Confessions of an S&M Virgin

by Linda Jaivin

  Gradually, I found myself moving from the world of Sinophiles to that of Sex Files and finally X-Files. I know that some people consider this a bit of a Great Leap Backwards, and certain well-meaning souls keep asking me when I'm going to get back to my serious work. One of the editors of a major Australian newspaper recently asked me to write something on China. I told her I was immersed in writing fiction. She sighed and commented that she thought that I did my best work on China, which made me feel a bit like Woody Allen must when people tell him he should make funny movies again.

  But for me the movement from journalism to fiction seems inevitable. Whatever I have worked on, it has been people who have interested me the most.

  When I was young my father put me on to the essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emerson, in turn, imparted to me a lifelong love of the essay, as well as a line that has, over the years, served me well in all my incarnations, reincarnations and deincarnations:‘ A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.’

  By the way, here's a real confession of an S&M virgin for you—I actually wore bathers to the nude-in.

  Someone once said that journalism always involves some kind of betrayal of the subject. If that's the case, then you have to be prepared to betray yourself as well. There are times you have to go naked in your writing.

  I have two sixteen-year-old penpals, Lee and Sunny, who go to high school in Lismore in country New South Wales and edit a zine called Spammy. In his letters, Lee always includes a list of ‘the things I love today’ and sometimes includes an inventory of ‘things I'd like you to know about me’ as well.

  These are the things I love today: the Ben Harper CD someone is playing next door; Reggie, the young python who lives in the rafters of the beachhouse and who has either just swallowed a mouse or is suffering a fairly acute case of gastroenteritis; Sydney; the Belongil Beachhouse; Geremie Barmé, my ex-husband, occasional collaborator, relentless critic and supportive friend; Kathy Bail, a friend of ten years and the original commissioning editor of a number of these pieces; Tom Dusevic, another marvellous editor; my supportive flatmates and friends Jonathan, Greg and Lyndel; my inspirational pals Mandy, Kath, Michelle and the rest; Tim; my agent Rose Cresswell; and last but never least, the whole crew at Text, particularly my editor Michael Heyward, a master of literary bondage and discipline.

  These are the things I'd like you to know about me: I am the character I seem to be, but not necessarily all the time. I love writing more than anything else. I am hoping I won't disappoint the man with the dog with this book of very personal journalism and essays.

  CONFESSIONS OF AN S&M VIRGIN

  My Favourite Year

  When I turned nine, I decided that I had discovered the meaning of happiness: being eight. I promised myself then and there that I'd take stock of every year that followed to see if it had lived up to that excellent eighth.

  The precise reasons why my eighth year was so spectacular have grown a bit vague. New London, where I lived, was a small town where nothing too exciting had happened since the American revolution, when the British loyalist Benedict Arnold managed to burn the whole place down.

  I remember liking my teacher at school, but can't remember now whether it was the kindly Mrs Burke or the teasing Mr Darling, whose jokes about the size of my feet (which apparently appeared around corners before I did) for some reason endeared him to me no end. I also recall a first-rate Halloween costume that involved my best friend Paula and myself pretending to be girl crims chained inside some sort of cardboard stockade—S&M chic well before Madonna. Flannel pyjamas with feet were another plus, as well as a Secret Hiding Place in the woods where Paula and I stashed our little treasures and enacted intense dramas involving dastardly foes and enemy spies. I had an impressive collection of dinosaur models, a red wagon and a sled.

  The future was clear and bright. I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up: the person who got to read all the new books that were published so that the local library would know which ones to buy. I imagined my future workplace looking quite like my favourite armchair. It never even occurred to me that such a job might not actually exist.

  It was also the year of my first infatuation. The completely oblivious object of my affections was called Larry Rachliffe. I remember four things about Larry from that time: he was shy, he was covered in freckles, he was the most talented student in both art and music classes and his neck had a unique, musty smell that was capable of reducing me to the eight-year-old equivalent of a love slave. I discovered young Larry's extraordinarily pheromonal neck while standing behind him in the queue for crayons, and from that time forward followed him everywhere.

