the price of playing sick

I made a mistake when I played sick to get out of going to school in the 8th grade.  It was just the one time.  I had spent the weekend in a state of heightened ecstasy, because my foster father had procured tickets for me to attend a concert by one of my favorite bands.  Studying was the last thing on my mind.  Who could study when they had tickets to the Duran Duran concert?  Not me.  I spent the weekend listening to my Duran Duran albums, and calling every one of my friends who would listen to me babble about my good fortune.  They were all jealous.  For once, I felt like the cool kid among my peers.  This was a first for me, and I rode that high all weekend.


Monday morning, I woke early and with a sense of dread: we had been warned about a test in History class.  The topic was the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire.  Not only had I barely cracked my history book to study, but I hadn’t paid much attention during the class discussion on the topic.  There was no way I could go to school unprepared for this test.    Drawing inspiration from Ferris Bueller, I decided to play sick.  How hard could it be?  I could spend the day in bed.  Maybe my foster mother would bring the TV into my room.  I could have some soup, watch some TV, study a little.  Tomorrow, Mr. Farley would let me make up the test, and I could maintain my A in history class.  Good.  A plan.


My foster mother came into my room to get me up for school.  As was her habit, she raised the shades and gently shook my shoulder, chirping a cheerful, energetic “good morning!  Time to get up.  You don’t want to be late for school.” Trying to look and sound pathetic, I opened one eye and groaned, “I don’t feel good.”


A look of concern immediately crossed my foster mother’s face.  “Oh dear.  Oh no.  I hope you aren’t coming down with something.  You don’t look well.  What’s wrong?”


Try to keep it vague.  Nothing too specific.  A general stomach complaint would do the trick.  Another groan: “my stomach hurts.”


Now the concern shifted to alarm.  “Your stomach?  Oh no.  Where?” She laid her hand against my forehead.  “You do feel warm.  Ok.  You stay here in bed.  I’ll be back in a few minutes.” With that, my foster mother left my bedroom.  I anticipated her returning with tea and toast, and maybe an aspirin.


I was wrong.  She returned empty handed.    “Come on.  Let’s get you dressed.  You’re going to see a doctor.”


“What?” This wasn’t part of the plan. “I don’t need to see the doctor.  I just have a stomach ache is all.”


“Yes, dear, I know.  But a stomach ache could mean appendicitis.  And appendicitis can kill you.  So we need to get you checked out.”  She tossed me my jeans, helped me button my shirt.


I sulked on the ride to the doctor’s office.  This would certainly cut into my soup eating, TV watching, studying time.


The doctor saw me right away.  He looked me over, remarked that I looked a little pale (I am naturally pale).  He opined that I was a little on the thin side (also my usual condition).  He took my vitals, frowned at my blood pressure, said it was a little high.  Of course it was.  I was nervous about getting in trouble for playing sick, and I was impatient to be cleared to go home and watch TV and study.


Then he had me lie down on the exam table.  “Where does it hurt?” Before I could answer, he began palpitating my stomach.  I only meant to issue a little, downplayed groan.  Just enough to convince him I wasn’t faking it.  But his hands were cold, and that groan came out with more force than intended.


That did it.  That was enough for the good doctor.  Addressing my foster mother, he advised her that I should be admitted to the hospital immediately for an emergency appendectomy.


An. Emergency. Appendectomy.


Terrified, I immediately sat upright.  “No.  I don’t need an operation.  I just have a stomach ache.”


“I know,” the doctor soothed me.  “But the symptoms sound like appendicitis, and that’s nothing to fool with.  You can die of appendicitis, you know.”


“Yes, but what if I don’t have appendicitis?  Then you’re cutting me open for nothing.”


“Well, if you don’t have appendicitis you’ll be ok too.  You’ll live a nice normal life with no appendix, and you’ll never have to worry about it again.”


Now a nurse entered the exam room.  “Come on dear… we’re taking you upstairs to the hospital to get you fixed right up.  It’s just a few steps.  I can get a wheelchair if you can’t walk.”


At this point, I decided it was time to drop the ruse and come clean.  “I don’t have appendicitis!  I just didn’t want to go to school because I have a test and I didn’t study!  Please don’t cut me open.  Please.  I don’t need an operation.”


The doctor told my foster mother, “we need to get this done.  She isn’t making any sense.  She’s delirious, probably from the pain.”


By this time I was crying.  None of this was supposed to be happening.  “Please, please don’t cut me open.” I was begging in earnest.  The nurse tried to calm me down on the way upstairs to the emergency room.  “It’s all right, dear.  You’re going to be just fine.  It will hardly leave a scar.  You’ll be good as new.”  My foster mother walked alongside me, promising to be there when I got out of surgery.  Shit.  She should be home making soup, serving it to me in bed while I watched Different Strokes reruns.


I was ushered into another exam room.  The nurse undressed me, replacing my clothes with a hospital gown.  As soon as she was finished, the anesthesiologist appeared.  “You’re gonna be just fine,” he assured me.  “I’m gonna give you something to make you go to sleep and when you wake up, this will all be over and you’ll be on your feet again in no time.”


Defiant to the end, I struggled against the mask he placed over my nose and mouth.  The nurse held me down while the anesthesiologist calmly instructed me to breathe deeply and count backwards.  Fuck him.  I wasn’t going to count.  The last words I said before losing consciousness: “you can all fuck right off”.


I woke up crabby, itchy, and still groggy.  I was in a private room, with an IV in my arm.  It took me a minute to remember what had happened.  The history test.  I played sick.  They took my appendix out.  My fucking appendix.  The fuckers cut me open.


I shifted the blankets aside and lifted my hospital gown to look at my stomach.  Sure enough, there was a big gauze bandage on my right side.  They actually went through with it.   They actually cut me open and took out my appendix.  Indignant at this invasion, still half out of my mind from the anesthesia, I started frantically pressing the call button to summon the nurse.  She came in briskly, bearing a tray of jello and tea.  “Oh, good!  You’re awake.  See, we told you it was just a little operation, no big deal at all.  How are you feeling?”


“You cut me open.”


“Yes, dear, that’s what we have to do when someone has appendicitis.  But you’ll be fine.  It’s all taken care of.” The nurse set the tray on the table next to the bed, and tried to get me to eat some jello.  I fucking hate jello.   I especially hate red jello.  This was red.  Trying to cheer me up, the nurse turned on the TV.  They had cable TV at the hospital.  “Oh look, have you seen this movie?  Ferris Bueller.  This is great.  So funny.” Fuck you, Ferris Bueller.  You got me into this mess, you know that?


