arwyn, darling Arwyn, has entered my life once again, and boy is
he such a sweet angel! (You remember it was because of my school-girl infatuation of that Saucy Welsh Knave, that I became lovestruck-inspired to compose not just one novel around him, but
two: “The Arwyn Chronicles” and “Friendly Ghost Detective
Agency”. (For which I paid dearly, with 3 months feverish typing late
into the night, that resulted in CTS in both forarms and RSI in each
hand…with a touch of focal dystonia to spice things up.)

Which latter title you inspired me to transform from a chapter of
the former, into its own unique opus. And that is precisely what
occurred, so thank you very much, O Madame of the Luminous Void.

It makes so much sense at this point of My Awakening, that
Book 2 should remain an unfinished novel, a work in progress.

I want you to know that I have walked many dark paths in search of Truth these past 30-odd years, in order to give birth to the next revolution: THE GAY or HOMOSEXUAL or QUEER REVOLUTION! (I have not been disappointed, but Dear Goddess, I sure as Hades came close to giving up the ghost countless times throughout my scatterbrained life…whenever I found myself confronting way too much so-called “reality” in such a wickedly brief amount of time!)

And it starts with the BLOSSOMING of the fine friendship (a.k.a.
“bromance”) between myself, and Impeccable Arwyn Miles!

And now that I have found Truth: Truth must be

Whoever Arwyn truly is in the Scheme of Things (and who I am
likewise): nevertheless am I lifted off my feet and swept into a
dimension totally immersed in love and joy and friendship and gay

(To be continued…)

Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2012 07:51:18
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> Is this truly so????? That’s sublimely

I’m pinching myself, too! If this is just another excellent manic
phase, I have to confess that a lot of other folks are going through
it at the same time. More later…

(Had a GREAT time last night, though I did wake up in my own bed.)

Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2012 09:46:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

It was a dark and stormy night. I danced in my galoshes and hoody yellow raincoat down Castro Street toward 18th, reveling in the glory that is the Rain Goddess’s own shower of benevolence upon this lone pilgrim: Arwyn IS BACK IN MY LIFE! (Though he never really left, of course.) Our paths started crossing again several weeks ago, and with greater and greater frequency, till now it’s almost every day. Well, that’s a bit of a white lie…let’s say about thrice per awesome week.

Flashback 2005:

Our friendship shiny new, like a green bud barely burst from the
xylem, I had stepped into the Hole in the Wall Saloon off Folsom
Street, sporting a quartz crystal that hung from a resinous cord
about my neck. Barely an inch long and a fourth as wide, it sparkled
in its natural, pentagonal glory; flat on one end, blunted tip the
other…with a pleasant, ruddy touch to it, like beeswax. From within
danced a lavender spirit.

Can’t remember at this moment (as I type), what meaning this crystal
held for me, but I do sense it was quite special. I am NOT
superstitious or caught up into worshipping material items (nor big
into jewelry and self adornment)…but how this crystal came to me
was nothing less than a Small Miracle, and probably had to do with My
Beloved Randolph Louis Taylor…who I now believe, sent Arwyn here as
my Great Guardian of Life.

Yes, I remember now (somewhat): it came to represent the BULLET with which Randolph shot himself at The Wall (Vietnam Veterans Memorial, D.C.), back in 16 January 1985. One day, that crystal will be replaced by (or transformed into) the REAL bullet. Which I first felt as a lump in his back, lodged firmly against (and partly into) the right shoulder blade, before a surgeon finally removed it some months later. Long, angry scars already crosshatched his back, like the scourge of a whip.

I touched them, too. Bone-white keratinous comet trails of agent
orange neatly incised by an unknown soldier’s cold scalpel. My
fingers shivered as the icy demon travelled up my arm and penetrated
to the bone, even unto marrow. A tear trickled down his arched back
with the T-shirt scrunched up, that I may see such youthful freckles
and a promise of Liberation writ therein.

To be continued. Meanwhile, please read my poem “September’s Passage” for a little more on that adventure.

Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2012 22:32:51
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Flashback 2005 (cont’d)

So I walk into the Hole in the Wall with a glittery amethyst crystal
(which acquisition I cannot recall at this time, but I’m sure I was
daydreaming about My Randolph when someone placed a small, faux-
lizard-skin textured lily-white rectangular box in my hand), dancing
joyfully upon my throat’s chakra (that indentation on one’s neck,
just below the larynx). But somehow, in yanking off my winter scarf
or jacket, I also jerk the crystal clean off its binding with a sudden “zing!”…and it vanishes to parts unknown, though surely in a
radius not exceeding 10 feet. At least, that’s what my ears tell me;
for surely my eyes did not follow. For the saloon is dark, with ink-
stained-horse-flesh-curtained windows and lit only by scattered
candlelight and a few dim overhead fixtures.

