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Suburban
Bondage, by Dane Crandon
"I
know nothing about sex, because I was always married."
Zsa Zsa Gabor
"Bring out the Gimp," instructed Zed to
Maynard. And out it came. Leather-clad, zipped, hooded
and sexually ominous, a mysterious studded creature
emerged from a hole in the floor to eye-popping terror
of captives, Butch Coolidge (Bruce Willis) and Marcellus
Wallace (Ving Rhames). Teeth-curling stuff. Who or
what was the Gimp? Russell? [the innocuous name given
to the ghastly basement in the Mason-Dixie pawnshop]
Do we really need to know? Are you interested in knowing?
Probably not. But what if the Mason-Dixie or a toned-down
version existed in your suburb. Or, shock horror,
next door. Gosh! Would such a discovery register on
your Richter scale of disturbing neighbour quirks?
Moving
beyond the fictional celluloid of Tarentino's non-consenting,
savage invasions and opening the seemingly innocent
doors of Sydney's suburbia, it's possible to peel
the skin and expose a bizarre pulp of sexual power
exchange with consent. Yes, beneath our urban veneer
reside dark secrets. Welcome to a sexy underworld
of tight leather and latex, erotic torture and role-play.
Kinky. A world outwardly removed from the vanilla
[missionary] tastes of most yet potentially close
enough to borrow milk and sugar. Tea, coffee or something
a little more provocative, anyone?
BDSM
is a termed derived from bondage and discipline, sadism
and masochism. According to Altsex.org,
"BDSM includes a wide range of activities involving
a negotiated transfer of power between consenting
partners. BDSM is not about abuse or other non-consensual
activities." And it's out there, readily accessible
and allegedly hugely popular. "Building a BDSM
site means that you will be appealing to more than
25 percent of the world's population," say(s)
the author(s) of cozyacademy.com
Another site rates the interest even higher. Supposedly:
-
90%
of Americans have bondage fantasies
50% of Americans try bondage
25% of Americans do bondage on an ongoing basis
10% of Americans do bondage all their adult life
2% of Americans live a bondage lifestyle"
(http://www.geocities.com/WestHollywood/Village/4800/bguide.html)
Australia
is much less prudent and conservative than apple-pie
America. What would our survey find? Hmmm.
The
freedom and privacy of the Internet is ideal for BDSM
consumers. Able to maintain anonymity and meet like-minded
souls in a non-threatening environment, the digital
soup is thick with sites menuing detailed BDSM scenarios,
imaginative recipes of sexual spice to make your eyes
and other unmentionables) water and a smorgasbord
of alternative profiles advertising all sorts of fleshy
fetishes to feed the most obscure sexual craving.
Only a click away, I doubt starvation is common.
They
call themselves Kinksters. They speak in a language
of "tops", "bottoms", "vanilla"
and "munches". Kinksters like to "play."
I
discovered the scene online. Let it be known, I don't
have a longing to be a personal queen and live a sexual-servitude
existence of a "bottom". I've no burning
need or want to drop to my knees, lower my trousers
and expose my submissive bareness to a mild spanking
or submit to the more sadistic hand of more advanced
not-for-the-faint-hearted tortures such as hardcore
electro stimulation or pervasive medical play (don't
worry, we won't go there) - I'm not a bad boy. Nor
do I wish to assume the "top" role of manipulation
and dish out whip-in-hand no-nonsense punishment to
the disrespectful. I'm a vanilla: a straight operator.
I like "it" "normal." But intrigued
(or call it reckless curiosity) to uncover this sexual
sub-group, broaden my sexual horizons (reveal the
truth about myself?) and understand what motivates
Kinksters to seek pursuits outside of Home and Away,
Johnny Farnham concerts and the 9 to 5 grind - can
you blame them? - Triggered my e-mail actions. As
I said, I discovered the scene online. I answered
a brief ad and less than 24 hours later was invited
to a weekend party. Faster than a thrashing whip,
I was "in." The reply instructed me to call
a mobile and obtain the details and location. The
next day, I did so and was told of the address, impending
and potential undertakings: drinking, "smoking",
munching (food that is) and maybe a "play."
I was asked to wear black.
Dressed
for the occasion, I followed orders (maybe I'm a submissive
after all) and wore the sombre tone of funerals. Listening
to the ABC'S excitable David Morrow and serious Warren
Ryan call an NRL game, I drove through the winter
night, towards the trendy inner-west suburb. The uncomfortable
sensations of nerves and what-if questions fuelling
my fevered imaginings. I pondered my fate.