This was in 1986, when an appendectomy meant a 3-4 day hospital stay as a matter of course.  They kept me for five days.  I guess that’s because foster kids have insurance.


I had visitors, of course.  My foster parents came to see me every day.  They brought me books, and flowers, and a big stuffed bear.  They hovered and fussed and promised a trip to my favorite pizza restaurant upon my discharge.  I scowled and refused to be placated.  They took my fucking appendix, and pizza wasn’t going to bring it back.


You know who else came to visit me?  Mr. Farley, my history teacher.  He brought me two candy bars: M&Ms, and Reese’s peanut butter cups.  The nurse confiscated these, as they did not conform to the clear liquid diet ordered by the doctor.  Mr. Farley had something else for me, too.  “I know you’re a conscientious student, so I figured I’d drop off your homework so you don’t have to fall behind.  It will give you something to do while you recover.  Also, we had a test a couple days ago.  I can just administer it to you now, so we can get that out of the way.”


Maybe the worst part of the story, is I aced that fucking test.  I got 100%.  So I really did lose my appendix for nothing.


I didn’t play sick again after that.  I figured I didn’t have any more body parts to gamble with.





fairy stories

“Everything’s a story – You are a story -I am a story.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess


Among my grandfather’s gifts, he was a creative, generous story teller.  He could spin the simplest things into colorful narratives, holding me in rapt attention.  That’s a neat trick, when you have to entertain a small child.  His gift of story telling instilled in me a lifelong love of a good tale.  Any story well told is a gift to the listener.


Of all the legends he told me when I was little, I loved the fairy stories the best.


According to my grandfather, a family of fairies lived in our house, in the walls or under the sink or floorboards.  And just like little mice, they were active after everyone was asleep.  Over many nights of bedtime narratives, he familiarized me with their habits and preferences.  There was a Grandma fairy, who wore dresses and aprons and stood about five inches tall.  Often he re purposed my dollhouse furniture to stage evidence of her nocturnal activity: he’d put the little rocking chair on the bay window ledge, with a tiny ball of yarn and two toothpick knitting needles.  Grandma fairy, he explained, was knitting mittens and watching the snow fall.


There was of course a Grandpa fairy, too.  It seemed Grandpa fairy liked to sit in the kitchen with my grandfather, while I slept.  My grandfather put a few drops of beer in my grandmother’s thimble and left it next to some rye bread and cheese crumbs and told me he was teaching the Grandpa fairy to play cribbage.  Grandpa Fairy went to work, just like my own grandfather.  He taught at the Fairy School, and had all sorts of fairy pupils.  Fae children, just like me except very tiny.  The things they learned at the Fairy School were the same things I might learn when I started school: reading, math, spelling.  Sometimes I found their homework lessons on tiny slips of paper.


On warm nights, the fairies played outside.  Grandpa set up my dollhouse croquet set under the lilac bushes, placing the chairs and tea service nearby.  He even added a few crumbs to make the scene more convincing.   The fairies had a tea party because the moon was full.   This is where they danced, on these tiny scattered lilac petals.   Now and then, the fairies could get up to mischief: Grandpa swore they were helping themselves to his tomatoes.   “Go see if you can find any more evidence,” he told me.  “I don’t want them swiping my cucumbers.”  I asked why not?  Didn’t we have enough cucumbers?  “Well,” he reasoned, “if they swipe too many cucumbers, Grandma won’t be able to make pickles.  And you know how you love pickles.”  Enough said.  I scouted the remainder of the garden, determined to protect the cucumber harvest.  Uh huh, just as Grandpa had suggested, there were tiny footprints in the mud near the cucumbers.  I busied myself by making a tiny “keep out” sign, which I glued to a popsicle stick and planted in the dirt where the fairies couldn’t miss it.


Grandpa encouraged me to leave offerings for our tiny visitors.  I suggested leaving them the parts of my dinner that I didn’t want, but he vetoed that and said they’d rather have some of the cake we were having for dessert.  I reluctantly parted with some, which I’m pretty sure he ate.  That’s ok, I’m not mad about it.  Bread for the story teller.  I’d part with a lot of cake to hear him tell another story.


I never really believed in fairies, but the chronicles enchanted me and I understood the unspoken covenant: skepticism is anathema to the spirit of the story.  I knew my part.


His fables stayed with me and continue to enrich my life and inspire me.  Once in a while I pay tribute to him by using rocks, acorns, leaves, twigs, and other such findings to make fairy circles at the park.  My hope is that a child will find it and a story will be told.

gym class

Patrons ask me for humiliation a lot, as part of certain types of BDSM sessions. I understand humiliation.  I get it.  I was first exposed to humiliation by my junior high gym teacher, when I was about 13.

My physical education instructor was Miss Rand.   She was energetic, mouthy, muscular, and athletic.  She sported one silver stud earring and had a spiky mullet (it was an officially sanctioned ’80s lesbian haircut) and I was half afraid of her…but I also idolized her.  By contrast, I was built like a shoestring, mousy and homely and awkward as hell.  I wanted to be her.  I’d never known anyone like her before.  She was in better shape than anyone I had ever met and I suspected I would never measure up but I was driven to try to please her…because she was so demanding of me, doing anything remotely praiseworthy became my goal.  I was Miss Rand’s so called “special project”.  She was determined to make an example of my lack of athleticism, her explicitly stated goal being to “whip you into shape”.  And I tried so hard.  Believe me, if the effort within my power could have improved my athletic prowess, I would have been a star athlete.   Sadly, despite my concerted efforts I never managed to merit her praise.  Instead I received only vehement criticism, delivered in the style of a Marine drill sergeant.  For instance, the way she called me out during our fitness assessment: “Wehrman, get your skinny ass up that rope now!  No excuses!” …and… “Wehrman, you’re reading at a 6 on the skin fold test!  You will never reach puberty!  They do not make gym suits in kindergarten sizes!” …and my favorite: “Wehrman, do you want to be the first person in history to flunk gym?  You better get down on the floor and give me ten push ups!” …as she continued to tower over me, making menacing red marks on her clipboard, her gym shoes mere inches from my face.

This person who was a paragon of fitness and athleticism was acknowledging me.  True, she was acknowledging me for being a clumsy, lazy, skinny fuck up…but STILL. Better that than to be ignored, or so I thought.  Sometimes I feared that if I did well, she might not say anything at all.  This fear never caused me to diminish my efforts in her class though, because I really hoped that if I applied myself I could be like her, or even gain what I coveted most: her approval.  Humiliation can be complicated like that.

