“What I remember most is his eyes. I didn’t see pain there, or even fear. It was like he was looking straight through me, to the bottom of my being. And somehow, something in me answered him. As if this big, strapping black guy, and me, this little Greek/German kid were brothers. That’s really what it was like. Like he was my brother. In that moment, I think that I really understood mortality for the first time.
I lived in a multistory apartment building; my guess would be that it was about 5 stories high, containing maybe about 30 units. My family lived on the 4th floor. The apartments lined the rectangular perimeter of the building, and the staircase leading to each floor revolved around the center, forming a central stairwell. It was grueling work, lugging groceries up the rectangular staircase to the 4th floor. One day, I was watching cartoons on a late midweek night. Both my parents worked very late to make ends meet, so I was being watched by an elderly neighbor sitter, who always just snoozed in the living room rocking chair while keeping me company.
I was in the middle of a Loony Tunes episode when I heard police sirens nearby, which was common in my part of Jersey City. They sounded extremely close. I peered out the window to see three police cars. Parking quickly and sloppily in front of the building, 4 or 5 officers rushed out of the cars and ran inside. Being my usual curious self, I walked out of the apartment, and looked down the staircase, watching the officers run up each level like military troopers. My heart raced because they were approaching my level. Suddenly they stopped climbing on the level below mine, and ran to the apartment directly underneath. I tiptoed down the staircase; just far enough to peer through the banisters and watch them break into the apartment and quickly run inside the unit.
All I could remember at that point is one of the officers yelling, "STOP! HANDS UP!!!"
In the next few moments, events seemed to unfold for me in slow motion, as a black man ran out of the apartment towards the staircase. I heard several shots ring out of the apartment apparently hitting the man. In slow motion, I watched the man crumple and fall onto his face. It only took a few a seconds, but it seemed like minutes. As he fell forward, he looked up and he saw me. His eyes were terrified, as he stared at me, piercing my body and soul. I watched him, and our eyes held all the way as he slammed onto the concrete floor. In that moment of connection, I felt his soul touch and enter mine.
In the next moments, all of the officers ran out of the apartment, and one of them peered up towards me, and yelled "Get the F** out of here!" I ran back up into my home, trembling, and deeply changed.
I found out later that the ex-wife of the black man had kidnapped his son, and tied him in a closet in her apartment. She knew he would come to his rescue, and called the police to report a burglary and frame him, while she hid in a friend's unit across the hall to watch him enter. An innocent man had died that day, and I watched the whole thing. I never forgot that moment of connection with another soul.”
“Wow. That sounds…intense,” Kelli said, “and what was the aftermath? What lasting effects did that experience have?”
“I remember having nightmares for a long time, mainly about police coming after me. In my dreams, the man who died wasn’t necessarily the bad guy; in fact, I identified with him somehow. I think that’s why I’ve always had a certain distrust of authority, and have always wanted to carve out my own path in the world, freely. I don’t like constraints. I don’t like rules. I think that life is for living, and I take what I want.”
With this statement, he looked at Kelli, and for an instant she felt like she understood his story about the dying man. It felt like Jake was looking inside her and seeing her most naked, vulnerable self. His story had moved her in ways that she couldn’t even begin to express. Somehow knowing that he had been exposed to the grittiness of life at such a tender age made her ache for him, yet it also helped to explain the current of steel and strength that she sensed in him.
“Were there any other experiences like that?”
Jake smiled, but she sensed that there was a lot of emotion hiding behind his eyes. She felt the emotion herself and it moved her. She almost wanted to cry on his behalf.
“Oh yes, yes there were. Many of them.”
“Such as…?”
“Well, there was the time when a bunch of racist teenagers tied me to a tree and tried to burn me alive. THAT was interesting. If I hadn’t been as quick-fingered and alert as I am, I very well could have died in the woods of Kearny, NJ, that day. But I didn’t. When I was 5 years old, my family moved out of Jersey City, to an adjacent blue-collar town, called Kearny. At the time, most of the population was Scottish, Irish, Irish/Italian, or just Italian. Then there was me: this darker-skinned, exotic breed. As kids, my siblings and I didn't know or see any difference between our family and other families. In fact, I was always known as the smart, eccentric kid, and based on my surname, most parents assumed that my family heritage was English or something similar. When I played with friends my own age, life was normal.
However, on the occasions when I was invited over to a friend’s home, the situation changed dramatically. Racism was strong in Kearny, and the racist parents of my friends knew right away that I was different. I would often see their reactions immediately in the long, disapproving looks on their faces whenever I entered the home. After they found out more about my different family background, the racism escalated to the point where I wasn't even allowed over. It soon became clear that the entire town was divided along racial and economic lines. On the poor side of town, which ran adjacent to Jersey City and Newark, I never had an issue with racism; I was always treated as family by my friends’ parents. However, once we moved to a house on the better, more affluent side of the tracks, my experiences were far more hurtful, and lonely.
