A Man is a Man by His Actions

[Another contribution by JW; this one shows more similarities between us, since we both grew up in bad areas, went to the military, and were wounded.]

I’m a boy from the slums where livin’ is rough
Fought daily for survival, you’ve got to be tough
One on one is expected, but one against many is too
Arise and keep swingin’ or they’ll walk all over you

If you can’t take a fall and quickly bounce back
You’ll never earn respect, and they’ll never cut you slack
You learn to be ruthless, when ruthless is called for
But don’t let it change you, not deep in your core

Being ruthless is not the same as being mean
It’s taking others down, but keepin’ it clean
Purely for self-defense or in defense of others
Continue to respect life: fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers

From slums to foreign soil when fightin’ for “Uncle Sam”
For freedom and G.I. brothers… screw the political flim-flam
Busted and bloody, but I returned standing tall
But don’t give me no praise, give it to those who gave all

Dad said, “A man is a man by his actions
not from his years on Earth;
he sweats courage and bleeds honor
and guards integrity for all it’s worth.”

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Fashionable or not

[Another contribution by JW: poetry and art.]

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Fashionable or not,
faith in beauty remains as fickle
as the ever-changing fads it inspires.
After all, fashion is merely another persons
opinion of how you should look or act.
Find what makes you happy
and ditch the rest.
Outside or inside,
if your reflection isn’t perfection
you’ve got no right to judge.
And what good is a high IQ
to anyone dumb enough to judge others
by the way they look?
Condemnation of another person’s
imperfections has always been
a sign of simpletons,
no matter how richly they’re adorned.
To those unable to see the beauty here,
come back when you mature.
To iterate; it’s overlooking imperfections
which draws us closer to perfection.
Especially since no one honestly relates
to Madison Avenue:
scars are the “Real Thing”.
Our differences make us special: unique.
Not our similarities, but our differences
which perfectly distinguish us.
Hate me for my differences
and you hate yourself.
Condemn me for my imperfections
and you condemn yourself.
Only by accepting me
can you truly accept yourself

 

D/s: Word of Warning!

There is nothing inherently wrong with pursuing pleasure or attempting to fulfill a fantasy. I’ve definitely pursued those paths often. However, there are many factors within the D/s—BDSM world that need to be considered prior to pursuing the pleasure path or engaging in some fantasy fare. So many things can go wrong when you’re trying to connect with strangers for possible relationships, instant sexual gratification, or even so-called innocent play and bonding at public events.

I have handled hundreds of domestic and criminal cases over two decades as an investigator. And I’ve officially and privately researched thousands of cases involving D/s—BDSM: compiling a collection of cases for psychological studies.

There is an overabundance of evidence to show that too many individuals and couples fail to heed the warnings, discard common sense, and throw caution to the wind in the pursuit of pleasure. Such choices lead to physical, emotional, and psychological pain; destroyed relationships and/or undue burden on loved ones, and many other consequences including kidnapping, rape, and murder.

A sad truth in our society, even in the information age, is that most law enforcement officers, attorneys, and social workers are ill-equipped, poorly trained, or completely clueless with regard to cases involving a D/s dynamic. Most are misclassified, many deem the dynamic to be irrelevant, and others are noted but overlooked or missed entirely.

So, allow me once more to be the voice of reason. But first, I’ll relate some real-life examples to help inspire you to heed the warning.

CZ: A college coed who became interested in the D/s—BDSM community after a campus discussion involving various speakers in sex trades and alternate lifestyles. Her roommate said an incident with one of the speakers following the discussion was the catalyst that fueled an instant obsession: one she pursued in earnest.

She devoured information about the specific lifestyle she fantasized about, and made her first online hook-up at the end of the first week. She made four the second week, and another four the following week, but she would never make the final hook-up. Her body was found in a muddy ditch in a lightly wooded area near a construction site.

LW: A high-school student, he had a chance meeting with an older individual in a public restroom at a park. The encounter sparked a desire to pursue that type of activity further, but he wasn’t convinced that he wanted the whole lifestyle. Therefore, since he was a high-school student and athlete in a comparatively small rural town, he chose to pursue the fantasy in a larger city across the border in a neighboring state.

He set-up a meet with a male a few years older, but with a similar background as his. Unfortunately, it was a fake online persona. One man was a decoy, soon joined by three others. He was robbed, gang-raped, and beat mercilessly. He survived, but can never play sports again.

