Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery

Manhattan Murder Mystery
Manhattan Murder Mystery

Let’s call this fiction. It’s a pretty weird story, so I guess I’ll start it with one of the weirder parts: the time I was asked to urinate on a man.

Of course I didn’t do it, and in fact was preparing to have to physically remove the man – let’s use that term loosely – from my apartment. I’m telling you, you haven’t lived until you have had your crazy bitch of a roommate drag some faggot who likes to be pissed on back from whatever freak show she found him to your apartment, knock on your bedroom door where you’re cuddling, post coitus, with some petite little Swiss Miss you picked up the day before, and announce you’d get $200 if you would urinate on a man lying in your bathtub. She said, don’t worry, he’ll be fully clothed, as if somehow that would make the idea appealing.

Without raising my voice, I told her in no uncertain terms that she could do whatever she wanted in her half of the apartment but that I had no interest whatsoever in participating in whatever the hell she was up to that night. I closed the bedroom door, locked it, kissed little Swiss Miss, who was by now half awake wondering what the commotion was, put on my pants and fumbled around looking for a knife or a baseball bat or something in case this got any uglier. I kind of knew what I was getting into when I signed a lease with her, but she always had a way of one-upping the situation. It was also at least partially my fault because in a moment of drunken weakness a few months before, I stupidly started sleeping with crazy bitch, the actual day we signed the lease.

Getting the apartment had been rather traumatic, we were kind of scammed by New York’s “apartment broker industry” and had to cough up something like ten thousand dollars just to land the place. She had gone to the ATM, gone thousands of dollars into debt and actually showed up at the brokers with something like four thousand in cash, and by that time she’s sobbing uncontrollably as her friend, who had a lot of experience in New York, is on the phone with the broker screaming about how he’s going to sic his lawyer on the guy if he doesn’t give us some sort of break. So when everything was finally settled and we got the keys, we decided to celebrate and wound up getting really drunk. I stupidly, drunkenly told her we should kiss, just to see what it would be like. Wisely, she said it would be a disaster since we were moving in together in a few days, she had a boyfriend, and we’d have to live together even if it didn’t work out. Smart ass (or dumb ass depending on how you look at it) that I am, I said that was the best reason to do so, so we could get it out of the way since we would give in to curiosity at some point anyway. Well, one thing led to another and we wound up in a hotel somewhere in the Lower East Side humping the night away. All strictly vanilla, of course, but it was fun and got rather addicting.

Little Swiss Miss
Little Swiss Miss

I had met little Swiss Miss at her book club (how cliche) and we both knew we would end up in bed together the very second our eyes met. It’s just one of those things two people can tell. I figured a book club would be a good place to meet hipster girls (the term “hipster” wouldn’t actually be popular for another couple of years) and I was right. I walked in to the indie bookstore and found little Swiss Miss chatting with the other members, some homely girl and some Jewish guy that was trying to pick them up. I’m guessing it was a Chomsky book because I remember calmly and casually “AMOG-ing” the Jewish guy and had both of the girls captivated by whatever lefty goobedly-gook I was spouting. I had picked up that particular art – regurgitating leftist horseshit – from college and found it pretty easy and often useful in this particular game. So the Jewish guy starts getting madder and madder as he sees little Swiss Miss slipping out of his grasp and leaves early. I entertain both until the homely girl gets the message and runs off so I have time to chat up little Swiss Miss a bit more. Eventually I tell her, “give me your number, let’s go get a drink tomorrow and we’ll continue this conversation,” which, roughly translated, meant, “do what I say and I will make you come so hard you won’t be able to walk home,” and she enthusiastically complied.

