Dominated

I had absolutely no intent on taking my shirt off, getting handcuffed to a fence and whipped by the team of dominas at Exit Chicago’s bondage night Thursday when I went to the punk rock club to research the event for a magazine I write contribute to in town.

The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.

But after I asked if I could snap some pictures during one of their “sessions” the girls balked, pointing out that the folks who were being bonded might be less-than-enthused about the pictures of them in this position appearing in a publication.

“Well, fuck it then, I’ve got a couple friends here with me, how about you tie me up there for a couple minutes to do your thing, they’ll take some pictures and we won’t have to worry about it?”

The three of them looked at each other.

“Sure,” Miss Maya, the leader, said, “but you’ve got to take off your shirt and keep your hat on while we do it.”

I was wearing a black newsie.

“Really?” I reply, less enthused about the whole ordeal than I was 20 seconds ago.

“Yeah! If you want us to do this shit to you for free you do what we want you to do,” Maya replied. Dominatrix girls don’t take any shit.

“Fuck it,” I say, and peel off my sweater.

“Oooh, look at him, he’s a big bear,” one of them says as she rubs her hands across my omnipresent body hair.

So they handcuff me to a chain link fence in the middle of the bar and start whipping. Shortly thereafter I could feel them writing something on my back.

At first I was too distracted with self-consciousness to feel any pain. The whipping didn’t hurt so much, but the piercing looks of complete strangers was initually uncomfortable. They were just looking at me as though they were looking at a TV, like this was nothing out of the ordinary (which, for Thursday nights, it wasn’t) so after about 30 seconds I stopped caring. Nobody was laughing. Nobody was pointing. They were just casually observing me being dominated by three busty women in leather corsets.

Then a thirtysomething blonde woman rushed up to me out of nowhere and began asking me all kinds of personal questions. I’m not the most astute on picking up when I’m being picked up on, but I’ll assume this woman was flirting with me — an odd sensation when done while you’re shirtlessly tied to a fence in the middle of a bar.

She was gushing, asking me what I did for a living, where I was from, if I did this kind of thing frequently.

She was quite attractive and I remember briefly thinking to myself “Shit, if it means I’ll get aggressively hit-on by attractive women perhaps I should do this more often.”

Just as I was about to ask if she wanted to have a drink with me once I put my shirt back on and got down from this fence a man came up from behind, grabbed her arm and insisted she come back downstairs with he and his buddies.

“No!” She replied. “Look at him, he’s so cute! He’s adorable. And he’s from Iowa!” She hollered (I’d told her I was from Iowa — turns out she actually lives in Des Moines and was in town for the weekend.)

“Hey, let me introduce you to my husband,” she says to me as the man continues to tug at her.

Just then I feel a sharp burning sensation on my left arm and notice one of the girls has begun to pour hot candle wax on my shoulders and arms, something that’s never been done to me before.

“Mother fuck!” I scream in agony.

“Whatthefuckareyoudoingthatshithurts!” I reply, though now laughing at the absurdity of it all.

I hear the girls laugh devilishly behind me. I look forward again and notice the thirtysomething blonde has disappeared.

So they continue to pour wax on my back, and it burns but I get used to it after about drop No. 4.

Then they started tickling me, which is something I absolutely cannot handle. I began to giggle and prance like a little boy, attempting to bend my side so they couldn’t reach my tender armpits. Tickling is one of the most extreme forms of torture I’ve ever known. If I were ever put in a situation where my only two choices were to be shot in the head or tickled for an hour straight, I’d take the bullet every time. I simply cannot handle it.

I again hear the girls giggling, as they know they’ve found my weak spot.

In order to take my mind off the tickling sensation I chomped on my right bicep (the teeth marks lasted for two days). Sensing my extreme discomfort the girls kept at it more aggressively until they realized I couldn’t take it anymore. I looked over to my right and made direct, almost flirtatious eye contact with Miss Ammunition (she gave me her card afterwards) and she smiled. It was a smile that conveyed a “You think you’re some kind of Tough Guy journalist, but once we get you tied up, we can break anybody down” sentiment. It was the only part of the entire episode I found to be erotic in the least bit.

I still don’t understand how people get off sexually with this sort of behavior, but it was free and they didn’t leave any scars (though the next morning my bed was laced with candle wax crumbs and I had the words “Property of Miss Maya Mistress” written in black ink across my back.