I'm sorry...

Over the course of nine smart cocktails at my favorite happy-hour bar, a terrible secret was revealed to an on again, off again enemy of mine, Michaud. Yes, that Michaud, from my former life as a socialite dandy, before I met my dear Bryce, and way before my friend Foxy turned me on to the bear/cub lifestyle.

Michaud always shows up during my weakest moments to cajole hidden truths with compliments and vodka martinis. The secret he wrestled last night from my Kettle One soaked lips will destroy any shred of dandy-cred left among my former friends, Etienne, Gerard, Dumas, et al.

Already I've received an email from Etienne that Michaud is spreading a nasty rumour about my “new life”. Therefore, a preemptive confessional is in order.

After all, this entire affair wasn’t even my idea. You see my dear friends (specifically my new bear and cub friends, like Foxy), I am easily manipulated. I am not ashamed of it. I trust much too easily and therefore in relationships I’m often tricked into doing horrible, horrible things I would never do under my own volition.

And Bryce is so persuasive, wonderfully persuasive, but his charms often have darker motivations. You see, the secret that slipped to Michaud last night, during those endless rounds of dry vodka and bitter olives is . . .

Bryce and I, we are not going to Montreal as we’ve enthusiastically told all of our friends.

I’m sorry I’ve lied to all of you.

We are going to rural Wisconsin. And Bryce is forcing me to participate in a week-long, live action role playing event at “Huzzah!” an outdoor camp where obese people with horrible skin conditions fight one another with foam rubber sticks and pretend to cast spells by throwing bean bags.



I’m crying onto my toasted, flat sesame bagel as I type these dreadful (yet raw and honest) words.

Perhaps this entry, my personal therapy, is needed to prepare for the onslaught of chunky suburban nerds in aluminum foil helmets and sweat-pants armor. How many bad cockney dialects can a person stand in one week?

Perhaps Bryce won’t be too upset by my confession.

He’s attended “Huzzah!” for nine years straight. He’s a twenty third level Knight-Lord. He owns his own castle there! (Well, it’s a cabin, but it has little castle flags on it so the other players know he’s nobility.)

He said if I ruined this for him I wouldn’t have the privilege of being his squire. I’d be forced to portray a monster and have nerds chase me through brambles for eleven days.

Running, running, my own sweat pants catching on the thorns of scrub-brush Wisconsin fields as out of shape rogues and acne scarred warriors hunt me down. They’re throwing foam rubber daggers at my fleeing form. I trip and fall painfully into a shrub. A bean bag lands near me! That was a lightning bolt cast by an elfin wizard (a fat girl with Spock ears). Flee! Whew, that was a close one.

And the "monsters" are forced to sleep in a cave and eat only oatmeal!

I’ve dreamed of Hell and this is a fate worse than even those nightmarish visions. I’m so very sorry Bryce.