I don't remember what they looked like, these people who first took the floor. Well, I don't remember what the man looked like. I want to say he was wiry . . . perhaps he had facial hair . . . maybe he wore a black t-shirt with some suitably sinister or hardcore graphic printed on it, but faded. The women are easier for me to see. One is blond and somewhat heavyset. One is smaller and brunette. The dark-haired woman removes her clothes and stands facing the cross, which is set up at one of the corners of the center floor. The blond helps bind her to the cross -- I don't remember how. Cuffs, ropes -- I'm not sure. It's rather dark, and unless I want to move closer, I can't make out all the details. No one else in the room seems to take notice of the activity on the floor.
Once the man has everything set up to his liking, the blond takes her leave, chatting with friends. The man begins to caress and lightly spank his willing captive, obviously arousing her. Soon he is whipping her. If she makes any sound, I cannot hear it.
Meanwhile, another man has moved his equipment out to the arch which stands in the very center of the room. He is joined by a woman who wears nothing but a g-string. The woman is very large, probably well over 300 pounds. Many of the people here are people who are not supposed to take off their clothes -- at least not if public convention is to be believed. They are people who would be described as fat, or ugly, or plain, or old. If their pictures appeared in public, say, on YouTube, the censure would fly: "Cover that shit up!" "I may never have sex again!" "Dude, nightmare fuel!" If you need more examples, just go look at the comments to any Deadspin entry. Yes, yes, didn't you know? Only the beautiful have sexual desires. Only the young are desirable. And only models take off their clothes.
This, incidentally, is one reason you won't see me posting the usual sex-blog fodder for illustrative purposes, e.g. the artful black-and-white photographs of exquisitely slender and impossibly young nudes contorted into poses of ecstasy and agony seen on tumblrs such as Beautiful and Depraved or Bend Me Over. (Let's pause a minute while the stampede of readers clears out so I don't have to shout to be heard -- there we go.) I enjoy them just as much as you do, rest assured. I love Abby Winters, too. But those pictures are easy to find for those who want them, and I'm sick of the definition of erotic beauty being confined to what is essentially 1% of the world's population, if that. And god bless Curvaceous Dee. But back to the action.
The woman in the beautiful corset spots me and comes over to say hello. She seems worried that I'm sitting alone. I promise her that I don't mind and that I'm content to observe. As the night wears on, various people exhort me to "mingle." I will, I tell them, eventually. Eventually.
And the space in the middle of the room begins to fill. A woman is practicing her craft on a long-haired man who kneels, naked, on all fours on a bench. She is thwapping him rapidly, regularly with a stick. She pours something on his skin and he shrieks. This makes her throw her head back, lift one heel, and laugh in delight. I see caning and cupping, fire play, knife play, and above all, whipping and flogging. Although the air is filled with the sound of snapping, cracking, moaning, and squealing, somehow the atmosphere of the place remains subdued. I'm told by a number of people that this is a smaller than usual crowd (I'm guessing there were 75 to 100 attendees). "Folks are resting up for the Hallowe'en party," one man shrugs. Everyone seems to have tattoos. I feel hopelessly vanilla.
My corseted friend comes up behind me and puts her arms around my shoulders, and I lean back into her embrace, grateful for the contact. "You need to go talk to people," she implores.
"I have been," I protest.
"No, you need to go ask," she says significantly. "You're just here all . . . sweet and cute. You shouldn't just sit here."
"I don't know what I would ask for," I tell her truthfully.
Soon after that, she is heading for the raised stage area with a handsome long-haired man. He has a serene face and a positively beatific smile, which makes the beating he gives her that much more riveting. She undresses and he cuffs both her hands to a single hook above her head. He uses mostly floggers, at one point holding one in each hand and twirling them both against her skin like a mad conductor. When he does something that elicits a louder than usual shriek or scream he pauses, one hand on her skin, and whispers reassuringly to her. Once they are finished, he uncuffs her and they hug for a while, talking and laughing. Her skin is red where she has been beaten, but her face is flushed and happy -- she seems exhilarated. The other submissives or masochists I've seen finish up tend to retreat within themselves and huddle under blankets in their partner's arms. Not my corseted friend. She had a damn good time. Her eyes are sparkling.
For the first time that night I am captivated. I see something I want. It wasn't that the activity was any different -- it was the result. That, I thought. That is how I would want to feel.
Not long after, I left. It seemed to be a good ending note.
0 comments:
Post a Comment