Bruises Bruises

Written by Jonathan Ames on . Posted in Posts.


1990 was a bad summer. It
should have been a good one but it was a bad one. I’ve pulled a lot of
stunts in my day, mostly of the sick sexual variety, but that summer I reached
a new low. Or a new high. It was so low it was high, if you know what I mean.

I was 26
and a single parent. My son was four. He smelled good all the time, the way
little kids do. I guess that’s because the rot hasn’t set in yet.

So my son
was real cute. Red hair, blue eyes, ivory skin. Full of love. I had him for
the whole summer. This part-time dad was now a full-time dad. We stayed with
my parents in New Jersey. I needed their help with looking after my son for
such a long stretch. Because I was a writer and made my living driving a taxi,
I could just take off, so I did–all of July and August.

About two
mornings each week, I’d go to the library to try to write from 9 to noon,
and my mother would look after my son. I felt guilty about those three hours,
but I needed to work a little.

Around week
five, I started to come unhinged. I had no social life, I was playing with my
kid 12 hours a day in the humid Jersey weather, and on the two mornings I went
to the library my writing sucked. Also, my father was still working back then
so he was tormented and insane and many nights he and I would stage a little
summer-stock Oedipal drama. So, like I said, I was coming unhinged, which means
I had to do something, take action.

Well, one
day my son was taking a nap and I was looking at the local free newspaper and
spotted a curious ad in the classifieds: a dominatrix with a transsexual assistant
was offering $100, one-hour sessions. What the hell was this doing in a free
newspaper in suburban New Jersey?

So I called
the number.

A youngish-sounding
woman answered the phone. "What do you want?" she said.

"I’m
calling about your ad," I said in a whispery voice.

"Yeah,
so? You want a session, you little pussy?"

"Yes,"
I said.

I told her
what time I could get together and the girl laid down the law. She’d meet
me the next day at 11 at TGI Friday’s, just off the local highway. I was
to stand at the bar and have a pack of unopened Marlboro cigarettes in my hand.
If she didn’t like the looks of me, she’d turn right around. If I
passed inspection, she’d come over to me and ask for a cigarette. I wasn’t
to give her one, but follow her out to her car, where’d she blindfold me
and drive me to her house.

"Do
I have to be blindfolded?"

"You
think I’m going to let a freak like you know where I live?"

The next
day I was at the TGI Friday’s by 10:50 with a pack of Marlboros. My mother
thought I was at the library. I should have been with my son. I’m a terrible
person.

The place
had just opened when I got there. I ordered a coffee. At 11 she walked in–very
short, maybe 5-1, dark-haired, pretty, early 20s, jeans and a halter top, sunglasses.
We played the cigarette game, then out to her car. My heart was explosive. She
didn’t have a blindfold but sunglasses that were taped over.

"I
don’t want a cop stopping me because he sees that I have a faggot like
you blindfolded," she explained. If I was lucky, she’d kill me fast
and dump my body in the Meadowlands. My poor parents, my poor son.

I kept trying
to peer out the bottom of the sunglasses to see where I was being taken to be
executed. Despite my nervousness, I asked her lots of questions. She was pretty
forthcoming. I’ve always been good with the Q&A.

She was
Italian Catholic. Ever since she was a teenager she had gotten off on dominating
men, especially since all men were assholes. Her high school boyfriend was her
transsexual assistant; she had been feminizing him for a few years, feeding
him hormone pills, making him dress like a girl, and, though he resisted at
first, he was now happy with his transformation. Eventually, they’d have
his penis cut off and they’d be lesbian lovers.

The whole
thing was so sick it was thrilling. She and this guy were actually living out
a dream that millions–well, maybe thousands–of perverts wanted. And
I had found her in a free newspaper! Sometimes I do have the magic touch.

She told
me that when she and her boy/girlfriend had enough money saved they were going
to move to New York and open a first-class dungeon. Then from the dungeon they’d
get enough money for his sex-change operation.

