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the fakers. How many times we find out only at the last minute that they truly do not have the wish to serve and must be gotten rid of so that we can move on? How many times are our hearts broken because we cannot get a client to the right level to send them on?”
    “Don’t ever let them break your heart,” Ken scolded. “You must be more positive! But it is true, we toss so many back into the sea! We are more than the gateway, Mike, we are the funnel, the, what is it? The strainer. Without us, these exalted trainers would be wasting all of their time going to meetings on...” she thought for a moment. “On Twenty-Four-Seven! Yes, that was the phrase, 24/7!”
    “What is that supposed to mean?” the Italian asked.
    “All the time. Twenty-four hours in a day and so forth. How to, ‘live the lifestyle,’ nes’t ce pas?” Ken laughed and the others joined in. Even Michael spared a slight giggle. He had been to several seminars on just that topic, and couldn’t begin to imagine what Chris would look like at one, let alone how he would participate.
    “I went to one last year, as a matter of fact,” Ken said, sitting up in her chair. “I go to several of these conventions, these weekend meetings, although I prefer the ones most concerned with fashion for my own uses! I have found some very good clients there, very good ones. But, oh, what I go through to find them! The agony! The hours of looking, and waiting! The teasings, the bindings, and oh, oh, all the sex I must have! But you know—when the bird is in the bush, you must beat the bush to get it to fly out.”
    “I’m sure you hate all that bush beating,” laughed Daniel.
    “Oh, sometimes,” Ken agreed. “But sometimes, also, one finds a moment of truth.”

Chapter Two: Mandarin Style
    She was like a knife blade in twilight, attractive and dangerous and oh, so obvious in her presence. I felt for her like I sometimes feel when I stand on the edge of a balcony, like I should really bend my knees and launch myself out and down, to my certain destruction.
    I dampened my jockeys right through to the seam of my 501s, and turned away before I leapt.
    I was late for the seminar, the booklet folded back in my hands, slipping and sliding among the dozen handouts and schedule updates, glancing down from time to time to make sure I was in the right place. The hotel hallways were crowded, and I could barely make it from one room to another without running into ex-girlfriends, former bottoms, current fuck buddies, and assorted community acquaintances, who all had to be acknowledged. Hugs and back pounding, kisses and casual gropings, promises to meet later, later, after the next one, before the contest, at the dungeon.
    How many people have I slept with, based on a relationship that lasts ten minutes at a time, while we’re both on our way to something else? I amused myself by trying to count while I scanned the room looking for a seat behind someone not too tall.
    As usual, the presenters weren’t ready, just milling around at the front of the room, playing with the microphones and pouring glasses of ice water. I stuffed the papers into my vest pockets and settled my dick comfortably against my right thigh. It was itching today, probably too dry. The straps of the harness settled up tight, and I sat up straighter to relieve the pressure.
    Finally, with nods all around, the leader of the seminar coughed and tapped the mike, and people began to settle down. I waved at a pal across the room, and they turned the tape recorder on, and the man introduced the topic.
    “Twenty-four-slash-seven, or, Do People Really Live This Way?” There was scattered laughter; I smiled a little. The amusement didn’t make me feel comfortable. I pulled the program booklet out of my pocket again to check the description of the seminar. It said:
    An examination of the possibilities in a full-time D/S relationship. Presenters will discuss the realities of this most difficult lifestyle.
    I