I don’t think she’d be much more impressed with me today, but I doubt I’d be as impressed with her.  Nevertheless I do appreciate her contribution to my kink education, if not my motivation to achieve fitness.  That part sadly did not stick, possibly (at least in part) because my role model wasn’t very encouraging.  If she were here in front of me today I’d give her a piece of my mind and talk to her about consent and boundaries.  And that haircut.

some of my paintings

I just updated, added a few new pieces. 🙂

domme de plume

When I’m not doing kinky stuff or writing or taking pictures, sometimes I paint.

watercolor painting of Yvetteyvette3

watercolor, self portraitdesiree1

acrylic, the Tenth Doctor995486_583871205003913_973508974_n

watercolor, Tarlatarla

acrylic portrait of Onyxonyx2

acrylic painting of Onyxonyx

watercolor painting of Yvetteyvette4

Acrylic painting: Cuntcunt

watercolor painting: slave girlslavegirl

watercolor painting: Malcolm X15109342_1269175719806788_6994362499761114760_n

watercolor painting: Obamawatercolor7

watercolor painting: menstrual periodperiod

watercolor painting: Black Power, back pocketblackpower

Acrylic painting, Freddie Mercuryfreddie

acrylic painting, self portraitdesiree

watercolor painting, self portraitwatercolor3

watercolor painting, the Golden Girlsgoldengirls

watercolor painting, Colin Kaepernickcolin

acrylic painting, Blood Of My Cuntry (protest art)bloodofmycuntry

Bruce Springsteen, watercolor, 16″ x 12′


Mr. Rogers, 12″ x 14″, watercolor


Judith, 16″ x 20″, acrylic


Prince, 24″ x 28″, acrylic


View original post

busted trade

*Carl, a self described sissy slut, has been coming to see me for a few years.  His visits have always been sporadic.  I suspect this is due to the nature of his work schedule.  I don’t know what sort of work he does; he never talks about it and rarely drops any hints.  He could shovel guts at the slaughter house, for all I care.  In fact it wouldn’t surprise me if this were the case.  He seems like the kind of guy who could enjoy doing dirty, physical labor.


Aside from being a sissy slut, Carl is also into being humiliated and degraded.  Nothing thrills him more than being put to ill use.  I certainly wouldn’t want to let him down on this point.


We have a game, Carl and I.  It seldom varies: He arrives 15 minutes before his play time is scheduled to begin.  This is the amount of time he requires to transform himself into Carla.  The transformation process is fairly simple: he dons a short polka dot dress which he brings with him, and puts on gaudy pink lipstick and a garish blonde wig. While he attends to these personal details, I finish preparing the play room.


Today I had a surprise for him.


A few weeks ago I was at a second hand store, where I bought a big poster of Sylvester Stallone as Rocky.  It cost me a whole dollar (totally worth it).  He’s standing against a blue background, larger than life, in boxing gloves and trunks.  It’s absurd.  I used push pins to mount it to the wall.  Then I found a silicone cock with a suction cup base, and mounted this to the wall right beneath the poster.   It was just as tacky as Carl-turned-Carla.  It was perfect.   Now, music.  Surely, sleazy music was in order: Whitesnake.  That would be perfect.  Finally I poured myself a glass of wine.  Shit was about to get ridiculous and I didn’t want to be entirely sober for it.


Finally Carl, rather Carla, entered the play room.  I allowed her a moment to survey the addition of the thoughtful details I had supplied.   She noticed the poster immediately.  I didn’t give her any time to ask questions, though.  This was my party, and the games would commence on my schedule.


“Well, hello Carla.  How kind of you to join me at last.”  I took a good swallow of my wine, looked her over.   “You look even trashier than usual today.  What did you do, take advice on slut appeal?”


Carla blushed and lowered her eyes.  “no, Mistress.  I just got a new dress is all.”


Indeed, she did have a new dress.  It was even shorter, tighter, and sluttier than the little polka dot dress she usually wears for our sessions.


“It suits you, though strictly speaking, whores like you don’t really need clothes.  It seems like a wasted effort, since they always end up on the floor anyway.”


“Is that bad, Mistress?  Is it bad that I’m such a slut?”


I snorted.  “No, Carla.  It’s not a bad thing.  It’s good that you know your station in life.  Now get down on your knees.”


Carla obediently assumed a kneeling position.  Such a well trained little slut.


“That’s where you belong, Carla.  On your knees.  Now, arrange yourself so you are face to face with this cock right here.”  I used my riding crop to point and indicate the cock I had mounted just under the Rocky movie poster.  Carla hastened to comply with this directive, swiveling on her knees so she was basically face to face with the wall mounted phallus.  Her eyes gazed up at the poster, then back at the cock, an expression of worshipful adoration on her face.


“Do you see what I’ve done for you here, Carla?”


“Yes Mistress.  This is great.  I really appreciate it.”


“I certainly hope you do, Carla.  But I think it’s time that you let your actions speak for you.  Show me how a proper slut displays her appreciation.”  With this command, I handed Carla a wrapped condom.  She applied the condom to the cock, then applied herself to fellating it.  I stood nearby, sipping my wine while Carla sampled that cock like a connoisseur, delicately moving her head in measured strokes, with uncharacteristic catlike grace.


This wouldn’t do.


“Uh, no, bitch.  This isn’t how a slut shows her appreciation for cock.  What the fuck do you think you’re doing?  I trained you better than that.  Haven’t I taught you anything?”


Abruptly, Carla stopped and cast a startled glance my way.  I set my wine glass on a nearby table, then positioned myself directly behind Carla. Bracing her head between my hands, I placed her mouth back on the cock and began deliberately moving her head until I heard gagging, gurgling sounds emanating from the depths of her throat.  This garnered no sympathy from me, but rather prompted me to increase the energy I put toward the effort.  Carla placed her palms on the wall under the poster, in an apparent effort to brace herself.  That’s fine.  She wasn’t resisting or struggling, just trying to keep steady.


I decided it was time to remind Carla of the terms.