So barkeep Gary whips out this enormous yard-long, metallic
dildo from below the cabinet, turns it in my direction and
presses the vibrate button. But wait, it doesn’t vibrate, it lights
up instead, bathing me like a Hollywood beacon (or an officer’s
headlamps trapping me in Golden Gate Park by the windmills, paying a
rakish hobo for a blow job: your choice). Like a…like, ummm…like
a FLASHLIGHT, ’cause that’s what it really is (I soon realize, as my
sun-kissed sidewalk-fevered eyes grow accustomed to the Stygian dusk.)

Bearded Hobbit Gary (“Garden Gnome Gary” also works) puts all his
concentration into locating this crystal, methodically covering every
square inch of the deeply gouged and splintered oakwood floor to a
perimeter far exceeding the likely landfall. Alas he comes up empty,
to which I remark: “It’s only a crystal, Gary, I’ll get over it. But
thanks so much for the bother; I don’t even know how I got it.” By
then, Arwyn had stepped in to witness Gary’s spotlight search, and
decides to perform his own examination of the scummiest floor this
side of Bryant Street.

FYI, if you don’t already know, Hole in the Wall is themed for
Satanists and Hell’s Angels of the homosexual variety. It’s dark,
skanky, and often vulgar…as are most of its regular patrons (who
frequently spit on the floor). Kind of a queer version of O’Henry or
Steinbeck…or maybe even Nosferatu. But it is the only gay
bar I know of, that plays real rock ‘n’ roll; not a drop of
disco to be found anywhere, within its four or five (counting the
open-door lavatory w/an ice-cube-filled trough in which to pee)
walls. A dragon formed of colorful lights and copper wire spreads its
eclectic wings over the entire saloon…in a frozen flight that
defies any ceiling.

So he lifts the searchlight from Gary’s hold, and sweeps the floor
first around my feet (where they relax upon the bar’s footrest), then
radiates further out, stopping short of the nearest wall. Still, no
luck. But I care not about my crystal (or any crystal), when such a
fine and glorious lad like Arwyn is paying me some attention, and
making all sorts of physical maneuvers that I can admire from many
angles (except from below), as he slowly swings the heavy rod across
the splintery boards, methodically leaving no square inch unanointed
by the light.

Coming up empty-handed just like Gary, he says to me, “Sorry!” and
hands the flashlight back to the barkeep. But the moment he does, he
freezes, and says, “Wait, I feel something!”…indicating his left
foot which heel-part he holds frozen an inch above the floor. Arwyn
then steps back a bit, and collapses his gangly 6-foot-7 frame to
pick up the object that had pressed against his heel like a stone.
It’s the crystal! And he hands it to me: “Aaarrrrgh! Thar she blows!”

“Wow, thanks Arwyn!” I commend. To which he replies: “Do you get it?
Do you get the message?” while gazing deep into my eyes with those
smoldering, dark orange-red irises, I’ve never seen the like! He
is The Dragon! And I respond with utter sincerity and infinite

“Yes! YOU are the light.” The rest is all implied, no words spoken,
but all the same, telepathy declares the remainder: “Not some stupid
candle or electric torch. You ARE my light, that guides me safely
home through all peril; to your heart, to your smile, to your most
darling affections. My gratitude is eternal!”

“Good!” he says, then turns his glorious, copper-haired Hibernian
frame around, and exits through the horsehide curtains to tend to
other pressing events which (I have no doubt) have something to do
with defending, furthering, assisting, or celebrating, the gay spirit.

Or perhaps he just stepped outside for another smoke.

–End of Flashback 2005

To be continued…

Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 13:38:46
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> Beautiful! Suspenseful! Transcendent!

The Muses do turn their gaze upon my humble soul. This is a
Great Blessing in my life, as is Arwyn, My Fighting Welsh Angel.


More to come!…

Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 18:20:26
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> An ice-cube-filled trough in which to pee? That’s a new one. To
keep it fresh?

Don’t know about that, I guess so. But one thing I’m sure of: it
certainly keeps the men fresh!

