S&M in New Orleans

S&M in New Orleans

“I’m more of a gentle lover,” I whimpered, awkwardly bent over the dirty chair in front of me. I turned to watch him, Richard with his bronzed skin, Greek-god stature and backwards trucker cap holding back his dark mane. He raised the whip once more, his sultry brown eyes focusing on the red welt on my left butt cheek – I oozed sex appeal.

The night was never intended to be tame.

We each demolished four glasses of wine, macaroni and cheese and a handful of really satisfying tater tots. It was then time to take on New Orleans’ notorious Bourbon Street. Our nostrils welcomed the scent of debauchery weaving in and out of the bars and out onto the crowded street. We could smell sweat, regret, mistakes that hadn’t been made yet as drunken scallywags yelled at us from balconies above. Blurred faces commanded we get our tits out, exhibit A of the chivalrous and respectful gentleman.

We stayed at one bar long enough to allow a random guy to shout us multiple drinks in an attempt to capture Kat’s attention. But when her drunken suitor began to reek of desperation, Kat became repulsed.

“Help me lose him now,” she seethed in my ear. Fully comprehending her needs, I tried my best to save her. I told him she was my girlfriend, she wasn’t interested, that she had chlamydia– he wasn’t buying it. We left the bar and Kat’s betrothed followed us back onto the street. Exhibit B.

Abbey notified us of the approaching Taj Mahal of male strip clubs – Kat’s golden ticket of escape. Unsurprisingly, the chump wasn’t keen on following us into Bourbon Bad Boys.

The place was dark, like the hidden inhibitions of the woman who sat beside me, drunk and salivating. She was powerless amongst the pheromones circulating the heated temple of tension. It was intimate; I mean I could recite the name and size marked on the g-banger of the woman in front of me (Fun Galz, XL). An extra-large personality as well, she bounced continuously on her seat, preventing me from being able to spectate the dance at hand.

Jungle Jake had almost finished his gyration sequence. The lights changed from a sexual sapphire blue to an innocent pink, surely a contrast to the guilty faces about to enjoy the moves of 100% Cocoa Chocolate Blake. I perched up on my chair, frantic for a glimpse of what was about to transpire. But Kat’s nails gripped into my shoulder blade, and before I could turn to say, “What the fuck, bitch,” she was hustling me up a spiral staircase that was barely holding together; one wrong step and I would have plummeted into a sea of lustrous women on heat.

A private dance had been bought. My friends and I were seated on a ripped and pungent couch. Assembled in silence before a mysterious Bad Bourbon man, we waited for him to say something, do something, anything. Eventually, he parted his luscious lips to release a question. My compadres knew it was a trick, but I sadly wasn’t in on the dos-and-don’ts of private strip clubrooms.

“Who here has seen Fifty Shades?” he asked. I trembled as the last word left his goddamn beautiful mouth. I didn’t even think to look at the broads next to me who were probably staring at the ground, avoiding eye contact, avoiding the trap. The words ran out of my mouth without my permission.
“I just saw it actually”. Wrong answer. He stared so intently into my eyes I felt them burn.

Exhibit C.

He didn’t ask me if I liked it. He didn’t ask me if I thought Mr. Grey’s character was my idea of attractive. Instead, he ordered me to stand up and move over to the grey chair in the corner (how fucking ironic). I surrendered immediately, not an ounce of objection as Kat and Abbey giggled, half amused, half concerned.

“Bend over”, he barked with seduction, at which point my mouth finally caught up to my brain and heart.
“Look, I have seen the movie but I’m not really…”
“Shhhh, bend over,” he whispered.

I felt conflicted, like a piece of meat entertaining my friends in a weird-as-fuck show I was powerless to stop. The thing is, I didn’t want to poop on the party. The playsuit I was wearing was short and my booty was in full view. Feeling his hot breath on my back, I figured the worst that could happen was a small spanking. I couldn’t see any props or weapons that he could use against me, no handcuffs, no blindfolds.

Suddenly a sharp, deep, searing pain struck the flesh of my left cheek. Where the fuck had he hidden the whip? I thought.

The stripper smacked me hard with the long leather-wound rod, and my body and my mind shuddered. I felt weak, I felt embarrassed and I felt like I had just been emotionally and physically assaulted. My gut shot up to my chest and onto the dirty chair in my hands, and I was completely and utterly consumed with the psychology of it. As severe pain mixed with a miniscule fragment of pleasure, I had to get out.

We waddled home heels in hand (classy), and I pondered long and hard about what had just transpired. I understood the whole power-dominating thing was a turn on, and one had a preference to be either submissive or in total control. But is there such thing as “making love” anymore? I wondered. Or was that way of thinking about sex infantile and naïve?

Perhaps generalising the consensus on sexual inclination, I for one had come to a conclusion: S&M is not my jam.

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