“Now, Carla, this is the effort and energy I expect you to invest in your work.  Which brings me to the point: being a slut is your job, not mine.  My job is to see that you are an adept, willing, obedient slut.  Your job is to carry out whatever slut business I assign to you, with due diligence.  If I have to stand behind you and move your damned slutty head on this cock, it’s almost like I’m doing your job for you.  Not cool, Carla.  Not cool at all.  When I agreed to train you as a sissy slut, I didn’t think I needed to specify that you would be the one doing the slutty work.  You do the work, I issue commentary.  You suck the cocks, I critique you.  You are the man on the ground.  I am the voice from the grandstand.  You’re the ho and I’m the brains.  You do what I say.  I ain’t gonna bust no sweat on account of your lazy ass.  I will not abide an incompetent slut.  Do you understand me?”


Carla nodded her head, the cock still lodged in her throat.  The bulky protuberance created a big, round bulge against her cheek.  I smacked the back of her head and snickered.  “Good, I’m glad we’re on the same page.  Now, I’m going to sit here and enjoy my wine and watch you be a slut.”  And I proceeded to do just that.


Gentle reader, have you ever watched an artist at work?  I wish you could have been there to see it.  Carla applied herself with industry and determination.  She kept pace with the music, choreographing her head motions to the sordid strains of overproduced hair metal (God help me, I like the band anyway).  All the same, I wasn’t about to reward her for doing what she was supposed to be doing in the first place.  There’s no good reason to let a pupil rest on their laurels.


“Hey Carla.  I’m glad to see your head is back in the game.”  I giggled at my own joke.  “This is the sort  of effort you need to be putting into your work, every god damned time.  You are representing me.  Your efforts are a reflection of your training.  Your sluttiness needs to reflect a degree of enthusiasm and proficiency.  I won’t have no half ass slut in my brigade.”


Carla said “aghurulumph”.  A thin, silver streak of drool stretched from her mouth to her lap.  Her lipstick was speared along the length of the priapic projection.  Her blonde wig rested askew, giving her a bizarre, asymmetrical appearance.  Blue eye shadow and thick black eyeliner rimmed her eyes, and two circles of pink rouge (probably smudges of the same lipstick she wore) graced her cheeks.  She looked like a sad, slutty clown.


“The only problem I see with this, is that I couldn’t turn you loose on the boardwalk and expect you to pick up any business.  You don’t have a lot of curbside appeal.  I mean, mostly guys will fuck anything but considering that you look like Phyllis Diller, expecting them to pay you might be a bridge too far.  This represents a problem for me as your business manager.”  Carla listened to this speech without missing a beat.  “It’s not your clothes.  That dress is skimpy enough.  And it’s short enough to show off your legs, which are at least nice enough.  Guys will like the blonde hair too.  And clearly, you are capable of doing good work; your effort and skill aren’t lacking.  So, all of those things are in your favor.  As far as I can see, the only thing really holding you back is your face.”  I paused to finish my wine.  “All right, Carla.  Stop sucking that cock and turn around and look at me.”


Still kneeling, Carla pivoted 90 degrees to face me.  I poured myself another half glass of wine, took a few sips, and studied her.  “Do you understand what I mean, Carla?  I’m telling you that no matter how good you are at sucking cock, you are never gonna be taken seriously because your face is a boner killer.”


“I understand Mistress.  I don’t know what to do about that.  I suppose I could wear a mask.”


I pretended to consider this.  “Well, yes, you could wear a mask.  That might work, if we could find a mask that didn’t impede your ability to do your work.  But, there are other things to consider too.”


“Like what, Mistress?”

“Well, sucking cock is kinda for amateurs.  I mean, sure, it’s ok but it’s not where the big money is.  As your business manager it’s my job to maximize your street value so you can earn your full potential.  So maybe we need to think bigger.  You see what I’m saying?”


Carla cocked her head to the side.  “not really, Mistress.  I’m not sure I understand.”


I sighed.  “Of course you don’t understand.  You’re not very smart.  It’s a good thing you have me to do your thinking for you.”  Again using my crop as a pointer, I indicated a collar and leash hanging from the wall.  “Go get that leash and collar, and bring it over here.  Hurry up about it, we don’t have all day.”


Carla scrambled to her feet, retrieved the specified articles, then knelt at my feet to present them.  I secured the collar around her throat, then took up the slack on the leash, pulling her slightly forward.  I got in her overly made up face.  Her lipstick was smeared.  Her wig was still clinging to one side of her head.  Her unevenly applied eyeliner had smudged.  “You look like the sort of girl who gets banged behind the dumpster in the alley.  Or by the pier, under a bridge.  Or maybe in a gas station bathroom.  It doesn’t matter.”


I swear, she was glowing.  Clearly she considered it a compliment.  I was on a roll and kept going.  “It’s ok.  This isn’t just your problem.  If it was, you’d be fucked.  You’re lucky I am here to figure these things out, because I think I have it sorted for you.”


Carla gulped.  “What do you mean, Mistress?”


“I think I know a way to get around potential clients seeing your face.”


“Ok Mistress.  Anything you want.  Whatever you tell me, I’ll do.”


“See I’ve been down to the promenade, Carla, and I’ve seen the competition you’re up against.  It’s fierce.  Those girls have it all over you, at least in the looks department.  So we’re gonna have to get creative.  The way to keep the johns from getting scared off by your face, is to make sure they never get a look at your face.  Stand up, please.”  I stood, still grasping the leash and bringing Carla to her feet with me.  One half baby step at a time, I inched her backward, until her ass crack was lined up with the wall mounted cock.  Once I had her where I wanted her, I tightened my grip on the leash, taking up another fistful of slack.  Lowering my voice to a low but powerful rumble, I enunciated a dire proclamation: “We’re about to level up your game, slut.  Remember when I told you we were gonna have to think bigger?  This is where it’s at.”


Carla stuttered.  “Th-the back door, Mistress?  You want me to take it up the rear end?”


“You catch on fast, girlie.”  I dropped my end of the leash and busied myself hiking up Carla’s dress, then gave her a weighty smack on the ass.  “Trust me, it’s brilliant.  For starters you’ll be leveling up your slut game.  Every slut sucks cock, but not every slut takes it up the butt.  Still, it’s becoming more and more common, pretty soon it will be status quo.  You’ve gotta do it just to stay competitive.  Also as we discussed, your face is a non starter.  No john is gonna pay $10 to look down and see that.  But… if we can  arrange your dates so the johns only see your butt, you can make me some money.  Just think: if you catch a bunch of sailors on shore leave, all you gotta do to set up shop is just bend over.  Get you a sign that says “tap this: $10″.  Hang your shingle outside a truckstop bathroom.  I guarantee, they’ll queue up, it’ll be wham bam thank you ma’am and they can throw their money on the floor on their way out.  Simple, easy.  No need to break a sweat.  Your butt can do the work for you.”


