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welcome to the hole
Once upon a time, I kept a LiveJournal account, gryphons_hole, a deep, dark, comfy little hole in my brain where I kept notes on my life and queerness.
This is the archive to that account, mostly password protected, adult, queer content, stripped of photo content after the site restructured its photo hosting feature. I hope to restore that content as well.
If I know you, ask for the password. If I don’t, hope for a generous mood.
08.18.24 I have realized a need to continue in this space. A kink reawaking if you will, with content that may range into inappropriate for my other blog spaces.
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clothes and value and other anniversary type ramblings
I forgot to mention my LJ anniversary at the start of October, six years, but really, I am closer to a better date to mark: three years ago this week, I made my first Sunday Style entry. I think they lasted for about a year and a half before most everything of what I posted had a sartorial lean to it…
I should mention that my brain is most often occupied with thoughts of thrifting and clothing these days. It came from a place of economy and solving boredom on a budget, and I am wholly okay with the process of it all.
In keeping with that, I have thought a good bit of late on how my experiences with thrift stores over the past three years has shifted my sense of budget, value and cost. I think it is fair to say that I spend approximately ten to twenty dollars a week at various thrift stores. When I think I need to save money, I look at that being most of my discretionary spending and consider cutting it. Then I add it up. Forget the fact that housewares and sometimes furniture are in the mix, and let’s say it is all clothing. That would be 500-1000 USD a year on the wardrobe. How far does that go in low-end department stores. High-end…? After that thought, I sit a bit better with it, especially knowing that there is other spending that I don’t yet track as well as my thrifting…
Let’s talk about neckties as a demonstration of value and cost. I do understand the value of things I find for almost nothing. I do, but it changes the price I am willing to pay for things. As for neckties, if I find a spectacular woven-pattern silk tie, I may pay up to four bucks for it. That is rare; I often pay one buck apiece for them. I consider that standard. The ties I pick up at the DAV are most often five for a dollar…
Yesterday, I stopped at this teeny, tiny little store just a bit away from where I am staying. It can be a bit trashy and I don’t look through much other than the ties. They had been out of neckties for two weeks. Yesterday, they had restocked. I bought ten ties, totaling ten dollars. They are exquisite ties in excellent condition. Some good names.
Out of curiosity, I googled some of the labels and checked average prices. The lowest cost of any tie in the bunch new would have afforded me thirty-five ties at a buck a piece. The best find in the haul was a gorgeous Burberry tie. It is hard to price their ties out of the current season. At the moment their site shows nothing but skinny ties, of which I am not such a fan, but they sell for 145 USD…
Somewhere in all of this is the core of my warped sense of value and cost and budget. I feel I am being ridiculous in how much time and money I invest in clothing, but then I step back and look at the rest of the world and realize how much so my thrifting allows me to dress outside of my means… It has left me unable to enjoy shopping in department stores. I mean, window-shopping, fine, but who actually wants to pay that much for poorly made things…? Bother.
I shop at discount stores (like Marhall’s, Burlington, TJ Maxx) for socks and undergarments. That is about it. And still I shop at Gordman’s and Big Lots! and such…
And sport coats…? I have so many at this point, that I rarely look at any that cost more than a quarter, and if so, they have to be stunning and unlike any I already have, and made to fit me perfectly…
I have become spoiled, I know this, but spoiling oneself on a shoestring budget seems an okay way to go.
I have the day off from work. So, I shall go out and about and celebrate three years of heightened style. On the list are socks, a-shirts, and I will stop into a Maj-R Thrift in the area, looking for a deal…
*smooch*
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more buttons
Cut, re-matched, and sewn with high-contrast matchy-matchy thread:
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argyle-a-go-go and other stories of a clotheshorse
Today, I am playing hooky of sorts: the alternator in my car crapped out over the weekend and it is in the shop getting repaired today, leaving me abandond at home, too far from work to manage the trip.
So, what better time to catch up on my poor, neglected journal…
I have recently both fallen out of love with the DAV, and back into it again. They are jacking with their price levels, their mark down process and their Sunday sale structure. I do get their attempt to maximize profits, but – seriously – when a Stafford dress shirt is marked down twice and still twelve bucks…? Come on…
So it went that I fell out of love with my divine portal to sartorial splendor.
But wait! The one store location up north back-pedaled, having dropped the regular Sunday line-up of a block and a half down to only a dozen people in just four weeks. The second Sunday sale tag is back up to fifty percent off the lowest price. Close to being better. (The tag is still only marked down in twenty-five percent intervals, unlike the original fifty percent.) And I did notice that with less customers on Sunday, and more items being left until their final week on the floor, there was value to be found in attending Sunday’s sale.
