Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  After what seemed like only a minute, a slender young woman strolled before us. My goodness! She was wearing the very dress I’d admired in the window just before we came in! I cast a sideways glance to determine from where she’d appeared, leaning behind Ned a bit, but stopping before actually craning my neck like an idiot. Not here on Park Avenue. How bourgeois! Instead, from my straight-backed position, I froze the smile on my childlike face and watched as the svelte young model turned this way and that, dazzling us with THAT BEAUTIFUL DRESS. My god, it was the most stunning creation I had ever seen, and here it was, being paraded before my eyes like some forbidden dessert! It was almost cruel irony, but I would live.

  I stoically stole a corner-of-the eye look at Ned, who was gazing at me with a fatherly twinkle in his eyes!

  “You like it?” He smiled.

  I gulped. “Like it?” I was a kid in a candy store. “Oh! It’s fantastic!”

  I assumed he was considering buying it for his wife. Oh, yes, there’s that 'wife' word again. Did I neglect to mention that? Yes, sigh, Ned was married, too. In his defense it was a complicated situation involving an oft-institutionalized, mentally ill wife, with whom obligation and devotion was the only bond now. Ned was one of the good guys.

  But back to the dress shop.

  What happened next floored me.

  “Size?” He quizzed quietly as if the others in the room didn’t exist.

  “Size?” I squeaked, the impossible reality beginning to dawn on me. “My... size?”

  Ned nodded his head slowly with a twist of a smile. Picture Kevin Spacey.

  My eyes flew open. “Nine,” I swallowed. Mama had always said expensive dresses should be bought a size larger. Why? I have no idea.

  The bordello madam smiled knowingly, “Eight,” she pronounced with a surveying glance, and left to retrieve the frock.

  “Try it on.” Ned grinned as the madam returned, glittering cloth on a hanger draped ceremoniously over her arm.

  My mouth fell open. “OK,” I managed, weakly.

  I was totally blown away. The dress was made from billions and billions of sequins sculpted into gold and black stripes like a Bengal tiger. It was form fitting, had long sleeves and was absolutely freaking gorgeous. With my sweeping, dark hair and high-rise legs I could pull off the razzle-dazzle, no problem-o.

  I blushingly donned it in the dressing room with the assistance of the vendeuse.

  “I’ll take that,” she held out her hand for my discarded dress, an old dishrag by comparison. “I’ll box it for you.”

  She took my cast-offs, and I gulped in disbelief as she… what? Snipped the price tag off the sleeve? I caught a glimpse of the price. I nearly choked! Impossible! Ned was buying me this dress? Several families could be fed for a week on the cost of this dress alone!

  I opened the fitting room door and took a hesitate step toward Ned. His eyes hit me and he was speechless. That made two of us. I was waiting for the crown and bouquet, and for glitter to come cascading from the ceiling.

  Unbelievably, Ned wasn’t finished yet. From behind me came the coat. Yes, a beautiful, long, black TERRIBLY EXPENSIVE coat.

  “You know, that coat of yours really doesn’t match the dress.” Ned proclaimed in mock seriousness. The ladies were already fitting it on me. “Try this one,” Ned encouraged.

  The black, floor-length, tailored cashmere coat adorned with leopard fur at the collar and cuffs wrapped luxuriously around my body. In comparison my old tweed cloth coat was so pathetic it had moths committing ‘harikari’ in its pockets.

  This was all too much. I was in shock.

  I was afraid to look at this price tag. I was beginning to reel. I felt lightheaded. I hoped I wasn’t going to fall over.

  “Now the handbag,” he motioned to the 'madam' who produced a beautiful matching handbag of black leather trimmed in fur, just like the coat. I couldn’t have been more stunned had they pulled out a .45 and shot me.

  “We’ll box your things for you,” the lady smiled politely at me, toting the discarded items like plague shrouds. Then with an air of deference she turned to Ned and quizzed quietly, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Ned shook his head, but he couldn’t take his adoring eyes off me. I was beginning to flush. The sequins tickled my skin and danced like a thousand sparkling diamonds in the light as I moved. I ran my hands over a sleeve. It made a purring sound like cards being shuffled and felt like brushing snake’s scales. The dress weighed a ton, and poured over my curves like liquid metal. In fact that’s exactly the picture I presented, scintillating, shimmering, hot, liquid, tiger-striped metal. Oh, man!