I’m surprised you didn’t know that many gay bars–particularly the
lower-class ones, where brawls and cat fights occur with phenomenal
frequency…come with public troughs for urinals. It’s a long,
porcelain conduit (about seven feet), filled with gallons of those
mini ice cubes.

Plus, there’s an equally long mirror just above the trough. For your
viewing pleasure, of course. Though most intimidating for those of us
w/o impressive girth and length, so we tend to stand at the far end,
angled away and pissing against the side. Or we simply wait until the
room empties.

Arwyn has a way with making a sound effect whenever he whips it out: “thunk!” Don’t know how he does that, it sounds just
like someone dropped a large, heavy block of wood on a thinly
carpeted cement floor. Of course, I look away, I’m not the eyeballing
type, and I do respect him totally…but the first time I heard
Arwyn’s impressive noise, we were alone in the urinal…well, not
in the urinal but some day, perhaps! I flashed him a side
glance with an expression like “Really?” before he zipped it up and
exited. Arwyn’s always a lark.

Then there was the time a rather handsome gent sidled up to me, and
began jacking me off. Stupid bartender Gary needed something from the rest room right at that moment (there’s extra storage space for
sundries tucked behind the toilet) and kicked us both out. Not outta
the entire bar, mind you, just the urinal. Sadly, the gorgeous dude
who lent me a rather talented hand, got so embarrassed, he slipped
out the front door posthaste…and with a mighty itchy palm no doubt.
For you see, I had the crabs. Ha ha, just joking. It was chiggers.
Ha, joking again. No I’m not. Yes I am. It was a raging case of

This trough/mirror/ice cube motif is common across the gay nation.
What with your youthful adventures, and gay friends, I was certain
you already knew. Be that as it may, I guess the cold cubes keep the
steamy urine’s odor from invading our noses like Visigoths in

What was the first gay bar to provide iced-filled troughs as a second sort-of watering hole, where both men and boys could gather and check each other out? I have no idea, but it might prove worthwhile to uncover (or unzip, as the case may be…though “unzipping” has a totally different meaning for us CyberGeeks…reminds me when Scampy and friend Jason at an early gathering of the Berkeley Unix User Group which I founded in 2000, pulled out their Palm Pilots and exchanged info by waving them at each other; and they called it “safe hex”).

I have this scenario for a standup comic entertaining at gay
urinals. Wearing a raincoat of course, because they’ll piss all over
me whenever I crack a joke that strikes ’em as a tad too corny. What
a great occupation for a size queen like me! But work is work, no
matter the venue; or as I like to say: “Just another day at the orifice“.

How many queers does it take to screw in a
(noticeable pause)
Just two, but it better be a damn big

Old Arab saying: “I’d walk a mile for a
camel, two for a sheep or goat, and three for a boy”.

Oh, and this one’s for St. Patty’s Day (coz it’s a limerick, silly):

I once knew an alien from Venus
Who had two holes in his penis.
When we went to bed,
The first thing he said
Was: “I think there is something between us.”

And this: Is that a leprechaun in your
pocket, or are you glad to see me?

Take my domestic partner, please.

At this point, I’ll probably need a short break, or drown in urine.

Cheerz, El!


Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 19:47:22
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> I knew about the trough, but not the ice.

Sorry, I misunderstood. :\

> Prolly it has to be refreshed pretty
frequently, what with the hot urine constantly melting it.

Yep. Usually that job goes to the barback. This being Saint Paddy’s
Day, I’m sure all the cubes are green. Except for the cubic hairs, of

> That would be a good entry-level job for an
ambitious up-and-comer: Gay bar pee-trough ice-boy.

Gay bar subculture is pretty darn amazing. And I’ve only glimpsed a
sliver (coz me an’ alcohol don’t mix well; my dream is to open the
world’s first gay marijuana infusion and herbal tea bar).
There’s an entire male culture at places like The Hole; Monday nights
you’re welcome to strut around in your underwear. I did that, once,
lotsa fun. Well, Arwyn’s presence made it fun…he kept checking out
my legs. Gave me a lot of sweet attention that night..and of course I
drank it all in (to the very last drop)!

There’s sometimes a Nekked Nite too. Stepped into one by accident:
lots of saggy old men with flaccid…everything. Meh.

> I think we should make Rick Santorum do his community service thusly. In his sweater vest and nothing else.

Wouldn’t last a minute in there. He’d come to a sad end, like
Mussolini. They’d put his remains on ice, and display him in a glass
tomb at Harvey Milk Plaza. The plaque will say:

Did I mention they’d replace his head in that tomb, with Rick Warren‘s butt?