The racism I experienced in those years came to a head one day, when I was 11 or 12. I was walking with one of my friends, one of the few who didn't mind associating with me. We were both outcasts, excluded from the popular, rich circle of young teens in our school. As we were walking, we were spotted by a group of the older, rich kids. They started shouting insults at us, and then suddenly, they decided to chase us. It was obvious that their intention was to beat us up, just for being "different".
We ran for a while, but they were older, and faster. My friend got away, but they eventually caught me in a small wooded area behind a local bank that was used as a cut-through path. This wasn't the first time this had happened, so I was prepared for my usual kicking and beating. I struggled and tried to escape, but this time was different. They held on tight, and then decided to blindfold and tie me to a tree. After I was tied to the tree, the kids laid old branches and leaves around my feet. I could hardly believe what was happening, but it slowly dawned on me that they intended to burn me to death. Using a lighter, they successfully created the fire in the wood and leaves around me.
At that moment, I truly felt that my life was about to be over. As the flames rose and heated the air that was entering my lungs, the thugs finally ran away from the scene. I struggled as hard as I could and fortunately, their inexperience with rope tying enabled me to free myself. I limped home and told my parents what had happened. They reported the incident to the police, but this proved to be fruitless. The police were just as racist as everyone else, and they simply wrote it off as childish bullying, without making any arrests. The bullies were never caught or punished, but after that I learned to stay out of their way and to be cautious and careful.
I drive by the tree every once in a while to remind myself how short life is, and how cruel humanity can be. In my older life now, as I release the ties from my lover, I will always kiss the tear from her fiery eye, and embrace the passion she gives me when I hold her in my arms unbound.”
This time, Kelli couldn’t even reply. She was stunned, and just nodded, mutely.
Jake continued, “Of course, there was also Catholic school, and the beatings…” He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head, gazing at Kelli. His tone
was musing, almost wistful.
“Uh, what happened there?” She wasn’t even sure she wanted to know, but she had to.
He frowned a little, but began to speak again. “I know exactly where to start. In the Irish-Italian neighborhood where I grew up, the predominant religion was Catholicism. Because both my parents worked, they had the money to send me to a private Catholic school in town. It was grueling.
Most Catholics don’t realize that Catholicism stems from Orthodox Christianity. The two religions are very close to each other, with similar masses and communion services. Some of the nuns were very accepting of my religion but others challenged my loyalty to my religion many times. Although I was given positions of authority and responsibility within the school, such as collecting lunch money, keeping head count, being a crossing guard, etc. the nuns really challenged and criticized my beliefs. Often, as part of their antagonism, they would punish me for no real reason at all.
One nun in particular, Sister Marie, would come find me when I was working on an essay, or math, or whatever. She would sneak up behind me with one of those old-style long wooden metal-edged rulers, and without warning, would come and hit me in the hand. The reason she gave was always ridiculous; I was holding my pencil wrong, or not sitting up straight, or not doing something the proper way. I still have some of those scars from that ruler on my hands. I have many other scars from playing hockey in school and punching people in the mouth during typical hockey fights, but a good chunk of the scars are from Sister Marie. Luckily, my hands are tan enough that they aren't too visible, but those scars are there.
Sister Marie kept pushing me and pushing me. I remember one day, when I was about 13, it was confession time in school and she asked me if I needed to go to confession. I said, no and she challenged me, saying, “Are you sure? It’s been a whole month. You must have sinned at some point.”
I said, “No, I really can’t think of anything. I don’t know if I did anything...I've been pretty good.” That was the truth; I was really a well-behaved guy when I was younger.
She said, “You have to think of something.” With that, she forced me to get on my knees in front of this huge cross that was in one of the hallways. She told me to kneel there and think of something, and then ask for God’s forgiveness. I knelt there and I was thinking and thinking; she kept yelling at me, “Come on! Think of something! THINK OF SOMETHING!”
I couldn't think of anything, and eventually the absurdity of the situation struck me and I couldn't hold in my laughter any longer. “This is not a joke!” screeched Sister Marie, and she summoned some of the other nuns to join in. Together, one or two of her aged withered cronies and Sister Marie pushed my head down to the ground in front of the cross and held me there. Sister Marie pulled the back of my pants down. My naked ass was fully exposed, and protruding helplessly as my face was pressed into the ground. I felt vulnerable, exposed, and strangely excited. Sister Marie always carried a cane with her, and I heard it swish against her hand, making a slapping noise.
She leaned forward next to my face, and said, very forcefully: “You’re a bad, bad, boy, Mr. Lapin! And you WILL be punished! You WILL learn your lesson!” She paused for just a moment and I heard the slap of the cane against her hand again. I clenched my cheeks, because I knew what was coming. The first stroke was a complete shock. For just a second I was numb, but then I felt the sting of it spread across my bottom, as it drew the blood to the surface of my soft, exposed skin. I felt a stinging, hot sensation. A few times she would slap my ass, and massage my whole cheek, to circulate the blood. It hurt like hell, but it also sent warmth through my whole body, and somehow it also aroused me greatly.