Carla planted her feet, rested her palms on her thighs, and backed her ass up onto that cock until it disappeared.  She established a cadence of backing up, easing forward, backing up, easing forward.  Back arched, gaze fixed.  Slow and steady at first, then faster.  God damn, that slut could take it.  I watched and sipped my wine as Carla continued to defile herself with 6″ of silicone.  The wig finally fell off.  It didn’t matter.  Nothing was going to improve her appearance at this point anyway.  I was doing okay until I glanced up at the Rocky poster.  That was too much.  The smirking face of the oiled up champion, looming over Carla the slut.  I laughed.  Once I started, I couldn’t stop.  Abandoning all pretense of decorum, I laughed and laughed until I snorted.


I guess you had to be there.


Unfazed by my mirth, Carla spent herself on her exertions.  She worked it like a pro, like she was born to it.  Grunting and sweating and flexing, a grimace of concentration etched on her face.   Her pace, frenzied and escalating, didn’t wane.  She kept it up for many long minutes.  Then, a sudden drop.  She just stopped, falling silent except for her breathing, and panted out a raspy “no more…I can’t take any more.”  Still bent over at a 90 degree angle, her shoulders heaved.  Sweat dripped from her face.


I handed her a few paper towels.  “Here, slut.  Clean yourself up.”  She straightened herself and mopped her forehead.  Then, just like flipping a switch, she wasn’t Carla any more, but became Carl again.  He stripped off the dress, used a few baby wipes to scrub off the remaining makeup.  Finally, he donned his usual uniform of jeans and a t shirt.  Not a trace of his former costume remained.  The shabby, vulgar whore was gone until next time.  There’s always a next time.


Thursday 02/28/2019: The Main Event

Thursday nights, the evening we host Bondage A Go Go, are my favorite.  It’s the time when we are able to show up for our beloved BDSM community.  Though there are always at least a few curious new attendees, many are regulars from one week to the next.  This is fun for us, especially when they are in the habit of playing.  As we get to know a person, we can better tailor their experience to suit their preferences, and of course that’s always a good thing.

One such person is a young woman we’ll call Daeva.  We see her frequently, and most of the people who join us for the event are familiar with her.  She’s friendly, sociable, and on almost always in the mood to play.  Our event photographer managed to get quite a few pictures of a recent play scene, so I thought you’d enjoy seeing some of them.


As with any scene, we devote the first few minutes to lighter play, also known as a warm up.  Daeva is partial to sensory play for this initial phase.  I might use toys with different textures, such as furry or scratchy.  Occasionally I’ll deliver a lighter impact spanking.  Daeva pretty much gives me license to express my creativity and I take advantage of this.


One of my favorites is the **vibrating glove (pictured).  It’s a loose fitting nylon glove with little vibrating pads in the finger tips.  It has two speeds and requires three AA batteries. Everyone loves it.  It’s great for warming up, or for cooling down …. and incidentally it is great for a scalp massage.

Once I had a little fun with Daeva, I turned her over to Master Hawke for a bit of rough treatment.


Master Hawke is an expert in manual domination.  He uses a combination of percussive impact and pressure points.  He also isn’t afraid to subject a person to a bit of rough handling.  This is a good way to let a submissive know they are truly taken in hand and at his mercy.


An experience with Master Hawke is bound to get your endorphins working.  Endorphins are “feel good” chemicals, such as you might feel after a workout or a night of dancing or a few thrill rides at an amusement park. Getting a spanking (for instance) is just another way to chase that dragon.  It’s a natural high.  People usually feel pretty good after a corporal session.  Energized, mood elevated. Some people report a heightened sense of well being, lasting for days after some rough use.

With an intense corporal session, the goal of course is to hurt, but not to harm.   Hawke is really good at taking someone just to the edge, then maybe a bit farther.  There’s art, science, and skill involved.

After Hawke finished up with Daeva, we took a short break.  I had a shot of tequila and said hi to a few people.  Then I met Daeva back in the play area for an encore.  She was stripped down and dancing in her skivvies by this time, waiting for me to return.


That is not an opportunity you want to waste.


Since she was pretty well  spent from her time with the Master, we kept it fairly light.  Just more sensory play.  Dripping wax and ice, then scraping the cooled wax off her skin with the edge of a blade.  Though this is on the less intense end of the spectrum, it likely felt fairly intense as her body was still riding the wave of the endorphin rush.


Though Daeve was used, she was far from spent.  I ordered her across my lap for an OTK spanking.  Just a light one.  I wanted to give her a prolonged cooling down period.  Besides, we had quite an audience of onlookers so why not give them a show.


We host Bondage A Go Go every Thursday except for the 3rd Thursday each month.  All play is consensual.  The event begins at 10pm.  There’s no cover for midnight.  Join us for a drink, some dancing, and a good beating.  Or, just watch.  It’s a pretty good show!


If you have never been and are curious about what to expect, here are a couple articles I wrote as primers on the event:

*photos by PJ Weingart


**The Fukuoku Five Finger Massage Glove.  It’s pretty easy to find a retailer.  The price seems to range from $60-100, give or take.  There’s a right hand and a left hand version, and it comes in black or hot pink.

at my mercy, at my feet

I’ve been playing with *David for about a year.  He comes to see me every few weeks to be subjected to various indignities.

I remember our first session.  David illustrated the nature of his fantasies in elaborate detail.  He wanted to feel out of control.  He wanted to throw himself at the mercy of a Dominant woman.  He longed to be degraded as I saw fit.  He admitted to loving feet, particularly if they were sweaty.  Mine were because I had been wearing my leather boots all afternoon.  Upon hearing this revelation, he begged for a chance to prove himself worthy to worship my feet.

He described his limits: no insertions, no marks, no blood.  I told him the safe word and ordered him to strip.  I gathered rope, a blindfold, a ball gag, and a pair of panties made of lavender satin and trimmed with lace.  I handed him the latter, instructing him to put them on.

I lit a few candles and put on a CD while David busied himself with the task I had given him.  When he was finished he said “ok, Mistress.  They’re on.”

“What’s on, David?  I don’t appreciate vagueness.  You will need to learn to be more specific.”

“I put the panties on, Mistress.”

“Oh, good,” I answered.  “That’s excellent.  Now you may kneel.”

