From: [email protected]
Subject: Nurse Jones, party animal
Date: 19 Dec 91 04:44:32 GMT
From Nurse Jones,
Okay, okay, we went to the Valdosta party. I probably would have
written about it anyway, even if the ebullient Mr. Josan hadn't kicked
up such a ruckus. I just needed some time to get used to the weird
thing that happened to me.
I had gotten to know Harry through e-mail and he seemed a nice enough
guy. He promised me no rough types would be there. I half expected to
meet Michael there. In fact I hoped we would. I guess you were at the
Other Party. (I've since figured out that there must have been two
parties scheduled for the same day.) Still, I was nervous going up to
the front door, thinking I might meet some of you. Only one ASB'er was
there, apparently. Despite the near absence of netpeople, it was a
classy place; in fact I felt a little out of my depth. If there WERE
more ASB people there I didn't recognize any names. I kind of wish I
had had the chance to surprise Michael. You know my prediliction for
grand entrances.
But then maybe some net.regulars WERE there. I can never keep straight
who is who, handles and real.names. I might have met HoundDog or
TheClone or someone and never even known. Except we introduced
ourselves as Jay and Margaret Jones, so someone would have spoken up
if they knew us from the Net.
I still can't let my real.name be known to the boss. No way. Although
Harry knows who we are. (And he's not a dork, Mr. Josan, he just lied
to you when he told you he didn't know my real name.) He's sweet. And
very witty. I wish he'd post more, but he doesn't have any interest in
the news net. I think he's a compuphobe. He has a computer at work but
he says he wouldn't have one in his home.
Which is beautiful, BTW, his home. An old Victorian home, I think; it
was dark when we got there. Three stories, jammed into a tiny lot. I
bet the neighbors were pissed about all the cars. The street was
jammed. As you might expect, the guests were really a mixed bag. At
least one (really beautiful) transvestite, a bunch of neat um, mixed
couples, and a few in leather. I think there were local politicians
there, even. Harry's gay, BTW. He's completely out of the closet, so
it's okay to tell you that. If you've seen him, you'll know what I
mean. He kind of camps it up a bit. When a southerner comes out, well,
I don't know. He's extravagantly gentlemanly, and extravagantly gay.
He has a flair for dramatic gestures; he decorated his house in
victorian antiques, and it looks like a bordello. He just loves drama.
Even his accent is dramatic. Kind of a Civil War era Virginia
gentleman in black silk. And best of all he doesn't take himself
seriously. I guess you can tell I really liked him. I checked by e-
mail before posting this, and he said I should feel free to tell awl,
deah. In fact, I'm supposed to tell you he's Valdosta's Last Stately
Homo. I told you he was funny. And that's three BTW's in one
paragraph, BTW. Four.
Anyway, I wanted to make a grand entrance but I just couldn't wear my
corset on the drive there. It was too long a drive to sit in a corset,
at least not mine; it is just not meant to sit in, not in a metric
car. We need a carriage and some horses or something.
So what exactly about my wardrobe was the excitable Mr. Josan excited
about? I arrived wearing one thing and left in another. I wore a
motorcycle jacket and tights and boots and sunglasses (all black,
natch) on the way in. (Yes, sunglasses at night. For effect. I put 'em
on at the front door to be cool.) I felt like a fool asking Harry,
whom we had just met, if I could change, but he knew we had had a long
drive.
So Jay helped me change (it takes forever to put on a corset; it has
to kind of "settle in" and then be retightened) and I made my "grand
entrance" down the stairway, which unfortunately only leads into a
foyer where nobody happened to be at the time.
Anyway, I wore the only dress I have that is made to be worn with the
corset. How we got it made is another story -- or did I already tell
you about that? The only other time I've worn it in public was to a
Halloween party as Morticia Addams. Well, anyway, it's black velvet,
floor length, very high collar-like neckline and long, tight sleeves,
kept tight with a spandex inserts. Tight all over, except from mid-
thigh down. Jay finally persuaded me to lengthen the slit up the side.