Cheerz, El


Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 18:20:26
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

We’re showing our age, scratching our heads over why there’s ice in urinals, if it’s just a gay-bar thing or something more widely applied…when we have something called the Interwebs, with search hickies no less! So I asked the oracle at DuckDuckGo the obvious question, and got many informative results, such as: urinals.html

Date: Sun, 18 Mar 2012 20:24:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> Welp, I’m guessing you’ve spent more time in men’s rooms than I have

It would seem that way. Now I’m blogging about it. This is worrisome. :P

> did you ever see ice in a general population urinal, either trough style or regular style?

My modest stipend does not afford me the luxury of clubbing and
eating out at various bistros et al…where you would likely find an
iced up trough now and then. So I’m certainly not the right person to
interview for this topic. Ask Mitch. Tee-hee.

> And I’m guessing the trough-style urinal
would be more of a gay-bar sort of fixture, for obvious reasons.

I’d have to agree: the whole bathroom milieu is a staple of gay
folklore. But the icy trough probably got its start in rather mundane
environs, such as the Silver Dollar Saloon in Mobridge, South Dakota:
a mixed Indian/white bar that I visited whilst on a five-week
archeological dig as an undergrad, during which stay I turned 21 and
imbibed my first legal elixir…

and got laid by a traveling musician right out of Iowa City, who sang and played electronic keyboard at some sleazy one-horse town night club, theme song: “Everything is Beautiful in its Own Way,” though his nether parts left me open to doubt. It was a 2-night affair, after which each time I had to hike 1.2 miles (along a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair; yes, I had hair back then: shining gleaming flaxen waxen long beautiful hair, right down to my shoulder blades.) With rednecks and screamingly drunk Lakota natives barreling down the road at 95 mph 4 in the morning, shouting “Yeehaw” and blowing me wolf whistles and cat calls as they rumbled by. Until I finally arrived at my rented bungalow where all five crew members had to arise at precisely 6am.

Real gay men might cry at a chick flick, but we sure know how to turn a urinal into an altar of masculine adulation. The trough, of course, makes one think of horse cock. Or cowboy schlong. Or both. Though for the most part, should some drunkard fairy lay a hand on my fly, I say “Neigh”. A thousand times “Neigh” (by which time I’ve had the calloused blue-collar hand job, the turgid passion of fleshly male bonding and, of course, the Ejaculatory Aftermath: wham bam, thank you Sam). o_O

BTW, I once blew a handsome radio host in the urinal of the old Stud
Bar at its original location on Folsom and 12th.That was back in
1986. He’s since risen to international stardom in the free-form
tradition of a live, outdoor audience. I tune him in every Tuesday
eve on FM radio. Nine inches of gorgeous man-meat; I drool in

I like to think I gave him his start in show biz. A good BJ is
most empowering. Plus: I work magic with my tongue. Good times.


Date: Sun, 18 Mar 2012 20:24:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

It is indeed a dark and stormy night as I prance down Castro Street already somewhat drunk (thanks to my personal stash of cheap booze), and enter Toad Hall on 18th. Two more vodka tonics later I stumble outside, hoping to pick up some young hustler planning to dope me and then steal my money and valuables once we get home, under the premise of showing me a good time. Of course, at my advanced age of 61, “young” means anyone under 55, so long as he’s at least an eight. (Of course when you’re soused, there seem to gather ’round you, a lot more hotties in the 8-10 range than when sober. Go figure.)

My secret is to conceal anything particularly valuable (such as my
real wallet and personal papers, $200 android tablet and spare,
refurbished portable laptop purchased via eBay for less than $300),
and lock down my main $425 laptop with a combo lock and alloy steel
cable wrapped around a vertical cubbyhole shelf built into the desk.
Which then makes the date-rape drug a free high, and the odds of my
actually getting laid–or at least mightily felt up on parts that
still count (such as my aching lower back)–greatly increased.

FYI, in the queer community, date rape is not a crime, it is a
highly prized form of sexual intrigue…especially among the low-
income-but-still-horny, elderly citizens such as myself. And when I
say “low income” I mean the very low, such as SRO dwellers,
who really don’t have anything worth stealing in the first place,
except perhaps a few possessions, all easily concealed in one’s
closet, ground-score file cabinets (converted to clothing and pantry
drawers), or in boxes under the desk covered by worthless magazines
and ripe underwear.

