Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  Yes, Mated—I closed my eyes—in this world solely and exclusively our own.

  Now, opening the window, I tossed my spent pantyhose—those crotch-less castoffs—to their final, watery reward. Imagine the surprise of the farmer out tending his field, I grinned to myself.

  In a flash Sir jumped out in the pouring rain, sloshed through the puddles, and snatched up the pantyhose almost as soon as they hit the ground.

  “I can’t believe you just did that!” He chastised, stuffing the sex-soaked shreds into his pocket. “My brother-in-law won’t believe these.”

  I smiled, but hoped he would remember to take them out of his pocket before someone else did, or the old joke about the man having to start wearing pantyhose because his wife found them in his glove box wouldn’t be so funny; crotch-less pantyhose at that! A little hard to explain.

  I grinned happily.

  Sir climbed back into the Mercedes, and I settled in, ready to roll.

  I was smiling my pleasure as he turned the key. The engine fired up.

  Then came the part where the wheels were supposed to turn. They didn’t. Well, in actuality, they did turn, they just didn’t move us anywhere. They did do a nice job of plowing the field, though.

  Not rattled, Sir gave it a little more gas.

  More mud splattered amidst a WHOLE lot more noise.

  With a horrific roar and fountains of slop flying everywhere—on the trees, on the back window, and five feet into the air—and tires screaming like a banshee, the poor Mercedes merely shimmied and shook like a fat belly dancer... a belly dancer engaged in mud wrestling, that is. Despite his best efforts we weren’t going anywhere; our little din of iniquity just dug deeper into the cornfield with every spin of the wheels. We were stuck.

  Repeatedly Sir tried to move us, but the soggy field wasn’t having any. An uneasy feeling began to creep in, this one not so tingly good. All the screeching noises we were making couldn’t be helpful. As loud as the road buzzed, we were buzzing louder. Surely someone would hear us, especially at this late hour.

  But Sir refused to panic. He’d been through much worse than this on a daily basis, so to him this was just a minor inconvenience. Me, I was scared crapless.

  Cool as usual, he simply climbed back out into the pouring rain, squished ankle deep in the quagmire, and performed some magic on the wheels or axles or something... whatever mechanical thing it was on which you performed magic at times like these.

  I thought at first he was getting out to push while I steered! Right—Sir trusting me with his cherished Mercedes, I could just see that. First I’d bury him in mud and then I’d manage to run him over. No, he’d have to be out of his mind to let me touch his beloved Mercedes.

  Shortly he climbed back in and fired ‘er up again. Again he eased the peddle down and again the engine protested loudly.

  “Come on baby,” he cooed. “Come on...” Who or what could resist that sultry voice? She responded this time.

  The beast whirred, fishtailed, shook, whined, and bellowed, and then— somehow—she got traction! We had forward momentum! Yes!

  I cheered! Yes, I cheered… for a moment.

  We were going forward, all right, FAST… straight toward the rippling sea. There was no way of actually knowing how deep that ‘sea’ was, and we were heading there at warp speed. How did we know there wasn’t a real lake out there in front of us? How did we know this farmer didn’t let his field rot because he’d accidentally planted in quicksand?

  All I knew for sure was that we were being slingshot out of our boggy little soup bowl like a rocket to Mars.

  Yup.

  I gave a little squeak, grabbed the dashboard, and squeezed my eyes shut tight, a habit to which I would grow so accustomed in years to come when riding with Sir.

  I’m sure Sir thought I was the biggest wuss in the world, but I just couldn’t help it, it was scary. A girly-girl and proud of it, I’d never grown a very big set of balls.

  As soon as we blasted out of that thick quagmire, Sir slowed to a manageable rumble. I was ever so glad, but it was still pitch black out there and Sir’s prudent use of operating without lights made things even more harrowing. We were blind as bats. Once we’d splashed our way back onto Terra firma I let out a grateful sigh, wiggling with elation to be alive. Sir chuckled under his breath; I’m sure thinking what a lousy Commando I would make. He was right.

  Sailing on the main highway again, at last I could relax and revel in the hot memories (and the warm sensations in my now naked crotch).

