I was a fortunate young man. Fortunate that when my grandmother passed she chose to leave her house, the house my grandfather built, to her grandchildren. I was working in the area at the time and so I made the decision to offer to buy out the other heirs. We agreed and soon enough I was a homeowner at the ripe old age of 25.

It was great – I owned a wonderful home in a nice area and felt the freedom to begin to update it – to turn it from my grandparents house into my house. I did this, removing the carpet covering the wonderful red oak floors, laying laminate flooring in the kitchen and eventually gutting the master bath and the kitchen/dining/living areas removing a large section of wall to make the space more of an open concept. I loved my house. Yes, it was a lot of work but I was proud of it and my design choices.

Yet despite all this, the house felt like a millstone or anchor weighing me down to the area. I was never free to travel as much as I wanted as limited vacation time and funds due to the hefty mortgage and FEMA’s decision to reclassify my house as a flood zone. Flood insurance easily added an extra 1/4 to my house payment. It cost more than my everything-but-flood insurance – even though in case of a flood about two days and two shovels would be sufficient to restore my walkout basement to it’s normal state. I began to fall out of love with my house. This, coupled with the dearth of dating opportunities present in the area (plus some other stuff that I’d recently discovered about myself) only added to the speed at which I began to fall.

Fast forward several years and I find myself working almost 8 hours away from my house, and probably here for the next 12 years or so. I traveled home on the weekends and amassed a shit load of frequent flier miles but never gained the sense of place – and it’s damn hard to date or make anything other than work friends when you’re never in the same spot on weekends and weekdays. So I eventually decided to rent my house. I found a nice couple with a kid and the desire for more kids and offered them the place. They jumped the the chance and absolutely love the house.

A few weeks ago it rained for an entire week at the house. The wife posted pictures of her kid playing in the rain at the house and I recall doing that exact same thing when I was sick of being stuck indoors. The pictures sparked something in me – a satisfaction in seeing a growing family enjoying mine and my grandfather’s hard work. Knowing that they were filling the house with love and were taking care of it in a way I couldn’t since I was never home – and as any homeowner will tell you something almost always needs fixing at a house.

So I made a decision. I asked them if they were interesting in buying the house and they said they were. I’m now just waiting on them to figure out financing and everything and I feel a sense of hope that soon, I can cut the millstone off my neck and begin to enjoy my life fully again. Not anchored to any one place, but rather anchored to the people I’ve met here and everywhere. Free to travel as I wish without worrying if another tree has fallen in the backyard, or on the house or if my pipes have burst and flooded the place.

Freedom. There’s great peace in that word, and I can’t wait to feel it.


What sets me apart:

I’m readily going to admit some stuff here; stuff that is usually hidden or unspoken. This maybe the two jack and diet cokes I consumed on my last flight speaking but alcohol usually serves to lower inhibitions:

That daddy over there? He’s in much better shape than I am. The one off to the left? He’s got a bigger dick. The guy in the middle? He’s a hell of a lot cuter than I was as a baby. Oh, and lest we forget, the dude in the pinstripe jacket has an accent that’s a spot on clone of the 9th Doctors accent. I’m straight(ish) and even that makes me weak in the knees.

So, what, exactly, you’re asking, do I have to offer that they don’t?

All I can offer is the whole of me, everything that combined to produce me, the faster sperm that time my parents were *full stop* okay, imma stop there because I’m not the type of pervert who enjoys thinking that his parents had sex to have him *happily onward*. Who am I?

Am I my job? My family? My friends? My car?My grandfather who everyone who knew him and knows me says I’m remarkably alike (though he passed when I was 6)?

Nope. I am Matt.

I’m 41, although age doesn’t define me. There’s no list I began following when I turned 41. Some days, especially when I cut myself while cooking and realize I have real band-aids (or sticky plasters, if you prefer) in my honest to jeebus medicine cabinet. Some days I wonder when the fuck I’m going to grow up.

So, back to me, one of my formerly least favorite subjects.

I am a DD, with hidden semi-sadistic tendencies that I’m only just coming to grips with.