  That's as far as it ever went with Larry. Last I heard, he was a symphony conductor somewhere in the States. I'm not sure whether he is to thank—or blame—for the fact that I've mainly been attracted to artists and musicians ever since.

  When my tenth birthday rolled around I decided that, while it was a close call, my ninth year just didn't match up. This may have had something to do with a big fight I had with Paula and two of our best friends. The row was over whose house Paul McCartney would stay at when the Beatles, in response to the fan letter we were about to post, came to do a special concert for us in our home town. We were all prepared to compromise over George and John, but no one wanted Ringo. There were tears before bedtime on that terrible day.

  I'm a trifle fuzzy on what dramas torpedoed the next few years out of the running. But I do remember that on the day I turned thirteen my cousin and best friend Bobby, who was a whole month older than me, scared me shitless by informing me in the most adult tone he could muster, given that his voice was still breaking,‘You are no longer a child, Linda. The fun is over.’

  Certainly, things had changed. Feet pyjamas were suddenly daggy, the dinosaur collection embarrassing, and the boy thing proving a lot more complicated than mere surreptitious neck-sniffing. I shifted the Secret Hiding Place from the little patch of woods near Paula's house to my heart. Then, when I was fourteen, a risible attempt at doing the splits in order to become a cheerleader resulted in crutches, knee surgery, and nearly a year in a rather unfashionable leg brace. Even though the flip side was heaps of sympathy and chocolate and occasionally being carried up stairs by handsome athletic boys—not to mention not becoming a cheerleader—year fourteen was definitely no challenger.

  Twelve months later, hormonal chaos and teenage angst had arrived in a big way. As the years passed, these finally settled, only to be replaced by adult hurts and disappointments. By the time I hit my mid-twenties I became resigned to the fact that, despite the many excellent adventures and extreme pleasures that came with growing up, it was going to be hard to find a year that could, in its entirety, match my halcyon eighth in terms of pure happiness.

  But that's not a complaint. Although I never scored that cushy library job, I did discover book reviewing and writing. My office is my armchair. I think of clothes as costumes, have discovered that good teachers are everywhere, and I still haven't outgrown either toys or strange infatuations.

  Confessions of an S&M Virgin

  Around 3 a.m. on a Friday morning, I'm in the office of the Hellfire Club, Sydney's premier S&M nightspot. I'm lying across the lap of the manager, Richard Masters. Richard is spanking me. I am interviewing him. WHACK! ‘Naughty reporter!’ he exclaims when my tape runs out and I ask him to turn it over for me. I can't do it myself because I'm inconvenienced by my position and my wrist manacles. WHACK! ‘Naughty, naughty reporter!’

  I'd come to the Hellfire with my friend Russell and his friend John. I am an S&M virgin, John an S&M slut, and Russell just curious. At six feet five inches and well over seventeen stone, John is one helluva sight in a black leather G-string, black cloak, spiked dog collar, leather wrist-straps and gloves and a black leather hood that covers his head and face down to his mouth. The hood's eyeholes are fitted with prescription lenses. You make an entrance with John and you really make an entrance.


  John, who's thirty-one, tells me he's actually more into Bondage and Discipline than Sado-Masochism. He really likes his hood. It's new.‘It gives you a sense of isolation,’ he says. If you couldn't guess, John is a dominant type. He occasionally lets someone else dominate him, but, he assures me,‘When I'm a slave, I'm never a submissive slave. I'm a warrior slave.’

  John is going to initiate me into the world of B&D and S&M. ‘If you can do it the right way,’ he informs me, ‘you can get a pain—pleasure thing happening that's real interesting. It's sensation rather than pain.’ He has thoughtfully brought along an extra pair of fur-lined leather wrist-straps with attached manacles for me. Gently, he straps the manacles on over my elbow-length black kid-leather gloves. The gloves used to belong to my grandmother, but I don't think she ever did anything like this with them. I suddenly wish my black bustier and miniskirt were made of leather too.

  The fact that I'm a novice worries John a bit. When he whips me, he says, he'll have to stop constantly to see if I'm OK. That won't look as ‘slick’ as it should. A big part of it, he explains,‘is the show’.