David obeyed.  I fitted the blindfold over his eyes and fastened a collar around his neck.  I ordered him onto all fours, then added that he should lower his chest to the floor and place his wrists behind him.  I used a piece of rope to bind his wrists behind his back.

“I’m going to gag you in a minute, so if there’s anything you’d like to say this would be the time.”  I showed him the ball gag, which I had wrapped in plastic during my preparations.

Of course he had something to say.  “I have a question.  Why did you make me put these panties on?”

I answered him slowly and succinctly: “I’m in charge of you, right?”

He answered: “yes, Mistress.”

“And you  mentioned that you hope to be allowed to worship my feet, did you not?”

“I did, Mistress.”

“There you go.  I told you to put the panties on because it entertains me to see you wear them.  I suspect that you buy your underwear in a twelve pack, and probably always have.  Now, you’re wearing a pair of bargain bin panties.  Think of it as a short walk on the wild side.  If you hope to worship my feet, you should thank me because those panties are a step in that direction.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

I told him he was welcome, then I popped the ball of the gag into his mouth.  I put a few keys in his hand and told him to jingle if he needed to get my attention.

Once David was gagged I sat on the floor in front of him and removed my boots.  I rested my foot on the back of his head and slowly lowered my right stocking, taking pains to not snag it.  I left the stocking draped over his head, the toe right by his nose, damp with the sweat of my sole.

His nostrils flared as he recognized the scent.  He imbibed the bouquet in deep gulping inhalations.  Spit seeped from his stretched mouth and dribbled down his chin.  He gurgled and drooled as he drew in my essence in desperate snorts.  I removed my left stocking, noting that it had a run.  Damn.  Oh well.  I guess it was David’s lucky day.  I wadded the stocking into a tight ball and without announcing my plan, I removed the gag from my subject’s mouth and replaced it with the stocking.  I used pallet wrap to hold the gag in place, winding it around his stuffed, half open mouth several times.

David slurped on the stocking, sucking the flavor of my sweat from the sheer nylon material.

“You’re drinking my sweat, David.  No more drooling, now.  Make sure you get it all.” I grasped his hair and tugged, lifting his head.  I edged my toe under the blindfold and lifted it, sliding it up his forehead.  He nudged his face toward the sole of my foot.  I gripped his nose between my first and second toes, cutting off his breath for a few seconds.  I moulded my arch to his forehead.  I rested my heel against his chin and sprawled my long toes across his brow.   I flexed, arched, and pointed my foot just out of his reach.  He flailed toward it in an earnest attempt to feel my sole against his face again.  I’ll say this much: he was motivated.  He heroically struggled forward, crawling on his shoulders.  Now and then I let him reach his target, only to inch backward and withdraw his hard won prize.  I admired his dedication.  He would have crawled around the block for a chance to bury his face in my feet.  In fact he seemed content to merely exert himself with no guaranteed outcome.

I often will allow a scene to reach a plateau so I can observe my subjects in these moments..  It is no small thing to overcome your self consciousness and acquiesce to your desires.  My view is from a different angle.  From where I sit, submission looks like liberation from convention and constraint.  I know the degree of trust and confidence and sheer guts involved.  For me, this comes into sharp focus through a degree of detached identification with my subjects.  That’s what I take away from my sessions: the gift of an entirely different perspective.  This is the vision that guides my hand as a Dominant.

I untied David’s wrists.  Next I used safety shears to cut through the plastic wrap that secured the stocking gag.  I held out a baggie for him to put the spit soaked stocking into, then I said: “Ok, David.  It’s your choice.  You can have my feet in your face and go home with blue balls, or you can jack off.  One or the other.”

He didn’t even need a minute to think about it.  He automatically answered, “I want your feet, Mistress.”

I told him to lay on the floor facing upward, with his head right at the foot of my throne.  Once he was in the prescribed place I rested both of my bare feet on his flushed face.

He still wore the knickers.  His hair was damp with perspiration.  His breath was humid and hot against my soles. I knew this was all he wanted or cared about at that moment.  Nothing else mattered, just as it should be.  I made him lie still under my feet until it was time for him to leave.

He asked if he could keep the stocking.  I certainly didn’t want it back.  I told him he could have it on condition that he wore the panties home.  He agreed to this stipulation and left with blue balls, as was the contract.


*name changed





Adam, the loser

*Adam likes being ordered to do humiliating, degrading things.  The weirder, the more bizarre, the more he likes it.   He also likes to be humiliated verbally.  No topic is off limits.  No issue is too taboo for him.  In fact, he pretty much lampoons himself and hands me most of the material I use on him.  He comes to see me about once a month, because everyone else in his life has too much to lose by handing him his ass.  Not me.  I don’t give one fuck about his social or professional importance, his self esteem, his feelings, or anything else.  I command, he obeys.  It’s simple, honest, and clean.  If I want him to wear panties, he wears them.  If I order him to submit to a whipping, he absorbs every blow without flinching.  He relishes every colorfully uttered word of verbal humiliation.  He delights in performing acts of depravity.  It’s his duty and pleasure to submit to every petty demand, every trial I choose to bestow.


“Crawl to the cross on your hands and knees.  Now.”  I uttered these words in a soft, stern voice, a voice that Adam wouldn’t think of disobeying.  Not because he fears disappointing me, or making me angry.  He couldn’t possibly disappoint me.  I am too well accustomed to the nature and failings of men.


Now he knelt at the base of the heavy wooden St. Andrew’s Cross, awaiting further instruction.


“You’re such a loser, Adam.”  I spoke the words as fact, with cool disdain.


“I know, Mistress.”


“Tell me why you’re a loser.”


“Because I am a useless fuck without an original thought in my head.  And because I just slipped into my place in life without working for it.”


“That’s pretty insightful,”  I said.  “I didn’t expect that much self awareness from you, considering you’re basically a well dressed mushroom.” I scruffed his hair, tugging his head to the side.  Then I was near his ear, right up close, and my voice was a whisper: “I bet you couldn’t fuck to save your life.


Instantly, Adam was aroused.  “You’re right, Mistress.  I can’t.  My wife hasn’t let me touch her for two years.”


“That’s not surprising at all, you useless tool.  Why should she?  I bet she’s way out of your league.  She’s probably getting it off with your gardener while you play eighteen holes with other losers.”


It’s ridiculously easy to push his buttons.  Hardly a challenge at all.


