April 22nd, 2000
Ah, the life of a decadent pleasure activist. It's rough being an international slut, but someone has to step up to the plate, ya know?
A couple of weeks ago I received email from a lady I know who lives up in Canada, asking me if I'd be coming up to the queer party scheduled this Friday. She really knew how to get my attention - she entitled the email "So, would you like to make me bleed?" This is, of course, something I've done a few times before and each time was incredibly hot.
I drove up to Vancouver Friday afternoon, met her, and headed in to meet mutual friends for Chinese food [my ulterior motive to go to Vancouver!], and on to the party. Greeted our hosts, did some grounding and centering and cleared my head. My date was schmoozing - her version of my headclearing.
She had asked for a flogging, some canes, and some blood. I gave her a full flogging warm up on her back and actually drew first blood on myself instead of her. I got smart-ass and stepped back to the far side of the room to wind up and run up and swing the nerf bat that was bringing up such nice bruises on her keister but I forgot that I'd stripped down to skivvies and sox, and slipped on my sox and took a hole out of my knee. Argh. Slapped a piece of micropore tape over that, duct taped it in place, and humbly kept on working. She still had some bruises from three weeks ago, the last time she said she had played, and I definitely built on those. After running through my floggers ranging from the planchet used for light touch to the one made from pieces of steel belted radial, which is ... fairly attention getting, I shifted over to a short bullwhip. From the first stroke on it was leaving welts that looked like I was using a magic marker. A red/black/purple magic marker that left trails of red streaming down from it. It was obvious this was a serious tool, and she and I both showed it much respect.
After as much of that as she could take, I shifted over to a bit of comic relief, dumping out my cane case. Actually I had told her that it was full of "cane-like objects", and that's exactly what it was. Show and tell time. The length of 3/4" PVC tubing, the aluminum arrow shaft, the 14" steel shoehorn, and more. It was equal parts laughter and squeals of pain.
All this had taken quite some time and we then took a break. Hydration, plumbing, and set up. I put down plastic sheeting under us and got us each a chair to sit on. Gloves, skin cleansing, sharps container, all the basics. I filled her tits - her favorite area for this - with needles, in arrangements both artful and sensitive. Some of them were tied off to dental floss going up overhead and through eye-bolts and down to weights [12oz soda pop cans]. Others were laced up together with the dental floss [mint flavored, which added an additional zing]. We were about 50 needles into the process and she was flying in the stratosphere when I pulled one of my little surprises. Trancing out and enjoying the buzz she didn't notice when I took a large lemon out of the bag, sliced it in half and scored the cut ends, and turned and suddenly covered her torso in a sudden gusher of lemon juice. Her scream brought people running from two stories away. Later she mentioned to me that the usual alcohol spritzer that gets sprayed on piercings at least evaporates... lemon juice doesn't evaporate. Hehehehe.
There was more, but that's the gist of it. The entire scene covered several hours and it was late when we headed out to the home we were staying in for the nite. Unfortunately, my date had to be at work early this morning, but I slept til noon and then headed on out. My host's knave [his term for his role] made me coffee and offered breakfast, but frankly as much as I enjoyed and appreciated the hospitality, I had just slept ten hours in a house of several smokers, and I had to go. Love the folks, even liked their cats, but was having an airway problem. I was a heavy smoker for many years but now I have a physiological reaction to nicotine smoke. It's not their fault and I said nothing - I feared that anything I said would sound ungrateful - but I had to get on the road.
A pleasant breakfast down on the coast just north of the border - prawns egg foo yung is breakfast, right? Then came the fun.
Normally when I hit the border I straighten up. Put on a fire department baseball cap, throw a straight looking sweater over my go-to-hell t-shirt of the day, take the facial piercings out. It's worth it for a few minutes to get through without... well, without what I went through today. I pulled up to US Customs [Canadian Customs are never a problem; US Customs generally are]. The fine young officer in the booth looked like a recruiting poster for Hitler Youth. A few questions and I realized that I was sitting there wearing my "Where Is BABELAND?" tshirt [www.babeland.com]. "Would you mind pulling your car over here and stepping into the Customs office, sir?"
At this point I figured they are going to go through everything, I should assume everything from my choice in condoms to my dirty underwear will be seen, so I might as well stand up, be a sex-positive adult, and show no shame. My trunk was filled with floggers, bullwhips, canes, and fifty-scadzillion needles and scalpels and sutures. The sharp medical things can all be bought over the counter in my jurisdiction, but you never know what authorities will say.
Driver's license, car registration, then curiously enough "Do you belong to any clubs, sir?" "Why yes, I do. Several that are related to alternative sexuality." "Oh. And what is 'babeland', sir?" "It's a dildo store in Seattle. A good place for you to get your buttplugs." The damndest things jump out of my mouth, my own brand of Tourette's seems to come out when confronted by authorities. At any rate, 15-20 minutes later I was handed my registration and wished a good day. I checked in the trunk and nothing was gone, but everything was disturbed, and the agent walking away had gloves on. It was actually comforting, to have no questions posed over my equipment, no confiscation, no arrests. Hell, looking like a hippie biker whatever sorta fellow, I fall into many 'profiles' for law enforcement. I don't mind being noticed as long as I can go about my business after.
Life is indeed good, and the Hitler Youth of the world, the Kenneth Starrs of the world, all the other Miss Grundys of the world be damned, I'm going to keep on having a good life, as __I__ define it.
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