9
p.m., Saturday evening, and all was unknown. I rotated
the ignition key anti-clockwise, killing the engine.
Radio dead, silence filled the car. Heart very much
alive and in overdrive, thumping like a four-armed
madman playing the drums of war, I unbuckled and stared
into the unknown. There was no turning back. The Sydney
darkness wet with light rain, mouth dry with apprehension,
I left the warm confines of my car, crossed the road
and hurried to the unknown confines of my double storey
destination. Heart now relocated to the confines of
my tight throat, I gathered myself and knocked on
the front door. No answer. I knocked again. No answer.
Knocking a third time, a female voice yelled, "ROUND
THE BACK!" Once again doing as told, I walked
alongside a high metal fence that precluded all vision
to the yard. Sound waves, however, ignore the laws
of optics. Fenced-in laughs and casual conversation
drifted into the street. What was I expecting to hear?
The mad crack of a cat-o'-nine-tails across a cheeky
maiden's bare and rebellious buttocks?
Feeling
the metaphorical noose tighten, I flicked the latch
and opened the rear gate. It's now or never, I told
myself. Sitting underneath a veranda cover, the transparent
stares from 6 to 8 bodies penetrated me. Who is this
unmasked stranger? Suspicious thoughts tattooed across
their foreheads, I remained undeterred. Throwing off
nerves and stripping away anxiety like an anxious
lover removing access-blocking garments, I greeted
them confidently. "Hello! I'm Dane and I'm looking
for *****." She was my e-mail contact and the
party organiser. Her back towards me, she quickly
swivelled and smiled a big and genuinely-warm smile.
"Hi! Dane." Massively mammaried, pretty
faced and wide-hipped, the shoulder-haired unnatural
blonde courteously introduced me to the penetrating
stares. I exchanged hellos and how are yous and sat
down to a lively circle of conversation and rich atmosphere
of sexual vibe. Soon offered and accepting a tasty
drink, a vodka and red mix that looked decidedly like
the claret within us, I watched and listened and talked.
Black
attire was standard. Dressed for pleasure, seductive
leather was commonplace, but not the sole garment
of choice. Plentiful in number and bra size, many
fertile-looking females wore tightly laced cotton
corsets that exaggerated their generous and natural
curves. God bless 'em. The buxom wenches of bawdy
Old England and forgettable Benny Hill sketches sprang
to mind. A bountiful busty banquet of eye candy for
the visually satisfied, superficial male. Anatomically
appreciative (in subtle glances), I tried not to gawk.
The
talk was relaxed and chatty and surprisingly leaning
to the highbrow end of the conversation scale. Refreshingly
avoiding mainstream, drinking games and drunken Barnsey
renditions there were no beer-swilling barflys slurring
through endless schooners and monosyllable tunes.
Seemingly well educated, intelligent and not short
on the dollar, the self-titled Kinksters aren't pubs
oafs looking to knock your block off, a suburban gang
roaming to rumble or cheesy celebrity worshippers.
Articulate, accepting and polite, unrestrained aggression,
threatening behaviour and meaningless discussions
of moronic televised house shenanigans and who-will-survive
dross never surfaced. A cathartic effect of the whips
and what not? Or perhaps Kinksters know how to behave,
ignore the banal nonsense of popular culture, leave
people alone and treat strangers and new situations
with respect…open-minded respect.
On
the downside, the frequent adoption of the flamboyant
"Daaarling!" when greeting a friend grew
tiresome. But let's not quibble.
A
steady stream of leather flowed coolly in after I.
Thirty to thirty five in number, the age ranged from
middle twenties to early fifties. Females were slightly
ahead in the numerical ascendancy stakes. Occupationally,
the demographic swayed towards creative, managerial
and service positions. One generously breasted Kinkster
mentioned the benefits of applying dominatrix ways
in work-place situations that profited from authority,
assertiveness and hard-nosed decision making. Loosely
extrapolating this anecdote into the political sphere
makes for unpleasant who-wears-the-sexual-boots images.
Think Downing Street during Thatcherism. Iron by name
and by nature?
It
seems that many females drawn to the scene are thirty
something divorcees looking for deeper pleasures,
otherwise caught in a sexually-repressive marriage
and on the hunt for that elusive element of raw passion
or just plain fed up with joyless years of on-ya-back
yawning sex. Attention starved and desires unfulfilled,
unsatisfied and unhappy … unimpressive matrimony
didn't or isn't living up to the physical and emotional
expectations of happy-ever-after dreamy-eyed youth.