  Ned was beaming as he draped my arm over his and we strutted out of the shop into the fountained courtyard of the prestigious hotel to which it was connected. Every eye noticed, every head turned. Bellhops, doormen, the rich highbrow snobs, everyone everywhere craned their necks to stare at ME! I was in a fairyland! I was a movie star! I was flying higher than this afternoon when I almost killed us both!

  Ned graciously carried my packages —my 'Cinderella’ duds—like a true gentleman.

  Then the fantastic part happened. (You thought that was the fantastic part, didn’t you?)

  We had strolled through the elegant glass doors and onto the street, with Ned beseeching me to walk more slowly so everyone could 'feast their eyes'. At last he asked me casually where I preferred to dine. Dine? I couldn’t conjugate, let alone raise a fork to my mouth!

  “Anywhere is fine with me,” I managed, still discreetly stroking my purring dress.

  “In those clothes? Certainly not just anywhere,” he tut-tut-ed in mock chagrin. We walked half a block more and crossed the street next to the center square, its lights sparkling off me like they sparkled off the showrooms’ windows. Ned paused. 'La Roi', the most exquisite French restaurant in the area loomed in front of us, and, instead of walking past, he took my arm and directed me firmly toward its grand, red portal.

  What in the world was happening now? I honestly was dizzy.

  The doorman opened it and, voila, we... stepped...

  ... inside…?!

  What? This was THE most exclusive, five-star restaurant around three states. It probably took weeks, if not months to get a reservation unless your name was Turner or Getty or… Benjamin Franklin...

  How on earth? For goodness sake, we were being directed to a table?! When was I going to wake up?

  Demurely I followed the maître d' as Ned had indicated I do, with a slight tip of his head and flourish of his hand. Just as Ned had said, we were entirely noticeable. No mistaking our Class and Style. Broadway! Hollywood, baby! Pop and SIZZLE! Every head turned and every eye admired the gorgeous, dazzlingly beautiful, sparkling, and scintillating dress as it slinked across the floor— which just happened to have me in it!

  I played the part to the hilt. You see, after the shock, I regain pretty well, and regain, I did, mister. The effect and the utter satisfaction Ned got in showing me off was priceless. Me? I was already in heaven.

  The dinner was wonderful. What can you say about a continually-five-star-rated restaurant’s cuisine? I got my first sip of Dom Pérignon. Ned bought a whole bottle. And my god. Yes. Yes it is all it’s hyped to be.

  It was so wonderful, in fact, that I pulled a further shameless 'Pretty Woman'. Why not, right? I actually asked the server for the cork. The waiter smiled, winked, and brought it to me! (I still have it to this day.)

  The night was just too priceless—well, hardly priceless. There was an incredible amount of 'price' thrown around that night, but with no strings attached. None.

  Our parting?

  No one but Ned and I will believe this, but it consisted of a mere, hot, romantic kiss and a tender hug in his car in front of my house, like teenagers. Nothing more. Can you believe it? I couldn’t believe the entire evening! Maybe the shock of the near death experience had left Ned more stunned than he realized. If so, point me to the nearest Cessna!

  Kidding...


  Ned was a true gentleman, a real sweetheart among sweethearts, and a class act all the way. Ned, here’s to you and the priceless, wonderful night you gave me. I’ll remember it always. I hope you’re doing well. You deserve it.

  With my Owner’s permission, of course.

  19—The Tree

  “Pretty good idea...”

  There were times when nothing would work. No matter what we did, no matter what we tried, Sir and I just couldn’t connect. I began to get worried—worried that we’d just fade away forever and never meet up again. I moved so much. I changed phone numbers and jobs like the seasons. I was afraid that Sir would forget me.

  Though every time I chirped as he left, “Don’t forget me...” He’d laugh and say, “Never.”

  Still, I feared the worst.

  So I thought up 'The Tree'.

  It was on one of my walks in 'our' woods one sunny afternoon that I got the bright idea to carve homage to my Owner on a tree. I found a perfect little one, on a path that he and I both knew. One that he would easily recognize and one that was accessible to him; just like i was. I informed him of its whereabouts and our spot was born.

  There were many times I left notes and objects under that tree for my Owner. Most he retrieved; a few he didn’t, and I’d dig them back up later, after we’d re-linked.

  I found an object left under our Tree, too, though he said it wasn’t from him. I cannot dispute him, but only say if it wasn’t, I wish it were. It was his style, and instantly, believing it was from Sir, it thrilled my soul. It was a beautiful, miniature booklet, so battered by the time I retrieved it I could barely read the inner pages. They disintegrated at a touch. It was a tiny book—four inches by four inches—with a seductive cover. The ground and the creatures had gotten to it long before I, giving new meaning to the term 'book worm'. Still I took every minuscule, damaged scrap home and, piece by piece, bit by bit, reconstructed every crumbling page I could.

  The cover was in better shape; archival and with higher clay content, it was still more or less intact, and considerably more so than the interior. It was titled:

  The Kiss’

  “A romantic Treasury of Photographs and Quotes...”

  In my mind I could see the message the tiny gray-blue book with its bittersweet title was sending. It was emblazoned all over the cover—a ‘50’s style French woman with eyelids closed and full-blown lips provocatively, ever-so-lightly kissing—and being kissed by—her lover.

  It was so beautiful and exotic. I was ecstatic. The pages were ungodly brittle and rain-soaked; it had apparently been in the ground some time. I hadn’t been back there in so long. But it was carefully wrapped, and I’m sure it was protected for a little while. I surmised whoever left it hadn’t suspected I’d have been so errant in coming for it.

  Again, Sir says it wasn’t from him, and I must respect that... It wasn’t him.

  The Tree was to be our safe harbor, our ever after, our last resort. (“There’s always The Tree”, he’d said once with a grin). A place to send and leave messages should we get irretrievably separated. It was.

  It worked out so well... when I lived close and could check it every week and carve it every April, which I did for over a decade, then...

  ... things got goofy. It became impossible for me to get there, with lame cars breaking down, no buses, and being way too far to walk. Though he stayed in one place all his life, I had moved so often I’d lost count, and now so far away.

  And, and, and...

  ... And there was no excuse. I should have made it there, regardless, even if I’d had to walk for a day. It was our 'ever after', after all. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. I accept my punishment.

  The carving on the Tree was tricky to do with anonymity; sometimes people would happen by in the midst of the inscribing. You’re not supposed to be carving on the national parks’ trees. I just knew somebody would catch me eventually and call the cops. Of course that didn’t stop me from carving it, but nonetheless, getting caught wouldn’t do. The marking needed to be done with alacrity and deftness. A mere knife made for a protracted process. So my plan was to make a branding iron with which to burn my marks straight into the Tree. Something I could easily heat with a lighter and which would make marking quick and efficient. Yes, I planned it; but alas, I never constructed it. I continued to carve by hand for many years.

  Sir put the idea of branding in my head; he’d talked of branding me for a while now, and just the thought compelled me to nipple-hard-on’s. I’d even made a small branding iron for Sir to use on his property—a wood-handled contraption—but was far too timid to ever present my handiwork to him. It was a mere toy and a challenge for me to construct it, but you dare not present a thing to Sir unless you were prepared for him to use it. He followed through.

  Well, it turned out not showing him didn’t slow him down at all... he eventually branded me anyway; several times—with irons of his own, and of much better making.

  Oh, god.

  He tied and branded me once, strung up to the ceiling in the back of his truck, and once at our spot in the wilderness, spread-eagle on the mountain top overlooking the expressway... oh, I never mentioned those adventures, did I? Perhaps I should...

  ... Another time. Another book. Trust me, they’re exquisite.

  I will only give you a taste: the wild ascent to the top of the little mountain in his Mercedes to my terrified silence; the plethora of trees; the ways in which I was bound; the complete abandon where no one could hear; the hours, the pleasures. The screams.

  I bear the brands today. With pride. (“Scars [and brands] to show where you’ve been,” remember?)

  20—Italiano

  “Women have no-o-o generosity.”

