Chapter 31

A question came in about the whole bondage/dom/sado/maso thing.

I’ve avoided that whole BSDM thing for the most part.  And been told it’s a huge waste, a girl like me who actually kind of gets off on kicking people’s ass.   This gay escort inSeattletold me, “Sweetpants, you could always start with your bottom and work your way up to being a Top.”

I guess that is a little weird and definitely a waste of a market, but basically it’s like that’s not erotic or sex or fun.  Those johns are sick.  And I don’t mean that as a judgment thing.  People with leukemia are sick, too.  We don’t look down on them for it.  But I don’t want to play into this, because it’s not like a doctor curing them: doms just make it worse, or at least string it out.

These people are addicted to being humiliated and degraded and hurt.  Which are all things I’m really strong against.  I react to it with a sharp tongue and, if it’s called for, what I think of as “career-ending violence”.  The very few times anybody managed to break me down and degrade me like that, hurt me for their pleasure, it made a really, really strong impression on me.  I’ve avenged a few of them.  And in case you’re reading this, you vile asshole, and remember a little incident in a blue Astro van behind a dance club in Ventura in 2004, one day I’m going to find you and you’ll never, never act like that ever again.  That’s a promise.

Apologies to the actual humans reading this, but that’s an issue to me.  And if you think there’s anything in my moral code that would keep me from walking up to a guy like that and stopping his clock for good, let me disabuse you.  Morality and law apply only to members of our own race.  Predators have bounties on them.

But maybe that will kind of underline my saying that there is no way I’m going to treat people like that, not even if they want it and pay for it. It’s still me doing it.  I was talking about that to this really wonderful “pain mistress” I met inSan Franciscoone time.  And she said, “What if a John offered you money to kill him?”

That threw my brain into “Park” for awhile, and we talked about if over a slew of drinks.  One wrinkle, what if he told me he was a baby-raper and wanted out and this was the only way?  But he could be lying, couldn’t he?  Trying to get me to do what he didn’t have the nerve to do himself, or the guts to not do; just suck it up and suffer on like the rest of us.  What I came down to was, maybe.

I talked about this to one of my writing mentors, while writing this.  And what he said made sense.  He said there are things you think you can decide, but you never really know until you’re looking in somebody’s eyes and have your finger on the trigger.  Then you know.  Or more like, you end up knowing what you did.

So no, I’m not the one for paddling your ass for a few hundred bucks.  But if you fuck up, I might do worse than that for free.  Is that philosophically inconsistent?  I can never tell.