The BDSM Meeting

Let’s start by commenting on our apparel for the evening.  I wore a pair of white Bermuda shorts with a semi-sleeved blue and white striped button down, my usual array of tiny diamonds on my ears, neck and arms.  Chris donned his sexy jeans, a blue button down and saddle oxfords in brushed tan.  The only thing I can think of that would’ve made us look more like co-ed’s from another era would be if I’d wrapped a sweater around his shoulders and wore a hat with a spinner on top.  But here we were, at the monthly meeting of the local BDSM Chapter donned in preppiness.

You see we’re writers, writers who know nothing about hard core sex.  Chris, who has something to say to every single person he meets, has only one thing to say during sex.  “Am I hurting you?”  I think that paranoia has something to do with his size, (ooh you nasty minded girls!) I mean his overall physical size.  Obviously, we needed to get out and discover what all this BDSM fuss was about.  During one of his late night internet porn sessions he’d come across this group and had requested to join.  We assumed they got together and spanked one another with whips or something.  At least that’s how I envisioned it.  But the ‘Meeting’ was being held at a very popular downtown restaurant.  Hence I dressed us according to the style and respect I had for the establishment rather than what I suspected members of the group to be wearing.  I seriously imagined them all showing up in black leather complete with chains hanging from their belt loops, and you’d have a better chance of seeing the Pope at a strip club than finding me downtown in slutwear.

Picture this-above-NOT THIS-below.

We were greeted by a girl of around twenty two with frazzled, blond hair currently streaked with neon red and purple highlights.  Countless piercings in her nose, eyebrows and lips looked painful to me but we followed her to a collection of round bar tables they’d pushed together for ‘Orientation.’  Our partners for said orientation were a couple who appeared as though they must live in a cardboard box on the corner of Nowhere and Huger Street and a very young woman, around the age of our daughter, who was seemingly confused to the fact that she was a female.  She’d gone so far as to change her name to something like Ben.  Chris and I looked at each other fumingly as this girl professed that she was a slave and that her Master would be along shortly.  Noticing her deep accent I asked her where she was from.  “Norway,” she told me with a pale smile.   

My motherly instincts kicked into overload as she proceeded to explain her confusion as a freshman in college, in a new country, no friends and to top it all off she was currently confused about her own sexuality.  I couldn’t wait to get my hands on her Master; already I was ripping this boy apart in my mind.  I was seeing blue lights and handcuffs in my immediate future.

But we signed all of their ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ documents, no doubt written by a seriously twisted mind and made it through orientation.  We were now versed in the terminology used by BDSM’ers.  I admit we were a tad startled at the mention of candle and wax play.  Somewhat perplexed by the concept of scenes versus slaves, but I thought Chris was coming off of his barstool when they talked about fire cupping.  What the hell had we gotten ourselves into?  Oh come on, I reassured myself, what could happen in this restaurant at five o’clock on a Friday night?  Not a damn thing.  So we graduated from orientation without a hiccup from Chris, although at any minute I’d fully expected for him to stand up and tell them just how screwed up they were.  He’s not a man who keeps his thoughts to himself well.  Keep in mind, we’d told them who we were and why we were there from the get go so they had no real misconceptions that we were their newest fire bearing members.  It's long been our opinion that as part of the over 40 crowd we have quite enough aches and pains as it is.  We certainly don't need to add burns from fire cupping to the daily arsenal of pain we have to medicate.

Chris bought drinks and we settled into iron chairs on the side patio to await the other members.  Ben sat with us still regaling us with her mental instability.  I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the jackass who was taking advantage of this immature eighteen year old freshman.  Finally couples started making their way onto the patio.  Another man, close to our age, joined our table.  He was the biker type.  You know what I mean, scruffy, bearded, red bandana so his balding head, complete with gray ponytail, wouldn’t get bugs stuck to it while he rides his Harley down the interstate?  I think he was wearing a black leather vest with the name of his motorcycle group on the back and actually did have a chain hanging from his belt loop.  Well, see there, at least someone dressed as expected.  I leaned back in my chair and sipped my drink watching an elderly man with a cane slowly walk towards us.  Damn, I guess it takes all kinds…I thought curiously as he neared.  This guy really needs to be in a retirement home somewhere having his food pureed.  Certainly he wasn’t into all this?  Forgive me here but I swear I was picturing wrinkled balls and a penis pump beneath his pants.  The image kind of turned my stomach but then again I’d forgotten to take my ranitidine this morning so who am I to talk about being old.

