This picks up where the previous excerpt left off...
Although the night had started off rather slowly, by eleven o’clock, the party was in full swing. I suppose, if one were to choose, The Stealth Lounge is the ideal setting for a fetish party. The walls are painted one shade lighter than black. There are several oversized, ornately framed mirrors hung at odd angles behind the bar. I glimpsed at myself in them, and thought for the hundredth time that it would have been funny to replace them with the convex and concave mirrors found at funhouses and carnivals. I checked my reflection and was satisfied with the appearance of the slender, blond girl in a slim-cut, short, black skirt, and a scooped-neck, clingy, white top who smiled back at me.
The furnishings of The Stealth Lounge run to glass and chrome, the upholstery is a velveteen zebra print. Pairs of loveseats at right angles to each other are at the far end of the bar. Exposed ceiling beams, with their guts painted matte silver, give the room an industrial feeling. Blue-tinted lighting completes the mood. The music – all techno heavy instrumental, with throbbing, reverberating bass – comes over an audio system with crystal clear sound. Yeah, I guess if I were to host an S&M party, this would be the place to do it.
Couples and trios had started to pair off, and they were strapping, whipping and spanking each other with reckless abandon. Most of this pheromone themed hand-to-hand combat took place in the loveseats near the back. Those who hadn’t yet met the bolt to go with their nut were milling about the bar area like dogs in heat. No doubt some of the sexual tension came from folks who had miscalculated the targets of their pick-up lines. One dominant trying to pick up another dom was just not good for anyone.
“Hey Jess,” I said, “maybe next time we should offer sticky name tags and pass them out at the entrance: S for submissive, D for dominant, B for bondage, and Y for why the Hell don’t I find another job?” Jess laughed.
Moose, a florist by day and The Stealth Lounge’s doorman by night, was busy manning the entrance. I imagine it’s rather difficult to be macho and intimidating when you smell like roses, but Moose seemed to be doing okay. A dark-haired Latino behemoth, Moose checked IDs and names on the guest list, plus he had the unenviable task of screening people for dress code infractions.
“Oh c’mon, lemme in! I wanna check it out!” slurred a skanky looking bit of trailer trash who looked like she’d be right at home in a bowling alley.
“Sorry, but your name’s not on the list.” Moose’s face was impassive.
“Wassa matter? I don’t look sexy enough? Here, how’s this?” she wailed as she unbuttoned her shirt and flashed her saggy boobs at poor Moose and the folks standing near the entrance.
“Lemme in!” She cupped her breasts and continued to demonstrate her lack of both dignity and self- respect.
Her toothless Neanderthal of a date tried to finesse his way in with a bribe. He slipped two dollars into Moose’s palm and said, “That oughtta take care of things.”
Moose scooped the Neanderthal into a headlock with his right arm, and firmly gripped Skanky’s wrist with his left hand, and unceremoniously ushered them downstairs. A twenty might have worked, but not a deuce.
“That woman was unreal, wasn’t she?” he asked me when he came back into the bar. I chuckled and slipped him a shot of vodka. He tossed the toonie onto the bar as a tip.
The bar area was quiet for a moment; everyone’s drinks had been replenished. Jess and I leaned back against the beer fridge and simultaneously sighed, smirked, and surreptitiously stared at the group before us. A rather pudgy woman was prancing around wearing a nippleless pink teddy on top and nothing, nothing on the bottom. She had a fluffy purple feather boa around her neck and was asking guys to slap her cottage cheese butt. Ian, ever the gracious host, happily obliged, while I averted my eyes and tried not to toss my cookies.
Jess had seen most of this crowd at the previous soiree and she filled me in on whatever catty gossip she had about them.
“See that guy?” she asked, indicating a well-preserved senior with giant nipple rings, “he’s into golden showers, giving and receiving. I think he left alone last time. Can you imagine being into that?”
I cringed. “Never, no way, not in a million years.”
I folded my arms across my chest, and pressed my knees closer together than words in a dictionary. Right now, I kind of wished I were wearing a medieval chastity belt.
Jess continued, “See those two bottle blonds with black roots over there? Wearing fishnets? They’re looking for a third chick who likes to talk dirty and wants to be paddled. Do you ever think of switching teams? I could introduce you.”
“Ha ha. Piss off, Jess, or I’ll give Assless Leather Chaps your cell number. Besides, Derek satisfies me more than anyone in this room ever could.”
