This is a true story
I first met Angelo in 2010. At the time, I was working as a paralegal for a Court Street lawyer and had a disposable income. Disposable income meant I could afford to party, & being into BDSM, one of my favorite places was Manhattan’s club Paddles. As the name implies, Paddles was the place to go for all things spanking-related.
So I’d show up there, usually after “pre-gaming” (pre-gaming as in having a few tumblers of bourbon) at some dive bar beforehand. Everybody says you’re not supposed to play drunk, and with goddamn good reason…When you’re drunk, your judgement is impaired. You think you can take more whacks on the ass with somebody’s old fraternity paddle than you should take, because you’ve got bourbon to dull the pain, and next morning you wake up with a welt the size of Texas on your left ass cheek. Or worse yet, stuff you never consented to ends up happening, like an extra person being invited to join the scene & you get it from both ends, so to speak. But in 2010 I was…oh, what’s the proper clinical term…ah, yes, I was a raging drunk, only I wasn’t honest enough to admit that little tidbit to myself or anyone else. So while it is best to never play drunk, I played drunk because, well, I was pretty much always in a state of intoxication.
I was surprised Angelo noticed me that night. Hardly anyone ever noticed me. I was short and fat…and not pleasantly plump, I stood 5″1 and weighed over 300 fucking pounds. In addition to being an alcoholic, I was depressed. I was also in denial about the fact that I had been raped as a child, or rather I spent a great deal of time drowning the memory of that in bourbon. Some women self-harm when they’re depressed, but not me…I sought out a sadistic man to harm me. So maybe it wasn’t so surprising Angelo noticed me that night. Maybe the two of us were meant to collide on some level.
“You here to play or what?” an authoritative male voice behind me said while I sat at the bar.
“Sure I am,” I said without turning around, “what’s your game, Daddy?”
“Look at me,” he growled, “when I’m speaking to you.” At that, I turned myself around on the barstool. He appeared to be Greek, was of medium build, with very dark eyes and spectacularly full lips. He was dressed casually, in jeans, but he carried a leather riding crop. At the sight of that, my eyes gleamed.
“You some sort of horseman, Daddy?” I asked, nodding at the riding crop.
“Well, you’re as fat as a horse, so I guess tonight I am,” he said, “you got a name?”
“I’m Angelo,” he said, but you can keep on calling me Daddy. I like that. You wanna taste the leather, huh?”
Before that night was over, I felt the sting of the riding crop on my bare back, from my shoulder blades to my thighs. I howled with pain, but I also remember thanking Angelo for it. And letting him put his cock up my ass.
There was no negotiation, no agreement to only do things we both liked. There was no respect. I didn’t respect myself, and Angelo sure as shit didn’t respect me. He had a wife. I have no idea whether or not she was into BDSM or if she even knew about me, but I knew about her. I knew that she was first, and I was number two. My phone would buzz when he wanted me…a text message telling me to meet him at some motel, where I would be bound, gagged, hit with either the riding crop, the cat o’nine, the cane, or some combination of all three until I was bloody and bruised, and then fucked vaginally and/or anally. Most of the time, I was too drunk to notice how bad he was whipping/caning me while it was actually happening. I’d wake up the morning after feeling like I’d been run over by a truck, my entire back and thighs covered in bruises.
He did buy me a collar, though. Not a ruby collar or a fierce leather collar. Not even a silver collar. No, my collar was an actual dog collar. I know this because he took me to Petco (as in that store where you can buy stuff for your dog or cat) to get it. He said I was ugly as a dog so I might as well wear a goddamn dog collar.
It would be really easy to say Angelo was a bad guy. He told me I was fat as a horse, ugly as a dog…he was cheating on his wife with me, he was heavy-handed with the cane. OK, so Angelo wasn’t man of the year, not that year or any year. But I stayed with him.
He took me with him for a weekend in Atlantic City. Told his wife he was going to Atlantic City “with the guys” but we drove down together. I spent all day Saturday locked in the hotel room, while he played blackjack down in the casino. I had a bottle of Jameson, so I didn’t really mind, though. In fact, I was taking a lil Jameson-induced nap when he came crashing into the room.
“Get your big ass up,” he growled, “company’s coming.”
“What the-” I half opened one bloodshot eye at him.
“GET UP!” He slapped me full across the face.
“Fuck’s sake, Daddy,” I yelped, “I’m up!” I sat up, braless and with uncombed hair. “What is it, d’you wanna fuck?”