I got all
this in a 20-minute car-ride, which I think involved her driving around in circles,
in case I was peering out the bottom of the glasses. I felt like James Bond
being kidnapped.

We pulled
into a driveway; she took me by the hand and led me into a house, which I could
perceive from the bottom of my glasses. Then down to a stark, carpeted basement
room with mirrors on all the walls, a radio, a futon mattress, a big box with
s&m paraphernalia and a pole that ran from the floor to the ceiling. I gave
her the hundred bucks. Then she slapped me and tied my wrists behind my back
to the pole and left me in the room. It was nearly 11:30. I told my mother I’d
meet her at the lake where we took my son swimming at 12:30. I was going to
be late!

She left
me tied to that pole for 10 minutes. I imagined this was part of the torture,
but I thought it was a ripoff, so I managed to free myself, just like James
Bond. I tried the door; it was locked. I could have busted it down, but I didn’t.
My James Bondness went only so far. Then she came into the room dressed in black
bra, panties, stockings, boots–usual dominatrix garb–and slapped me
for slipping my bonds. Then she put the radio on, WPLJ.

"What
are you into?" she asked. "Want me to flog you?"

"Can
I kiss your breasts?" She looked pretty in her bra.

"No
contact, asshole." She slapped me again and looked at me like I was crazy.
I didn’t want to be flogged. I wanted to kiss her breasts and maybe lick
her pussy. I wasn’t an s&m nut; I was just a nut. My perversion is
that I try everything once, even if I’m not into it.

Then her
tranny boyfriend, a tall, slender brunette wearing a negligee, came in and gave
me a wide-eyed north/south. I wasn’t bad-looking back then. The girl had
the tranny undress me, then they conferred in the corner while I stood there
naked.

Then the
tranny came over and started rubbing against me, trying to slow-dance with me,
and I didn’t mind, he was a pretty good-looking girl. And I knew what was
going on: I was being tossed to the tranny-slave like a piece of meat and the
girl got off on watching.

The tranny
put a condom on me and knelt down for a blowjob. The girl came over and slapped
me violently. It hurt. The other slaps had been warmups. She went to do it again,
but I caught her wrist this time and bent her arm behind her back. She was a
little thing, even in her black boots. I pulled myself out of the tranny’s
mouth, held the girl’s arm behind her back, and slow-danced her from behind.
That vicious slap had done something to me, turned me into Robert Mitchum. The
girl didn’t say anything. I think she was stunned. Maybe she liked having
the tables turned. The tranny watched and smiled. Poor nutty slave. He was going
to lose his dick some day.

Well, after
that, things got a little sordid. An unlit candle somehow entered the picture
and the three of us rolled around on that futon. At some point the girl did
flog me two or three times, but I let her–I’m not an ungenerous lover.

So it ended
the way most things end: somebody gets a paper towel and you wish you had never
been born. The tranny said to me, "I hope you’ll see us again."

I got to the lake 15 minutes
late. In the water, my son and several other four-year-olds were crawling all
over me. I was the only dad around and so I was like a pied piper for the kids.
At some point, my son was really bouncing on my back and it hurt and for a moment
I wondered why. To be able to live with myself, I had immediately upon getting
into my car at TGI Friday’s blocked from my mind the lurid scene I had
just engaged in, but then with my son bouncing on my bruises from the flogging
I couldn’t forget what I had done and my two worlds came together: being
a father and being a sick bastard. I felt the most terrible, burning shame.
The lake water could do nothing to cool me down.

I don’t
know if I can really convey why I felt the way I did, but maybe it’s this:
my son is the one decent, pure thing in my life and I didn’t want any of
my darkness–the bruises–to be near him, to touch him, to taint him.
So I hated myself quite a lot in that moment, but I had to love him,
so I kept playing in the water, and made him as happy as I could. It was the
only thing to do.

..