Derek Armstrong is the new man in my life. Our romance is still in its nascent days, but I swear that since we started seeing each other, the skies are bluer, the sun is brighter, and the birds sing more sweetly. Oh barf. I don’t do well with mushy sentiments, but Derek really rocks my world. I couldn’t imagine doing any of this kinky stuff with him, although handcuffing him might be fun. And maybe gagging him, but that’s only because there are times when I’m not even remotely interested in him for conversation. Sigh. Derek had left on Tuesday to work on a trial out of town, and I was really starting to miss him.
Beyond the bar area, in the dimly lit corners of the room, there was a lot of yelping and moaning going on. Ian and several people were clustered around the stocks, and another group was parked near the upside-down hangy thing, so I still couldn’t see how it was being used. Perhaps it was best not to know. A moment later an extremely sexy man wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of red underwear approached me. He set down his role-playing toys – a gaudy looking crown and sceptre – on the bar.
“How ya doing?” the Regal Romeo asked.
He was so handsome and cocky standing there in his undies without even a hint of self-consciousness. It unnerved me and I got all tongue-tied.
“Great! The fun sure seems party…I mean, it seems like everyone’s having a good time.”
He winked at me and said, “How about a Bombay martini? Shaken. Really dry, with a twist. By the way, everyone around here calls me King Arthur.”
“Good to meet you. I’m Sasha.” I tried to look cool, holding the martini shaker in one hand, and shaking it in rhythm with the music. This guy’s smile was electric, and he radiated sex appeal. Why do guys like him instantly make me feel self-conscious? I tried to think of Derek, but His Royal Hotness in front of me was just too yummy to ignore. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with looking. I sucked in my tummy and tried to look cool. The charade came to an abrupt halt as my hand slipped, and the lid from the martini shaker flew off, splashing icy gin all over the front of my top.
“Guess I’m the top contender in the wet T-shirt contest.” I discovered the hard way that my clingy little white T-shirt is fairly transparent when it’s wet. Oh dear.
I measured out another couple of ounces of gin and started again. “Interesting crowd. I guess you know most of the people here,” I asked, holding the shaker a little more tightly this time.
“I’ve talked to most of them online, but this is only my third or fourth party with this group. I go to whichever parties I can. It’s a great community. Everyone’s completely at ease.”
I tried not to stare, but his undies left nothing to the imagination. Some lucky woman was in for a treat later tonight.
“Oh. That’s interesting. I never really thought of it as a community,” I said, effortlessly demonstrating my stellar conversation skills.
“Yeah, Ian hosts this group –”
“They’re called Bound for Glory, right?” It was a safe bet that the fetish group hadn’t named themselves after a Woody Guthrie song about a train. Was that a Woody song?
“Yeah. And there’re lots of other groups and chat rooms too, you know, like Second Life, FetLife, sites like that. I belong to those as well, but I prefer this group because all their events are downtown.”
“How convenient.”
I passed the cocktail to King Schlong and was instantly repulsed. He reached into the front of his undies and whipped out a gold Amex to pay. Eeeeeewwww! The credit card was warm.
“It’s on the house, handsome,” I forced a smile and nudged his card back to him. I washed my hands again, this time with scalding water.
Around 1:30, the party started winding down. Some people paired off with others to go to hotel rooms, and a few partiers invited their sex slaves home for a night of obedient lovemaking. Only three or four people left alone, including the Golden Shower Guy and King Arthur of the Red Undies. Other than them, the fetish crowd seemed to be batting just under a thousand. Ian was practically chained to Minerva, a raven-haired barracuda with never-ending cleavage who had shown up around eleven o’clock. Minerva looked like she had a long list of commands in store for Ian later tonight.
“I’ve packed up everything I can for now,” Ian said. “I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon for the rest of the gear.”
“That’s cool,” Jessica said. “Everything will be locked up when we leave, but I won’t be here tomorrow. I’m starting my vacation in about half an hour, as soon as this shift ends.”
“Well then, bon voyage. Is there someone else I should speak to tomorrow?”
“Just ask whoever’s on duty downstairs to open up the second floor for you.”
“Thanks. Can you pass me my jacket and my bag, please?”
I handed Ian his things from behind the bar and bid him adieu.
By 2:30, thanks to some help from Moose, we had cleaned up, cashed out, and were ready to go home.
“Just let me set the alarm, then we’re outta here,” Jessica said.
“Do either of you want a ride home?” offered Moose.
“Absolutely,” we both answered.
“I’ll get the lights,” I said.
“Here, Sasha, don’t forget your phone.”
“Duh.” I stuck it in my purse as Jess locked the door behind us.
Showing posts with label fetish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fetish. Show all posts
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Sample "The Lies Have It" - part one
Excerpt from "The Lies Have It" .