And I wasn’t finished: “Do you know how I know these things about you, Adam?  -Because you are a cliché.  Your life is defined by banality.  You walk in here with your expensive watch and your tailored suits and your Italian shoes, but for all the airs you put on, you’re mundane, Adam.  You are base, classless, and common.”  With that pronunciation, I tugged his head upright once more.  I stood, straightened myself, and tapped him on the shoulder with the riding crop.  “In layman’s terms, Adam, you’re boring.”


Adam’s reaction to this speech showed that I read him word for word.  By his expression, I could tell that every detail of my assessment was spot on.  He knew I was right.


“Turn around, look at me.”


Adam obeyed, pivoting on his knees to face me.  I was seated on the throne, a tall, imposing, wrought iron chair.  I remained mute, surveying him with an attitude of indifference.  I was impeccable, a picture of elegance.  I was a goddess, and he was a worm.  I saw him for what he was: a loser, a poser.  And he had my undivided attention.  Even if I didn’t look upon him with favor, still I looked.


“Adam, look on the table by the cage.  There’s a package of magic markers.  Retrieve it, please.”


Adam did as I bid, crawling to the specified table.  There was in fact a package of different colored markers.  Kneeling, he took the package in hand and waited for further instruction.


“Pick a color, Adam.  Any color, it’s not important.”


Adam opened the box and selected the blue marker, then placed the box back on the table.  He rested on his heels, waiting for further instruction.


“All right.  Blue it is.  Sit there on the floor and color your dick blue.”


“Color it blue?  You mean all over?”


“Yes, you simpleton.  I want you to color it blue.  All over.  Get busy and do it.  I don’t have all day.”


“Yes, Mistress.”  Adam took the cap off the marker and began the assigned task.  Some of the color transferred to his hands while he worked, but there didn’t seem to be any way to avoid this.  He worked slowly, meticulously, trying not to miss any spots.  Though he obeyed willingly, the absurdity of the situation was not lost on him: he was a grown man of 54, senior partner of a law firm.  And here he was, naked in a BDSM dungeon, coloring his penis blue with a washable magic marker.  The assignment was surreal, bizarre.  But I told him to do it, and damned if he was going to argue.  All told, it took him about ten minutes to accomplish.  When he finished, he replaced the cap on the marker, laid it on the floor, and said “I’m finished, Mistress.”


“I see.  Very good.  It looks like you got good coverage.  Stand, and approach me.”


Adam walked to the throne and stood at attention.  I leaned forward slightly, to more closely examine his workmanship.


“It’s always been pretty unimpressive, but now it looks even more ridiculous than usual.  It may even be an improvement.  At least it’s honest.  I mean, it looks like a sad little thing.  Poor little sad, silly, blue thing.”  I giggled daintily.  Adam’s cheeks reddened as he stood in front of me, subject to my judgment.  Then I stood suddenly, brushing past him.  “I’ll be right back.  I have to get something.  You stay right there.”   I left the room, returning about a minute later with a disposable plastic tarp and a jar of strawberry jam.  The former, I thrust into Adam’s hands. “Spread this on the floor.”  Obediently, he unfolded and spread the tarp on the floor in front of my throne.


“Good.  Now, kneel.”  I sat down again, placing the jar of jam on the floor near my feet.  Adam’s eyes followed my movements.  If he bore any curiosity about my plans, his face betrayed nothing.  He knelt as I instructed, as I have trained him to do on command: knees apart, back straight, hands placed on top of the thighs, palms turned down.


“So your wife doesn’t let you fuck her anymore, huh.  Honestly Adam, that doesn’t surprise me.  You probably aren’t any better at fucking than you are at anything else.  I bet she found someone else to fuck her.   Some young, hot stud with washboard abs.”  I leaned forward in my chair.  I looked right into his eyes and slowly smiled.  Adam cowered a little.  I know he thought I looked beautiful.  Formidable.  Terrifying.  I could make him do anything.  He knew this, too.  I knew he was there to be my toy, to disgrace himself and debase himself and prove his unworthiness.  I knew he would do anything I demanded of him.  “I probably should have made you color your balls blue, too.  You know, since art imitates life.”  I giggled again.  “But, I have other plans for you.  Do you know what you’re gonna do now, Adam?”


“No, Mistress.”


“You’re gonna fuck this jar of strawberry jam.”




“Did I stutter?  I said you’re gonna stick your pitiful blue dick in this jar, and fuck it.  I am going to watch.  Do you understand, or do I need to draw you a diagram?”


“I understand, Mistress.”


“Good.  You may proceed, if you please.”


Remaining on his knees, Adam reached forward to seize the jar of jam.  He returned to his former kneeling position and stared at the jar as if perplexed.  Truthfully, he was baffled.  Unsure how to proceed.  He remained as he was, thinking about the mechanics of the act he had been ordered to perform, about the mess involved, about the sheer humiliation of the act I demanded of him.  Here he knelt, naked, with his penis colored blue and a jar of strawberry preserves in his hand. As willing as he was in spirit his flesh would not comply.


I am not accustomed to having my orders met with reluctance.  In one decisive stride, I was towering over Adam.  A half second later, I was crouching on the floor next to him.  Down at his level, right up in his face.  My voice was calm and barely above a whisper, which made my words all the more menacing and meaningful: “What’s wrong, Adam?  Are you having trouble figuring out what you’re supposed to do next?”


“Yes, Mistress.”


“Well, that is disappointing, Adam.  I thought you understood what I asked you to do.  You said that you understood, at least.”


“I thought I did, Mistress.  I mean, I do understand what you asked me to do, I just can’t figure out where to start.”


I snorted and rolled my eyes.  “Well, that’s no surprise at all, Adam.  Naturally if I tell you to fuck something, you don’t know where to begin.  We’ve already established that you are utterly useless in that department.”  I sneered and continued: “still, it’s not like any real skill or finesse is required for the task at hand.  It’s not as if I asked you to fuck a woman.  Remind me, you said it’s been two years since she let you have a taste?”


Adam gulped and answered, “Yes, Mistress.  Two years.”


“Two years.  That’s a long damned time.  I bet you miss it, don’t you?  I mean, even though you probably couldn’t fuck worth a damn.  Surely you enjoyed it, even if your wife didn’t get much out if it.”


Adam’s face and neck turned red.  He kept his eyes fixed on my face.  “yes, Mistress, I enjoyed it.  Though you’re right, I’m sure my wife found my efforts insufficient.”