Cue BDSM. Mysterious and exciting, intriguing and
new, dangerous and dark, bold and confronting, the
leather and lace life of extensive foreplay and lewd
titillation has proved too juicy an orange for many
sexually-peaking and pelvically-miserable disillusioned
to leave sitting in the tempting tree of curiousity.
Less complex and inclined towards presumptuousness,
males are possibly (definitely?) attracted to the
possibilities of more sex.
Broadminded
tops, corruptible bottoms and in-betweens, I spoke
to them all. Complementing the conversations, I was
introduced to sexual props such as vampire gloves
for the hands on approach (soft and thin leather embroidered
with hundred of tiny and prickly little tacks are
a spankers and spankees delight I was told), harnesses
for, well, harnessing and for those not into sharp-edged
sensation play or strapping games, an array of ever-dependable
whips - apparently the stock-standard, much-used and
favourite tool - appear to satisfy the punishing requirements
of most.
A
few drinks under my virginal BDSM belt later, I responded
to an invitation to visit the dark realm: the dungeon.
Answering with an enthusiastically-curious affirmative,
accompanying a late forties dominatrix, we walked
into the house, through the lounge room and turned
into the torture chamber. Red-walled, the candle-lit
room accommodated two devices for securing and immobilising
submissives. Both devices were busy. Standing tall,
g-stringed and nothing more, his spread-out arms and
wrists tied to a wall rack, he was at their mercy.
Two hard-hitting learners - stormy leather lionesses
on the prowl and full of devilish enthusiasm - took
gleeful but amaturely-staccato turns to verbally humiliate
and physically "devour" his bare and obedient,
mid thirties backside and shoulders with a barrage
of derisive words and disciplinary thrashes.
"Avoid
the kidneys and allow this wretched, worthless slut
a drink if he asks politely," instructed the
cold commands of an experienced and studious mistress,
acting in a tutor capacity. "Otherwise, insolence
cannot be tolerated". I found it hard to suppress
a smile. Her exaggerated tone and the lionesses' snarling
remarks seemed oh so comical. Remembering the dominatrix's
advice to keep my conversation to a minimum, I watched
in silence, adhered to dungeon etiquette and, eyebrows
raised, switched attention from the wayward whips
to the simultaneous others. For the voyeur, there
was much to see. Lying on her back - passive and compliant
and vulnerable underneath her leather corset - her
mouth half open in unquenched desire, eyes wide and
legs wider (shamelessly anchored at the ankles in
the accessible pap smear pose), a forty something
big-breasted submissive was caught in a trap. Bound
love? The not-so-comical look on her intense and sexually-contorted
face suggested she didn't want to get out. Acutely
positioned between her wide-apart legs, her silver-bearded
and leather clad partner was making the soft heat
within dance with delight. Dripping with admiration
for his improvisational style, her formidable cleavage
and their unashamed lack of self-consciousness, I'll
spare you the explicitly intimate bondage-chair details.
Back
to the nameless beefcake. His abused on-fire backside
redder than a sunburnt beetroot, the duelling whips
had peppered him unremittingly - attempting to teach
him right from wrong. Evidently, a naughty boy. Soon
after, untied and wiping his wet brow, his long dark
curls damp with perspiration, the submissive relinquished
his "pleasure" position to one of his dominants.
Late twenties - devastatingly attractive and deliciously
dressed in short black skirt - a shorthaired blonde
of hourglass figure and equally delicious face unveiled
her engaging curvature. Twas a sight to soothe the
sorest of sore eyes. Eagerly lowering her leather
mini to the bare floorboards, she winked in my direction
(beautiful, uninhibited and available?) and turned
her semi-naked, superbly-firm aesthetics to face the
red wall. I fumbled a return look, blushing slightly.
She was interested in me? Now, staring avidly, unashamedly
- black g-strings leave little to the imagination
- I watched her every scrumptious inch comfortably
shift from sadistic goddess to a soon-to-be beaten
and bound sextoy: a "switch bitch". Moving
from top to bottom, a growl to a purr, relinquishing
control, now she was looking to explore her submissive
side, and experience the erotic power exchange from
an immobilized perspective.
Lurking
in the candle-burning background, an experienced Dominant
(Dom - a Master) had watched the sub-par predictable
performance of the raw mistresses and said nothing.