  It's only about 11 p.m. when we arrive, unfashionably early by S&M standards. We go upstairs, where there are several rooms, including a dance floor. The one we head for is by the main bar. This is where the action takes place, except it's not yet. Most of the crowd appears fairly straight, here for a good perv rather than a good whipping.

  ‘I feel a bit overdressed,’ confides John, who is attracting looks that could be described as, well, respectful. People are craning towards but leaving a space around two wooden racks. One is a freestanding A-frame, two rectangles leaning in on each other and braced in the middle, the second a large X flat against the wall. A video screen shows a woman in a leather head harness chomping on a bit meant for horses and prancing before a Country Road-type blonde in a white shirt and beige jodhpurs who follows her with a crop.

  Gradually the crowd fills out with a bit more leather and rubber. There are more spikes and studs, some military uniforms and dangerous-looking boots. A few young women mill about in black bras and panties, garter belts, stockings and stilettos.

  Still, no one makes a move. Richard Masters decides to get the action started himself. Richard is tall, with bouncy brown hair and the easy good looks of everyone's favourite boy next door. He's wearing a black T-shirt and trousers, neither of which he removes. The evening's volunteer master of ceremonies ties him by the wrists to the A-frame, his back to the crowd. The MC flourishes the lash, which consists of a bunch of flat strips of leather, while Richard sways his arse from side to side in showy anticipation. The lash strikes, Richard sways. It strikes harder. He sways harder. The crack of the whip can just be heard above the music.

  After a while, the MC offers the lash around. No takers. What the hell. I step forward. But I'm not sure what to do. I move close to Richard, and run the lash softly over his back while asking discreetly for instructions. Having let me in at the door, he recognises me. He seems to find the fact that he's about to be whipped by a journalist from Rolling Stone highly amusing.

  He says to hit as hard as I like so long as the ends of the lash land squarely on his bum. ‘Don't let them wrap around or they'll get me in the balls,’ he cautions. I begin, a little nervously. I'd really hate to castrate anyone. But I seem to be doing OK. He tells me to go harder. After a while, he asks to be paddled. I'm given what looks like a ping-pong paddle with thicker wood and no rubber. I remember what John said about it having to be a good show. In between thwaps, I run my gloved hands up and down Richard's torso. I feel myself playing to the audience. I'm having a good time. This is bizarre.

  After Richard has had enough, John suggests we take our turn. Trying not to look as nervous as I feel, I allow him to tie me by the wrists to the rack. My back, which the bustier leaves quite bare, is to the crowd. In the corner behind the rack, facing me, stands an older man with a distinguished, even aristocratic face. Except for his kinky, bright red outfit and spiked dog collar, he could have stepped straight out of the mini-series ‘House of Windsor’. He looks straight at me and smiles, dragging on a cigarette. Behind him is a window leading to the next room. A group of boys on the other side of the window smile and wave. I smile back. I can't wave. John, whose very appearance seems to hush the crowd, brings the lash slowly around my neck as though choking me with it and asks if I'm ready.

  I say yes.

  He steps back and starts with little snaps and tickles and gets gradually rougher, constantly leaning forward to check how I'm going while tracing my legs and arms and sides with the whip handle. He's definitely giving a good show.

  After a while John whispers from beneath his hood, ‘What sort of panties are you wearing?’

  ‘Black.’

  ‘Good. Mind if I hike up your skirt?’

  Why not? I've come this far. But I wonder what he would have done if I'd said ‘white with little pink flowers’.

  As he puts down the lash and picks up the paddle, the boys at the window clutch and claw comically at the glass. The Earl of Red leans forward and says in a cultivated voice,‘Are you really a journo?’

  Yes, I nod, wincing as the paddle connects with my bum.

  ‘So am I,’ he tells me. ‘I hope you're getting union rates for this.’

  ‘Where do you work?’ I ask.

  ‘The ABC.’

  ‘Really? I didn't know you were into this sort of thing at the ABC.’

  ‘You wouldn't believe what people get up to out at Gore Hill.’