“Well, there’s a no brainer, stud.  Of course she found you lacking.  That’s because you are lacking.  You and your pathetic blue dick.”  I gave his member a little nudge with the blade of my riding crop, causing him to wince slightly.  “But none of that matters today.  Because like I said, this isn’t a woman.  This is a goddamned jar of strawberry jam.  It isn’t going to be disappointed in your shortcomings.  Even if you wanted to show it anything like a good time, it wouldn’t be impressed.  So right now, I just want to know what the goddamned hold up is.”


“I…don’t know, Mistress. I just, um, got to thinking too much about it I guess.”


“Thinking about it?  What, sitting here with your blue dick in one hand and a jar of jam in the other?  And this is when you decide to get introspective all of a sudden?”


“Yes, Mistress.  I guess that’s what happened.  It just, um, felt weird for a second.”


“Yeah, Adam, I imagine it does feel weird.  I guess it does seem pretty strange to you, to be ordered to fuck a jar of jam.  What seems strange to me, is that you would choose this time to have your existential crisis.  Because you are on my time and I am not one of your goddamned flunkies.  I’m not your law clerk.  I’m not your boot licking golf caddy.  I’m not your secretary, and I am certainly not your wife.  Maybe most of the other people in your life are fine with having their time wasted but you fucking listen to me and you listen good: I am not one of them.  You will not waste my time, you worthless fuck.  When I tell you to do something, you will fucking do it.  I don’t care if it makes you feel stupid.  I don’t give a fuck if you want to or not.  You are going to do it because I told you to, and you are going to do it now.”


This little motivational speech seemed to hit the mark.  Adam applied himself to the assignment.  His efforts were tentative at first, but he quickly picked up momentum.  He did what was required without a shred of his earlier self consciousness, embracing the grotesque, nonsensical lewdness of his actions: he was fucking a jar of strawberry jam.  He plunged into the congealed red mass.  The sticky mess oozed out of the jar.  Blobs of it dropped onto the tarp below.   He knew he looked foolish, but it didn’t matter.  He was insignificant, completely unimportant.  In committing this singularly weird act, he was liberated.


I took in the entire spectacle from my throne.  Though I had ordered this performance, I was indifferent about the details of execution.  I maintained an air of aloofness, designed to emphasize my disdain.  It also drove the point home to Adam: I will capriciously order him to mortify himself, not simply because it amuses me, but because his humiliation is nothing to me.  It might be a huge sacrifice to him, but it doesn’t move me.  That was perhaps the most degrading part of the whole thing.  It was perfect.


After he finished, he crumpled to the floor where he writhed on his side, his dick still embedded in the jar.  He lay there on the tarp, sticky from the mess.  I stood, tossing a package of baby wipes on the floor.  Then I left the room.  Adam cleaned himself up, and it was over.


*name changed








the snake pit

I liked to dig holes when I was a kid.  I dug these holes in the back yard, mostly with spoons I lifted from the kitchen drawer.  My grandmother knew this and she often scolded me for it and took them away, but I managed to smuggle them out of the kitchen anyhow.  Because I liked to dig.  Grandma said I might dig all the way to China.  I thought this would be pretty cool and I wanted to make Grandma proud, so I kept digging.

I thought maybe if my friends Andre and Maurice helped me, we could get to China faster.  So I swiped three spoons and we all started digging.  Our excavation site was beneath an ancient, gnarled cherry tree, on the right side of the swing set.  The tree helped shield us from my grandmother’s view from the kitchen window.  That was important, because she definitely would have halted our ambitious project.

Digging is hard and China is far.  We got tired of digging after a while, though we had a pretty impressive hole by that time.  Nearly two feet deep, mostly dug with our hands (it turns out spoons aren’t the most effective digging tools).  So we decided to take a break to investigate and perhaps raid a nest of garter snakes.  A snake break.

Right by the fence, under the lilac bushes, we found them.  Wriggling and disappearing.  Andre and I managed to grab a few of them.  I felt brave and thrilled and sort of amazed at myself for handling snakes.  Even Maurice didn’t want to touch them.

Then the three of us debated what we should do with the snakes.  I said we ought to put them in the hole we had dug, because in the movies that’s how you trap bears and bad guys.  In a snake pit.  I said maybe we could catch a bear (I was six).  So we put our snakes in the hole.  I didn’t think we had enough so I went off and wrangled a few more.  We put sticks and branches across the hole to cover it up, then we went to the picnic table and had some Kool Aid and waited for a bear to wander into our snake pit.  That is, until Grandma came out to tell me it was time for my bath, and it was time for Andre and Maurice to go home.

I thought maybe in the morning, I’d wake up to find a bear in my snake pit.

I woke up excited enough because it was Saturday.  I forgot to check my bear trap, because I was engrossed in Bugs Bunny cartoons and I had to eat two whole bowls of cereal in order for my grandmother to consider letting me have the prize in the cereal box.  It was a green magic marker.  I needed it.  Grandma flatly refused to buy me a set of magic markers, because of her suspicion that I would “only make a mess with them”.  I certainly would not.  I had no plans to make a mess.  I only wanted to draw a little picture, behind my bedroom door.  I wanted to try to draw a picture of Lucky, the cartoon leprechaun from the Lucky Charms commercial.  How fortuitous that the marker was green!  Stealthily, so as to escape my grandmother’s watchful eye, I skulked back to my room with my hard won green magic marker.  Once there, I began a bold interpretive drawing of Lucky.  I drew him about my own size, with a green hat and green shamrocks all around him.  I wore the tip of my magic marker down to a nub and pretty much used up all the pigment but overall I was pretty satisfied with my work.  Make a mess, indeed.

I was standing there admiring my work when I heard my grandmother yell my name from what sounded like the back yard.

I ran outside.  I still wasn’t thinking of my snake pit (I had forgotten about that…I was six).  I was thinking maybe Grandma was going to let me play in the sprinkler.

My grandfather was on the ground by my snake pit, holding his ankle and swearing.  I knew these words.  I wrote one of them on the wall behind my bed once.  I saw the crushed sticks and the gaping hole of the snake pit next to my grandfather.  Excitedly I demanded: “Did my snake pit catch a bear?  Or a rabbit?”

Alas, no.  It caught my grandfather.  He broke his ankle.  I caught hell for that and for my grandmother’s missing spoons.  I think they may have been in the pit with the snakes.  We never found out because the snakes were apparently dead, and my grandfather decided to fill in the hole and bury them there.  I mean…work smarter, not harder, right?

Anyway, I can advise you that snake pits aren’t the best way to catch bears, unsupervised children shouldn’t be given magic markers, and China is far.