Saturday, September 29, 7:00 pm
“See a penny, pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck,” my friend Jessica said, as she leaned over to grab the shiny copper coin on the sidewalk. We were heading into The Stealth Lounge, the private party room on the second floor of The Pilot Tavern.
“See a penny, let it lie, then bad luck will pass you by,” I replied.
I’ve never let it cripple me, but I do happen to be a tad superstitious. Penny or not, I didn’t have a great feeling about the evening ahead of us.
Bound for Glory, a sado-masochist fetish club was booked into The Stealth Lounge tonight. The same group had rented the place two weekends ago, and poor Jessica had been the only bartender on duty that night. Dear friend that she is, Jessica had suggested that I pinch-hit at the bar with her this evening. I do have a real job as a private investigator, but all too frequently I find myself needing to supplement my income. Friends take pity on me, and occasionally offer me casual jobs that even welfare recipients would turn down, but I don’t have that much pride. Besides, The Pilot’s one of my favourite watering holes.
“Hand me the knife, will ya?” Jess asked as she dumped a bunch of citrus fruit on the bar.
She got busy slicing lemon and lime wedges while I stocked the beer fridge. We were in the midst of setting up the bar for the evening when Ian Dooley, the guy who spearheaded this dominance and submission social club, arrived.
“Hey, I’m Ian,” he said, leaning against the bar. His voice was a little on the high-pitched nasal side, and had more than a hint of a Maritime accent.
I expected some wimpy little milquetoast with a sign on his forehead saying “beat me.” Instead, when I looked up, I saw a hefty but solid guy in his late thirties. He was tall, easily six feet two inches. He was wearing a red plaid shirt and faded jeans, and had thick scruffy, dark hair and a firm jaw. He looked like Paul Bunyan’s long-lost cousin.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sasha and this is Jessica.” I wanted to be polite, but I didn’t stick my hand out for him to shake. Something about a dude who hosts fetish parties gives me the heebie-jeebies.
“Ian and I met couple of weeks ago,” Jess said.
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“It should be a pretty good crowd tonight,” Ian said. “I’ve really been putting the word out. A lot more people were invited for tonight than last time.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’m gonna start bringing stuff up, but can I leave this behind the bar for now?” He handed me his jean jacket and a Nike backpack. I tucked them onto the shelf where Jessica and I had stashed our purses.
“Could one of you unlock the back door for me?” Ian asked.
“I guess so. Jess, do you have the key?” I asked.
“Can you grab it?” she replied. “My hands are sticky. It’s under the drawer of the cash register.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks,” Ian said. “It’s a lot easier to bring things up the back stairs. I can pull my truck right up to the back door.”
Ian headed out to collect the accoutrements for the S&M funfest. Jessica checked to make sure the cash register had enough change for the night, and I stocked up the straws and swizzle sticks.
Once we got everything set up behind the bar area, Jessica and I took a moment to freshen up.
“Do you think this colour is okay on me?” Jess puckered as she applied a shiny coat of Candy Apple lip gloss.
The bright red tone flattered her complexion and suited her chestnut hair, but I’m not one to toss off compliments freely.
“Yes my dear,” I mumbled through the bobby pins I was holding between my teeth. “All the bondage boys are going to be begging for you.” I was alliterating while trying to get my hair to co-operate, but gave up, and just stuck it into a random pile at the back of my head. My hair’s a lost cause these days. A good chunk of it was burned during a fire a few weeks ago, when I wrapped up one of my more unusual cases. The case had started with a missing hooker and had ended with me dousing out flames on my head. All in a day’s work. I had some hair extensions put in, but right now they seem like more bother than they’re worth.
By nine o’clock, The Stealth Lounge had been transformed into a spank-me paradise. The stocks were in place, a St. Andrew’s cross had been set up, and the lights were dimmed. An upside-down hangy thing that Jess had described to me after the previous event was set up. I looked it over, and could not figure out who was supposed to use it or how. Ian reclaimed his knapsack and went into the men’s room to change into his party clothes. He came back shirtless, wearing only a black leather “kilt” and black lace-up army boots. I couldn’t tell if he was wearing socks.
He passed his knapsack back to me, flexed his muscles and asked, “Whaddaya think?”
I checked him out from head to toe, and really didn’t have any opinion, except for flinching when I noticed his pierced nipples. Ouch.
“So, is it true that men don’t wear anything under their kilts?”
Shortly after nine o’clock, the first few partygoers began to straggle in.