  I can't believe I'm having this conversation while being flogged in front of what by now is hundreds of people. The nerve ends up and down my back are on fire from the lash, my thighs and buttocks will be bruised for days from the paddling. So what do I do when the MC asks if I want the hot wax and ice treatment?

  I say please.

  John rubs down my back with ice. He then drips hot candle wax over it, randomly, at different spots and at unexpected moments. Each time the wax hits, I jump. John asks if I'm enjoying myself. Oddly enough, I am. This is going to take some time to figure out.

  Finally it's all over. I'm no sooner off the rack than a man is tied up to it, his pants and underwear down around his ankles. The action gets more hardcore from here in.

  As we rejoin Russell, I ask John how he thinks I did. He tells me that on a scale of one to ten, I reached an endurance level of about three. I feel like a student with a poor grade. Bummer. John consoles me (‘it's only your first time’) and assures me he enjoyed it anyway. He's finding the hood a trifle hot; his lenses are steaming up. I ask Russell if he wants to be whipped. He's not sure. Russell is a university lecturer. He's afraid some of his students might be there.

  I go for a stroll, clutching my tape recorder awkwardly, as John has now fastened the chain connecting my wristbands. The music is loud, the air smoky. The light reflects dimly off shaved scalps and pierced nipples and noses. For all the ferocity of the look, people here are friendly.

  A woman with a touch of the dominatrix about her smiles sweetly at me.‘I'd really like to whip you,’ she purrs. I'm genuinely complimented, which just shows how much I'm affected by my immediate peer group. I'd make a great lemming.

  The naked man on the rack, having been whipped rather mercilessly by a thin blonde in black hot pants, is untied. He looks happy. Both racks are now in use. I watch as a pretty young blonde is tied up to the A-frame. Fully clothed at first, she eventually strips down to just her panties. A fellow who looks like a stockbroker gone feral with a short ponytail, white shirt, tie, braces, black leather gloves and pointy black boots lashes her all over, including her breasts, which are adorned with nipple clamps. The clamps are connected by a chain that she clenches in her teeth; she smiles angelically throughout.

  I meet a university student. It's his first visit to an S&M club too. He's just recognised the woman on the rack as someone he knows from school. He's a little shocked. I ask him what he thinks of it all.‘Poor people,’ he says. />
  Nearby, a fellow in a T-shirt and jeans comments to his friend, ‘I want to see welts.’ He's the first person I meet tonight that makes the word ‘pervert’ jump into my head.

  A straight-looking woman taps me on the shoulder. She saw me being flagellated and wants to know what I got out of it. ‘A story,’ I reply. The John & Linda show couldn't have been too bad—she thought I was a regular. Ginnie is twenty-nine. It's her first time here. She has no urge to try anything herself. ‘It's a voyeuristic thing,’ she explains. ‘I'm really interested in why people are turned on by it.’ She tells me that when one of the naked men was being whipped she walked around the rack to see if he had a hard-on. He didn't. This intrigued her.

  It's also a first visit for twenty-two-year-old Biff. Breathlessly, he relates his experiences to me. ‘I was just there minding my own business when suddenly a German female dressed in sort of Nazi regalia came up to me and said, “Would you like to be handcuffed?” and I said, “Yeah, sure,” and she handcuffed me and led me around for a bit but she wouldn't let me go in while she was having a piss.’

  ‘Was it exciting?’ I ask.

  ‘It really was. Everyone should come to this club,’ Biff enthuses. ‘I mean, there are homosexuals, there are transexuals, there are heterosexuals, but everybody's getting on. There's no aggressiveness or hatred. Everyone's having a great time. Basically, it's a fucking great night.’ Biff is definitely coming back, though he doesn't want to be whipped in public because, he explains,‘that takes a special kind of deviant.’

  I look for Richard. When I find him, he agrees to be interviewed, but has to spank someone first. He hauls a chair into the space in front of the racks and a voluptuous blonde in a tight black rubber dress flops across his lap. He spanks her through the rubber, then rolls up her skirt and does it over her minimal underwear.