Bald, bespectacled, round faced, solid and slightly
overweight, the furry-eyebrowed Mediterranean comfortably
fitted the local fruiterer stereotype. Well, fruit
and veges or not, tonight the disciplinarian wasn't
peeling onions. He took centre-stage. Time to teach
the bad girl the hard lesson she evidently sought.
Tying her wrists and ankles to the wall rack with
practised speed, looking like a man with unfinished
business (a serious player looking to assert himself),
he removed his constricting leather sports jacket
(thankfully rubber-sealing his ample and likely bushy
torso with arm-less latex) and flicked open a small
leather case. Sleep, slick and stingy, gripping the
rigid handle with an air of professionalism, he flicked
the flexible and slender tails at a shadow. The blonde's
perfectly poised buttocks - curvy centrepieces of
attention - flexed ever so slightly. I sensed her
helpless expectation. Unlike, the eager and often
erratic pace of the kindergarten predecessors, the
Dom didn't swallow angry pills and commence with clumsy
rough play and fierce blows to the bum. He knew the
routine backwards. Chastisement isn't a race. The
clock is a weapon to control, create and build sexual
tension. Peaks of ecstasy take time to conquer. Deliberate
and patient and precise, this was a theatrical performance.
Starting slowly - later telling me his dominant acts
started at the age of nineteen, and now late thirties,
he was still learning new ways to evolve and perfect
his technique and reach the "high-levels of Everest
domination" (whatever that is) - all focus and
concentration, he began the light cadence of sensation.
He teased. He tantalised. He touched. Occasionally,
he stopped. Stillness. Sweatily squirming in her snare,
she gasped. She quivered. She never said no. Expertly
guiding the soft and thin strands, he traced the outline
of her splendid curves, gradually working the instrument
up and over her supple calves, north to her tight
hamstrings and on to circumnavigate her gym-toned
glutes. "Bitch. She's got a great arse."
I heard a female Kinkster mutter the much-deserved
praise begrudgingly. And she was right. The crowd
in the red room grew. The blonde's inviting beauty
and wowing-rear hadn't gone unnoticed. This wasn't
a show to miss. And I didn't. My interested eyes followed
the slow and calculating painless caress of soft flesh,
from one long and youthful leg to the engrossing other.
With every tormenting touch and torturous moment,
the increasingly-warming air thickened with marvellously
aching anticipation. All waited in hushed intensity.
Tacitly, expectantly, everyone knew the sympathetic
explorations and cool malevolence would soon assume
a welcomely-hot explosiveness. Like an active volcano
on the verge of spectacular mayhem, the helter-skelter
impact of the whip - its wrath, force and fury - was
only a matter of time.
Away
from the discipline of the dungeon with its raw sexual
tension, alluring scent of female arousal and elements
of medieval mongrel, many chatted innocuously, openly
exchanging constrictive anecdotes of rope commitment.
Never a Boy Scout nor a reef or granny aficionado,
I listened intently as one bondager enthused his keenness
for knots. Far from the ideals of Sir Baden-Powell,
and choosing not to be tied down with a steady, he
told of a predilection for binding and bounding his
string of squeezes into uncomfortable, unfamiliar
and unnatural positions. His affinity for ropework
control appeared early in life. "Some like it,
some don't. You don't know 'till you try," he
said with a cheeky grin. And to think I spent my formative
years kicking backyard goals and bowling tennis balls
at batsmen guarding garbage bins. The 'owzaaaaat?
Not Out! Catch cry coulda been 'owzat? Too tight?
Hmmm, my raging hormones of male adolescence may have
appreciated the "sitting target" delivered
through constrictive endeavours. Nah, don't think
so.
Another
guest not so fascinated with restraints described
his Achilles heel reverence with the bottom ends of
our legs. A lover of talented toes and soft soles,
he couldn't explain his fascination for feet (Smell?
Taste? Feel? Look?). But he did painfully demonstrate
his high-heeled fetish. Removing his shirt, he lay
face down on the floor in readiness for two heavy-soled
females to take a firm stand and trample their stilettoed-weight
over him, many times. Major ouch. Hurting steps captured
on camera, apparently ****'s foot shot collection
is coming along nicely. I was given the opportunity
to put one's best foot forward and share my bunions
and blisters with feet friends at a soon-to-be "ultimate
foot experience" party. Other Kinksters recommended
such nights of erotic foot play to appease a foot
fix. Notwithstanding the toe testimonials, how could
I possibly turn down an invitation to view ***** photo
album. Is resistance footile? We shall see.
Meanwhile,
shirt back on, **** was treating a fellow Kinkster
to an old-fashioned foot job: a massage. Returning
to the red room, I enviously watched the blonde -
now released from the shackles of the standing rack
- and the Dom celebrate their strenuous session with
a voracious drink of saliva from the lips of the other.
Separating from him, she turned to her stunning and
shapely reflection and approvingly admired her bare
and brutalised redness in a wall mirror. This eligible
young man wanted to ask of her switching experience
and more. But for some reason, I didn't. A rueful
decision? Sometimes, just sometimes, somethings, even
drop-dead gorgeous somethings with killer curves and
eminently watchable behinds, are best left in the
cupboard. I suppose. Regrets, I've had a few…
Tired
and ready for the mattress, it was only 2:00am but
yawning like a well-fed lion, I knew it was time to
go. I thanked one of the hosts, watched a couple duck
upstairs - I never ventured beyond the ground floor
- and left the way I came.
Foot
reacquainted with accelerator, the tries and tackles
and fulltime siren long finished, the rain falling
harder, I mentally hit the play button and reviewed
the night: booze, drugs, bludgeoned bums, a flirtatious
wink from an eye-catching, switchable babe, eye-popping
images of fluent whip cracking, lashings of raunchy
conduct and immoderate displays of sex and sexuality.
Accompanying the striking imagery, questions flashed
like the tails of the very whip itself. Is the scene:
-
Obscene?
Insensitively indulgent and disgustingly vulgar?
Nothing but a sex-propelled communion of perversion,
mechanical rhythms and straightjacket fetishes?
An exhibitive zoo of fancy dressed control freaks
and submissive pets?
A shadowy home for discerning perverts, sleazebags
and sickos?
Or
are the willing participants: -
Stretching
their elastic relationship to new lengths of emotional
trust during aphrodisiacal amusements of constraint
and domination?
Sexually awakened darkened souls with enlightened
attitudes?
And,
if the latter, are these sexual progressives opening
their liberal eyes (even when masked) to physical
experiences and co-operative role-play that may innocently
enrich their life? Is bondage, relationship bonding?
Think about it. In this worrying age of marital division
does "extracurricular" activities commit
the "terrible crime" of helping cement and
keep long-term associations fresh and exciting? Is
the turnover of sexual partners higher in the scene
or vanilla community? Why is our social programming
"acceptable" of mainstream media violence
and yet many, if not most, view "Kinksterism"
as deviant and unhealthy?
I
don't know. I've no statistics or answers to the complex
and shifting altitudes of human sexuality and social
taboos. What I do have is the memories of an atypical
and memorable Saturday night. Well, for me anyway.
Especially memorable was the enormous and overt pleasure
the participants took from each experience. Their
eyes told me what I needed to know. The look of each
partaker: the giver and receiver. It was a state of
erotic ecstasy that I didn't feel. Unable to embrace
the altitudes of excitement, I was a crippled outsider
at the foot of the stairs. A fraud. A Nazi in a synagogue.
Despite the (her) attractive nudity, the power play
failed to charge (or even spark) my sexual battery.
The earth remained positively immobile. Virginal resistance?
Maybe further experiences could fire the sleeping
generator of my sassy self to a high voltage state
of sexual surge. Maybe.
Once
again, I don't know. The road to the alternate community,
however, was open. I'd made contact with the scene
and my cyber details were added to a mailing list.
Yes, I could cross over, conquer the considerable
speed hump mentioned above and become a Kinkster in
a red room in a suburban bondage house next door to
you. Knock, knock.
NB
Alcohol was freely available and the odd joint passed
around, yet few indulged in heavy drinking or drug
taking. Over consumption could impair judgement resulting
in serious accidents. Care was taken to ensure the
safety of the submissive within the essential ethic
of mutual consent between consenting adults. Perhaps
I'm wrong, but everyone appeared to enjoy the night.
And, thankfully, not a Zed, Maynard or Gimp in sight.
Dane G Crandon ©
Links:
Media
Man Australia interviews Dane Crandon - 14th August
2003
Article:
Two Men and a Coffee Shop, by Dane Crandon
Article:
Dial S for Shane, by Dane Crandon
Article:
Fat Chance, by Dane G Crandon
Article:
Jesse Ventura: Wrestling with politics, by Dane Crandon
& Greg Tingle
Arnold
Schwarzenegger: King of bodybuilding, movies, politics
and media, by Dane Crandon & Greg Tingle
Sex
or even porn goes mainstream in Australia
Version
2
Forum:
Has Sex, Even Porn, Gone Mainstream?
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