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Queer Issue 2017

Jun 21, 2017 at 4:00 am

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Queer Issue 2017

The Stranger depends on your continuing support to provide articles like this one. In return, we pledge our ongoing commitment to truthful, progressive journalism and serving our community. So if you’re able, please consider a small recurring contribution. Thank you—you are appreciated!

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M y mom would spank me when I was a kid. She said it was for my own good. And she was right, because I really get off on it now.
I'm grateful to my dysfunctional strict parents and years of Catholic school repression for leading me to the rough stuff in adulthood, though bondage is getting problematic these days because I have to pee frequently and I'm prone to charley horses.
When Basic Instinct premiered in 1992, I fantasized about Sharon Stone tying me to the bed like she did to Michael Douglas. The gay community was outraged and called for a movie boycott because Ms. Stone played a bisexual novelist who might also have been an ice-pick murderer, a plot point GLAAD declared was the wrong message to send America about queer women. I believe it was the right message. Nobody fucked with us in 1992.
A few years later, I moved to Hollywood to make it in the movies and sleep with actresses. My first break was a small part in Batman Forever , the one where Batman and Robin have pronounced nipples, making it the best Batman in the franchise. I still get money. My role was "Second Journalist." You can see me in the Gotham gala scene. I'm the only woman wearing a black turtleneck dress in a room full of bodice-busting bit players. The character of "First Journalist" was played by a nice lady, but she was pushy between takes. She said, "You have to meet my lesbian friend. You two would hit it off." She was one of those straight people who always try to mate their lesbian friends like we're pedigreed dogs.
I met her lesbian friend for lunch in WeHo. Lesbian friend looked achingly stylish as she handed her keys to the valet. Her smoking good looks were offset by a stale cloud of whiskey fumes. At lunch, she went on about her two-month cleanse, which was not in itself a deal breaker. She was just too drunk to date. Then she said, "Television destroys the soul. So I quit acting. I'm just a dominatrix now. I beat the shit out of the same studio heads who used to reject me. Hope that doesn't freak you out."
Trying to contain myself, I said, "That's cool."
On our second date, she was drunk again. Dinner was unbearable. She was trite and talked over me constantly. But we ended up having sex in my motel room, because how often would I get to fuck someone who had guest-starred on ABC and NBC? She seemed really into the sex at first, but when it was my turn, she got skittish and said, "I'm late for a client in the Valley. I could come by tomorrow and show you what I do. Want to try a little?"
I asked: "Will you be tying me up?" ("Like in Basic Instinct ?" I wanted to say, but played it cool.)
She said she'd "bring the bag." I acted like I knew what was in the bag.
Up to this point, my only BDSM experience was in the AOL chat rooms. Not satisfying. Dial-up killed any vibe, and nobody had webcams, so you could lie about whatever you were or were not putting up your butt.
The next night, the lesbian friend was three hours late and drunker than ever, but she had brought "the bag" and a bottle of Jack to level off. She used my bathroom to change into her standard-issue black PVC Mistress wear. She was moving slow. I was relieved when she blindfolded me so I could imagine a better presentation. She struggled to tie my hands to the motel bed frame. "You could tie my wrists tighter," I told her many times.
Finally, I just accepted that this dominatrix could not tie a knot. To make the best of it, I moaned and squirmed as if I was trying to get free, but really I was holding on to the loose knots, from which I could escape like Houdini at any moment.
"You tied up good? Can you see anything?" she asked too nicely for a dominatrix. I heard her take another swig from her bottle. Then she commenced rummaging in the bag. I had a feeling she was looking for a candle to drip hot wax on me—which I'm not really into (also not into anal or nipple clamps that are too tight). Ideally, I'd like to be tied up and forced to have vanilla sex.
"Are you ready?" I heard her put the bag down.
Silence followed and then the snip, snip, snip of sharp little scissors waving over my body. Was she going to cut me? I wasn't into that, either. She yanked my pubic hair with one hand, trimmed with the other, and asked, "Do you have a safe word?"
She passed out halfway into the renovation, leaving me with random topiary shapes between my legs. I finally understood why she offered me the freebie.

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