Why semi-sadistic? Because while I really wanna hit someone until they’re bruised and possibly bloody, I only want to do so if they’re looking forward to it. I’ve been catch by myself looking at the paltry array of implements I own and finding myself desiring more. My shiny new riding crop needs a butt to play with. Looking at the wooden spoon that I broke across someone’s fanny has led me to perusing a nice wooden paddle made by a lovely gentleman on FetLife (soon!). I’ve got plans for a cat5 of nine tails – should be nicely stingy, probably won’t leave marks, unfortunately. Maybe if I knotted the ends… hmm… Alas, I digress…

I want to fuck someone’s face until they’re gasping for breath, makeup ruined, then, depending on their limits and an agreed upon agenda, do other fun and dirty things with them. I want to scratch and bite and hurt and fuck and call them names… When we’ve both reached our utmost limits, I want to hold them while they come back down from the highs we’ve shared.

What I give is the entirety of my attention. I fucking listen. I listen with the whole of my mind, quietly and not already formulating my response. I like to exercise my ears, my brain, my empathy. If you come to me asking for my help to remember to take your vitamins, you can be pretty darn sure you’re gonna get a call/text/Skype/whatever message to take your vitamins.

You’ll get my support, in it’s entirety. I’ll try and steer you away from stuff we both know you’re not going to accomplish (i.e.: if you wanna sing at the New York Met and you’ve never had lessons – I am going to encourage you to try and take some lessons first.) If you’re stressed because you’ve a paper or thesis due, I’ll stay up with you and help you finish. I’m a damn good proof reader and am usually conversant in almost anything… if I’m not conversant: I’ll learn I have read a book just to help someone with a paper more than once.

You’ll get my love, my devotion and if I happen to die I feel comfortable saying my last words will be directed to you, saying “You. Can. Do. It.”

Now that I’ve said all this, I realize how much bullshit it sounds like; like a dude, sitting on an airplane,slightly tipsy (I have a low alcohol tolerance so I’m an incredibly cheap date) drunkenly conversing with his increasingly uncomfortable seat mate. However, I feel comfortable in saying there are a few out there who will back me up when I say: “I ain’t lying.”

I have made a few life changing decisions in the past week, changes that I believe are necessary for my happiness and well being.

The first decision was to simply scour clean my Facebook friends list, deleting around 1,100 people who, at some point in my past, had crossed my path and decided to friend me there. The vast majority were ‘friends’ from my time spent working for a mega church. Now that I’m unaffiliated I had almost no desire to remain friends with them. Secondly we’re coworkers from jobs I have held, they’re gone too, as I really haven’t bothered to keep up with them.
Third were the people I followed and friended back when I thought being a good Christian boy was the key to my happiness, Goodbye.

So, now at a more comfy 193 friends (and still eyeing that particular list) my Facebook feels lighter. Eh, I’m never on there anyway.

Secondly was I cut out my beloved Monster peach teas in the morning. Yes, they’re delicious, but seriously, what are they doing to my insides? Three days after my last one my knee suddenly stopped hurting. I’m not entirely convinced that’s the cause but still it’s nice to not have to take an Advil a day just to walk pain free.

Third I’ve decided to sell my house in Tennessee. I’ve come to realize that as much as I love it, it’s a mill stone around my neck always tying my back to an area where I’m not sure I was ever really happy. I mean, yes I had stretches where I was relatively happy, but something has always just been ‘off’ here… I think I’ve finally divorced myself from the idea that I have an obligation to hold onto the family home that my grandfather built. I currently have a nice family living there and seeing their posts on Facebook with the kids enjoying the house and yard gives me a sense of peace, knowing that this is the right thing to do. Plus, imagine what I can do with an extra $1300/month.

Lastly was to begin to seek real, seriously deep friendships. To explore myself and what makes me happy. To cease hiding ‘me’ because of fear of what others would think. If I never choose to show myself to anyone, not even when I peer into my soul while looking in a mirror, how can I ever expect anyone to come to love the real me? How can I even love the real me?

I’ve honestly no idea what to write tonight, however, the pressure is building behind my eyeballs, the need and urge to write something, anything. I liken it to a boil that requires lancing with the sword of words. The steady click of a keyboard as they spew across the page.