  Yet another married man—sigh. I was beginning to lose count. Give me a break. It was all Gio’s fault. He wooed me unmercifully. He romantically pursued me with all the drive and finesse of a Mack truck. Although he was several decades older than me, his step was lively, his wit and hands still quick. As for his bank account, it seemed to be never-ending along with, at first, his romantic phrases, charms, and innovative advances.

  (Again, this chapter is here solely to weave the enigmatic web that is 'M'. My Owner knew everything; he was told everything… precisely, and great detail, and he sanctioned—albeit with punishment—every encounter with a sadist’s delight.)

  New company, new position, new job—of holding another man at bay. I accomplished it for a month. Gio was obviously taken with me, and he soon made that abundantly clear. I was flattered that the president of the company would turn his eye and his smile toward me; however, I was not interested. I would NEVER lose sight of the fact that I belonged body and soul to Sir. Which is why I told Sir everything. Eventually he did sanction my involvement with this man, probably because it titillated him to have more reason to punish his reprehensible piece of property.

  Of course I kept my Owner dutifully apprised of Gio and his antics, and, as always, did nothing behind Sir’s back, and certainly not without his explicit permission. He was blasé about it, knowing the entire time he had nothing in the world to worry about. I was his and his alone, and he could recall that permission at any time; jerk that chain that bound me and bring me to my knees—and more. Oh so much more.

  Nothing and no one would, or could ever come between my Owner and me. I think Sir was amusingly pleased when another man gave his property trinkets and bobbles, and especially when she teased the ever-loving shit out of the motherfucker, while Sir so thoroughly owned her. I believed it tickled his balls. I also know that being a fellow starving artist, Sir wanted me to have things he wished he could give me, but couldn’t.

  So Gio played on.

  Lust saturated the air at this little Peyton Place of an accounting firm at which I’d landed. A female co-worker, Candita, in her miniskirts and stilted heels was openly enjoying an affair of long standing with the owner of the company. Everyone knew it was going on, and neither she nor the o
wner made any attempts to hide it. Eyes would twinkle and mouths would twitch into half-hidden smiles when sloe-eyed Candita would saunter back down the corridor from the owner’s office after 'doing lunch', no doubt dusting his big mahogany desk with her tight little ass cheeks. This chick was dumb enough to think that no one would notice her wrinkled outfit and mussed makeup. Or maybe she didn’t care. Why should she?

  Their antics seemed to sexually agitate Gio. On more than one occasion he mentioned the fact that I 'needed a set-up' like the one Candita had. I would grin, shake my head and pass it off as a friendly joke. Gio was a nice older gentleman; married, after all. Bantering with the new kid on the block was all I assumed it to be.

  The owner of the accounting firm, a rich air-headed playboy with several ex-wives, and a half-dozen kids trailing behind him like he was some anachronistic Arabian sheik, just couldn’t keep it in his pants, and the fact that his newest coquette de la soir was half his age made his pants bulge even more.

  To say Candita was a tramp is an affront to the label. True, the owner was no longer married, but this was the little cookie that had broken them up. That, however, was not my affair. From my glass house, I, at least, could boast that I had never caused a divorce. Still, the sight of the gifts and the knowledge of the helping hand that her sugar daddy was providing did make me long for a little stash of my own. I didn’t admire Candita; she was a bitch. But, coming out of a hard marriage and a long but youthful life of poverty I guess I couldn’t argue when she said she was going to see how 'the other half lived'.

  Interesting.

  One bright, chilly morning, about two weeks into the job, Gio surprised me with a spontaneous invitation to lunch. I still refused to make anything of it coming from this president of the company, classy, European gentleman that he was, with his platinum BMW and his expensive thousand dollar suits. It was slowly beginning to dawn on me—I wasn’t positive—that what I was feeling might be correct. Brick walls generally have to fall on me when men are interested and I haven’t done anything to entice them. As we walked across the parking lot to the quaint, private Italian restaurant he’d chosen, there it was: the squeeze on the arm, and his unmistakable drawing of my body closer as we sauntered. Then came the pat on my bare thigh as he paused in starting the Beemer when lunch was over, accompanied by another telling squeeze of my knee. Yep. Even to the naive, all the road signs read, 'Trouble Ahead'.