by Mike Diamond - (First published by EdgeOnTheNet.com.)

Call me old fashioned, but when I hear body modification, I think bulimia. I’ve just never been one for the genital piercings, or Sweet Jesus, those people that walk around with wine corks in their earlobes. But hey, it’s all part of ’a look’, and one that often goes hand in hand with leather and that whole kicky S&M thang. I do actually like the leather look on some guys- (go Darth Vader!), but only on the hot, built, mean looking ones, not the fembots with their smooshy asses oozing out of a pair of chaps.

Now I’ve been around the block but I’ve never really delved into that whole BDSM world (acronyms frighten me).

Also, I generally don’t go for sex that requires props, batteries or a first aid kit. Ok that’s a damn lie. I’m a totally kinky bitch. Back in the day, I used to be attracted to really violent men. I don’t mean consensual S&M, I mean sexual psychodrama. My idea of foreplay was a black eye. If I didn’t get at least one broken bone, honey I didn’t even have sex. My current erotic fixation is all those big ’roid freaks in the WWE. TV wrestling is like gay porn for closet queens. Huge sweaty dudes, half naked, roughhousing and faux 69’ing. I would like to lick John Cena from his big growth hormone inflated neck down to his size 13 feet. I am so ready to rumble!

Feeling the need to explore my dark side, I decided to hook up with some seasoned S&Mers. I would be the sub for this adventure, mostly because I didn’t know what I was doing and quite frankly, I didn’t want to think too hard. Thinking makes my brain hurt. One Friday night, I hooked up with a guy and went back to his place for what was supposed to be a sizzling Daddy-Boy scene, but it fizzled more than it sizzled. His idea of dominance was making me blow him while he watched Moonstruck. I just cannot get down with Olympia Dukakis in the room. Coulda been worse, it could have been Yentl. He couldn’t even keep it up, poor thing; it was like gnawing on an old wet squid for an hour. He must have seen me rolling my eyes at his limp biscuit of a cock, because he kept threatening me with something called a cock cage. I’m not sure what that is but I suspect it does not involve roosters.

The next chapter in my ’Story of oh, no’ wasn’t much better.

This guy named Deno, met him online (darling, it’s the only way to meet an abusive trick nowadays). So I go to his place, nice, very chic (he’s an interior designer), though it did smell stale and sweaty. I thought he was cute; leather pants and black boots, tattoos, piercings, and buzz cut, soulful green eyes in the midst of all that metal and ink. Not as beefy as his pic but to be fair I claimed to be only 28. Anyway, we got right down to it, no pretense, not even a glass of water. Gee thanks. He had mentioned that he had a house in the Pines, so in my head I fantasized that maybe he would invite me out to his Pines house for a weekend getaway if I was ’agreeable’. That means if I let him assbang me like the cheap slut that I am.

It was actually kinda hot. He was very Daddy, growling, slapping me in the chest with the flattened palm of his hand, making me suck on his many piercings- some in places I didn’t even know one could have pierced. Then he flips me over and has his dastardly way with me. Blood: it’s nature’s lube! As he’s fucking me, I’m thinking ’weekend in the pines’, over and over in my head, like a mantra, to distract me from the pain (yes bitch, I still have nerve endings down there). Am I that craven? Am I that...well ’stupid’ is the word really. One is supposed to get the invite and then give up the booty. I Googled him when I got home; bastard totally has a longtime boyfriend. I am so not getting that invite to Fire Island. In retrospect, he’d be a bad host anyway. After our ’playdate’, he didn’t even offer me mouthwash; in the shower I had to take a swig of Aveda ’Rosemary and Mint’ body wash to cleanse my palette of his crotchy after taste.

I was discouraged, but chose to let my inner ’bad boy’ come out one more time. For this premeditated dose of humiliation, I had worn a crappy t-shirt and old pair of undies; ’SIR’ had warned me that my clothes were literally going to be torn off of me when I walked in the door. It was a kinky scene. He was 47, short but muscular, very sexy in his leather harness. He made me do all sorts of things- lick his armpits, take off his boots and lick his feet- and such tiny feet they were, like size 6 or something. He spit on me a lot, drooled on me actually, which was sorta gross, ordered me around, forced me to wear hair curlers and high heels and do the dishes (Not! just want to see if you’re paying attention dear reader). Oddly, he had 1980s porn playing the whole time. My safe word was ’Jacob Zuma’, sure to make any throbbing fuck scene come to a crashing halt.

Afterwards, I showered, and we talk. He works in finance, doesn’t do drugs, loves opera (and...fantasy officialy killed). He told me a little about his ex, his life, whatever. He was actually kinda sweet, though as I was leaving, he did menacingly show me the tit clamps he was planning to use on me next time.

Oy, I don’t think this world of rough sex and leather and saliva play is for me after all. I have a much more effective way of inflicting pain on myself. The next time I get that masochistic urge, honey I’ll just turn on SABC's news channel.