I’m not usually a very organized writer. I’ll write a stream of consciousness spiel and then spend a few hours sculpting it down to something manageable, like an artist who sees the form in the block of stone – only I also make the stone that I’m going to carve. Giving it the rough form that finally allows some unknown process in my mind to excise the excess and bring the final form into being.

Tonight something has brought this to the forefront – my own innate feelings of worthlessness.




I look at my life, at the work I do, the successes I’ve had professionally all mean jack shit to me.

Why, you may you ask?

I honestly have no fucking idea.

I’m successful at work. I have dear friends in my life. I have people I love above all things. I’ve got a more than comfortable life style.

So why the fuck am I so unhappy?


Fuck that.

Excuse me while I breath and focus.


<hold for five>


<hold for five>


Jealousy, you’ve no place in my life. Yes, you’re a natural emotion but get the fuck outta my head. You’re not the emotion I want.

Jealousy, I want you to listen to me carefully.




<hold for five>


<hold for five>


Get the fuck outta my life. Like now.

And Matt, are you listening?

Really listening?

Are you sure?


You are loved.


<hold for five>


<hold for five>


Jealousy – if you’re still there – fuck off down the road.



I’ve been pondering the word ‘Slut’ a lot these past few days. This is probably a result of devouring Asa Akira’s “Dirty Thirty” while working a 30 hour day. Heck, my job is occasionally the type of job where muscle memory takes over so it gives me time to think and ponder – electrical breakers don’t talk a lot.

An old friend of mine (with whom I’ve lost contact with) used an analogy once that I immediately hated.

“Women are like locks. If you’ve got a lock that only opens with one key, that’s a good lock. A lock that opens with any key is a shitty lock.”

His analogy fails on two points for me…1) Women aren’t locks. 2) Men aren’t keys. Perhaps the visual of sliding a key into a lock is roughly analogous to sex… but sex is so much more than P in V.

Why is slut such a bad word? Why can’t women enjoy sex as much as men? Because the vagina will get ‘loose’? I’ve been with several women who’ve had kids and I can tell you – that’s a myth.

I’m proud to know several women who enjoy sex as much as I do – and are happy to use the word slut as a badge of honor. They don’t give a fuck. I don’t either. Slut isn’t an insult. At all.

Who, exactly, am I?

Good question.

I’m a voracious reader with a taste for dystopian fiction, an extremely amateur photographer, a fan of beers as long as they’re not extraordinarily hoppy, a lover of media in all it’s myriad forms, a kindle addict, an apartment dweller, book lover, a lover with ‘daddy’ tendencies – I’ll happily spank someone who enjoys it and enjoy the fuck out of it myself.

I’m a supporter of those I love and care for – and those people are spread far and wide. I’m an electrician who deals with a lot of switchgear. I’m also more agnostic than anything else, but that’s a story for a different time. I’m also a lefty on a quest to slowly train all my friends where, exactly, they can sit when we’re sitting around a table for a meal.

Of course, learning about someone isn’t always an exercise in what they are – it’s also an exploration of what they aren’t.

I am not judgemental – whatever you enjoy doing with whomever you enjoy doing it with – as long as it’s consensual – I don’t care. Gay? Excellent. Straight? Excellent as well. Not sure? Cool. Asexual? Spectacular! Make your living stripping? Nifty – not a damn thing wrong with that in my opinion. I’m certain you’ve got a million and one hilarious stories to share and I want to hear them all. Make your living as a research scientist? Let’s chat about that too. In short, I don’t care what you do or what you prefer. I care about the person, not the occupation or whom they’re sleeping (or not) with.

Of course, if you’re only attracted to left-handed electricians with a taste for dystopia – call me. Perhaps we can talk.

What’s the purpose of this blog, word vomit, flavour of the day?

I also have no idea. I just know that sometimes the need to write strikes me, so I write. Sometimes it’s fiction, sometimes it’s my ramblings. Whatever it is there’s a dam inside my head and occasionally it gets so full of words they have to come spilling out. So, this is those words.

I recently started playing with my old Pentax K1000 – here’s some of the first images that came from it: