Archive for humor

Faux-Foucault: S&M Cautionary Tale

When Jennifer was living in Los Angeles between university and grad school, she was involved in an affair with a man she called “my faux-Foucault”, a shaven-headed singer with some local industrial band. All very s/m, of course. Jennifer’s s/m fantasies went back to her teen years in Tucson, and at university she’d found people who’d taught her to love the whip.

Now–the gearhead singer had the right look for her, and he was willing to use a riding whip without mercy. But he wasn’t… well… as competent an s/m player as he might have been. There’d already been one Bad Situation–the gearhead hadn’t recognized during an erotic asphyxia scene that Jennifer was turning a bit too blue…

Nonetheless, when he called to say that he wanted to come over one sunlit afternoon and violate her, she went out for lunch at some trendy organic/vegetarian restaurant and then came home and dressed up to be violated and punished as soon as the gearhead made his appearance.

[Note: I did laugh at her description of the bald gearhead as “faux-Foucault”. I know what she means–shaven skull, wire-rimmed glasses. But given the proclivities of the real Michel Foucault… Let’s just say that Mister Taylor always mockingly calls Foucault, “ma belle Michel(le)”, when describing the “Wheel of Foucault” game show I created.]

So… There the lovely and leggy Jennifer is: on tiptoe, handcuffed to the shower curtain rod, fully gagged, collared, and corseted down to 18 inches. Faux-Foucault is whipping her ’til she bleeds; Jennifer is dripping wet with lust. Then, she senses something going very wrong. The expensive organic/vegetarian spinach-and-alfalfa salad is just not sitting well. At all. She realizes that she’s about to lose her lunch.

Jennifer panics and tries to push the gag plug out of her mouth. Faux-Foucault finally realizes that something is wrong. Jennifer manages to say that she’s about to be sick. The bald gearhead loses it. He fumbles getting the gag out; he can’t operate the quick-release clasps of the corset. With Jennifer’s waist corseted down so ruthlessly, she can’t inhale deeply enough to get enough muscle power to expel anything that comes up from her throat. The collar is too tight on her airway. Faux-Foucault screams (“like a grade school girl”, Jennifer wrote) and ran for the kitchen to get a knife to cut the corset and collar off.

Jennifer managed to spit the gag clear and try to contract her muscles. When Faux-Foucault made it back in to cut her down he found her choking and vomiting up spinach and blood all over the bathroom. He whimpered and shrieked and finally managed to get her out of the corset and get her breathing again and get her over to the toilet where she could empty herself out.

He did clean the bathroom up, Jennifer wrote. She had to give him that. She spent a good half hour on the phone berating and threatening the manager of the restaurant while the bald gearhead mopped and scrubbed. All Jennifer could say was that at least nothing got on her very expensive black silk thigh-highs. That was one small victory. But she was sick for days, and the muscles of her chest and raw throat ached and burned for two weeks.

There’s a moral to the story. There really is. I’m just not sure where one looks for it. The story says something about sleeping with shaven-headed faux-Foucault gearhead boys. That’s always a Vur’ Bad Idea. My own thought, of course, is that it says something about eating organic/vegetarian. Since my entire intake of vegetables is limited to Crowder peas and Our Friend the Potato, I find even non-rancid spinach and alfalfa to be hideous and evil.

I wrote the lovely Dr. Thompson that I’d found the letter and that even now, two years after first reading it, I was still convinced that there was a lesson or two here: no bald and incompetent gearheads, and… avoid greenstuff. Organic/vegetarian food is probably a tool of the Vile Andaman islanders and the batrachian Manx.