(Sorry, Mrs. Bottier.) It used to be tight to the knees. I don't think
I could have negotiated the stairs if I hadn't lengthened the slit, in
fact. Four-inch heels are necessary to keep the hemline off the floor,
and I wore my long black wig just because (pale as I am) the whole
ensemble looks so good if everything but yours truly is black (so I
_don't_ have "awesome black hair" Mr. Josan. Sorry to disillusion
you). It's short, dirty blonde, and tends to go frizzy. Another
illusion shot to hell.
Jay and I kind of kept to ourselves at first. We only knew one other
person there, a friend of Jay's from work who is also a friend of
Harry's. No, Jay is not, not even remotely, if that's what you are
thinking. He left early (our friend), thank goodness, before I made a
public spectacle of myself.
My only excuse is that I had a certain amount of alcohol concealed
about my person. Actually, it was less than one drink, but it was
almost an entire mint julep. I had always wanted to try one. I didn't
know they are almost straight bourbon. I didn't have a hangover, no
thanks to Harry, but I slept on the long drive home. No, if I'm fair,
I can't blame it on Harry's drink.
This is cumbersome. I can't use anybody's real name except Harry's.
The enthusiastic Mr. Josan mentioned a real.name, but I don't know if
he should have, so I'll call her "A". What kind of culture is this
that you can't use peoples names for fear of getting them into
trouble? I don't mean the ASB or gay/bi subcultures. I mean the U.S.
of A. George Bush's culture. Clarence "L.D." Thomas' culture. Reverend
Swaggart's culture. Kennedy-Smith's culture.
I met "A" under very weird circumstances. I'll tell that part later. I
don't believe I did what I did. Once again, I have to put on my
psychic blinders and pretend no-one but Jay will read this. Which is
silly, I know, to be embarrased to talk about something that I
actually did pubically and wasn't embarrased about at the time.
You know how I get.
Jay challenged me to write this post without using the word "intense."
Ups. I did it already. Well, here goes, anyway.
I was a little worried that I would be overdressed, but there were
some strange people (strangely wrapped) there and I was definitely not
a sore thumb in mere black velvet. It might as well have been a
costume party. It looked like a casting call for a Fellini movie. I
didn't think it was really an ASB oriented party at first, despite
Harry's invitation. Harry's friend looked like a big Georgia cracker.
Checked shirt, bolo tie, cowboy boots. When Harry asked him to go
outside and get some get firewood, he put on a cap that said
"Caterpillar" across the front. Not what you'd expect of a gay member
of the SM/BD community, exactly. Harry called him "His Bohunkness".
But a "scene" was rumored. Harry introduced us to "A" and her friend,
who turned out to be her top. But we found that out later. We just
chatted about our jobs and what it's like to live in the South for
people that aren't natives.
I realize now that they were good friends of Harry's and they might
have been almost the only SM-oriented couple there if he hadn't issued
his invitation on ASB. I'm guessing, but I don't think many of the
spectators were SM/BD oriented, judging by the small amount of leather
in evidence. In fact, there were more than a few suits there.
Anyway, Jay and I had been chatting with "A" and her guy, grateful for
someone with whom we could be inconspicuous in the corner. I was just
getting to know her when her SO disappears and starts hanging ropes
from the tops of these two square wooden columns that hold up the
entranceway between the dining room and the living room.
And then "A" disappears, too, and when she comes back, she has on this
toga-like creation and her SO hangs her by her wrists between these
two columns. Well, not hangs, because she could still stand, but she
couldn't go anywhere. My eyes felt like they were bugging out of my
head. Five minutes earlier, I had been talking to this woman about how
sleazy I thought Ollie North was, and she had seemed so normal. I had
no idea she was the evening's entertainment. This is the only public
scene I have ever seen. The only whipping I have ever seen. I really
didn't intend to get involved. Really.
Her top then unties her shoulder ties and her dress is just barely
hanging around her hips, and she's naked to the waist. She is taller
than I am, kind of wiry and muscular, and has a good, trim body. She
exercises, I could tell. Taut describes her. Olive skin and dark hair,
brown eyes. Strong nose. A very interesting face. If I were a man I'd
find her very attractive.
Harry swanned about the place like a movie director, arranging lamps
so the light was directed at the columns and the makeshift arrangement
of ropes as though it were a little stage setting. The room was
uncomfortably warm. The fire in the fireplace was blazing away and the
evening wasn't that cold, but still Harry has "His Bohunkness" put
more wood on the fire. The room seemed stuffy with too many people and
I felt stifled. The corset didn't help matters. I felt I could hardly
breathe; I'm not surprised that victorian women were always fainting.
Her top recruited two guys to hold the ends of her ropes and keep her
upright. The ropes passed through loops tied around the tops of the
columns, kind of like makeshift pulleys. I don't know why he needed
those guys, why he didn't just tie her up there. Maybe for effect.
Harry had turned off the music, and suddenly, dramatically, it wasn't
a party anymore. It was just some people waiting, quietly. I stood off
to one side in order to see as much of her face as I could, just as
morbidly curious as the rest of them.
The whip was very very loud. That was the thing that surprised me the
most. Shocked me, actually. It whooshed and cracked against her skin.
I could hear it swishing through the air. It sounded spectacularly
painful. It might be a theatrical kind of effect, but I don't think
so. Even if it was, it hurt, I know. Her back and legs were red and
had welts afterward. It had a lot of straps on the business end. It
might have been a cat-o'-nine- tails, or something. It didn't cut her,
though.
Everyone in the room jumped when he struck his first blow. Including
me. She jumped, too, but she didn't make any noise. I would have been
screeching safewords frantically.
She jumped, but she didn't change her expression. She just stared into
the dining room. Which was empty. I wanted to be in there so I could
see her face better, but everyone else stayed in the living room and I
would have been embarrassed to be the only one. And I was afraid that
I might be violating a taboo of some sort. Everyone else wanted to see
her back, I guess.
After a couple of strokes, her shift fell from her hips. They ignored
it, the two of them. So did everyone else but for a lot of different
reasons. Some were embarrased, some were too cool to notice, or trying
to be. I looked at Jay to see what his reaction was, and he was
looking at me.
He seemed to go on and on, hitting her. The other postings about this
kind of thing talk about "varying the stroke" for the sake of surprise
and shock. He didn't. He got into a slow rhythm and hit her
progressively harder and harder. She knew exactly when and where to
expect each blow. It seemed to me he was very slow, with long,
measured pauses between strokes; he seemed to move up and down her
back in a regular progression. Still she didn't move or say anything,
but I could see her muscles tense when that swishing noise came. Once
she tossed her head to get her hair out of her eyes.
It seemed to go on forever. A woman left in the middle, and her
husband followed after her.
Where I was standing, fine droplets of her perspiration were sprayed
on me by the whip as it whooshed past.
When he went to switch sides, he stood with his back to me and I had
to move get out of the way of his swing. When I went to move, he put
his hand on my arm and told me to go into the dining room and help
her.
Help her? Jesus. What am *I* going to do, I think. In fact I asked him
what I could do. I was scared silly, and had no experience with this.
He said I was the only one, whatever that meant. He says to keep her
hair out of the way and "be there" for her. Wipe the perspiration out
of her eyes, touch her, give her what she needs. Jesus.
So I duck under her arm, grab a napkin off the dining table, and go
stand next to her. For once, the midwesterner in me didn't pay
attention to the fact that I was suddenly part of the focus of
attention. In fact, since the light in the dining room was off, I felt
almost like I was in a private room with her; like what I did was a
behind-the-scenes activity, sort of like a stage hand. I pulled her
hair around so it was off of her back. She didn't even notice me at
first. She had been crying, but her expression was a blank. She was
just staring ahead, unfocused, with tears running down her face. I'm
not sure if she saw me at first.
Her feet were bare; with my heels on, I was her height and could look
her straight in the eyes.
I wiped her forehead and her cheeks, and still she stared straight
ahead.
She jumped again, still without expression, when he started whipping
her again.
That's such a strong word, whipping. To whip. But that's what he was
doing, whipping her. Forgive me, but I'm just now getting used to the
idea that this stuff really goes on. Not that I don't believe what I
hear on the Net, but I'd never seen it. It seemed so academic until
last weekend. My only experience has been with bondage and piercing.