In spite of myself, I felt my cock start to stiffen and then become rock-solid. I’ll never know if Sister Marie noticed, but maybe she did. She struck me with the cane again. This time the heat was even more noticeable. I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was getting a major erection. I just hung my head in shame, and hoped that all the nuns around me couldn't see my thick penis pressing upwards into my stomach. Or maybe I wanted them to see my huge manhood.
Sister Marie gave me 20 or 30 strokes with the cane, and made a few comments about how my suffering would make me appreciate Jesus’s suffering on the cross, and how my pain would make me a better person, etc. At one point the pain was pretty bad and I said, “I don’t know why you are doing this to me!”
Sister Marie replied, “Because you need to be forgiven.”
“For what? For what?” I screamed, but she gave me no answer. I wasn't sure if I was screaming in actual pain, or just as a way to hold my orgasm at bay.
Afterwards, the nuns finally left me alone. I could barely walk, but I remember going to the men’s room, touching myself and finally ejaculating, HARD. I was alone, and hated the feeling of self-pleasuring.
I attended Catholic school from kindergarten through 12th grade, and my torture at the hands of Sister Marie was constant throughout that time. Once, I was walking in the hallway and she passed me and reached out and punched me in the gut, for no reason. Sister Marie liked to pinch or hit or kick me, and it often happened when no one was around. After the confession incident, the pain she inflicted would cause that strange arousal again, and would lead to masturbation. I began to understand the link between pleasure and pain in a profound way.
Sister Marie would threaten me as well, telling me that if I told anyone, she would just call my parents in and tell them that I was lying and making up stories. Of course, because she was a nun, they would believe her, or at least that’s what she wanted me to think. She was probably right, too. My parents were very strict and very religious; they would have been unlikely to take my word over that of a priest or nun. That knowledge gave me more pain than the physical torture from Sister Marie.
As I enter into the BDSM lifestyle, and I administer my punishments and spankings, I always ensure that they are for things that my subs did willfully. Transgressions that we mutually agreed that they wouldn't do and I make them tell me why they are being punished. My subs always have to earn their spankings and punishments. I never punish for things that are beyond their control, e.g. if they are late because they were in an accident, or something else came up that made it impossible for them to complete the task at hand. I would never be upset for those things, or punish them in the same merciless way that Sister Marie punished me. I would always be sure to hold and caress them, and make sure they know that I share in their pain and pleasure, and make sure we mutually cum afterward. I only punish my subs when they willfully cross my wishes or instructions. In this way, Sister Marie did teach me a very valuable lesson in BDSM: it’s never fair to punish for events that are beyond a sub’s control. I guess that the beatings I took there just prepared me for how I acted later in life, in my business relationships.”
“Business relationships?”
“That’s right. After college, I was involved in several business relationships in which I was subservient to an older, powerful boss. So in both my personal life and in the workplace, I became very skilled at being a submissive, or ‘sub’. It’s funny how things can shift and change. One of the key lessons I have learned on my journey is the importance of following your heart. Following my heart has made me the man I am today. For example, when I was 18, I had a real estate license but struggled. At that age, I couldn't sell a house or even really show a house, because nobody wants to buy real estate from someone so young.
In any case, at that time there was an Italian restaurant near my house and I used to eat there often. There was a girl who worked at the restaurant who was a little bit older than I was; I was 18 and she was about 20 or 21. Her name was Amy; we would talk a lot because I would hang out there for a couple of hours at a time. She knew I was struggling as a real estate agent and she told me that she just got a job at a telephone survey place and that they were hiring like crazy, paying top dollar at $12/hr. I followed her there to apply for a job. She ultimately wasn't good at the jo
b, but it turned out that I was. At that place, you really had to be good on the phone. It taught me how to talk to people, to listen to their voice inflections, how to speed up and slow down, and how to manage the inflections of my own voice. This is something that has really affected the way I interact with women. Women love a man who knows how to talk to them and how to whisper those sweet nothings in their ear…
Anyway, Amy eventually went back to the pizzeria. After about a year, I needed some extra money and they were hiring at the pizzeria, so I ended up working for the telephone survey place during the day and the pizzeria at night. I still had a crush on Amy, but she was older and could get into clubs and bars and I was still just 18. I had a car, but all of her boyfriends were from the wealthier side of town and drove Corvettes, Camaros, Monte Carlos, etc. while my car was a Japanese 2 door used. Still, Amy and I talked a lot and it ended up that I got a job as a dishwasher at the restaurant. The place wasn't that busy and as the dishwasher, I could spend hours talking to her.
There would be times when it was busy in the front and I’d be in the back washing dishes and have nothing to do, and the 2 Italian cooks in the back would teach me how to cook. So at the Italian restaurant, I gained another life skill; not only was I learning to talk to people – but the restaurant cooks taught me how to cook meatballs, lasagna dishes, etc. I don’t think there’s a woman in the world who doesn't think it’s really sexy when a man knows how to cook. Because I followed my heart with Amy, I gained that impressive skill.
The Spice of Life (The Transformation #1) Page 8