anesthesia.
Did that hurt? the man asked.
Yes, it did.
So let me ask you, driver, how do you feel about pain?
You mean, in general?
Let’s say in the philosophical sense.
I say the winner gets to see the loser suffer.
Is the suffering of others enjoyable to watch?
It could be, I said.
What do you think of people who get entertained, even excited, by watching others’ pain? Do you know what I am getting at?
Like chains, kissing boots, bondage, and so on?
Yes indeed. A very perceptive driver you are.
It is a fact that many cultures turn pain into a legitimate spectacle, I said.
How about voluntary subjugation, he asked. Is that legitimate?
I guess, when you think about it, this is where the so-called sexual liberation movement and the religious self-floggers intersect. The ancient Christians walked happily towards the lions’ smiles, and some flogged themselves. And so do some Muslim sects to this day. I am not sure what benefits might come to the man who willingly consents to pain, sir. But there must be some convictions and pleasures involved.
So we shall respect those convictions, driver, are you saying? Let me ask you this. If you were a Roman, would you have attended any of those spectacles?
I would think so, sir. They would have seemed perfectly legitimate to me. We are all the products and the victims of our own upbringing, until we reflect, refuse, and rebel.
Would you attend any similar event in the present, as we speak?
I pulled over and turned to face the man. I smiled and said: If I can leave the meter on and charge for it, yes indeed. And who knows, I might also be rewarded with a large, generous tip.
Why not? Why not, indeed. Smarter than I ever thought, my dear chap. Seek and you shall find.
We drove down to the port. Below the quay there was what looked like a wooden castle, or maybe a mill, or a monster. It was getting late in the morning and I was tired, and when I get tired, I imagine the most spectacular things.
I kept my meter running, shut off the engine, and followed the man.
There was a small window beside the door. The man whispered what must have been a password and, seconds later, a giant in leather opened the door and ushered us in.
It was dark inside, but at the entrance there was a large cage with a few men, half-naked, with collars around their necks. They were all behaving like dogs. One of them was on his knees, sniffing the others and whimpering, one was in the corner howling, another was barking and showing his teeth. They each had long leashes and leather straps crossing their chests.
Gladiators! I declared.
Hardly, the man said. These, my dear, are slaves brought here by their masters. In complete submission. They are here to obey, to be exchanged and swapped. But let’s proceed to the darkrooms, and I urge you to listen and not talk.
It was so dark that all I could detect was forms and shades of hands and body parts clinging to each other. If it hadn’t been for the little moans of pleasure and the sounds of friction, they all would have seemed like sluggish mermaids, swimming through smells of sweat and cum, swirling around in duality and happiness.
After we left the darkrooms, we arrived at some faintly lit booths occupied by she-males and cat ladies. We watched as a chained middle-aged man with a hairy back was stomped on by a topless lady in tight pants and a face mask. Another man was on his knees and looked like he was simultaneously in pain and ecstasy. He was breathing heavily inside a leather mask. And then we passed a man in a G-string who tried to grab my ankle, but I kicked myself free and walked away. He shouted after me, Fag, fag, come over here, fag, I know you want it. I gave him the finger and puffed myself up like an ant ready to fight.
We began climbing a flight of stairs, and halfway up I saw a giant swing, decorated with flowers that climbed along its ropes. Yes, my dear driver, said the man, when I asked him about it. This is a swing,
Did that hurt? the man asked.
Yes, it did.
So let me ask you, driver, how do you feel about pain?
You mean, in general?
Let’s say in the philosophical sense.
I say the winner gets to see the loser suffer.
Is the suffering of others enjoyable to watch?
It could be, I said.
What do you think of people who get entertained, even excited, by watching others’ pain? Do you know what I am getting at?
Like chains, kissing boots, bondage, and so on?
Yes indeed. A very perceptive driver you are.
It is a fact that many cultures turn pain into a legitimate spectacle, I said.
How about voluntary subjugation, he asked. Is that legitimate?
I guess, when you think about it, this is where the so-called sexual liberation movement and the religious self-floggers intersect. The ancient Christians walked happily towards the lions’ smiles, and some flogged themselves. And so do some Muslim sects to this day. I am not sure what benefits might come to the man who willingly consents to pain, sir. But there must be some convictions and pleasures involved.
So we shall respect those convictions, driver, are you saying? Let me ask you this. If you were a Roman, would you have attended any of those spectacles?
I would think so, sir. They would have seemed perfectly legitimate to me. We are all the products and the victims of our own upbringing, until we reflect, refuse, and rebel.
Would you attend any similar event in the present, as we speak?
I pulled over and turned to face the man. I smiled and said: If I can leave the meter on and charge for it, yes indeed. And who knows, I might also be rewarded with a large, generous tip.
Why not? Why not, indeed. Smarter than I ever thought, my dear chap. Seek and you shall find.
We drove down to the port. Below the quay there was what looked like a wooden castle, or maybe a mill, or a monster. It was getting late in the morning and I was tired, and when I get tired, I imagine the most spectacular things.
I kept my meter running, shut off the engine, and followed the man.
There was a small window beside the door. The man whispered what must have been a password and, seconds later, a giant in leather opened the door and ushered us in.
It was dark inside, but at the entrance there was a large cage with a few men, half-naked, with collars around their necks. They were all behaving like dogs. One of them was on his knees, sniffing the others and whimpering, one was in the corner howling, another was barking and showing his teeth. They each had long leashes and leather straps crossing their chests.
Gladiators! I declared.
Hardly, the man said. These, my dear, are slaves brought here by their masters. In complete submission. They are here to obey, to be exchanged and swapped. But let’s proceed to the darkrooms, and I urge you to listen and not talk.
It was so dark that all I could detect was forms and shades of hands and body parts clinging to each other. If it hadn’t been for the little moans of pleasure and the sounds of friction, they all would have seemed like sluggish mermaids, swimming through smells of sweat and cum, swirling around in duality and happiness.
After we left the darkrooms, we arrived at some faintly lit booths occupied by she-males and cat ladies. We watched as a chained middle-aged man with a hairy back was stomped on by a topless lady in tight pants and a face mask. Another man was on his knees and looked like he was simultaneously in pain and ecstasy. He was breathing heavily inside a leather mask. And then we passed a man in a G-string who tried to grab my ankle, but I kicked myself free and walked away. He shouted after me, Fag, fag, come over here, fag, I know you want it. I gave him the finger and puffed myself up like an ant ready to fight.
We began climbing a flight of stairs, and halfway up I saw a giant swing, decorated with flowers that climbed along its ropes. Yes, my dear driver, said the man, when I asked him about it. This is a swing,
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