So we meet up the next day and I use a simple “game” trick that I had used a few times before, and would use on a semi-regular basis in the future. I took her to this trendy vegan place that had private rooms, where you sit on the floor, for an extra ten dollars. So dinner for two, a bottle of wine, and a private little room done up Oriental style where you sit on little pillows – the only thing missing was a hooka. Sounds terribly sophisticated doesn’t it? The whole thing runs you about $60, cheaper than a call girl, in fact, cheaper than a street prostitute. I’m hardly making excuses, but casual sex and drinking go hand in hand are are both very good for helping you forget, however temporarily, bad things. So afterwards I just start walking the few blocks back to the apartment with little Swiss Miss tagging along beside me, smiling and chatting about something or other, and lead her through the four doors it takes to get to my bed: the building door, the other building door, the apartment door, and my bedroom door. When she reaches her destination, she lays down on my bed and the fun begins. Fill in the details, this isn’t erotica.

Crazy Bitch
Crazy Bitch

Literally mid-stroke, crazy bitch comes in, drunk off her ass, barges into my bedroom ranting about something. I yell at her to get out, but the lights are off and she lays down on the bed next to us. I yell at her, “get the fuck out” but she keeps ranting until she notices there’s another woman on the bed. She says, “oh I didn’t know you had someone here” and jumps up, walks out of the apartment, slamming the door as hard as she could in an unmistakable signal of anger. I don’t know how I managed to keep little Swiss Miss from leaving but after I made some half-witted apology about the crazy roommate, we just sort of pick right back up, finish each other off, and fall asleep.

That’s when crazy bitch shows up with the faggot she wants me to piss on for $200. It was an act of revenge more than anything, but I don’t see why she was so upset, she had her boyfriend over days before, so it’s not like her and I were seeing each other or had any sort of implied commitment. Later she would tell me it was one of the most hurtful moments of her life and “changed” how she saw men or something, but again, she had a boyfriend so who exactly did she think she was kidding here? I could easily divide my life into Before Crazy Bitch (BCB) and After Crazy Bitch (ACB) just as well as that other incident, as they happened at almost precisely the same time. The only reason I even called crazy bitch after our first date was desperation to hold onto something from before the entire country went insane.

But she taught me something about myself that I didn’t know, that I’m “into BDSM.” People automatically assume that some childhood experience “causes” BDSM; if you were spanked as a child you might get off on spanking as an adult. I don’t think this is actually true, but it my case, it was my relatively non-traumatic childhood experiences that likely made me the way I am. I didn’t know it before, but I was raised by parents who were “into BDSM,” at least, a particular “kink” that has it’s own name and it’s own websites and it’s own profile on the premier fetish website, FetLife. While on the surface my parents had a traditional marriage, I would come to find out it was actually an elaborate kink, and that’s where this story is of interest to social conservatives, Christians, and white nationalists.

Under Arrest
Under Arrest

Crazy bitch was a submissive, and a masochist, although never my sub. Raised by a clipped haired, part time lesbian feminist, she had been “sub shamed” her entire life, told that she should never trust a man, always remain independent, to be as aggressive and assertive as any man, and never let a man have control over her. Her mother had, of course, developed this attitude when her husband divorced her and took up with a succession of younger women. Inevitably, crazy bitch wound up “experimenting” with BDSM, likely responding to some personal ad and finding her self tied up by some stranger getting beaten to a pulp. This is an all too common tragedy for women dipping their toes into that world, and far from turning her off to the idea, it just made her want more and more.

People usually unpack “BDSM” as bondage and domination, dominance and submission, and sado-masochism. Like outsider artists, there are plenty of couples that “do BDSM” in various ways that have no connection to the “BDSM scene” and may have never even heard the term “BDSM.” “Bondage” might be described as the “tie me up game” while being dominated might just be called “getting fucked hard while being told I’m a nasty little slut.” My first encounter of the BDSM “scene” was at a club on the west coast where I witnessed a very fat woman with huge breasts stroking the hair of a man with his head nestled between said boobies crying his eyes out. She’s cooing to him, reassuring him that everything will be ok, wiping his tears, telling him that he’s a good boy, while he is on all fours and a woman dressed in a hot red leather outfit is beating his ass with a wooden paddle, really, really hard. I’ve always been fascinated by freaks, and this was certainly an interesting sight, but definitely not for me. I figured, nope, I’m not into BDSM.

To be continued

Mystery

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