“No,” he said, “I won some at blackjack,” he said very calmly and evenly, “but another player at the table accused me of counting cards.”
“Are the cops coming, Daddy?” My eyes, still bloodshot, got wide. “Did they say we have to leave?”
“Stupid fat whore,” he laughed, “counting cards isn’t illegal, and this other player didn’t tell the dealer or the pit boss. We agreed to deal with it privately. Now, like I said, we’ve got company coming. So get in the bathroom, wash your cunt and your ass, try to get yourself smelling nice, or a reasonable facsimile of nice, and for the love of god, comb your fucking hair.”
“Of course, Daddy,” I got up, wobbly, and went to the bathroom. I vomited a hot mix of bourbon and bile into the toilet, flushed, got a washcloth & gave myself a whore’s bath. Then I pulled a comb through my hair and attempted to do my makeup. “What you want me to wear, Daddy?” I asked, stumbling out of the bathroom.
“Oh you won’t be wearing anything,” he said, just as calmly and evenly as he’d explained about having been caught counting cards. “See, the gentleman who accused me of counting cards, he didn’t win like I did, and he feels like I now owe him something. Lay down on your tummy.” As he said that last part, he took leather restraints out of his duffel bag. “So I’m gonna let him use you, and then we’ll be even.”
“Red,” I said quietly, only half-realizing I said it.
“RED,” I repeated the safe word louder, “stop, NO, I don’t want a stranger to use me.”
“Your safe word’s no good here,” he said, “what I say goes.” He slapped me again, and I started to cry. The next few minutes were a little blurry, but by the time there came a knock at the door, I was ass up, bound to the bed at my wrists and ankles, and of course the ball gag was firmly planted in my mouth. The other player, the man who had accused Angelo of counting cards, was an older Hispanic man.
“Holy fuck,” I heard him say when Angelo let him in, “you really were serious.”
“I told you,” Angelo said, “and she can take a hell of a whipping.” He handed the Hispanic man a Florentine flogger. “Here, start with this.”
Gagged, I obviously couldn’t count them out loud. But when the Hispanic man started flogging me I started counting in my head. I lost count at 14, I think…the lashes were raining down my back so damn fast and hard. The flogger bit into my skin again and again. I couldn’t scream, but tears ran down my face. I couldn’t say exactly when I lost consciousness, but I know I must have. When I woke up, the gag was gone from my mouth. The restraints had also been removed. The room was dark. The Hispanic man was gone. Angelo was also gone. I was afraid to move, afraid if would hurt to move. I could see I had marks on both wrists from the leather restraints. I probably had them on my ankles too.
“Well look who’s rejoined the land of the living,” Angelo said, coming back into the room with cell phone in hand. I guessed he had been out in the hall, calling his wife. “Did you have a good nap?”
“What…did that old Spanish guy…was he inside me?” I asked.
“In both places,” Angelo said, “after he gave you one hell of a flogging, of course. Whatever money he thought he lost due to my card-counting, we are even. Hell, he may owe me now.”
“Did he use a-”
Well that was just great. The whole drive from Atlantic City back to Brooklyn, my back was killing me from a complete and total lack of aftercare. But I didn’t feel it because I kept swilling scotch and hoping to high hell that I didn’t get knocked up from that old Spanish guy.
By some miracle, I didn’t get knocked up, and I thanked a deity I don’t believe in. But Angelo had done away with the safe word. We didn’t hang out at Paddles anymore, so nobody on the respectable BDSM scene knew he’d done away with the safe word. I had a Facebook page, because he also had one, and he liked me to send him pictures of my tits while he was at work. I didn’t really talk to anyone other than him on Facebook.
I didn’t have any real friends. I went to work, and when I wasn’t at work, I drank and waited for Angelo to text me where to meet him. I certainly wasn’t going to walk into my boss’ office and say ‘Hey, my so-called boyfriend is a batterer masquerading as a Dominant’, my boss would have ignored that and asked if I had the paperwork he’d given me, and was it done yet. I couldn’t tell my parents. They’d never even met Angelo. What would I tell them, that my married boyfriend was rougher with me than I needed him to be? They would never understand. I told a bottle of Stoli, but all that got me was a hangover.
