I knew this was his game or whatever, that he had memorized that poem to recite to the ladies, and that he was probably not making much headway on Ulysses in a bar, but it didn’t matter. I got drunk and hung out with him every Thursday, I wasn’t interested in anyone else, I found him attractive; that was enough for me.
The bouncer was six or seven years older than me and prone to acting more like that divide was maybe 20 years. He offered me advice that an older sibling or a grandmother might. He also offered more racy social advice, like when he told me I should sleep around some more.
After we’d known one another about a year or so, he introduced me and my roommate to another bar, an after-hours bar that was often open until 8 a.m. and whose clientele consisted of bar workers, drunks, cokeheads… and then me and my roommate. It was here that he would drink with me and occasionally we’d talk about sex or, more specifically, the possibility of us having it. He was very open about the fact that he was into sadomasochism, though at the time I had no idea if this was an unfulfilled fantasy or the reality of his sex life. Probably not the constant reality, as I’d seen him leave both bars with drunk patrons and I doubt those sloppy one-night stands involved a lot of heavy bondage play or whatever. Plus, during these conversations, he was always referring to himself as a degenerate. I couldn’t tell if this was a self-hating thing or some kind of S&M terminology. Possibly a way to identify other S&M enthusiasts at bars? Like you introduce yourself, you say that you’re a full-time accountant but really just a degenerate, there’s a wink and a nudge and someone is eagerly fingering the nipple clamps in his pocket, maybe?
His dream was to be a sub and I not so subtly indicated I would be willing to participate, but he’d have to be the dom. Not only do I get stage fright, but I’m pretty sure no one just bursts onto the S&M scene as an amazing first-time dom. Like I said, I was kind of in love with him. Failure during our first time wasn’t an option. I figured no one can fail as a sub, because you just have to do what you’re told, right?
After countless conversations about the possibility of consummating this bouncer-patron union, we set a date – a Sunday night, when he would be bartending. He’d contact me with “instructions” and I would meet him at the end of his shift. I knew I needed a few drinks first, so that night my roommate and I visited the bar we lived above and drank, expectantly awaiting his call… waiting, and waiting some more until I was kind of drunk and figured he was breaking our big date. Could I text him? Can the sub request instructions, or do they have to be proactively given? Would I get a literal spanking if I prodded him? Would I mind if I did? Eventually I did text him and he quickly responded with a list of items I was to buy.
These included: A dog collar and a silver bullet, which my roommate had to tell me was a vibrating egg type thingy. He also requested cheap red lipstick and either a body stocking or a French maid’s costume (at this, my roommate and I shrieked with laughter and made a solemn vow that neither of us would ever, ever wear a body stocking. Ever).
I bought the cheap lipstick at the Duane Reade near his bar. Luckily for me – and for everyone, really – there is a 24-hour sex shop on 6th Avenue kitty-corner from Duane Reade. It was here that I bought a maid’s costume, which I found to be a ridiculous waste of money since it was completely sheer, as well as a much-too-expensive dog collar and the damn silver egg, much to the amusement of the middle-aged men who worked there. Mission accomplished; I already felt like the slut I was going to play that night.
I met him at the bar and he gave me a free beer, which I quickly and nervously drank. After the last patron had left, he went through my bag and gave his approval. He closed up and we took a taxi to his place.
When we got there, he ordered me to go get dressed. I exited the bathroom in an embarrassingly revealing outfit to find him still in his shorts, t-shirt and baseball cap. My dom was wearing a baseball cap. That’s awkward. I asked if he wanted me to apply the red lipstick, figuring it was intended to make me look even sluttier and more ridiculous. He said it was for something else.
We went to his bedroom, where he indicated I should kneel on two pillows he’d placed at the foot of the bed. Then he pulled out the… shackles? It was a set of handcuffs attached to a set of anklecuffs. These were not playful plastic cuffs covered in cute zebra-print faux fur. They were solid, heavy metal cuffs. So, apparently he was not bullshitting about this S&M stuff. I let him chain me up and he made sure I had my balance before blindfolding me. Fade to black.
I would love to give you a specific and heavily sensory account of what ensued, like a really great description of what IcyHot feels like when it’s put in your ass as a punishment, or at least a detailed account of which dildos and vibrators were placed where. Embarrassingly, I barely remember the things I was punished for; I think I was primarily ordered to perform oral sex to his stringent specifications. But it was years ago and, frankly, I was slightly drunk. I have more of a snapshot memory of the whole thing, interrupted frequently by the whole blindfolding business.
I know that there was also a ball gag. Like straight out of the gimp scene in Pulp Fiction. Of course I secretly rejoiced at that because I love that movie! I also remember that at one point, the purpose of the lipstick was finally revealed. He blindfolded me again, gently laid me on my back, and wrote on my stomach with it. I was to guess the words he was writing. Mostly I giggled and guessed dumb things like my name. Of course, he actually wrote things like “Slut,” “Bitch” and “Slave.” Whoops.
It was quickly becoming obvious: I was not, in fact, a very good submissive. Not at all. I found most of it amusing, I was unable to believably act afraid or nervous or pretend to be in pain. I couldn’t guess the obvious words being written on me and I smiled and laughed too much. I enjoyed the experience because it was something else I’d tried, an extra-special notch on my headboard, and there was the possibility I was impressing him – though that was doubtful. Let’s face it, my only previous exposure to S&M had been erotica and softcore porn. Maybe if I’d rented some more amateur S&M stuff, I would have expected the overly bright room, the ridiculousness of the whole set-up, and the fact that the players were not movie-star attractive or even really worthy of a Kmart sales page in the newspaper. The Boy Scouts have it right: always be prepared, lest one choke on a ball gag with laughter.
Then it was time for the sex. Off came the cuffs. He turned off the lights, produced a condom, and we got to it.
Me? I moved to Chicago, I found the Sunday Night Sex Show, and I eventually engaged in submissive behavior with a straight face. You see, Tyra Banks taught me that I can just smile with my eyes.