“Coupla Stolies, neat,” commanded a man in a leather hood as he dropped a fifty dollar bill on the bar. He groped and grabbed at his partner while I poured their shots of vodka. The man looked like he wanted to devour the woman for breakfast, and she hung onto his arm like the ditz I’m sure she is. After the guy paid and scooped up all his change, I gave my hands a quick rinse. Everything about this evening felt grimy. It suddenly seemed like my uncareer had been downgraded from unconventional to uninspired. I reminded myself that I had options. I could go back to school and train as a nurse or something.
The next twosome to belly up to the bar were in character, and they dashed the career choice I’d just made. She was Florence Nightingale in a micro-mini and see-through blouse. A cute little nurse’s cap with a red cross on it was perched jauntily on her head. Her partner was dressed in green hospital pants and a white lab coat, and looked ready to give her a cervical exam.
The Missing Hooker case I had worked on this past summer had exposed me to the world of commercial sex. I had learned more than I wanted to know about what people do behind closed doors. However, my education in non-traditional sex is mostly anecdotal, and I’ve never actually seen anyone acting out their fantasies like I was seeing here tonight. In fact, in another former job of mine, I’d talked people through their wet ’n wild fantasies, but that had been on the telephone. I usually played solitaire or surfed the Internet while horndogs got their rocks off, but I digress. Tonight was a real eye-opener.
Ian greeted guests as they arrived, high-fiving some of the guys. He pointed out the coat rack to the left of the entrance where people could dump their jackets and bags, and then he steered people towards the bar to order themselves a glass of liquid courage. Yet another couple walked in, and they too were dressed to role-play. They were in leather from head to toe, though she had on considerably less of it than he did. The red-haired chick had a studded dog collar around her neck, and her partner had a leash attached to it. He didn’t pull the leash taut, but the message was clear.
They came straight to the bar and I asked them something along the lines of “what’s your poison” although I reworded it – some jackass in this crowd may have taken the cliché literally. Jess threw a smirk my way as she handed a Corona to a wrinkly old man wearing nothing but assless leather chaps and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his left wrist. I didn’t watch to see where he kept his wallet. The master and slave duo in front of me looked at the array of bottles behind the bar.
“Johnnie Black and Coke. On the rocks,” Master said. I was about to ask his pet what she’d like, when her master continued, “She’ll just have water.” I didn’t ask if I should pour it into a bowl or serve it in a glass. The girl never even made eye contact with me.
I have to admit, the people – at least those who were permitted to speak – were rather nice and generally polite. But with some customers it was hard to hear their orders – the music was blaring, and leather facemasks aren’t especially conducive to enunciation.
I flirted with a couple of the wussier-looking guys, correctly guessing they’d respond well to a stern dominatrix, a role I’d learned to vocalize all too well during a period of financial meltdown, when I’d briefly worked at an X-rated call centre. There’s something to be said for transferable skills. You’d think that someone with my rather sullied curriculum vitae would be blasé about bartending at a fetish party. I wasn’t necessarily offended by what was going on, but it was beyond my ken, although sort of interesting and rather surreal. Right now, I kind of wished I were a pothead. A joint might have helped make sense of this night. Alas, I’m not a toker.
I made the next customer beg me for his bottle of micro-brewed light beer.
“Are you sure you want it?” I purred as I uncapped a bottle of organic lager. “How badly do you want it?” I held the bottle just beyond his reach.
“Oh Mistress, you know I want it…bad…Please, please tell me you’re going to give it to me,” the guy replied.
A couple feet away, Ian, who’d been watching this whole transaction, gave me a thumb’s up.
Jess rolled her eyes at me, and poured a Scotch on the rocks for a woman wearing nothing but Saran Wrap.
“Careful not to spill any on your lovely outfit,” Jess deadpanned as she handed the Saran Siren her libation.
Saturday, September 29, 7:00 pm
“See a penny, pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck,” my friend Jessica said, as she leaned over to grab the shiny copper coin on the sidewalk. We were heading into The Stealth Lounge, the private party room on the second floor of The Pilot Tavern.
“See a penny, let it lie, then bad luck will pass you by,” I replied.
I’ve never let it cripple me, but I do happen to be a tad superstitious. Penny or not, I didn’t have a great feeling about the evening ahead of us.
Bound for Glory, a sado-masochist fetish club was booked into The Stealth Lounge tonight. The same group had rented the place two weekends ago, and poor Jessica had been the only bartender on duty that night. Dear friend that she is, Jessica had suggested that I pinch-hit at the bar with her this evening. I do have a real job as a private investigator, but all too frequently I find myself needing to supplement my income. Friends take pity on me, and occasionally offer me casual jobs that even welfare recipients would turn down, but I don’t have that much pride. Besides, The Pilot’s one of my favourite watering holes.