By the way, I am only saying these things
to worry my lovely Arwyn, and bring out his protective instincts. I
do none of the things just described above: I might get a little
drunk now and then, but do keep to myself, wishing with all my soul,
for his funtabulous company…even with our clothes on, so long as we
are in each other’s arms, munching popcorn while watching the latest
Pirate-Bay-ripped DVD.

I’m being honest now, because I know that Arwyn will finally read
this, and I don’t want to come off like a cheap loganberry tart. Yes,
I do play around now and then, but it’s only for lack of your darling
warmth. Okay, Arwyn? I’m sure when you come to realize what a
blessing I regard you in my life, you’ll come running to my side, and
never leave. I’ll give you three more months, then I’m moving to
Portland to weep away the rest of my sorry life; and try to forget
you, which I know will be a futile endeavor. You can always reach me
by e-mail:

Toad Hall is a nasty place to hang out. Named after the original Toad Hall that burned down in 1979 (which original site is around the corner), this present incarnation only has the name in common, but none of the amenities. It is always super noisy, thanks to the cranked-up speakers, and has about as much personality as a dead rotting whale picked clean by seagulls and mestizo gang-bangers along the Great Highway. To be fair, one can say the same for any gay bar here in the Castro. But it does have a large picture window that allows me to gaze upon the passersby, in hopes of spotting Arwyn, or my next victim of conjugal pretense.

As usual, nothing interesting is going on, either side of the plate glass…so I finish off the overpriced swill and step back out onto the street where, by this time (well after witching hour) the rain has diminished into a wet, cold drizzle, and a bold crescent moon hangs low over the Edwardian houses on Collingwood Street. (Where my good friend Marvin once lived, till he passed away from AIDS back in 1992; same year that I last heard from Randolph…it was a sad time. Come to think of it, I’ve had many sad times living here; though I hold my head high, even when on my knees and blowing some dude in the bushes. (Just teasing you, Arwyn. The bushes are long gone.)

No sooner do I make my exit than–thar she blows!–Arwyn appears on the other side of the street in a fast pace towards that ridiculously expensive supermarket, Mollie Stone’s, which replaced the old DeLonghi’s (which replaced the still older Cala Foods…I’ve been here a long time; I walk among ghosts more than real people these days). I hurry across the street to be sure my voice reaches him: “Arwyn! You have a beautiful night, I love you and Goddess bless!”

Now, it has been his usual habit since my departure from Hole in the
Wall four or five years ago, to either (1) completely ignore me, or
(2) more recently, acknowledge my presence with a friendly nod or
wave of the hand. But to my delighted surprise, he turns tail and
speeds back in my direction. I can hardly contain myself, like an old
friendly Labrador greeting its beloved caretaker.

Suddenly, the whole world loves me. More than anyone else. More even than Jesus, the Eiffel Tower, Randy Crawford singing “One Day I’ll Fly Away” (the 1980 version), your domestic partner returned in one piece from Vietnam (or Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, Korea, or whatever hellhole that has taken him away for a terrible and grievous time), a box of chocolates from Forrest Gump, a sweet child suffering cancer (and she is your darling daughter), quacky little ducklings chasing you around on the moist green grass by Stowe Lake…or Fry, Bender and Leela from Futurama.

To be continued…

Date: Wed, 21 Mar 2012 12:55:20
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> BTW, I asked Mitch about ice in urinals. He said he’s only seen
it in men’s rooms in bars, and he always assumed that it was there
because it’s a convenient way for the bartender to dispose of “old”
ice, in addition to keeping the pee-smell down. He said he saw a
trough-type urinal in an Oregon bar, and that it had continuously
flowing water (Oregon has no water shortage at all), so no ice.

I love Oregon. Especially in spaghetti sauce…ummmm. You actually
asked Mitch; that’s cute.

Date: Wed, 21 Mar 2012 12:58:16
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> Looking forward to savoring your latest installment in an
unhurried way…’re a damned good writer, Zeke.

I blush. Thank you. And thank you for such tremendous support…I
wouldn’t have gotten this far w/o it. Wait until you read it…it put
ME through a lot of changes! I must’ve shed buckets of joyful tears
in the process, now I need a mop.

Date: Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:43:07
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Arwyn comes right up to me, and touches my shoulder. In a firm but
kind and deep-throated voice, he commands: “Go. Home.” Then
with one hand on my arm and the other my right shoulder blade,
escorts me back across the street, and stops by the newsstand at
Walgreens. He declares once more “Go. Home.” Then briskly
turns about, crosses the street (again) and continues his march up
18th. His warm, strong touch on my back and arm lingers like a sweet
dream of puppy dogs and lilacs. I am aglow. Stunned at this
unexpected turn of events, I somehow manage to call out to him once
more, as he disappears around the corner and up Collingwood Street:

“Peace my brother! You are a darling!”