Meanwhile Angelo, having gotten away with it in Atlantic City, kept passing me around to other men. Men he owed money to. Men who did favors for him. The roofer, who put a new roof on his house,the house where his wife lives, Angelo let the roofer cane me and fuck me in exchange for shaving a few grand off the price.
So I worked, and when I wasn’t working, I drank, I cried off and on, and I waited for Angelo to text me. Things kept on like this and some fucking how it got to be 2012.
The thing that changed everything was when I had what my mother likes to refer to as my “accident”. Only it wasn’t really an accident. What happened was I was home alone one night, one of the nights Angelo decided to stay home with his wife rather than meet me at a motel, and of course I was drinking. I didn’t get behind the wheel, I never got behind the wheel drunk, I had a liquor store that delivered so I didn’t even have to put real shoes on. Anyway, the delivery guy from the liquor store came, with fresh supplies, as it were. I had to get my purse to give him a few dollars tip, but I was already way beyond tipsy, and I managed to trip over the coffee table, go down, and knock myself out.
I woke up in the hospital. The delivery guy had called 911. The hospital had found my mother’s phone number in my cell phone and called her. The good news was I had nothing broken, I hadn’t killed or disfigured myself. The bad news was I had alcohol poisoning. And whoever had examined me had seen my back…every whip, flogger, cat o’nine, and cane bruise. Some were old, scabbed over bruises, some were very fresh and colorful. It was obvious I hadn’t been doing that to myself.
My blood alcohol content pretty much told the attending physician that I had a drinking problem. And I didn’t attempt to deny it. The marks on my back, they spoke of another problem. My mother was…mad, angry as hell. But that wasn’t new. Anger and disappointment were the only emotions she’d ever really expressed towards me at any time in my life. But I wasn’t telling about the marks on my back. Not to my mother, the attending physician, or anybody else there. My mother was, by that point, letting out screams of rage. Her daughter was a drunk, and god knows what else, what would people think of her.
Someone from the department of mental health was brought in. A Dr. Ashraf Elshafi, to be exact. An Egyptian fellow, he cleared everyone, including my mother, the hell out of the room, then sat himself down in a chair by the bed.
“Do you know why I’m here?” He asked.
“I know I’ve made a fucking mess of my life,” I said. “I drink too much.”
“Do you think you’re alcoholic?” He asked.
“I mean, I don’t drink every day,” I said, “but when I do, I drink to the point of blackout. And I’ve done other things, ugly things.”
“What things?” At that I sat up. My hospital gown was open at the back, so I just leaned forward and let him see my back. “You did to yourself?” He asked, surprised.
“Not with my own hand, but I may as well have. There’s a man called Angelo. He’s married but I’ve been seeing him anyway. We met two years ago at an S & M club. He did that to my back, he did that and more.” Dr. Elshafi nodded. “So why you let you let Angelo do this to you?”
“Same reason I let him put a dog collar on me. Not a collar for pet play, a collar from the actual pet store, as in I’m ugly as a dog so I might as well be wearing a dog collar.”
“How long have you had these feelings of worthlessness?”
“You’re a doctor,” I said, “so what I tell you is confidential, right? If I tell you something in here, you can’t run right out and tell my mother, can you?”
“Well of course there’s doctor-patient confidentiality,” he said, “you’re of legal age, of sound mind. So yes, anything you tell me is confidential.”
“When I was ten years old,” I started, half shocked that I was saying it out loud to another human being, but also relieved, “my maternal grandfather raped me. It was July 1987, two months after my grandmother, his wife, had passed. Rather than hire a babysitter for me & my sisters that summer, my parents thought to save money by having him look after us. So we were alone with him in his unairconditioned apartment. Was so damn hot in there & we still had little girls’ bodies, and no idea of sex, that my sisters and I sat around in our undies…you know, the white cotton undershirts and panties. We thought nothing of it. The first time he called me into the bedroom, I thought he was going to punish me for squabbling with my sisters. But he made me lay on the bed. He was also in his underwear, which was odd. He always wore trousers, even if he took off his shirt because of the heat. He told me I was beautiful, he called me by my dead grandmother’s name, and then he got on top of me. I didn’t understand what was happening, I didn’t know I should refuse or resist, so I did nothing. He kissed my mouth. Then he was moving, taking my underpants off…taking his underpants off. Then he was inside me. I don’t know how long he was inside me, but when he finished, he took me, still naked, in the bathroom. He washed off my down there with a washcloth and showed me how to push my lips back together so it would look like nothing happened. Then he gave me a hundred dollar bill, let me get dressed, and said if I told anyone what happened, he would beat me. I didn’t tell, but the next day when he called me into the bedroom I thought I was so goddamn smart…I told him NO. He said fine, and then calmly called my sisters, who were then aged seven and five, into the bedroom, instead.” I paused, not even realizing I was crying. “I couldn’t let him do what he’d done to me to them. So I went in, by some miracle they both still had underwear on. He sent them back to the living room, told them it was my turn. And I took it, every day that summer, and have never told another living soul until now.”