  Our magical mystery tour back to the city was a fantasy ride. Still on a sex-high, I wanted it all. I knew now what ‘It’ was… ‘It’ was us. I couldn’t relent now, no way. Sir seemed so happy with me for the moment.

  Life isn’t always as easy as just climbing out of a bog. There was some rough sailing ahead for both of us.

  First for Sir.

  9 —Little Miss Dangerous

  “... This is what you want, this is what you get... this is what you want, this is what you get...”

  Nobody knew why, but Sir had skipped school for over a week. His scholastic butt was definitely in danger. Ann, one of our head teachers, let it be known in no uncertain terms that he was about to be dropped, permanently. No one had a clue (except me, with ‘all’ the answers) what was going on, or even where to find Sir, Mystery Man that he was. The school had literally no way to get in touch with him, nor did anyone else. He’d dusted his trail too well and hadn’t left a trace.

  I knew why. I lived virtually the same way for different reasons. I knew how crucial it was to maintain anonymity. For me it meant my life; for Sir, I imagined his on-again/off-again divorce was bumming him out badly, but maybe there was more.

  There was no one else with the chutzpah to do it, and I cared, so I took it upon myself to embark on yet another mission from god: to find Sir and try to coax him back to school before he lost everything for which he’d worked so hard.

  It was risky business visiting Sir’s house unannounced, of course, but I couldn’t just let him crash and burn without letting him know what was coming. The staff was concerned for him, and though he probably didn’t believe it, everyone was rooting for him, so he had to get back class before it was too late. Sir was such a fantastic artist and he deserved to graduate. Besides the fact that I loved him, his art talent alone was enough for me to stick my neck out—one artist to another. Not to mention that, well, it was evil, and Little Miss Dangerous just loved evil.

  I began early, diligently searching online. All kinds of random bits of intel are lodged there, available to anyone with enough patience and know-how to ferret them out. Any Joe Schmoe can look you up and get a slew of dirt on you, crumb by crumb. Soon I weaved the web of Sir’s life into a viable tapestry and—bingo—I had his address. Then I spent the rest of the morning before a mirror, sketching myself blowing a kiss across delicately cupped hands as I set free a pure white dove from my fingertips. Below it in carefully placed lettering I penned the statement:

  ‘What you love, hold with an open hand... ’

  It was a two-fold message: first it was me promising Sir I would give him space and to return to me when (and if) he wanted, and secondly it was me suggesting that Sir might want to do the same with his wife. Meaning if he cared about her and they were having problems to give her space, and if it was meant to be they’d get back together. Heavy stuff.

  It was telling him in essence that I wasn’t going to push; that I understood —whatever he decided. Whatever he wanted. Well, at least no more pushing after today, that is. This didn’t count, because today I was on a mission from... well... you know.

  First I had to take the 18” X 24”, intricately detailed pencil portrait to Xerox, twenty miles from my home to have it copied. I couldn’t bear to part with any of my art without copying it. Especially not this piece. Xerox made several large repros and I was on my way. Sir’s hamlet was a number of miles west of this stop, as I could best pinpoint on the map. Hav
ing lived in another state all my life, this was completely uncharted territory to me.

  Properly armed with some papers which school had given me for him and my ‘present’, which only another artist in love would appreciate, I bravely soldiered on.

  Stopping several times along the way to ask directions, I finally felt I was near enough to pause just a few minutes to buy, of all things, make-up. I’d come off in such a hurry without so much as brushing on mascara and had left my makeup kit home as well. That would never do. So I ducked into a pharmacy chain on the main drag in the town several miles short (I hoped) of his house and hastily snatched a few pinch-hit items. Now at least wouldn’t have to face him nekked.

  I wasn’t at all certain what to expect when and if I saw him. Though I was pretty sure it wouldn’t exactly be all wine and roses, I at least thought he’d be pleased to see me. Little did I know.

  Purchases made, I climbed into the car and, running out of time, (it was already late afternoon) I discovered I’d forgotten eye shadow. So, as I made-up in the rear-view mirror, I looked around, then—ever the improviser—swiped several fingers-full of charcoal-gray dust from my dash and applied it to both of my lids. Hey, it worked. ‘Mystery gray’ I called it. I batted my eyes. Wow, hot stuff!