So it goes that I still frequent my once beloved DAV, now treated suspiciously like the dubious lover. To adjust accordingly, I have branched out, finding a decent number of other thrift stores, mostly smaller, mostly charity projects, and mostly with decent prices on flawless items.
I had also been wisely advise that, with a wardrobe to the degree of mine, I was in a place to slow the acquisition of clothing and look for specific, quality pieces that add to the value of what already hangs in my closet, on the landing, in boxes in the corner and sits away in storaqe. (You get the picture…) To that end, I have increased the amount I am willing to spend on any one item, but I have likewise increased my scrutiny of the piece, my pickiness in what I want and my awareness of repeating what I may already have.
So it came that I began frequenting the Hillcrest Charity Thrift, discovering a lovely Alan Flusser jacket with a fifty percent off tag, totally four bucks. I have only had one of these prior, and it was short in the sleeves, and I am never as willing to make that alteration as I think I will be when I find such a jacket… The first jacket went to a good home, and much better fit. And I am quite happy for it. And even happier yet for finding a comparable one for myself…
It doesn’t show in the image, but some of the great detailing in Alan Flusser jackets include a contrasting piping that edges the lining; in this case, a green grosgrain ribbon. The linings in both jackets were a high contrast color; the other jacket has a delicious pink lining, mine a deeper burgundy. the linings are back-stitched around the edging in thread that matches the piping. In all, some nice details in an age of throw-away products.
I do seem to be developing a taste for argyle as well, especially if I can land odd color schemes. Of course, I do keep the restraint of requiring a V-neck collar. (What is a point of all those neckties if they are never seen…?) I am not so picky about an all over pattern, which would be nice, but I treat it more like a waistcoat with it’s plain back, as I will most likely wear a jacket over top of the sweater.
Of course, the color palettes of argyles set off my color OCD and begin the puzzle game of finding the perfect tie with the exact colors; a game I really rather enjoy. I think my favorite solution is a tie that has all the colors of the sweater, but not only just the colors of the sweater.
So it comes to be, with the addition of many other thrift stores and the semi-return of the DAV to its original sales-find splendor, three years of thrifting offers a world of magnitude and madness for the closet. To such ends, my temporary living arrangements (which are close to an end) offer only just the tiniest of closet spaces. Enough not even for just my dress shirts, or almost not just enough for… however that works. A hanging bar mounted to the wall on the landing holds suit jackets and trousers.
I should mention that when I moved here, I sent much of everything I own to storage, including a decent amount of my clothes. On the matter of dress shirts, I was of the mind that half of them went to storage, leaving approximately forty shirts here with me. Yes, I know. It gets worse. Well, let’s say it gets… more so.
Last month, I found a deal at Bed, Bath & Beyond for flocked slimline hangers. They do use noticeably less space and the shirts don’t budge one bit. I bought two packs of fifty. In doing laundry yesterday. I used up the last few that had been lying around after I had changed them all out. *whew* And, yes, the other previous ‘half’ is still in storage.
Yes, it may be a sickness. LOL
This is where I offer the reminder that I can recall only ever once paying more than five bucks for a shirt, and only a few at five. I don’t often think twice about four dollars, and a vast majority of these shirts were likely only twenty-five cents.
Feel free to come visit. I suggest the weekend, with a late departure on Sunday or Monday…
And to the last point of this long-winded entry: buttons.
I have developed the habit of buying quarter tag shirts of any size and condition for the buttons, if they offer the correct amount and a sweet style and color of button. I do this to harvest buttons on the cheap to swap out utility buttons on the shirts I wear.
I know.
No, really, I know…
Honestly, isn’t this just an artist turning his skills to his own image? I have been enjoying this ongoing development of my personal style over the years. Now, I look forward to the opportunity to hone in on the details, to sharpen this micro-focus and make this style truly mine.
So far with the buttons, I have developed a trend for either contrast buttons with thread that matches the shirt, or the reverse. Solid shirts tend towards the former, while patterned shirts tend towards the later… The shirt pictures above is a good example: brown buttons for the brown shirt; silver-blue thread to match the plaid pattern.
I will even offer that in three shirts, I have developed a pattern of sewing that leaves a neat tidy square on the underneath of the shirt placket, instead of randomized dots here and there. this bit of hidden detail makes me happy. And I mean happy… And on the occasion that the thread and buttons match colors in the shirt exactly… my nipples get hard.
No, really.
*smooch*
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the glitter, it burns
I occasionally wonder of the source of my distaste and poor response to silly little gay boys when I encounter them in the bars. I do consider whether my response is bigotry of some sort or some sensible response to as-yet unknown data.
