What Happened When Henry And I Dabbled In The Sexy BDSM Underworld

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(This post contains graphic sexual content which might convince you to never have sex again)

Me in S&M wearpic

The germination of my BDSM expertise began in a little shop on Carnaby Street in London circa 1986. I think we can all agree that haircut is hawt.

Before kids Henry and I decided to walk on the wild side one night when we accepted an invitation from friends to attend a BDSM (Bondage, Dominance, Sadism, Masochism) Valentine’s Day party hosted by none other than that auspicious, magnanimous, discerning gentleman, Mike Boner.

I prepared for my Date with Discipline by over-tweezing my eyebrows and self-flagellation with a disposable Bic razor, flaying my shins hairless. Henry prepared for his Salsa with Submission by letting me pick out his party clothes. When he asked if he could wear his Plantar Fasciitis Orthodic Walking Shoes I whipped his ass with his own belt and forced him into a pair of overly-snug Florsheim loafers. I didn’t want him to disappoint the foot fetishists we’d likely encounter.

We arrived at the party girded to be spanked into a coma whereupon sex-ghouls would descend on us with amyl nitrate poppers that would launch us into an orgiastic delirium from which we would emerge tattooed and pierced from stem to stern. And Henry would be pregnant.

This did not happen. What actually happened was much darker.

We entered the party/dungeon to a sight we’d see in Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder flashbacks for years to come; an albino-white, morbidly obese, red-headed eighty-year old man wearing nothing but a spiked dog-collar and a smile sitting in what appeared to be a gigantic bird cage dangling from the ceiling and an equally elderly lady (his wife perhaps?) decked out in a plush kitty suit energetically poking him through the bars of his cage with a sharp umbrella.

It should be noted here that it wasn’t raining outside.

Next we came upon a group of people who appeared to be from a Land’s End catalogue wearing Polo shirts, chino shorts and Sperry Topsiders. They passed a joint around, glassy-eyed. I prayed they didn’t succumb to mob mentality and force Henry and I into turtlenecks, mistaking us for smother fetishists.

We darted to the bar where neither of us could buy an alcoholic beverage because alcohol gives Henry migraines and it exacerbates my Irritable Bowel Syndrome. A woman dressed like Nurse Ratched must have overheard because she offered to give me an enema.  I politely declined and Henry and I ordered hot teas. Herbal hibiscus in case you were wondering.

We went in search of our friends and found them in the outdoor patio by a medieval torture rack where a straight-jacketed Asian man named Frank — who was a math tutor by day — endured mild pinching from a Queen-sized Dominatrix wearing a halo neck-brace.  Her name was Edith and she’d been rear-ended by an illegal. In her car — for clarification.

As we tried to make sense of the scene our host for the evening, Mike Boner, approached. He was notably malnourished, stark-naked and impressively hairy. I thought perhaps he had some kind of BDSM bit in his mouth, but it turns out he’d just gotten adult braces for an overbite.

He apologized for not  shaking our hands because his right hand tenderly held his small, pink, flaccid penis aloft as if it were a sad, tiny, overcooked appetizer on a tray. I couldn’t decide whether we should get Mike Boner straight to the ER to see if his member could ever be resuscitated or to the DMV to change his name to something more suitable i.e. Mike Worm? Mike Noodle? Mike Top Ramen? Anybody? I could use a little help here.

Instead, thirty seconds later Henry and I were smacked in the face by a strong, frigid …

… gust of winter air as we dashed from the dungeon and fled directly to the nearest Starbucks to order chai lattes and apple fritters to soothe ourselves.

Later in bed that night we tried to have sex in the missionary position, but the memory of Mike Boner’s ridiculous penis caused so many bouts of lacerating laughter that we settled for watching Matthew Broderick have awkward missionary-position sex in Biloxi Blues.

It was at this very moment that Henry and I realized we were never destined to become sexual libertines. It was a loss we’d just have to learn to live with.

_________________________________________________________

I’d love to hear your PG-13 debaculous (a new word: debacle + ridiculous) sex tales. Anonymously or not!

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19 comments

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  1. Chloe Jeffreys
    Chloe Jeffreys 14 June, 2013, 16:50

    We have nothing nearly as good as that! I’m sure it goes to our rather isolationist ways when it comes to pubic sex involving other people in any way, shape, or form.

    My love and I prefer to drink alone, well, with each other, and nobody else. That was a discussion and a decision we made eons ago, and we’ve never in 27 years regretted it.

    Once thought he did take me to a Frederick’s for a little afternoon delight-ful shopping trip. We stepped into the Frederick’s all prepared to get hot and steamy over cheaply made lingerie fresh for the ripped and rending. I picked out some lovelies and we heaeded to the dressing rooms when what to our wondering eyes did a appear but a GIANT transvestite and his wife…and their two year old.

    While this man, whose head stuck up from the top of the dressing room, tried stuff on his wife was busing herself around the store finding outfits for him to wear…while dragging her 2 year old behind her.

    Can you say boner-killer, lady and otherwise?

    I knew that you could.

    We left right away. And never again did we shop together at Frederick’s.

    Reply this comment
    • Shannon
      Shannon Author 14 June, 2013, 19:42

      That sounds craaazzzyyyy. It’s funny how we sometimes idealize these alternative routes to sexuality and invariably discover the people who indulge in them are our pharmacist, or dentist, just regular people looking to spice things up.

      Reply this comment
    • Shannon
      Shannon Author 15 June, 2013, 13:46

      Hello Miss Hot Stuff — I want to take you to Fredericks!! But we’ll leave the kids at home!

      Reply this comment
  2. Chloe Jeffreys
    Chloe Jeffreys 14 June, 2013, 16:54

    Forgive me for the multiple spelling and typographical errors. I’m a storyteller, not a typist, Jim!

    Reply this comment
  3. Sharona Zee
    Sharona Zee 16 June, 2013, 05:13

    oh my!
    what an unforgettable night…
    I will probably need hypnosis to forget it, and I wasn’t even there!

    thanks for the visual with ol’ MB!

    Reply this comment
  4. George
    George 22 June, 2013, 15:40

    Reminds me of my first (and only…for now) foray into the gay bar scene. But I must say, I had a much better time:) Sometimes you just have to go with it.

    Reply this comment
    • Shannon
      Shannon Author 23 June, 2013, 11:15

      Oh George, you would make a perfect gay man. They’re all so handsome (well, I might be stereotyping)

      Reply this comment
  5. Doug Smith
    Doug Smith 24 June, 2013, 17:44

    My only experience with anything like this, as a photographer, being asked to photograph some private bondage parties for a friend. I would like to say though I do love your ’86 outfit and the hair is definitely hawt.

    Reply this comment
    • Shannon
      Shannon Author 24 June, 2013, 21:02

      I see you are a bouffant connoisseur. Also, I’d love to see those photos!

      Reply this comment
  6. Simon Herbert
    Simon Herbert 29 June, 2013, 11:42

    So true. In 2000 AD, as single male (at the time) on a year sabbatical in NY, I initiated an expeditionary night out at a NY sex club that featured a 300lb woman hanging at the entrance of the firetrap, with wooden clothes pegs attached ALL over her (she looked like Big Bird, if Big Bird were… wooden). And the bar served only Mountain Dew, because they had no drinks license…

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