  Hurriedly I resumed my trek. By my calculations and a check with the local BP, I’d be at Sir’s door within minutes. I was so excited. It was purely evil to go ‘big game hunting’, to track down the wild panther like this, but I couldn’t help it; just being in Sir’s territory absolutely thrilled my soul.

  Almost there!

  Ahh, so near, and yet so far.

  Less than half a mile from my destination I hit a brick wall. Fate? Not on my watch. There’d been severe storms lately, and on his street, closer than I ever realized at the time, I was stopped dead in my tracks by a huge washout; a gaping hole thirty feet long and the entire width of the road. A chasm at least eight feet deep had literally dropped out of the pavement over a creek making further navigation on that route impossible.

  I suddenly had visions of this Mountain Man’s Mercedes bumping down, through, then up and over the gorge, ‘no problem-o’. So that’s why Sir had that huge, set-up Mercedes?

  Nah...

  I hadn’t come this far to be waylaid by just a little bus-sized crater. Little did I realize I could have merely backtracked half a block and turned northward again with almost no loss of time. Naturally I chose the wrong way. I took a right onto a narrow street that dipped lower than the washout and, in my defense at least kept me heading in the same general direction. It was a spooky mistake.

  Cautiously trekking over this narrow old road that loomed ominously close to an absolutely raging stream— complete with tumbling boulders and bobbing two-foot-thick logs—I felt suddenly thrust into the rural Ozarks.

  OK. What’s next, log cabins and Black bears? Hostile mountain folk attacking? I could hear the banjos twanging.

  I was, unbeknownst to me at the time, at the edge of a huge and beautiful national forest. A park with which I would become intimately familiar in the next decade, and beyond, Sir bringing me here time and time again for our rituals. Within a quarter mile of my ill-fated detour, just as I was convinced I was forever lost, it was with great relief I encountered a normal-looking young couple out for a casual evening stroll. They were pausing, hand in hand, to watch the stream’s savage drama. I was further relieved when, after stopping to ask them, they confirmed that I was indeed heading in the right direction and would eventually hit my destination if I took a few lefts and traveled a mile or so.

  Not that I didn’t believe them, but words can’t express how happy I was to finally emerge from the uncharted wilderness into civilization again. OK, so I eventually discovered a few swing sets, grills, and little public rest rooms, but at first it couldn’t have seemed more primitive.

  At last, another turn and I was again on the right road, albeit just north of the cave-in which was now only ¼ mile away as the crow flies. Because of my stupidity I’d had to twist, turn, and grope several long miles out of my way. I’d seen it all on my map, it looked so easy. Now at last I was there.

  Whoa! I was so proud of myself. I had made it. I get a gold star or an arm patch or something.

  Or maybe just a boot in the ass. …

  I turned right, drove a few hundred feet and, lo and behold! There before my wondering eyes stood…

  A TALL BLACK WICKED COOL MERCEDES!

  Unmistakably Sir’s; there just weren’t two vehicles like his around. Mission accomplished! I was so excited I tingled! The hair on my arms raised up. I’d played spy, FBI, and CIA agent all rolled into one! I’d found the illusive 3 Commando Brigade man despite his best efforts. I’d done the impossible; I’d hunted him like the ‘Little Miss Dangerous’ that I was! Little ol’ me, mortal extraordinaire had tracked him down.

  I was elated!

  The elation was to be short-lived.

  Gallantly pulling in behind the sultry black Mercedes, I threw caution to the wind. Riding on the wings of love and heroism, my valiant quest accomplished, I now stepped boldly to the porch, the radiance of my broad smile surpassed only by the luminance of the brilliantly setting sun. Me and my dust eye shadow, armed with the manila school folder and the tube with my rolled up, personalized 18” X 24” message, mounted the steps and bravely approached the cream-colored-lacy-curtained front door.