We turned our attention to the only normal looking couple on the patio.  Chris had been talking to them and I noted they’d moved their chairs closer to him.  At least they appeared normal, aside from the Gamecock shit on their shirts.  A CPA and a small business owner, I was pleased with their conformation to society (it was rare here) and eager to discover what had brought them here this evening.  This was the kind of couple I needed to hear from.  But the old man kept slowly walking towards us with his cane.  Seriously he needs a walker, I thought as I returned to listening to Chris and CPA discuss how piercings enhance sexual sensation.  They were now explaining how a bull ring attached to your clitoris guarantees multiple orgasms.  Chris kept glancing at me hopefully until I pinched his arm as hard as my rock hard acrylic nails could pinch.  “How’d that feel?” I leaned over and whispered as he flinched and a drop of water appeared in the corner of his eye.  “Imagine me doing that to the head of your cock?” he nodded, he got my point, crystal clear.  “Right, no clit piercing for Laura.  Got it!” he said with a grimace.  (Sorry no clit piercing photos here, I can't even look at that without feeling pain.)

Finished with that conversation I turned back to biker dude.  “So what are you into?” I asked plainly.  Clearly we weren’t muddling our words tonight.  “Nothing much right now, but tomorrow I’m headed to my Mistress in Indiana.  Things’ll be better then.”

“Oh you must miss her if she lives so far away?” I smiled; missing a loved one is something I could wrap my head around.  I was struggling to find anything to relate to.

“I do and she bought me a new dress and shoes to match.  I can’t wait to get there,” he said wistfully.

“Excuse me?” I said not at all sure that he’d said what I thought he had.

“Here, let me show you, it’s gorgeous!” he seemed excited as he flipped open his phone and pulled up a photo.

I took the phone from him and slid my reading glasses down from the top of my head for a closer look.  “It really is gorgeous!” I said with a laugh as I studied the green slinky dress complete with long, tall slit up the side.  “And the shoes are perfect with it, what are you thinking jewelry wise?” I said trying to hold my laughter to a low roar.  I mean what the hell was I supposed to say?  The guy only had hair on the lower part of the back of his head and it was in a ponytail, he was obviously a member of some local biker gang and had a gray beard that hadn’t been shaved since 1979.  Rule number one from ‘orientation’ had been not to judge others so I had no choice than to go along with it.  After all, these people play with fire…literally.  I was intimidated a great deal by that.  But here's a photo I found online of the exact dress.

Alas the old man with the cane made it all the way from the door to our table, a distance of all of fifteen feet.  His spotted wrinkled hand went to Ben’s shoulder and he tapped his dentures together after clearing his throat.  “Ben, come on you need to come with me,” he said with only a few shakes in his voice.  CPA and his wife and even dressy biker dude smiled and said hello to the ancient bent creature with the cane as though he was a normal fixture at these meetings.  “Yes Master,” Ben stood up and kissed his cheek lovingly.  A mosquito fluttering around my lips eventually caused me to close my jaws.  This was Ben’s Master?  Suddenly I felt deflated, his old bones were going to fall apart soon enough as it was, no need for me to speed that process along.  Really?  What could he do to her that would cause her harm?  It’d taken him twenty minutes to walk from the door to our table…he couldn’t even bite her without an ample supply of Fixodent.  The only thing that concerned me now regarding this young eighteen year olds health was what if he tied her up and then forgot where?

The President of the Chapter invited us to come along to their ‘after party’ but Chris was already downing his drink, pulling his keys from his pocket and picking my purse off the patio floor…  Clearly we weren’t where WE belonged.  We had however gathered some rather humorous accounts and a much more defined view of BDSM.  Whips and chains are only a small portion of what turns these folks on.  Which leads me to ponder, if THIS is really what BDSM is all about then how did Christian Grey get away with a room full of leather whips?  What would Anastasia have done if he’d popped into bed wearing a green sparkly dress?  Betcha she wouldn’t have signed that contract so eagerly…

Note: Go back up and click on the word Gamecock! ;)