KI: A hardworking single-mother that found herself lonely and seeking companionship after the last of her two children married and left the nest. She tried a few blind-dates and dating sites with dismal results. But her time spent online led her to D/s—BDSM sites and blogs that portrayed the kink community far differently than the stereotypical Hollywood versions. The sites led her to local events, which appeared to have awakened desires that laid dormant for years.

The amount of activities she pursued in a relatively short period seemed to suggest what is termed “sub-frenzy.” Then she disappeared the day before her birthday. And the last known contact with family was a message to her sister, telling her not to worry if she couldn’t be reached, cuz’ she was about to have the sexiest birthday of her life.

Yes, a lot of pleasure can be had in the D/s—BDSM world as long as you take the time to become informed, and don’t discard the common-sense steps to remain protected and safe. And there are many good sites and blogs with posts covering ideas on how to remain safe. Do yourself a favor and google a few. You don’t want your path to pleasure bringing you into the arms of posers and predators.

I’ve seen the negative aftermath too many times, and researched many more. And, sadly, a vast majority of the horrific endings could have easily been prevented.

Ballad of J-Bear

[Another contribution by JW, and it shows another similarity we share: we’re both metis’, mixed breeds, part Native American. And we bring it out in some of our creative work, like he does here and I did with the Black Wolf writings (that are still a work in progress).]

 

Plenty Horses tried to stampede over J-Bear with Mad Dog 20/20 instigating fluid reasons for drunken nonsense.

All present not stupefied or catatonic had to marvel at the audacity to bust a move on the soberest among us, and the only one who has been more than a weekend warrior and survived.

Bird Man tells the tale of J-Bear’s first encounter with Spirit Guide within the magic flames of the elusive fire dance from the bowels of Alaskan tundra… and again on the Midwest plains in the eye of Twister.

Born beyond the captivity of the rez’, yet still a prisoner of poverty in the land of the greed giants.

We have witnessed his ability to soar; his talents are worthy of the one-percent realm, but he is of the Earth and has no stomach to dishonor his Mother for filthy lucre.

J-Bear found humor in the equine invasion of privacy – as did we all who watched the scene unfold through glassy eyes, clouded vision, and lost or forgotten dreams.

We saw a bruin bask in utter confidence, toying with prey at will – with a hearty laugh and joyful smile – we became further intoxicated on the after-glow; that is, all but Plenty Horses.

Salivation over stallion status proved too much to carry when confronted with pony presence at pow-wow.

Viewed with jest by J-Bear and us all was burr under saddle, prickly pear, and thorn bush to Plenty Horses: who bid hasty retreat from long-house, good sense, and sanity.

Celebration complete, sobriety ensues, First People renewed, and lookie-loos slither back to city-scapes, penthouses, townhomes, beach-front property and a life of lies as “real” Americans.

Unknown to all, the sliver of shame planted deep in the heart of Plenty Horses festers and putrefies.

Day-to-day binge nourished with Mad Dog, moonshine, and home-grown reservation rot-gut.

Sleepless nights, passed-out mornings, restless slumber in the land of forgotten memories and faceless ancestors doomed to wander the spirit world in constant agony over life-long humiliation and senseless slaughter; with no burial rites, in mass graves or no graves, and nothing to prove that life once inhabited their flesh.

Disembodied, dis-spirited, despairing soul-filled torment – and Plenty Horses claimed the old tales as his own.

Lost in the lore and loco weed; lost to us… and to himself.

Plenty Horses packed pistol and hatchet.

He wore war paint and breech-cloth and hid in hedges awaiting the cloak of darkness.

The un-brave warrior wannabe; he is one of many in descending generations of reservation bound natives never taught the warrior way.

Those who saw say J-Bear sensed danger just prior to Plenty Horse’s attack.

Instead of seeking safety or defending himself, he chose to shield two children in the path of Plenty Horses.

No bullet found child flesh that day; no hatchet tore youthful skin.

J-Bear was their body armor; he held them close and tight till tribal law reined-in the loco cayuse… but gave up his ghost that night.

No grave to mark his passing; a simple plaque by choice – for his deeds prove immortal and a lasting testament to his mortal days.

Ashes scattered – carried on the breath of Sky Father to rest on the breast of Mother Earth.

His spirit soars like Hawk in the land of no more sorrow, in the woods of plenty game, and the sparkling waters of enlightenment and ecstasy, while Plenty Horses is a shell of a man; no longer part of a proud clan, clothed in prison garb, eternally tainted, blood-stained, with ominous odor of choice – doomed to hear the perpetual cries of children and the lament of nations over the waste of a clan warrior through the actions of a coward.

His day of expiration is forthcoming.

There will be no community drum.

It will be a solemn… but tearless day.