“Hand me the knife, will ya?” Jess asked as she dumped a bunch of citrus fruit on the bar.
She got busy slicing lemon and lime wedges while I stocked the beer fridge. We were in the midst of setting up the bar for the evening when Ian Dooley, the guy who spearheaded this dominance and submission social club, arrived.
“Hey, I’m Ian,” he said, leaning against the bar. His voice was a little on the high-pitched nasal side, and had more than a hint of a Maritime accent.
I expected some wimpy little milquetoast with a sign on his forehead saying “beat me.” Instead, when I looked up, I saw a hefty but solid guy in his late thirties. He was tall, easily six feet two inches. He was wearing a red plaid shirt and faded jeans, and had thick scruffy, dark hair and a firm jaw. He looked like Paul Bunyan’s long-lost cousin.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sasha and this is Jessica.” I wanted to be polite, but I didn’t stick my hand out for him to shake. Something about a dude who hosts fetish parties gives me the heebie-jeebies.
“Ian and I met couple of weeks ago,” Jess said.
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“It should be a pretty good crowd tonight,” Ian said. “I’ve really been putting the word out. A lot more people were invited for tonight than last time.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’m gonna start bringing stuff up, but can I leave this behind the bar for now?” He handed me his jean jacket and a Nike backpack. I tucked them onto the shelf where Jessica and I had stashed our purses.
“Could one of you unlock the back door for me?” Ian asked.
“I guess so. Jess, do you have the key?” I asked.
“Can you grab it?” she replied. “My hands are sticky. It’s under the drawer of the cash register.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks,” Ian said. “It’s a lot easier to bring things up the back stairs. I can pull my truck right up to the back door.”
Ian headed out to collect the accoutrements for the S&M funfest. Jessica checked to make sure the cash register had enough change for the night, and I stocked up the straws and swizzle sticks.
Once we got everything set up behind the bar area, Jessica and I took a moment to freshen up.
“Do you think this colour is okay on me?” Jess puckered as she applied a shiny coat of Candy Apple lip gloss.
The bright red tone flattered her complexion and suited her chestnut hair, but I’m not one to toss off compliments freely.
“Yes my dear,” I mumbled through the bobby pins I was holding between my teeth. “All the bondage boys are going to be begging for you.” I was alliterating while trying to get my hair to co-operate, but gave up, and just stuck it into a random pile at the back of my head. My hair’s a lost cause these days. A good chunk of it was burned during a fire a few weeks ago, when I wrapped up one of my more unusual cases. The case had started with a missing hooker and had ended with me dousing out flames on my head. All in a day’s work. I had some hair extensions put in, but right now they seem like more bother than they’re worth.
By nine o’clock, The Stealth Lounge had been transformed into a spank-me paradise. The stocks were in place, a St. Andrew’s cross had been set up, and the lights were dimmed. An upside-down hangy thing that Jess had described to me after the previous event was set up. I looked it over, and could not figure out who was supposed to use it or how. Ian reclaimed his knapsack and went into the men’s room to change into his party clothes. He came back shirtless, wearing only a black leather “kilt” and black lace-up army boots. I couldn’t tell if he was wearing socks.
He passed his knapsack back to me, flexed his muscles and asked, “Whaddaya think?”
I checked him out from head to toe, and really didn’t have any opinion, except for flinching when I noticed his pierced nipples. Ouch.
“So, is it true that men don’t wear anything under their kilts?”
Shortly after nine o’clock, the first few partygoers began to straggle in.
“Coupla Stolies, neat,” commanded a man in a leather hood as he dropped a fifty dollar bill on the bar. He groped and grabbed at his partner while I poured their shots of vodka. The man looked like he wanted to devour the woman for breakfast, and she hung onto his arm like the ditz I’m sure she is. After the guy paid and scooped up all his change, I gave my hands a quick rinse. Everything about this evening felt grimy. It suddenly seemed like my uncareer had been downgraded from unconventional to uninspired. I reminded myself that I had options. I could go back to school and train as a nurse or something.
The next twosome to belly up to the bar were in character, and they dashed the career choice I’d just made. She was Florence Nightingale in a micro-mini and see-through blouse. A cute little nurse’s cap with a red cross on it was perched jauntily on her head. Her partner was dressed in green hospital pants and a white lab coat, and looked ready to give her a cervical exam.