No sooner do I commence to obey his command, than a young, spirited woman steps up and stentoriously declares: “Forget about him. This is about you. Zeke, you have done so much for our community, we couldn’t even begin to list all your achievements. You have sacrificed SO MUCH on behalf of our brothers and sisters, I want you to know that, and commend you at this time.”

Again, I am stunned. She is a bubbly, handsome sprite barely
seventeen, with curly locks of auburn hair framing a beatific face
that is vibrant with precognition. I have no idea who she is, never
seen her before, and am about to explain my playful association with
Arwyn as I point in the direction of his retreat, when she interrupts
me, and once more declares:

“Forget about him”. And continues to praise me to the heavens with
words so eloquent I couldn’t help but take her hands warmly in mine,
and remark:

“Yes, I have done many good works on behalf of gay rights, with hardly any acknowledgment or appreciation for more than 35 years. You are so sweet to honor me like this, I can’t thank you enough.” Then kiss her hand like a gallant knight. “I must go now,” I finish, “and see what my sweetheart is up to. Again, bless you and thanks immensely.”

And off I run towards Collingwood, just to glimpse Arwyn one more
time: alas, he is nowhere to be seen (the little scamp). His heart’s
enduring embrace then guides me safely home.

(I would like to add here: whoever that woman was, my apologies
for not lingering long enough to get your name, and to learn how you
know about me. You are most welcome to get back in touch–see my e-
mail link above–and we’ll schmooze over tea and crumpets. Again,
that was such a sweet thing to say, you’re like an angel that
suddenly appeared out of the dark, cerulean void to bless me with
bounteous honor. I truly hope we become BFF; you are a most remarkable lady.

the end
game over man
th-th-that’s all folks
to be continued in another true life faeggie faerie tale

6 Responses to Free Me From This Bond

  1. ZekeBlog says:

    FYI to my beloved readers: I am the same person in those handwritten letters as I am with my Arwyn adventure. I changed my name in 1996 from Gene Catalano to Zeke Krahlin. Proof can be found here:

  2. johnofphilly says:

    It’s suddenly 40 years ago.

  3. ZekeBlog says:

    johnofphilly remarked:
    > It’s suddenly 40 years ago.

    Remember trannie Ginger, one of the night-owl regulars from the ol’ Andy’s Donut Shop? Or Shirley, the waitress there, who was so good to everyone? (That was her name, right?) Andy’s is also where I befriended Marvin. This was all back, when? ’73-’74.

  4. ZekeBlog says:

    Date: Sat, 24 Mar 2012 14:47:56
    From : Zeke
    To: Eleanor
    Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

    Quoting Eleanor:
    > But I *am* going to reread the entire tale!

    You’ve already honored me tremendously so many times…I’m now blushing from head to foot.

    > when the chaos swirling around me lets up for a few moments!

    There is something about the Goddess Eris in my reveries.

    > stand by! !

    I’m just gonna soak up all the golden bliss for having created something truly wonderful, that will do /so/ much for LGBT’s and a while later, everyone else.

    I know I’ve authored a magnificent gem (thank you Amethystos); no false humility here. “Free Me From This Bond” will take off like wildfire, and consume the world. Now, what with an image of your book cover RIGHT AT THE TOP, w/embedded link to its e-book page on Amazon…don’t you think this just might answer your request?

    Honestly, I had no idea that initial post would transform into a magnificent love story. After that first post, Arwyn showed up the next night (and that lovely young woman who sang such praise). I was so inspired as a consequence, the writing just took over.

    This is only the beginning of my impact on the world (thru my writing and speech)…I’ve had visions over this for many years…but this breakthrough piece is most definitely My Holy Grail.

    FYI: Our delightful discussion over pee troughs, has inspired my next opus:

    Horse Cock & Cowboy Schlong
    (a deliciously wicked collection of satirical gay porn)

    Peace and hilarity, blessings from these great rains upon our Emerald coast. The Celtic Nation shall soon arise! Atlantis and Lemuria are not far off.

    Ezekiel (Jehovah’s Queer Witness)

  5. Lindy says:

    Oh, Zeke! Swimming through your thoughts is like finding a shiny little crystal on the floor of a seedy bar. Delightful!

Add to this story with your insightful comment:

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: