Dominant Writer Seeks Submissive Miss with Spankable Bottom....

One day about six months ago, I am having lunch with my Playboy editor, we are kicking around ideas I could write about and the talk turns to the kind of ads some folks run in the back of certain publications, inviting people to contact them for various sexual activities. My editor says, What would I think about following up some of these ads and writing about it?

I admit I've seen and fantasized about such ads but say I don't feel one has to do anything quite so rash as to actually follow up on them.

"Why not?" says my editor.

"Well," I say, "the whole area is kind of, you know, tacky, don't you think?"

"Sure," he says. "But not any more so than the orgy you wrote up for us [My First Orgy, December 1972]."

I have to admit he has a point there. I confess the notion interests me, but I want to think it over awhile before I make my decision, one way or another. He says, "Take all the time you want."

I go out and buy a few publications that run sex ads. Screw and, for some reason, The New York Review of Books seem to be the best known of these. I find a number of ads that seem intriguing. For example:

Young high school teacher. Can't make out with students--available for extracurricular activities after 3 P.M. Call Miss B....

And:

Bad senorita. The meanest mother in town, and if you got the balls to come and see me, you will never forget me! I dare you to come! Call at once!...

Pretty conventional stuff, right? But then it gets a little kinkier. Like:

Mother & 19-year-old daughter will perform. Call Mrs. R....

And:

Let me watch while you do your wife. No participation unless asked. Would also like to see two girls together....

And:

Just like Mommy used to do--over my knee for a warm gratifying enema. Call Nurse Nancy....

Or:

Why have you been disobedient? I am very upset with you. Call me now. Mistress Angela....

Or, one of my favorites:

3 Militant Feminists. Young, brilliant and white, will bring your most unutterable ideas of humiliation into reality--and in front of two or three of us. We've waited a long time to do this, maybe you've waited a long time, too. By appointment only....

My editor calls me in New York and asks if I've come to any decision. I say I'm still mulling it over. He says that if I stop mulling and start researching this tacky piece, not only will he pay me Playboy's top rate for articles but he will also respect me afterward. I tell him he has himself a deal.

I look over the ads I have so far collected from Screw and The New York Review of Books and try to imagine meeting the advertisers. I can't quite envision myself over the knee of Nurse Nancy getting a warm gratifying enema; I can't recall disobeying Mistress Angela; I have trouble seeing my most unutterable ideas of humiliation brought to reality in front of the 3 Militant Feminists; I have no wife to do while the anonymous advertiser of undesignated sex watches; and, although I feel I have the balls to go and see the meanest mother in town, I'm not sure I want to. That leaves Miss B., the horny high school teacher, and Mrs. R. and her 19-year-old performing daughter. I am very tempted by both of these offers, and yet I hesitate.

I think part of the problem is that I'm worried about what I'd do if Miss B. or Mrs. R. and her performing daughter turn out to be--how to put it?--non-bathers or serious fatties. I mean, I don't relish going into a situation where I have to either reject some nice but terribly unattractive person or else hop into the sack with her out of politeness.

And then I discover sex ads with photographs.

For between three and three and a half dollars a copy, you can buy on many newsstands in New York such publications as Swingers Life, True Swingers, Mixer, The Seekers and Girls Galore. These publications have dispensed, in most cases, with such trivia as articles and stories and are totally comprised of several thousand ads for various forms of sex, all grouped by state or section of the country and almost all of them featuring photographs of the advertisers either nude or in one of a multitude of fetching stages of undress.

The photographs are mostly of women, who are mostly wearing either panties and no bras or black garter belts and stockings and boots and no panties. The nude ones sometimes have part of their faces or part of their vaginas inked over. (I would like to suggest to some doctoral candidate in psychology looking for a topic for a dissertation that he or she look into what makes some women ink out their faces in nude photos and others their vaginas.)

The women in these photographs range in age from perhaps 16 to 72 and in attractiveness from dead ringers for Ernest Borgnine to ladies who could give Angie Dickinson a run for her money as queen of the hop. It is at first difficult for me to understand why ladies as gorgeous as the latter need to run ads in order to get schtupped. The reason becomes clearer to me as I go along.

I begin to have a very active fantasy life. Not your usual wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am five-second fantasies, either. I select some advertiser in black garter belt and bush, posing against a wall of imitation pecky-cypress Weldwood paneling on which are hung the sort of little wrought-iron chotchkies that are considered chic in Red Bank, New Jersey. I stare into her face, which is wearing what she hopes is an expression of sexually sophisticated bemusement but which is instead one of tragic vulnerability and longing for some hopelessly romantic figure she knows she hasn't a chance of meeting--some Red Bank version of Cary Grant, with impeccable manners, an incredible foot-long rock-hard shvantz and even chicer wrought-iron chotchkies on his imitation pecky-cypress Weldwood paneling.

I sort of melt into the picture plane and am in the actual room at the moment the badly lighted photo is snapped. I explain to the startled quasi-nude lady that Cary Grant couldn't make it tonight but he has sent me instead and I am now going to lay on her 40 perfect orgasms, total spiritual fulfillment and dinner for two at Sardi's with a host of her favorite showbiz luminaries. The lady realizes the extent of her fantastic fortune, weeps for joy and clasps me to her perky bosom.

I go through half a dozen magazines like this and select 50 or 60 of the best-looking women and most provocatively worded ads for people in the tristate area. For example, a nude young honey with long straight hair to her tushy writes:

N.Y.: I like the bizarre, Bi-minded & uninhibited. I've got plenty to give and can go forever. Can you match that? No sincere partner turned down. Send for my photo and you'll shout with joy....

All ads with photos are signed with code numbers instead of names and what you do is send your reply to the magazine, which then forwards it to the advertiser. The above ad is signed E-7036. I like the fact that E-7036 is bizarre, bi-minded & uninhibited and can go forever. I can go, if not forever, at least for an hour or two. I make a note to send for E-7036's photo so I can shout with joy.

N.J.: Well-built green-eyed auburn-haired nurse. Loves French culture, parties, couples, willing to meet pen pals. A college graduate, amusing Gloria has a 40" bust.

I make definite plans to meet amusing Gloria and her 40-inch bust.

Head bank teller, 22, enjoys dancing, get-togethers, quiet drives in the country and finer things in life. Wishes to meet sincere tall and short mature men....

How should I come on with this lady--sincere-tall or short-mature? I'll try sincere-tall.

Attractive 54, seeks intelligent Jewish men or Navy men my age for dining and dancing....

Since I won't be convincing as Navy and 54, I'll try coming on intelligent and Jewish with this one.

In Swingers Life there are not one but three photos of a well-built, dark-haired smiling lady who writes:

Hot Syracuse, N.Y., housewife, 38-20-38, mid-20s, would like to meet and have sex with single men and love it.... Write to me for the best deep throat and straight sex you have ever had. I want to suck. I am hot....

I admire this woman's directness and feel I have perhaps read her display ads on men's-room walls. I shall write to her for the best deep throat and straight sex I have ever had and I will, if absolutely necessary, even go to Syracuse to get it.

Talk about directness; how's this?

Very affectionate girl, 25, with attractive figure wants to hear from wealthy nudists.... Must show proof of wealth....

Sprinkled among the predominantly female ads for men, women and couples are occasional peculiar ads from men. Some are poignant and funny, like this:

Need well-endowed men to sleep with my wife. She is too horny for one man to handle....

Some are mainly poignant. Like this one:

I am willing to meet a pretty woman that wears eyeglasses and single, the one who will go nude with just her eyeglasses on....

And some reveal more than they intend. Like this guy, whose apparently unintentional error in wording betrays a strong need to reassure himself:

N.Y.: Good-looking white guy, 25, 5'10", would like to hear from passionate ladies in N.Y. Hurry. I won't be sorry....

And then there are ads from ladies who sound so terrific that it seems almost unbearable to have to go through the whole lengthy process of writing to them in care of the magazine, having the magazine forward the letter to them, having them reply, and so on. Like this one:

Have plane, will travel. Sexy young vixen, 24, pilot, will fly anywhere in U.S.A. and Canada for a meeting with interesting single men....

Or this one:

N.J.: Terrific Puerto Rican twins: bi-minded, clean, healthy and young are seeking single men for 3-some thrills. If you are man enough to handle two great girls, we guarantee to deliver everything you want....

With visions of sexy young vixen pilots and terrific, clean, healthy, young Puerto Rican twins dancing in my head, I mail off my first batch of letters. In them I describe myself accurately as 38, divorced, 5'10", 145 pounds, slender, strong, gentle and willing to try anything that's fun, whether or not I've even heard of it before.

In each letter I enclose a picture of myself taken at a photo session in Las Vegas for the illustration of my orgy article in Playboy. In this picture I am naked and intertwined with about two dozen similarly nude showgirls and half a dozen chorus boys. The reason I send out this picture and not, say, my bar mitzvah picture is that it is, first of all, the only one I have of me nude, even though it doesn't actually show my penis, and secondly, I figure the proximity of all those terrific nude bodies will suggest that I am a lot more experienced a swinger than is indeed the case.

After a couple of weeks, the first replies start trickling in. Old Bizarre-Biminded-&-Uninhibited sends a rearview nude black-and-white Polaroid of herself with the following letter:

Dear Dan,

I'm so glad you answered my ad they say one picture is worth a thousand words so what better way for us to start communicating? let's at least try!

I hope you'll want my other pictures, the black and white set is $7 and I have beautiful color for $13. I sincerely hope they'll prove to you that we speak the same language, and I have the feeling that we do--so hurry up. I know you won't be disappointed.

(continued on page 186)Dominant Writer(continued from page 180)

What about you? What are you into in life? I would like to start an interesting correspondence but it takes two. Please write and be my other half.

Love, Ellen J.

Hmmm. Well, the handwritten note in black ballpoint pen on orange stationery isn't the warmest personal letter I've ever received, but the enclosed picture is of a very pretty girl. Although I don't love being hustled to buy her pictures, I figure the girl has to make a living and, with the picture selling out of the way, she'll then be free to go forever and make me shout with joy.

I send her the seven bucks in cash and tell her I'm anxious to meet her in person. I give her a brief rundown, since she asked, of what I'm into in life, including some adventures I've had recently while researching a book on the occult--taking part in a coven of teenaged witches in Brooklyn, fooling around with black magic in Scotland and participating in voodoo rites in Haiti. After all, she did say in her ad that she liked the bizarre, right?

The next letter I receive is from a blonde lady with a plainish face but a dynamite body. Along with a black-and-white rearview nude Polaroid of herself with the words "Hope you want to see the rest of me" scribbled on the back is the following letter:

Dear Dan,

This must be my day--really--had a bad night, but your letter brought the best out in me--and now, baby, all I really need is you to share it with.

Would you ever guess that I'm a belly dancer? Not too much class but a lot'a heart--and whatever else you see. I know my pics will prove that I know where it's at--and I hope it'll be where you're at.

I have color for $15--black and white for $8 and posters for $20--but I'm all Baubles, Bangles and Beads for you to play with. It's your Ball Park and my equipment--let's connect!

Playfully yours, Genie M.

The letter from Playful Genie is at least a little more personal than the one from Ellen, what with the bad night she had and how my letter brought out the best in her and how she needs me to share it with and all. On the other hand, close inspection of the black ink in the body of the letter reveals it to be a photocopy. Quick question: Is it possible Playful Genie kept the original and sent me the Xerox? Or does she perhaps do mass mailings to hosts of guys named Dan?

I moisten a finger and rub it over the salutation. It smears. Playful Genie Xeroxes her letters and pens in her salutations by hand. I take out Ellen's letter and submit it to the wet-finger best. Ellen is also revealed as a lady who Xeroxes letters and pens salutations.

Shades of the Reader's Digest subscription-renewal sweepstakes: "Dear (Name of Subscriber): Imagine a brand-new $125,000 ranch house on (Subscriber's Street) with the name (Subscriber's Name) on the mailbox! ..." Well, we always knew that the establishment was co-opting and ripping off the underground, but did we dream that the underground was co-opting and ripping off the establishment? That girls with good tits and tushies and Polaroid cameras were in the mail-order business with personal-letter techniques lifted bodily out of such bastions of establishmentarianism as Pleasantville, New York?

But wait a minute. Just because Ellen and Genie are trying to become the direct-mail queens doesn't mean it's a universal practice. I mean, maybe Ellen and Genie are buddies and used to work together in the subscription department at Reader's Digest or Time-Life, dreaming the Great American Dream of striking out on their own and having their own little business. That hardly proves that the other four to five dozen lovelies I've written to are identically motivated, now, does it?

But, alas, a letter from Rosalie fails the wet-finger test. So does the letter from a young lady named Jennifer K. ($8 for black and white, $15 for color, $20 for both), as does the letter from a lady named Gabby G., who spares herself inking in salutations by beginning her letter "Hello My Love" ($7 black and white, $13 color), and one from Louise W., who wants ten dollars--no checks, please--for "living expenses."

Well, six letters are certainly not enough to make a sweeping conclusion about the field, but it does seem the game is that these ladies at least get to sell you a few pics before they fork over their phone numbers. Is it worth it? Well, no, not to me, at any rate. On the other hand, I am on assignment to Playboy, and so it's not really my money I'm frittering away here. I send out the asked-for cash to each of the six ladies.

Letter number seven is the most direct so far. It is from a lady named Candy J. and it goes like so:

Dear Dan,

I'm very pleased that you answered my ad, and I think we may be compatable [sic]. If you can fit a 50 $ modeling fee in your budget I'll guarantee you a sexsational time! I am a master of erotic massage, and I love French. Call soon & we can make a date to meet at my Manhattan apt.

Sincerely, Candy

I consider $50 a little steep until I get letter number eight from Trudy S., who tells me that although she's married, her husband "fully approves" of her activities and that her "modeling fee" is $100 for two hours.

I appreciate Trudy's and Candy's candor, but I feel that even old moneybags Hef doesn't need to bankroll me to a session with a professional hooker.

It is now obvious to me that I needn't expect a high percentage of meetings with the ladies so far contacted. It does make sense that, as I said before, no normally attractive woman is running sex ads because she is having trouble getting laid. If any of the mail-order photo sellers I've placed orders with come through for me with personal meetings, terrific. But I am clearly going to have to extend my base and respond to more than 20 advertisers.

I go back to the magazines. I begin to seek out the kinkier ads. The way I figure it, people with kinky sex hang-ups might find it harder to get the particular type of partners they need and might therefore have a higher proportion of sincerity than the girls in the mail-order Polaroid biz.

Submissive Miss loves to play "naughty girl in need of bare-bottomed spanking" to established mature (30--55) fatherly types who know how to pamper a paddled behind afterward....

I don't know if I'd describe myself as a fatherly type, but I am certainly 30--55 and could probably figure out how to pamper a paddled behind if I had to.

Sensuous, passive, young woman loves to be bound & gagged. Will pose for erotic B&D photos. Loves to give Fr. culture, receive Greek culture. Versatile in all friendships. S/M of any type given or received. Your photo a must showing which of above desired.... Husband will, if desired, perform all of above....

This may be the point where I should explain to you that when an advertiser says she loves to give French culture and receive Greek culture, she does not mean that she will read aloud from Proust while you flash her photos of the Parthenon. What she means is that she digs (continued on page 194)Dominant Writer(continued from page 186) putting your shvantz in both her mouth and her tushy. "Versatile" means not that she sculpts, does soft-shoe and can replace the transmission in your Oldsmobile; it means that she is not averse to licking another lady's labia minora. S/M is, of course, sadomasochism. Except, I am told, on the West Coast, where it refers to slave/master sex. B&D is bondage and discipline. This means that the advertiser gets kicks out of one person being trussed up like a yearling calf while the other person does unspeakably tough and humiliating things to him like, I don't know, telling him he makes a lousy martini or needs to use Scope mouthwash.

Some advertisers say they like TVs and water sports. This does not refer to Eyewitness News and the Australian crawl. TVs are transvestites--boys who wear Merry Widows and girls who wear--what? jockstraps? And water sports is a euphemism for taking a leak on someone for romantic purposes. It is also known as "golden showers." (Listen, I hesitate to even mention it, but if you ever see an ad mentioning "hot lunches," I am told that is a euphemism for fresh B.M.s. What one does with them I leave to your own imagination.)

Now, did I mention that "parties" refer to orgies and that "English culture" refers to being whipped or spanked and that "animal training" means romantic idyls with a poodle, a police dog or a Lhasa Apso? I didn't think I had.

How do I know such things? you ask. Well, first of all, I'm a journalist who does his homework. And second, I've been around, cookie, I've been around.

Dominant girl likes submissive men, TVs, French performers. Especially those who will wear my undies. Super studs challenged & couples sending photos invited to watch or join....

OK, now you can read this ad and understand that the lady is not looking for Marcel Marceau to wear her undies on Merv Griffin. Aren't you glad I filled you in?

Submissive "tom-boy" type with very spankable bottom needs dominants who know how to control physical side, yet tease, humiliate & punish a semiwilling "slave" to ecstasy. Novice masters welcome....

A fairly explicit ad, I think, and the photo accompanying it shows an attractive young lady bound with rope, as is usual in photos of masochistic advertisers. Although another terse, photoless ad in Girls Galore says only:

I have a large full round fat behind that I just love to have spanked with a heavy paddle.

The ad says nothing more, not even whether the large full round fat behind in question is attached to a male or a female person. Another ad, also photoless, in the same publication tends to give me the willies:

Topless model. Half one sex and half the other. I enjoy dating girls with long hair and tall gentlemen....

I don't know if this person gets many responses to its ad. Certainly not from many girls possessing both long hair and tall gentlemen. Still, you never know.

In Mixer, I come across the best ad I have found to date. It shows five of the cutest young girls I have ever seen. They are standing on a beach, wearing bikinis on wonderful cute slender bodies and smiles on wonderful sweet beautiful faces. Here is what the copy says:

Sensuous group. Sensuous, slender, young stewardesses with great bodies, fascinated by B&D, would like to try it & other things. Will fly anywhere to meet men any age, dominant or submissive. We do not seek money, only fun! Penna. females.

Now, I ask you. Aren't they cutie pies? Do they sound like you'd want to do everything with them? Are they sincere? Who knows? But I abandon my usual short reply letter and write them a ridiculously long letter. I enclose not only my usual orgy photo but also a picture of me wearing a black-leather motorcyle jacket, sunglasses, a black cowboy hat, black-leather gloves with industrial zippers and a gun belt. I figure this photo will let the sensuous stewardesses see another side of me, however inaccurate.

I send out about 40 more letters, most of them to masochists, sadists and other weirdos. I haven't really decided if I will have the guts to become intimate with any of them, but it's sure fun to fantasize about.

In the meantime, I get further correspondence from our old friends Ellen, Genie and Rosalie. Ellen sends me five black-and-white Polaroids in various split-beaver poses and a letter that says I'm her kind of man and that she doesn't want me to go away now, because she's "go photos that really show pink tit and pussy I know you would love." They'll cost me only $12 (a dollar price drop from the last letter), and this communication is signed "Suckingly, Ellen." Like her previous note, Ellen's suckingly signed letter is Xeroxed. So are the letters from Genie and Rosalie, which contain relatively demure pictures--only one split beaver in the bunch.

About this time, the first of the replies to the replies to the S/M ads start groveling and swaggering in. An authentically handwritten letter from a dominant lady in Cromwell, Connecticut, named Virginia M. says that she can certainly give me the type of bondage and discipline I desire, that she has the proper equipment and experience and that she requires an advance "tribute-deposit" of at least $20. She guarantees full satisfaction and will arrange our first session when she receives the money.

A dominant lady in Albany, New York, named Joyce B. writes, in genuine handwriting on lined blue note paper, as follows:

Dear Slave: I require that all of my male slaves wear my lingerie. I request lots of tonguing up the asshole and licking and sucking along the crack. I require much cunnilingus--and all of this while I stand over you in the superior position. I require that all my slaves adore my naked body. If you are ready to serve and obey, I will take off my lingerie and send them to you, but first you must send me $8 cash, for I cannot afford to give them away. I will also send complete directions and commands for you to follow while you are wearing them. I can then be assured if you are both submissive and obedient for that is the only type of slave I accept.

Your mistress, Joyce

(Slave written at my dictation.)

P.S. For discretion--be sure to return this letter, and always send a stamped, addressed envelope if you want a reply.

Only a cynic would suspect that mistress Joyce was in the mail-order-undies biz, but since I have no immediate need for Joyce's pants, I hold off on whisking her my eight dollars.

Two submissive ladies reply to my letters. One writes on the bottom of the note I mailed her:

Dear Dan--

Many thanks for answering the ad in Swingers Life. I appreciate your taking the time to answer; however, your letter and the photo hardly seem on target to my rather specific, and limited, areas of interest.

Her note is signed simply "B."

The second submissive miss sends a separate handwritten note to the same effect in teeny-weeny scrawl, signed "E."

Well, B. and E., I see I was wrong to send you my standard letter and photo instead of something more macho, a mistake that I shall correct immediately. I send both B. and E. copies of the picture of me in motorcycle jacket, shades and cowboy hat. And, with different solutations, I answer both of them sternly in the following manner:

I can see that I was too nice to you in my previous letter. I am more than able to satisfy your specific needs. The enclosed photograph will show you a more accurate representation of my dominant personality than the group photo I sent you before.

It is clear to me that you must be punished for your insolence in assuming I could not satisfy your needs. Here, then, is what you will do:

Immediately upon receipt of this letter you will send me an apology by return mail. You will enclose your full name, address and phone number. I shall call you when it pleases me and I shall tell you when it will be convenient for me to see you.

You will then come over to my house and apologize in person and attempt to convince me not to punish you. As you are doing so, you will strip down to your panties. Your apology will not be accepted and you will be handcuffed and made to kneel on the floor with your buttocks in the air. I will then take down your panties and spank you until your naughty little cheeks are stinging hot with shame.

You will at this point be told to go into my bedroom, where I will strap your wrists and ankles into shackles and chain you to the bed. From then on, I shall do whatever I wish to you, and you will be forced to repeatedly satisfy me orally.

At such time as I have decided you've been punished enough to atone for your impudence, I will be kinder to you and will take care of you and show you as much tenderness as you seem to deserve.

I shall now close and await your reply. Remember, the longer you make me wait, the harder it will be on you.

Dominantly, Dan Greenburg

P.S. In your reply, and in person, you may call me Mr. Greenburg.

I mail B. and E. copies of this letter before I have a chance to realize that I have undone myself with my closing sentence--if they are indeed masochists, then the warning that the longer they make me wait, the harder it will be on them can only prolong their procrastination. Ah, the pitfalls of the dominant role!

Three more letters from dominant dames arrive. The first is from one in New York City named Janet D. She sends me a short chatty handwritten note stapled to a much longer mimeographed letter, which I excerpt below:

Suppose you were to meet in a private place a young woman of hatuer (sic), beauty, cruel and arrogant temperment (sic). She orders you to strip completely, treats you as a chattel, spanks your bare-bottom very severely till your cheeks are blazing red. Then she makes you kneel before her and pay homage to her womanhood, sweet anus, bare-feet using only your mouth and tongue. To her you are simply a slave, an animal used to gain pleasure. Even when you finish pleasing her most private and sensual parts, she mocks you, perhaps whips you more cruelly, for bringing forth the weakness of her most beautiful flesh.

Tell me if you dare how you'd react to this. If you are thrilled by the prospect of enslavement, perhaps I'll hear from you, with all I ask in this letter.

Your most arrogant, Janet

I'll tell you, Janet, here's the thing: I won't deny that some of my sex fantasies have been of the submissive variety. There is something deliciously reminiscent of being the little boy again and having Mommy angry at one in a sexually titillating way. It is also very tempting to fantasize a situation where one has given up all control and any responsibility for whatever nasty sex things might develop--I mean, what could I do, Officer/Daddy/ God/whoever, she overpowered me! Which, by the way, is the appeal of most submissive or rape fantasies, and we all have them from time to time, yes, indeedy.

But my problem, Janet, is this. First of all, I also have lots of fantasies where I'm the master and I'm barking out the sexual orders. As a matter of fact, about a year ago it was my practice the third or fourth time I west to bed with a lady to suggest it might be fun if I tied her up with a length of clothesline and had my way with her. (Surprisingly few of them objected, by the way, and all who tried it admitted the experience was something of a turn-on.)

Second, and perhaps more important, my most arrogant Janet, how could I ever be thrilled by the prospect of enslavement for even 20 minutes to a woman who's a lousy speller? I mean "hatuer"? "temperment"? You can't be serious.

The second and third letters from dominant ladies are from Connie G. and Barbara R., both of New York, who are apparently into the S/M business in a big way. Along with their mimeographed letters, they send a number of items generally associated with serious mail-order solicitations.

First is a questionnaire of personal preferences in which I am asked to check whether I love, like, am unsure about, am indifferent toward or dislike a list of things including, in alphabetical order, Aggressive Women, Anal Adoration, Body Slavery, Bondage, Boots, Discipline (Mild), Discipline (Other), Equestrian Training (Woman Riding Man), Feet Bare & Beautiful, Female Authority, Fur (with Nudity), Foot Slavery & Service, Golden Showers, Leather, Lesbian Beauty & Authority, Man's Subjection to Woman as Destiny, Oral Adoration of Woman by Man (Reward), Oral Adoration of Woman by Prone Man (Forced), Punitive Women & Punishment, Submission (to Many Dominatrices), Submission (to One Woman Only), S/M Demonstrations (Woman Above Man), Two Women Dominating One or More Men, Wrestling, etc., etc.

Let's see here, waiter--I think we'll have the Fur with Nudity to start, then the Feet Bare & Beautiful, with a side order of Leather; then I think we'll try one order of Lesbian Beauty & Authority and, oh, yes, hold the Man's Subjection to Woman as Destiny, please.

Also sent by the ladies is literature describing a number of things one could get from them besides nasty treatment. For example, one could buy a cassette with 30 minutes of dominant palaver from Mistress Shirley at $12 a throw; or introductions to a gaggle of dominant colleagues of Mistress Connie at three dollars apiece; or a set of bondage pics featuring Mistress Connie at ten dollars for six poses; or a Fetish Items Catalog at two dollars; or an estimate at three dollars by Mistress Connie's Master Craftsmen (Mistress Craftspersons?) on any custom-made implement, rack, restraint or whatever your cowering little heart desires; or your choice of four stories written specially by Mistress Annette to satisfy any of four popular personal deviations, at three dollars and four dollars the story--we are told by Mistress Connie that Mistress Annette's stories, artwork and sense of humor are "truly Unsurpassable."

Samples of Mistress Annette's truly Unsurpassable stories, artwork and humor are enclosed, and I quote from two of them. From Mistress of Pain:

"Alright, worm, you've proven you have an experienced tongue, but that hardly makes up for your insult. You will, however, be allowed to continue slave training.... The first rule you will remember is that you are never to rise above the level of my breasts," she said and lashed him across the back.... "The slightest infraction against any order I give will result in a severe whipping with this cat."

(Nobody better try whipping me with any cat, I can tell you that.)

Next is this from Torture Unlimited:

When the doorbell finally rang Colleen was already fuming. Her new trainee was 20 minutes late for his first session, an unthinkable mistake.... He was only one among hundreds who had responded to her ad in the magazine. She yanked open the door and there he stood, head bowed. He began to stammer an apology, but she stopped him short with a vicious slap across his face. "There can be no excuse for this insult. You should have been kneeling at my steps at least an hour before you were due," she growled as she jerked him in the door and dragged him upstairs to her work-room.

Well, sir, if that doesn't prove Mistress Annette has an Unsurpassable sense of humor, I sure don't know what does. I make note of the dialog style for future use, and then decide that Mistress Virginia's uncommercial and personal note is the only one I care to follow up on. I send her a check for $20 and await her response.

In the meantime, I get what looks like my first promise of an actual face-to-face contact: a typewritten note from someone named Kathy F.--"my real name," she says, leading me to wonder what false names she has given me previously. She urges me to telephone her and encloses a New York phone number. There is no code letter or number on her letter, so I have no idea which advertiser she is. I am embarrassed to tell her this, in case she'd be offended to know that hers was not the only ad I answered, but I call her anyway.

Well, I needn't have been embarrassed about not knowing which one she is, because she clearly doesn't know which one I am, either.

"I'm the guy who sent you the group photo," I say. "I put an X on my chest so you'd know which one I was. Remember the picture?"

"No," she says. "Did you send me the ten dollars yet?"

"I don't know," I say. "I mean, I've sent a couple of girls ten dollars. I don't know if you were one of them. But how come you asked me to call you if you don't even know which one I am?"

"Well, I don't always send those notes out myself," she says. "I mean, sometimes the guy who handles my photos sends them out. How did you hear about me?"

"Through Swingers Life," I say.

This doesn't seem to ring a bell. I'm nonplused. It's like when your phone rings and somebody's secretary asks if you'll hold for Mr. So-and-So and disappears, and there you are holding a dead phone, waiting to talk to somebody you never asked to talk to in the first place.

Kathy asks me to tell her something about myself. I do. Then I ask her to tell me something about herself.

"Well," she says, "I work in a social-service agency nine to five right now, but it's just temporary, because I'm also going to college. I'm in sociology, although a lot of people have told me I have this really good voice and everything, so I was thinking of getting into acting or radio announcing."

As a matter of fact, Kathy's voice is nasal and New York-accented, so whoever told her she ought to go into announcing or acting had more up their sleeves than armpits. I ask if she wants to get together with me. She's evasive.

"I'm really new to the swinging scene, you know," she says.

"So am I," I say, delighted to find a fellow innocent.

"My pictures don't do me justice, either," she says. "I'm five, four and I weigh a hundred and twenty pounds, which you can't tell from my picture, and I have dark hair and green eyes."

"That sounds nice," I say.

"You know," she says, "mostly I'm a model. You know what that means?"

"Yes," I say. If you have to ask if someone knows what it means when you say you're a model, then you're not a model. You're a hooker.

"I mean, I still swing with guys I dig for free," she says, "but mostly I'm professional, or semipro. Until I either get my degree in sosh or break into the acting or announcing thing, I mean."

I ask her if she wants to get together so she can decide whether or not she digs me enough to swing with me for free, but she can't seem to decide even that. What with all these career decisions mucking up her head, I can hardly blame her. She finally says she'll come over for a drink after ten and will call first, although neither of these proves to be true.

I take out my swingers' magazines and try to figure out which one Kathy is by her description of herself. After scarcely an hour's detective work, I find her. The ad describes her as having dark hair and green eyes and the height and weight are the same as she told me on the phone. Kathy is revealed to be code number H-1018, who, at the time the ad was placed, lived in New Jersey.

I am quite proud of my detective work until I receive on the following day a note from the real H-1018 from deepest New Jersey, a person by the name of Pat.

Somewhat miffed, I return to my magazines but am still unable to come up with any other identity for Kathy than H-1018 in New Jersey. Since the note said Kathy was her real name, then perhaps Pat is her fake name?

It is getting far too complicated. But in running down further possible identities for Kathy, I discover something very interesting. I have become familiar enough with 100 or so photos to discover that many advertisers change poses, add inked-on masks or G strings and run several ads in the same publication. What they ask for in each ad may differ, but their physical descriptions and prose styles are often distinctive enough to identify the same person in several different ads. Sometimes the background details in their photos give them away--the same satin drapes with the one bad pleat, the same mosaic-patterned wallpaper with the identical brass chotchky.

I now see that I must have sent my 70 or 80 letters to only 20 or 30 ladies. Of course, the ladies themselves may not even realize this if, like Kathy, it's not they but some guy who is sending back their replies. Oh, it's beginning to sound very complicated, indeed.

More letters come in and, with them, opportunities to buy Polaroids of Crystal, Maria, Jan, Sharon, Natalie, Carla, Jennifer, Pat, Betty, Marianne, Selma, Beth, Jean, Jeannie, Mia, Carol, Joan, two Marys and two Lindas. Also, it appears that at least one of my dominant lady-friends has sold my name to a few S/M mailing lists, because I also receive offers to subscribe to three S/M magazines and invitations to attend an S/M mixer, an S/M ski party (where presumably you could have your leg broken without even getting to the slopes) and an S/M charter flight to Puerto Rico on which even the stewardesses and the flight crew are sadomasochists. ("Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has requested that you fasten your wrist and ankle shackles in preparation for take-off. We will be flying this afternoon at an altitude of 35 feet, and once aloft, your stewardesses will be serving you a hot lunch.")

Certain things are becoming clear to me. Not every lady I have written to wants to sell me Polaroids, panties or S/M software. Some--like Candy and Trudy--want to fuck me for money. Some--like Virginia and Louise--want to fuck me out of money. Because, although I sent Louise ten dollars and Virginia $20, I never hear from either of them again. "Please do not reply that you do not wish to buy photos," said Louise's earnest letter, "that is not my objective." Well, that's certainly true. "I assure you I will keep my part of the bargain." Right, Louise, baby.

The thing that is becoming clearest of all to me, however, is that trying to get laid by answering sex ads is about 12 times harder than by simply meeting a girl and taking her out on a date. I'm not suggesting that everybody who advertises in swingers' magazines is a phony, mind you. I wouldn't say that's true of more than, oh, I don't know, 97 percent of them.

I have just about decided to chuck the whole experience and get on to other things when a letter arrives from E. Remember old E? Who thought I couldn't meet her specific masochistic needs?

E. turns out to be Edith, who lives on the West Side of New York City and who has changed her mind about my ability to dominate her. She encloses her phone number and implores me to call.

My phone call to Edith is short and to the point. My tone of voice with her is quite stern. I make an appointment for her to come to my house at eight the following night and I tell her not to wear panty hose. (I hate panty hose, in case I haven't told you.) I tell her to wear panties, a garter belt and stockings. She says she understands.

I have undertaken a great responsibility. I must not fail this person. I must dominate and persecute and humiliate her to rival her wildest dreams. I will need a scenario. I will need props.

Down the block from me is a store called The Pleasure Chest. It is a store that sells all sorts of sexual props--vibrators, French ticklers, dildos, the usual stuff. What makes this store unique is that it specializes in S/M devices, which it custom-designs. Oh, you can buy your ordinary New York Police Department regulation handcuffs there, sure, but you can also buy chain shackles of black leather and steel for wrists and ankles, heavy canvas strait jackets, black-leather hoods with heavy industrial zippers, leather and steel body harnesses, whips and crops and quirts and gags and paddles to warm the cockles of the coldest sadomasochistic heart.

Knowing that a homely length of clothesline is never going to be enough for Edith, I lay out eight dollars for handcuffs and $25 each for two sets of wrist and ankle shackles. I suppose that going into an S/M store to buy chain shackles in the Seventies is equivalent to going into a drugstore for a box of condoms in the Fifties. I've done both with an equal amount of aplomb.

Back home, it occurs to me for the first time that I have no place to attach the swivel snaps on the ends of the shackles. If only I owned a four-poster bed. Luckily, I am handy with tools, and without much hassle I attach four screw eyes at strategic locations in the platform of the bed to anchor the swivel snaps. I practice snapping the snaps to the shackles and buckling and unbuckling the heavy leather straps so it will look like I've been doing it all my life.

•

It is the following evening. Normally, when I arrange to see a woman in the evening, I take her to dinner before or after whatever else we do, but this is not normally and I somehow feel that taking Edith to dinner would cause her or any other serious masochist to eye me with suspicion and even wonder whether I might not be a closet nice guy.

Besides, having to maintain a monolithic sadist role throughout an entire restaurant meal sounds positively draining. I'm not even sure how I'd go about it. I guess I could order the best things on the menu for myself and nothing for her. Or make her eat only those foods she has always despised. I could order half a grapefruit and mash it, Cagneylike, into her face. As I say, too draining. Well, I'll just heat up a can of ravioli at home after she leaves.

At 7:30, I begin to get ready. I lay out the wrist and ankle shackles and the handcuffs. I begin to dress.

I don't know how masochists generally prefer their beaux to dress, but from the pictures I've seen, I'd say the touchstone was black leather and rubberwear. I have a black-rubber skindiver's wet suit and flippers somewhere, which does seem a bit extreme, and I think I might still own a pair of galoshes. But that's about the extent of my rubberwear, and not really the macho image I'd had in mind.

I do own a pair of black-leather jeans. Although they are tight and confining and make me perspire and squeak when I walk, they are clearly the thing to wear tonight. I put them on, along with a pair of black-leather boots and a wide black belt with a heavy steel buckle.

The shirt is going to be a problem, as I have nothing very butch. I finally elect to wear my black motorcycle jacket instead of a shirt. It'll be warm, but what the hell--either you're a serious sadist or you're not. I put on my sunglasses and the room gets considerably dimmer; but the look, as I appraise myself in the mirror, is properly menacing and worth it.

In the photo I sent Edith, I wore all this, plus a black cowboy hat, zippered black gloves and a gun belt. I put on the hat and gloves and sling the gun belt over my shoulder, but it doesn't look quite right. Is it possible I'm beginning to overdo it? I take off the hat and gloves and gun belt. Still menacing, no doubt about it, but as menacing as before? I buckle the gun belt around my hips. Nice, but the empty holster looks funny. I take out an old Colt Peacemaker that I found in Mexico and rebuilt and I drop it into the holster. Better. I pull on the gloves again and leave them rakishly unzipped and plop the cowboy hat back on my head.

Hmmm. Very nice. Very ominous. I go into a gun fighter's crouch, left hand out, right hand poised above the Colt. Now a nasty sneer creeps over my lips. Perfect. It's Jack Palance in Shane with a quick stopover in The Wild One to become a Hell's Angel.

The doorbell rings, jarring me out of my sneer. I whip off gun belt, cowboy hat and gloves and walk slowly to the door, considerably hampered by my cumbersome costume, creaking impressively from every fold of leather. I press the buzzer, amble into the hall and pose menacingly atop the steep flight of stairs as the door at the bottom swings inward.

An attractive young woman with dark hair, somewhat tough face and possible Hebraic origins enters. She sees me framed above her in all my leather and appears badly startled. My inclination is to say Hi, Edith, but guys wearing this much leather don't say Hi, Edith.

"You're late," I snarl. Actually, she's exactly on time, but I can't think of anything else to say.

She starts to stammer an apology, but I cut her short with a vicious sneeze.

"There can be no excuse for this insult--you should have been kneeling at my steps at least an hour before you were due," I growl as I drag her upstairs to my workroom, thankful for Mistress Annette's scenario.

Upstairs, I look her over. Edith has an attractive if slightly hard face, as I said before. Her hair is black and on the short side. She is wearing a beige silk blouse, a delicate gold chain around her neck, a tan skirt and tan shoes with high heels. She is swallowing a lot and looks really nervous. If a car backfired outside now, she'd leap about 12 feet in the air. I'd like to comfort her, but it would be out of character.

Usually, when people come to my house in the evening, I offer them a drink. I wonder if Edith would be disappointed by any evidence of hospitality. I decide to risk it.

"Would you like a drink?" I say.

She nods gratefully.

"What would you like?"

"Anything," she says.

"How's about a gin and tonic?"

"Fine," she says. "Actually, vodka and tonic would be better. If you have it, I mean. And if it's not too much trouble."

"I have it," I say, "and it's not any more trouble than gin."

"Fine," she says.

I creak slowly over to the bar and prepare to make the drinks.

"If you have Stolichnaya, I'd prefer that," she says. "But if not, don't worry about it."

"I don't have Stolichnaya," I say.

"Fine," she says. "Don't worry about it."

I go back to making the drinks. I should have had Stolichnaya. I should have turned up both the lights and the air conditioner. With my sunglasses on in the dim bar light, I can barely make out bottles and glasses, and inside my jacket and leather pants, it is considerably muggier than out.

"If you happen to have a slice of lime, that would be ideal," she says. "But if not, don't worry about it."

I turn around and appraise her coolly.

"You certainly do have very specific requests for a submissive personality," I say. "I'm not sure I like that. Worm." (I don't know if I actually said worm, but I think I did.)

"I'm sorry," she says. "I don't know why I said that. I don't care about the lime if you don't have any, honestly I don't."

"Whether I have limes or not is beside the point," I say. "And I think the reason you asked was to test me."

She nods rapidly several times and swallows hard.

"I'm sure you're probably right," she says.

"That's another thing I can't stand," I say, "people who say 'I'm sure you're probably right.' Either you're sure I'm right or you're not. if you're only 'probably,' then you're not sure."

She nods even more rapidly and swallows hard again.

"I think I'm going to have to punish you for your impudence," I say. "Take off your skirt."

Her cheeks flush. To the extent that I am able to tell a flushed cheek from an unflushed one through my shades.

"You mean right now?" she says.

"I mean right now this instant."

She fumbles with the zipper on her skirt, unzips it and starts to step out of it.

"Just a minute," I say. "Are you wearing panty hose?"

She gets more flustered and nods.

"Didn't I tell you on the phone I hate panty hose?"

"I must have misunderstood," she says. "I thought you said you wanted me to wear them."

"I specifically told you not to wear them," I say. "Take everything off but your panties and kneel on the floor."

"What are you going to do to me?" she says apprehensively but with obvious excitement.

"Do as I say and be quick about it."

She hastily wriggles out of skirt, panty hose and blouse. Wearing only her panties, she kneels on the carpet. I pick up the handcuffs and unlock them with their tiny key.

"Hold out your wrists," I say.

"Do you have a tie?" she says.

"What?"

"A silk tie. Do you have one?"

"I don't know," I say. "I guess so. Why?"

"I think it would be really interesting to have you bind my wrists with a silk tie," she says. The thought of it alone is turning her on. Well, what the hell, whatever turns her on.

"Just a minute," I say. "I'll find one."

I creak slowly into the bedroom closet and rummage around. I have worn ties about four times in the past three years, but I still have a couple dozen of them hanging on a rack. The trouble is that there is even less light in the closet than in the bar, and with my shades on I can't see a thing. I'd change to my clear glasses, but I forget where I put them.

I try to pull a bunch of ties off the rack to look at in better light and the whole thing falls to the floor. Cursing, I pick up the rack and the mess of ties and drag them out into the light. I select one of them--not pure silk but still far too good a tie to be binding up wrists with--and creak back to Edith.

"Is it real silk?" she asks.

"No, goddamn it, but it will goddamn well do," I say. "Now hold out your goddamn wrists."

She holds out her wrists and I wrap the tie tightly around them and make a knot.

"Get on your knees and elbows." I say.

She does.

"OK," I say, walking around to her upraised tush, "this is for asking if it's real silk...." I give her a hard open-handed smack on the right buttock. "This is for asking for a tie instead of handcuffs," I say, giving her a second smack. "This is for wearing panty hose," I say, giving her a third. "This is for 'I'm sure you're probably right.'" I give her a fourth. "This is for the limes." A fifth. "And this is for the Stolichnaya." A sixth. "This is for requesting vodka when I offered you gin." A seventh. "This is for coming late when you should have been kneeling at my steps at least an hour before you were due." An eighth. "And this is for--"

"Couldn't you switch sides?" she says.

"The right one is starting to get numb."

"You're telling me how to spank you?" I say, enraged. "You're giving me advice on technique?"

"I'm sorry, I just thought--"

"Don't think! Don't give me advice on how to punish you! I'm right-handed, so I spank on the right!"

I yank at the waistband of her panties and pull them down below her cheeks.

"This is for telling me how to spank you," I say, giving her a ninth smack on her by now quite red flesh.

Just then the phone rings. When I am making love, I never answer the phone. But when I'm spanking?

I pick up the phone.

"What is it?" I say.

"What's wrong with you?" says the voice at the other end. It's my next-door neighbor, Fred.

"Nothing," I say. "What's up, Fred?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to go grab a bite to eat," he says.

"I can't right now. I'm busy," I say.

"What're you doing?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I say.

"Try me."

"I'm spanking someone," I say.

"I don't believe you," he says.

"Suit yourself. Fred, I'll talk to you later," I say and hang up the phone.

"You actually told someone you were spanking me?" says Edith.

"I didn't say it was you I was spanking," I say.

"I can't believe you actually said that on the phone," she says.

"I can't believe how insolent you are," I say. "Who the hell told you to eavesdrop on my telephone conversations?"

"I'm sorry."

"You're not now, but you will be," I say and creak over to the bedroom, where I've left the wrist and ankle shackles. I am bathing in sweat inside my leather jacket and pants. I unzip the jacket and throw it onto the floor.

"Come in here," I say. "And don't you dare utter so much as another word."

Edith stands up and walks into the bedroom.

"Lie down on the bed," I growl.

She does. I pull off her panties, attach straps to both her ankles and snap the ends of the chains into the screw eyes. I start to untie the tie from around her wrists and realize it'll be hopeless with my shades on. I take them off and struggle myopically with the knot. I'm sweaty and hot and in a terrible mood. I pull off my boots and my sweaty leather jeans and again attack the knot, but it's still hopeless. I sigh and get a scissors and cut it apart.

"I'm ruining a perfectly good tie because of you," I mutter.

"At least it isn't real silk," she says.

"Did I tell you to talk? Did I? Did I?"

"I'm sorry," she says.

I strap her into the wrist shackles and, after lots of adjustments in chain length, manage to snap the ends into the screw eyes in the platform. She is finally spread-eagled on the bed and completely helpless, but it has been a hot and tiring process. Somehow I hadn't expected being a sadist to be such hard work.

"Could I please just say one single thing?" she asks.

"What?"

"The straps on my ankles aren't really very tight."

"You'll pay for telling me that," I say and kneel on the floor and adjust her ankle straps.

When I have finished, it occurs to me that I have temporarily run out of sadistic ideas--oh, I suppose I could simply go on spanking her, but what a bore for both of us. It also occurs to me that I never finished making our drinks. I stand up and go to the bar and mix myself a vodka and tonic and drink it straight down. I make a second one and walk back to the bed.

"Is that one for me?" she says.

"No," I say, "it's for me. I know I never gave you your drink, but if I try to give you this, it'll just dribble down your face and go all over the bed."

"Not if you hold my head and help me," she says.

"Yes it will," I say, but finally I take pity on her and on her ridiculous spread-eagle position and I hold her head and help her drink and it dribbles down her face and goes all over the bed. The funny thing is, though, that I don't really care that much. The funny thing is that I kind of like holding her head. The funny thing is that, even though I'm sure it's strictly against the rules, I feel like kissing her a little, so I do and it's kind of fun and she doesn't seem to mind it, either.

I keep kissing her and stroking her and we are both beginning to get very turned on.

"You can be very tender when you want to," she whispers.

I sigh a deep sigh.

"Yes, I can," I say.

"You're a funny kind of sadist," she says.

"You're an even funnier kind of masochist," I say. "You're probably the pushiest masochist in New York."

I notice a peculiar expression on her face.

"What if that peculiar expression on your face?" I say.

"I have a confession to make to you," she says.

"What's that?"

"Well, I'm working, sort of," she says.

"Working?"

"Yes. I'm researching a book on masochism in women," she says.

"Are you serious?" I say, starting to laugh. She says she is, and there is no reason not to believe her. Come to think of it, would a true masochist demand Stolichnaya vodka? Still, it's the kind of thing that's only believable in real life and not in fiction.

"Well, I'm researching an article for Playboy," I say.

We collapse with laughter. It's perfect--not only are the mail-order queens and the hookers I've been in contact with so far on this piece phonies but so is the sole masochist I've managed to flush out of the bushes. And so am I, of course.

"You know what I'd really like to do?" says Edith when she is finally able to speak.

"What would you really like to do?" I say.

"I'd like you to undo these silly chains and then I'd like you to hump my brains out."

"Edith, old buddy," I say, "you've got yourself a deal."