The Missing Hooker case I had worked on this past summer had exposed me to the world of commercial sex. I had learned more than I wanted to know about what people do behind closed doors. However, my education in non-traditional sex is mostly anecdotal, and I’ve never actually seen anyone acting out their fantasies like I was seeing here tonight. In fact, in another former job of mine, I’d talked people through their wet ’n wild fantasies, but that had been on the telephone. I usually played solitaire or surfed the Internet while horndogs got their rocks off, but I digress. Tonight was a real eye-opener.
Ian greeted guests as they arrived, high-fiving some of the guys. He pointed out the coat rack to the left of the entrance where people could dump their jackets and bags, and then he steered people towards the bar to order themselves a glass of liquid courage. Yet another couple walked in, and they too were dressed to role-play. They were in leather from head to toe, though she had on considerably less of it than he did. The red-haired chick had a studded dog collar around her neck, and her partner had a leash attached to it. He didn’t pull the leash taut, but the message was clear.
They came straight to the bar and I asked them something along the lines of “what’s your poison” although I reworded it – some jackass in this crowd may have taken the cliché literally. Jess threw a smirk my way as she handed a Corona to a wrinkly old man wearing nothing but assless leather chaps and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his left wrist. I didn’t watch to see where he kept his wallet. The master and slave duo in front of me looked at the array of bottles behind the bar.
“Johnnie Black and Coke. On the rocks,” Master said. I was about to ask his pet what she’d like, when her master continued, “She’ll just have water.” I didn’t ask if I should pour it into a bowl or serve it in a glass. The girl never even made eye contact with me.
I have to admit, the people – at least those who were permitted to speak – were rather nice and generally polite. But with some customers it was hard to hear their orders – the music was blaring, and leather facemasks aren’t especially conducive to enunciation.
I flirted with a couple of the wussier-looking guys, correctly guessing they’d respond well to a stern dominatrix, a role I’d learned to vocalize all too well during a period of financial meltdown, when I’d briefly worked at an X-rated call centre. There’s something to be said for transferable skills. You’d think that someone with my rather sullied curriculum vitae would be blasé about bartending at a fetish party. I wasn’t necessarily offended by what was going on, but it was beyond my ken, although sort of interesting and rather surreal. Right now, I kind of wished I were a pothead. A joint might have helped make sense of this night. Alas, I’m not a toker.
I made the next customer beg me for his bottle of micro-brewed light beer.
“Are you sure you want it?” I purred as I uncapped a bottle of organic lager. “How badly do you want it?” I held the bottle just beyond his reach.
“Oh Mistress, you know I want it…bad…Please, please tell me you’re going to give it to me,” the guy replied.
A couple feet away, Ian, who’d been watching this whole transaction, gave me a thumb’s up.
Jess rolled her eyes at me, and poured a Scotch on the rocks for a woman wearing nothing but Saran Wrap.
“Careful not to spill any on your lovely outfit,” Jess deadpanned as she handed the Saran Siren her libation.
Friday, June 10, 2011
The Scene of the Crime (sort of...) Part 3
The style of dress among the S&M crowd is interesting, to say the least. At the fetish parties in The Stealth Lounge at The Pilot Tavern the dress code was strictly enforced by the party organizers (this kept gawkers and tittering teenagers at bay).
I never stuck around after my shift to see the party once it was in full swing. But, for the brief crossover during shift change, I saw more than enough... probably more than I wanted to. Some of the more outrageous outfits are described in The Lies Have It, which starts off with Sasha bartending at a fetish party at The Stealth Lounge.
I saw people wearing every conceivable style of studded dog collar, leather and PVC outfits, face masks (they took them off to eat), pierced nipples galore (men and women), chaps, miniskirts, bustiers, pink feather boas, plus lots of chains and handcuffs... the list goes on. There was a guy who looked like the Count from Sesame Street, a few chicks who looked like Morticia Addams, a couple of role-playing nurses and doctors, and there was a guy who came as the back end of a horse (everyone called him Pony Boy).
With all these strange outfits and costumes, and given the nature of the bondage and domination setting, it struck me way back then that this scenario would make for a great murder mystery.
So, I finally wrote it. The Lies Have It will be out in November 2011.
I never stuck around after my shift to see the party once it was in full swing. But, for the brief crossover during shift change, I saw more than enough... probably more than I wanted to. Some of the more outrageous outfits are described in The Lies Have It, which starts off with Sasha bartending at a fetish party at The Stealth Lounge.
I saw people wearing every conceivable style of studded dog collar, leather and PVC outfits, face masks (they took them off to eat), pierced nipples galore (men and women), chaps, miniskirts, bustiers, pink feather boas, plus lots of chains and handcuffs... the list goes on. There was a guy who looked like the Count from Sesame Street, a few chicks who looked like Morticia Addams, a couple of role-playing nurses and doctors, and there was a guy who came as the back end of a horse (everyone called him Pony Boy).
With all these strange outfits and costumes, and given the nature of the bondage and domination setting, it struck me way back then that this scenario would make for a great murder mystery.
So, I finally wrote it. The Lies Have It will be out in November 2011.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Scene of the Crime (sort of...) Part 2
Disclaimer first: The Lies Have It is a work of fiction!!! Nobody I know from The Pilot Tavern has ever been murdered, or been accused of murder, or ever even jaywalked for that matter. In fact, I don't even think they'll serve you if you have unpaid parking tickets.
But The Pilot, especially the second floor Stealth Lounge, is a great inspiration for the plot of a murder mystery.
While I was in university, I worked at The Pilot. It was a great job, I met a lot of people who remain close friends, I made good money and had a lot fun. Back then (before a new team of managers came along sometime after I left), the management was, um, lackadaisical on one hand, and, um, edgy on the other.
Manager X. was balls-out batshit crazy, Manager Y. was seldom sober but a genuinely nice person, and Manager Z. was an absolute bitch (who was ultimately deported, dunno how or why that happened... I was living in Mexico at the time...)
I don't know which of the three of them gets credit for the following, but since it went on for a few months, I guess all of them were in favour of it.
As mentioned in the previous posting, The Stealth Lounge is reserved or rented out for private parties or special functions (being near Yonge & Bloor, they do a lot of corporate gigs). Back in my days working there, The Stealth was rented out two Saturdays nights a month for fetish/S&M parties.
I NEVER ACTUALLY WORKED ANY OF THE S&M EVENTS!!! (My Dad reads this blog).
Every Saturday, I worked the jazz matinee on the main floor. My shift was roughly 1:00 pm to about 7 or 8 (the crowd would trickle out after the music ended ). The Pilot gets some great jazz bookings and the customers are a fairly loyal bunch of pretty serious jazz fans. The regulars will shush the uninitiated for talking too loudly during a sax solo.
On the Saturdays when the upstairs was booked for the fetish parties, we'd often get some crossover between the studded leather dog collar fetish crowd and the professorial tweed jacket with elbow patches jazz crowd.
The doors opened at 8:00 pm for the fetish party upstairs. Often, though, the S&M folks would come a bit early to catch the tail end of the jazz matinee and grab a bite to eat before going upstairs to spank each other.
Then, when my shift finished, I'd help out a bit with the staff upstairs: making sure they had enough lemons and limes, bringing up a case of beer, getting change for the till and such.
For however brief my exposure to the fetish corwd was, it was eye opening! The way some of these folks dressed when they were at the jazz downstairs was pretty far out, but once they got upstairs to the private party room, well... they let it all hang out, so to speak.
More on "hanging out" in the next post. Stay tuned.
But The Pilot, especially the second floor Stealth Lounge, is a great inspiration for the plot of a murder mystery.
While I was in university, I worked at The Pilot. It was a great job, I met a lot of people who remain close friends, I made good money and had a lot fun. Back then (before a new team of managers came along sometime after I left), the management was, um, lackadaisical on one hand, and, um, edgy on the other.
Manager X. was balls-out batshit crazy, Manager Y. was seldom sober but a genuinely nice person, and Manager Z. was an absolute bitch (who was ultimately deported, dunno how or why that happened... I was living in Mexico at the time...)
I don't know which of the three of them gets credit for the following, but since it went on for a few months, I guess all of them were in favour of it.
As mentioned in the previous posting, The Stealth Lounge is reserved or rented out for private parties or special functions (being near Yonge & Bloor, they do a lot of corporate gigs). Back in my days working there, The Stealth was rented out two Saturdays nights a month for fetish/S&M parties.
I NEVER ACTUALLY WORKED ANY OF THE S&M EVENTS!!! (My Dad reads this blog).
Every Saturday, I worked the jazz matinee on the main floor. My shift was roughly 1:00 pm to about 7 or 8 (the crowd would trickle out after the music ended ). The Pilot gets some great jazz bookings and the customers are a fairly loyal bunch of pretty serious jazz fans. The regulars will shush the uninitiated for talking too loudly during a sax solo.
On the Saturdays when the upstairs was booked for the fetish parties, we'd often get some crossover between the studded leather dog collar fetish crowd and the professorial tweed jacket with elbow patches jazz crowd.
The doors opened at 8:00 pm for the fetish party upstairs. Often, though, the S&M folks would come a bit early to catch the tail end of the jazz matinee and grab a bite to eat before going upstairs to spank each other.