Up close, I could see she looked almost surprised at each stroke, but
it was a very subtle expression: just her eyes widening. I was
thinking constantly that I hoped her top knew what he was doing to
her, and reminding myself that of course he must, but when I looked
past her at him concentrating on his work, I realized he might never
have seen that fleeting expression of surprise. Certainly not from
where he stood.
Again, from the other side, he went on and on, progressively harder
and harder.
Tears started flowing again; I pushed her hair out of her eyes and
wiped more sweat and tears away, and still there was no change of
expression, but something happened in her face. Gradually, her
attention centered on me. It was a slow process. At first I don't
think she was aware of me, but she turned her head a little, and after
a while her eyes began to focus on my face.
It seemed that she was making a gradual journey from somewhere deep
inside herself to an awareness of the outside world, and of me. But
this slow change was interrupted by those expressions of faint,
unfocused surprise every time the whip fell.
Eventually she was staring directly into my eyes. Still, the whip
punctuated her awareness and drove her momentarily back into herself.
Then I noticed something else. The rhythm of the whip wasn't as
regular as I had thought; there were occasional pauses that would have
been imperceptible but for a minute change in her expression. Each
hesitation was followed by a slightly harder stroke than the
preceeding set had been, and I could see she knew what was coming
because she smiled faintly.
By the time I noticed this, she had made eye contact with me; in fact,
she was staring intently at me, her eyes still widening the slightest
bit at each stroke. But when the whip hesitated, the tiniest smile
crossed her face for a fraction of a second before the whip fell with
renewed strength and surprise once again swept away the smile. But
that smile ... the look on her face seemed ... well ... triumphant? Is
that possible?
Her brow would clear, she would straighten her posture a little, and
that little smile .... She seemed to gain some kind of strength from
the inside, almost to start fresh again even though she must have
known the next stroke would be harder still.
And I realized her breathing was regular and deep, timed with the
strokes. Three breaths, and the stroke came just at the end of the
third. She would finish the breath with a sharp intake, not quite a
gasp, just as the whip struck, and then back to the deep rhythmic
breathing.
They were communicating with each other, these two, I realized. He
could see her breathing, she could feel him hesitate. At the same
time, she was communicating with me. I didn't know what she intended,
but she was looking at me so intently that I could tell that something
important, something related to me, was going on in her head.
I wiped at her forehead again, but she avoided my hand, dismissing it
with a jerk of her head; still she stared intently at me.
This seems so idiotic, explaining all these little details to you, but
I was the only one that saw them, and I want to try and understand
what happened. I don't, yet. Maybe someone who has actually been
whipped can tell me.
It seemed like the whipping was something going on in another room,
almost unrelated.
Finally, she sank against the ropes so that her arms alone supported
her. It must have hurt her to hang there like that, but still she
looked up at me. There was a definite sense of urgency in her
expression, as though she expected something from me. All I could
think was to wipe her forehead, and she refused that.
All the while, the whip kept intruding, punctuating her expression of
urgency with surprise. I brushed her hair back from her forehead, out
of her eyes, and she tilted her head to press my hand with her cheek,
trapping it between her face and her shoulder, all the while keeping
her eyes on mine. I decided she wanted affection, contact, or just a
little TLC while her back was being whipped.
So I stroked her cheek.
And she kissed the palm of my hand.
I was startled and confused, and I pulled back, away from her. This
upset her. I can't really think of the words to describe the
expression on her face. Extreme urgency, maybe. I don't know what I
was afraid of. I mean, what was she going to do, tied up like that?
Certainly not throw me across the dining room table and ravish me
amongst the hors d'oeuvres. I wiped some more tears away with my
thumb, and looked at the man with the whip, not knowing what to do. I
thought maybe she wanted him to stop. He just nodded to me, urging me
to continue.
I can't explain what happened next. I decided to lean down and whisper
to her and ask her what she wanted, ask if she wanted it to stop, but
I wasn't sure that I should speak to her. There are so many S/M rules
I don't know about. Don't count the strokes, don't interrupt, don't
intrude... Why didn't she speak on her own? Is that another taboo?
When I began to lower my face toward hers, she smiled a little and
held her face up to mine, and I stopped. I was going to whisper to
her, but she looked as though she were waiting to be kissed.
Again the whip intruded, punctuating her smile with unfocused
surprise.
I finally realized she did want to be kissed.
Duh.
I've never had even a hint of a sexual feeling toward another woman,
but my heart was pounding and I didn't know what to do, how to react.
None of the rules applied here. I hesitated with my hand on her cheek,
looking down at her.
Mostly, I was feeling confusion, fear, uncertainty, insecurity, and
curiosity. Mostly, my heart was trying to get out of my chest. I felt
I was being pushed into something unwillingly, and I didn't want to
go, nor would I stop and step aside. I needed time to think. If Jay or
someone had pulled me away and tried to rescue me, I would have said
"Wait." But still I couldn't go any further.
I felt pressured a little by the idiotic thought that maybe I had to
kiss her or he wouldn't stop, but it had also somehow become the right
thing to do; I just didn't know if I could bring myself to do it. I
decided to at least go on with my plan to whisper in her ear. I
continued to bend toward her, looking into her eyes for any sign that
I was wrong about this. She lifted her face toward mine and parted her
lips slightly. Again the whip fell and again she looked momentarily
ever so slightly startled. This time it wasn't dreamyness, or urgency,
or a smile that was punctuated by her surprised expression. It was
expectancy.
I still hadn't decided what to do, what I should do, what I was
expected to do, anything. I was just bending toward her, putting off
the decision, looking into her eyes, hoping she would turn her face
away, when something clicked inside me and I realized it was up to me
to decide what to do, what I wanted.
I stopped just inches from her face, concentrating on her eyes, trying
to think. My heart was absolutely racing. The whip fell again.
I put my other hand on her other cheek and tilted her face up. I
looked over her face, considered kissing her forehead. Her cheek. No.
Not right. What's right? I thought.
I looked back at her eyes. The urgency was back. Again the whip and
the surprise. Looking back, I know I couldn't have spent the rest of
my life wondering what it would have been like to have kissed her. You
only go around once. But then, I was so confused I don't have any idea
what caused me to decide to do something that crazy. But I decided.
I decided, but still I hesitated, this time deliberately. Once I knew
what was coming, all I thought about was that I was going to do it. In
fact, I stopped thinking at all. My heart didn't slow down, not a bit.
It was racing, and my hands were shaking.
I looked at her lips for what seemed like ages. The whip fell again
while I looked. I looked back at her eyes and I could tell she knew I
had decided. I smiled a little, too, this time, and tilted her head to
mine and bent those last inches. The whip fell again, but this time
there was no expression of surprise: her eyelids fluttered, her eyes
rolled back momentarily, and I felt her sag a little more. She didn't
start at the whip this time, didn't tense, didn't move, but her
attention came back to me. As my lips came down on hers, she closed
her eyes.
And I kissed her.
It wasn't a deep, passionate kiss, it was just a kiss. That is the
first -- the only -- time I have ever kissed a woman younger than my
mother, and the only time I've ever EVER kissed one on the lips.
Even though she was dripping with perspiration, her lips felt dry and
hot, and she was a woman, not a man. I smelled perfume, and there was
another pair of breasts right there in front of me, another woman's
body. I never forgot that for a second.
Her lips did respond to mine, but it was more of an experimental kiss
than a passionate one. I was just extremely aware that she was a
woman.
Except for that awareness, it felt just like kissing a man. And except
for the awareness that this was a _first_ kiss, and I was the one
doing the kissing rather than being the one kissed.
I've never been "in charge" on the first kiss before. Ever.
The whipping stopped for the duration, but just as our lips parted, he
came down hard with a final stroke. This time she let out a little
gasp. The noise was loud. He had hit her extra hard. Her head fell
back and she went completely limp.
Jay tells me I put my hand on my lips and backed away from her then,
with a surprised look on my face, like there had been static
electricity from the rug. I don't remember that part.
I remember looking up and being confused. I thought the whipping had
stopped, but that last blow confused me. But it was over; he had
stopped after all. I caught a glimpse of her face as the two helpers
lowered her to her knees and she fell back to the support of her top's
arms. Her eyes were closed, but she was smiling a little.
For a moment, the four of them looked like Michaelangelo's Pieta.
Things seemed to be happening very quickly after that. I was confused
and roasting hot and wanted to get my corset off and get the hell out
of that stifling room. I asked Jay to get me out and he did, the dear.
He had the bag with my other clothse within seconds and we were headed
for the door. He's so good at fast getaways. I never know what to say.
I looked back as we neared the door, and I could see her, the center
of attention, being cared for, tended to, etc. For just a second she
looked at me; the other people in the room stopped talking and moving
around and looked at the two of us looking at each other.
Then I got embarrassed and we left. I heard the music starting up
again as we walked down the front sidewalk.
End of party for me. Mr. Josan is right in one thing. That one event
definitely stood out for me. Harry wanted a "happening" and I guess he
got one. He thanked me on the way out. He just put his hand on my arm
and said, "Thankyou." Not "Thanks for coming." Not "I hope you enjoyed
yourself." Just "Thankyou," in a way that made it clear what he meant
to thank me for. Maybe he thought I do this kind of thing every day.
He made me feel like I had, through some bureaucratic error, been
appointed to the job of Lone Ranger. "Who was that masked woman? I
wanted to thank her..."
As soon as the door shut behind us, I said, "Jesus, I don't believe
what I just did in there." I tried to apologize and say I'd never do
that again, but Jay stops me and says he wasn't in the slightest bit
jealous. He cuddles and says that he would be jealous of a man, but a
woman doesn't push that button in him. He thought it was sexy. If Jay
kissed another man, I couldn't handle it at all, absolutely not, no
way.
Go figure.
I'm not gay. I'm not bisexual. I'm not the "L" word. There has been a
thread on ASB that is critical of people that are so insecure in their
sexuality that they feel the need to defend themselves by pointing out
that they are "not a fag" ("Re: Faggots must die!"). And here I am,
protesting that I am not a lesbian.
Okay, I admit it: I'm not secure in my sexuality.
In fact, I'm a bit bewildered by this thread. Is it good to be secure
in your sexuality? Kissing "A" made me feel extremely insecure, but
I'm glad I did it. Maybe there's something wrong with me if I don't
even feel the need to be secure in my sexuality. In fact, I almost
like the idea of being insecure, even though I do, down deep, want to
know what I am.
Isn't being insecure the best way to find out who you are? If you
settle on a concept of yourself and stick to it, and become secure
about it, is that a good thing? Some people seem to have the feeling
that if they relax and let themselves go, they might somehow fly apart
-- as if security and self-image are somehoow the glue that holds their
atoms together.
I don't know if this is true or not, but I sometimes think self-doubt
is a healthier state of mind than certainty.
I kissed another woman. I'm protesting that I'm not a lesbian because
I don't think I am. Or even Bi. I'm not secure. I'm so insecure that
afterward, I needed reassurance that Jay still felt the same way about
me.
I've thought about what lesbian or bisexual sexuality would be like,
and it doesn't do anything for me, really. I kissed a woman. It was
exciting, it was a sexual thing, but it wasn't sexy. Not the way Jay
makes me feel. I don't know what it was, I don't think I'll want to do
it again. I wasn't turned off, exactly, just not really turned on.
Anything that can make my heart pound like that is, well, I don't
know. Something. Definitely something. I just don't know what. But
when Jay gets my heart pounding like that, I know what I want; in fact
I feel desperate for it. I didn't want anything from "A".
This is really silly. I wrote twelve pages about one lousy kiss. I
wasn't even the one that got whipped. That kiss was a big adventure
for me, though. When I push my pathetic little limits I usually sit
back and think about how much further the rest of you have gone. There
are lesbians among you that LIVE in waters where I am afraid to dip my
big toe.
Nearly a week and twelve pages later I still don't know what happened.
Harry says as far as he knows, she's not gay/bi either.
Go figure.
Nurse Jones,
who left her heart in San Francisco,
her common sense in Indiana, and
her liver in Valdosta.
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