Then, most often, I am vindicated.
Take last night for an example: he was a handsome enough young fellow, but his hummingbird attention span and his inability to follow through with his conversation after stating the importance of having one with me both wore thin easily.
To offer details: I was in a suit, a great cut dark grey pinstripe with red silk pocket square and red and black striped tie. What he didn’t know was that I was fully sated having come from a sex party, in suit, sucking dick in the corners and guys got off on face-fucking whatever office avatar I represented… he wouldn’t have known, mostly for his inability to actually build the conversation he so apparently craved.
Back to the point: at one moment, he was in past all the boundaries I had not given consent to cross, rubbing on the wool and through it, me. He sensed that it made me uncomfortable, than produced inadequate excuses why it did so. Clearly, I was shy. *snicker*
So, that vindication I mentioned earlier…? Yeah. I get home, climb the steps to my room and begin to undress…
Then I see it, the shiny little specks. Glints all about my suit jacket, and then also on my trousers. The little fucker was covered in body glitter.
Ugh. No wonder his pawing set me off and put up the defenses.
Damned craft herpes.
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Protected: the harness tying daddy
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Protected: weekend opener at camp
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post-camp note
I should make a note to engage in more overwhelming and intense activities at camp next year, so I can return home with huge amounts of processing and not be so instantly reminded of how incredibly lonely I am for such brotherhood in my everyday life…
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post-camp processing
My brain doesn’t want to move on, and doesn’t want to release. I feel stuck.
I can say that what I linger on is not severe or heavy or unravelling; it simply is, and it is sticky. I would be mostly okay with it hanging around for a bit, even if it isn’t all good.
I enjoyed myself. Of course, I did. Come on… Three years into it and I still carried a sense of this being the only weekend of the year that I feel like I am home. Granted, such a thought carries a lot of expectation, doesn’t it?
I did pretty well. I am happy for my choices. I am happy for my behavior, with one exception. I think the last bit was mostly minor…
I missed a few key opportunities, but they would have been with brand new connections, and I know that those can be so potentially troublesome for me. In this regard, next year is already showing some good potential.
The biggest distraction of this year is the fairly new development of my intolerence for pain reception. I just feel done. I did fine with voicing this and finding alternative options, but I couldn’t exactly shake the sense that so much of what is available at camp is geared toward such things. The exclusion of pain-inducing activities left me cycling with m internal sense of separation and isolation. I managed it as the weekend progressed, but it didn’t vanish; it was on-going.
At one point, I felt I failed to communicate this precisely, mostly since the top proceeded to do exactly everything that I said I couldn’t manage. Of course, since I realized I had just told him none of this worked for me, I suffered through instead of further communication, since I felt the first obvious attempt was so ignored. Everything resolved well enough by the end of the scene, as he eventually realized how little response I was giving off, but I endured a seemingly good bit of ‘not-helping’ before that moment.
The point of poor behavior mentioned above is in regards to this scene: I closed up in my communication with the top, but later ranted a bit with a couple of friends. I want this to be unacceptable behavior. It is unfair and disrespectful. I did work to be as discreet about it as possible, not mentioning the top by name, but still, what is the point…? Nothing productive is gained from it. And I want camp to be an experience of personal growth for me.
I understand the moment to be a minor thing; I will only dwell on it to hold a remembrance of behavior I wish to avoid.
In general, throughout the weekend, my energy level was bothersome and unpredictable. I was decidedly off-kilter and not running at fult-tilt-boogie-gryphon speeds. I avoided some potentially hot moments due to this fact and how much I understand the dangers of pursuing such when I am off my norm.
However, I did have a delicious e-stim scene with the archetypal bear, a bondage and tactile play scene so intense that I shot like a twenty-two year old, hitting my collarbone… a date so lovely that I drifted to all sorts of places. This one reset my brain for the rest of the weekend, allowing me to let go of enough to ride out an enjoyable wave… And, of course, the ‘wetsuit’ came out for a third year for the watersports party. As soon as I began to sweat in it, I could smell traces of the first two years. This is only going to improve over time… *grin*
I am unsure if I will delve into the details of my dates. Perhaps. I will be more likely to work through the weights that are clinging to me through the run of the experience… Time will determine which, I suppose…
The one thing I can say, and should say, through all of it, I understand – very clearly – that I was loved and adored and fully supposed in how I choose to move through my world. That fact alone makes the trip worthwhile.
I am in awe of the men I know in the world.
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Protected: sent off to camp
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Protected: a close call…
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gryphon's hole 