Then, when my shift finished, I'd help out a bit with the staff upstairs: making sure they had enough lemons and limes, bringing up a case of beer, getting change for the till and such.
For however brief my exposure to the fetish corwd was, it was eye opening! The way some of these folks dressed when they were at the jazz downstairs was pretty far out, but once they got upstairs to the private party room, well... they let it all hang out, so to speak.
More on "hanging out" in the next post. Stay tuned.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Weird Research: Smut...
The Lies Have It - the third Sasha Jackson Mystery (coming in Fall 2011) centres on the fetish and S & M world. The idea for this book has been mulling around in my head for many years. I kept getting stuck on the plot, even though the overall idea struck me as a good one.
Sex is a dominant theme in the Sasha Jackson series. If you've read Blood and Groom, you know Sasha worked part time at a phone sex hotline in that book. In Dead Light District, the background to the story is the world of prostitution and commercial sex. And now, this time around, it's all about leather and latex, and whips and chains, and dominance and submission... YIKES!
For Blood and Groom, I just made up all the phone sex stuff (and laughed my head off while I was doing it). Since I really didn't have a clue what I was doing (this was my first book after all) I mostly just showed Sasha's reactions to the smut calls, and I had great fun coming up with sarcastic replies or reactions for her.
In Dead Light District, the research came from an essay I did for my MA. The course was Equality in Context and the paper was about human rights in the sex trade.
With The Lies Have It, the smut stuff is more central to the plot (as compared to Blood and Groom), so I can't just make it all up. So, this is where the research comes in. Believe it or not, one of the first things I looked up was the BDSM entry on Wikipedia! Next up was Google Groups and general Google searches for terms I had stumbled upon thus far. Some of the many topics or subheadings re: fetish and S&M that you'll find via Google are::
Foot Fetish
Fat Fetish
Vampire (I vant to suckh your... toes?)
Hot Torture
Munch
Playmates
Naughty Nursery Rhymes
Pirates
Catsuits
Watersports (not exactly windsurfing...)
Bestiality
Goth
and on and on and on...
So, this was a bit of an eye opener. (Note to self: clear cookies from computer).
A second look at Wikipedia led me to the section of types of "play". You can probably guess the obvious ones (whipping and handcuffs or things like that) but there's a whole lot of interest in medical role play and there's also a specialty in erotic electrostimulation (ouch).
This list (below) gives names to a long list of quirks or "paraphilias". Who wouldda thunk there'd be so many? From Albinaphilia to Teratophilia and everything in between...
Wow. And I thought writing was about creating settings and coming up with plotlines and writing snappy dialogue...
Sex is a dominant theme in the Sasha Jackson series. If you've read Blood and Groom, you know Sasha worked part time at a phone sex hotline in that book. In Dead Light District, the background to the story is the world of prostitution and commercial sex. And now, this time around, it's all about leather and latex, and whips and chains, and dominance and submission... YIKES!
For Blood and Groom, I just made up all the phone sex stuff (and laughed my head off while I was doing it). Since I really didn't have a clue what I was doing (this was my first book after all) I mostly just showed Sasha's reactions to the smut calls, and I had great fun coming up with sarcastic replies or reactions for her.
In Dead Light District, the research came from an essay I did for my MA. The course was Equality in Context and the paper was about human rights in the sex trade.
With The Lies Have It, the smut stuff is more central to the plot (as compared to Blood and Groom), so I can't just make it all up. So, this is where the research comes in. Believe it or not, one of the first things I looked up was the BDSM entry on Wikipedia! Next up was Google Groups and general Google searches for terms I had stumbled upon thus far. Some of the many topics or subheadings re: fetish and S&M that you'll find via Google are::
Foot Fetish
Fat Fetish
Vampire (I vant to suckh your... toes?)
Hot Torture
Munch
Playmates
Naughty Nursery Rhymes
Pirates
Catsuits
Watersports (not exactly windsurfing...)
Bestiality
Goth
and on and on and on...
So, this was a bit of an eye opener. (Note to self: clear cookies from computer).
A second look at Wikipedia led me to the section of types of "play". You can probably guess the obvious ones (whipping and handcuffs or things like that) but there's a whole lot of interest in medical role play and there's also a specialty in erotic electrostimulation (ouch).
This list (below) gives names to a long list of quirks or "paraphilias". Who wouldda thunk there'd be so many? From Albinaphilia to Teratophilia and everything in between...
Wow. And I thought writing was about creating settings and coming up with plotlines and writing snappy dialogue...
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