  Through the gauzy lace I could just see inside. Oh my! What luck! There was Sir! I could see him, sitting on the floor! Be still my beating heart! I hesitantly tapped, then smiled broadly again because he had seen me AND HE WAS COMING! Oh, my! Yes! Oh, yes! He was coming to open the door! He was obviously as excited as I was because he was coming very fast!

  Wow, it was better than I had dreamed! I beamed my smile now.

  Big finish! Lights, camera, action! I was ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille!

  Then, whoa, what?

  Stop the cameras! Hold up a sec... this can’t be right... Screen play writer check that page.

  With eyes as big as saucers—whites showing all around—and a face completely drained of blood, Sir greeted me like a grizzly bear with an axe up his ass. A Sir I’d never met and would not want to meet again jerked open the door—WHOOSH!—reached out a huge hand and—YANK!—snatched the tube and the envelope right out of my hand—so fast if I’d have blinked I’d have missed it, and then—WHAM!—shut the door again… my hair wafting on the dying breeze.

  There I stood, motionless and in shock on his front porch, mouth agape.

  Uh, MAJOR anticlimax. No, no, no, back up and let’s do a re-take, Mr. DeMille. Can I please have a do-over? Something just wasn’t right.

  I waited another second, but with no response from Mr. DeMille (or anyone else), I simply turned—ever in character—stepped off the porch and with unfaltering queenly dignity headed to my car. Like an embarrassed cat that had just fallen off the couch, ‘I meant to do that.’

  I wasn’t sure—after all, it’d happened so fast—that Sir wasn’t just so thrilled to see me that he had hurried in to gussy himself up so he could hustle back, leap into my seat, and embrace me like the long-lost lover of which I was certain he regarded me.

  I waited another few seconds in my car, fumbling with my keys just in case… just in case; saving face, looking busy, but. …

  Hmmm guess not. No ‘Sir’. Wrong again.

  OK. ‘Start the car and drive away’, my numb brain said. So, in the advancing twilight with the long trek home ahead of me, I started the car and… drove me and my dirt-eye-shadow away.

  Boy. What a dumb shit I was! Then it dawned on me. How else would a reclusive, married man react to his ‘bit-o’-fluff-on-the-side’ tracking him down and suddenly appearing at his front door? Wait a minute, it wasn’t his front door; he’d told me that since he and his wife had separated he wasn’t living at home; he was at his parent’s. So what was the problem? It was just his parent’s house, after all... wasn’t it?


  Whatever it was, it was obviously a MAJOR SNAFU from the freak-out I got.

  I limped home, licking my wounds, taking quiet consolation in the fact that I had at least been Evil, had at least delivered the school’s papers and my parable ‘message’, (though its impact was somewhat lessened now) and above all that I had accomplished what none other could: finding the trained 3 Commando Brigade man and the school’s literal prodigal son.

  Some consolation.

  Something must have worked, because miraculously, Sir returned. He returned to finish the year before summer break. Whether or not I had anything to do with it I can never be sure. I only know that Little Miss Dangerous had done her wicked best to try.

  10—Re-birth

  “Now, I’m askin’ you a question.”

  The rain falling from the night sky dotted the windows of my car and tumbled down in little rivulets here and there except on the windshield. There, where the blades had wiped it clean, the water rolled off smoothly leaving almost no trace. Across the glistening street the colored lights of ‘Harold’s’, our old school hangout, winked and danced in a thousand reflecting prisms. It gave the appearance of Christmas, but it was early March.

  It had been a while.

  There had been a major change.

  Just before the beginning of our second year at photography school I had made a radical and impromptu decision. Based on financial strategy and wanting a higher degree than offered at the Institute of Art and Photography, I had transferred to a full university to secure my BA.

  Sir had tentatively re-started at the Institute that autumn after the Little Miss Dangerous debacle without me there, and had muddled through for a bare few months before dropping out for good. It was my fault. I had abandoned him at school, after all. There was no doubt about that in my mind and I felt terribly guilty for it. Nothing my former classmates could say could convince me otherwise. It was nearly impossible to keep in touch with Sir, now that we were out of sync with our schools. Things had also gone totally haywire for me at home.