I had expected Dr. Elshafi to jump out of his skin at the tale I told, or declare me a candidate for the lunatic asylum. But he didn’t. He did diagnose me with alcoholism, depression, and PTSD (yes, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the same thing Iraq war veterans come home with) and he agreed to see me in his private practice. The hospital turned me loose when my blood alcohol level returned to normal and I no longer had alcohol poisoning. I started seeing Dr. Elshafi in his private office. My mother was angry, upset, mortified, that I was treating for alcoholism and depression, but at least I was treating with a private doctor and not going to AA meetings and telling my business to those people, as she called them. She didn’t want me to talk about her to Dr. Elshafi didn’t want me giving him the idea that she was a bad mother. But she did want him to address my weight…to get me to lose weight. She was just mad as hell about the fact that I had told Dr. Elshafi that my grandfather had raped me. “We don’t talk about that,” she said. Never mind the fact that he did it to her before me and she still fucking left me and my sisters alone with him. She was madder at me for saying he did it than at him for having done it. But what the fuck ever, the old sonofabitch had been dead since 1999, he couldn’t hurt me anymore. Dr. Elshafi prescribed Naltrexone to curb my cravings for alcohol, Prozac for depression, and Topamax for weight loss. Not because my mother wanted something done about my weight, because during one session I told him that after having been raped, and knowing my grandfather did not find fatness aesthetically pleasing, and of course never wanting to be raped again, I made it my business to become so fat no one would want me. At ten years old, I started eating everything in sight as a means to protect myself from further sexual assault, how fucked up is that.
But there was still the matter of Angelo. Remember him? Though I stopped drinking and started therapy, my phone still buzzed when ever he wanted me. And I still kept responding to that buzz. But our arrangement wasn’t as…I don’t wanna say happy because I had never really been happy, so I’ll say our arrangement wasn’t as simple after I started therapy as it had been before.
“RED, goddamn it,” I loudly announced one afternoon in the car, “I don’t give a shit if you lost at poker last night and don’t have the money…I don’t wanna be caned and ass-fucked by the guy you lost to.” Angelo pulled the car over, got out, popped the trunk, and got back in the car with a ball gag.
“You mouthy cunt,” he growled, “nobody gives a fuck what you don’t want.” He grabbed me roughly and gagged me, right there in the car in broad daylight. “I tell you what you’re getting. The end.”
But I kept up with therapy and I didn’t go back to drinking. Eventually the perpetual fog I’d long been in due to the bourbon and the depression cleared…when that finally happened, I realized Angelo was part of the problem. He wasn’t a Daddy Dominant, he wasn’t a sadist (he wielded an array of canes and crops, yes), Angelo was a batterer.
I knew what I had to do, but it was still terrifying. I didn’t know if I’d do it and live to tell, but if I didn’t do it my life was worthless. So one night when my phone buzzed, I went to the motel, but not to fuck.
He was naked from the waist up when I got to the room. “The fuck took you so long,” he groused, “you know I don’t like to wait.” He had a thin rattan cane in his hands…my body knew that piece of equipment all too well. “Get the fuck undressed.”
“Not tonight, Angelo,” I said. “Put down the cane.”
“NOW, bitch!” He swung the cane and made contact with my left thigh.
“Motherfucker!” I screamed, but didn’t collapse. If I collapsed, I was done for. “OK,” I sat down on the bed as gently as I could and took off my collar. “Do you know what therapy is, Angelo?”
“The fuck? Put your collar back on…I didn’t say you could take it off.” He was angry, but he was also confused.
“Well, I’ve been going to therapy for a little while now,” I said, dropping the collar on the bed, “and I’ve been thinking, and it’s time I make some life changes.”
The cane sort of dropped out of his hands onto the carpeted floor. Yeah, he was definitely confused.
“So you’re going to release me, Angelo. And I’m never wearing your collar ever again, understand? You don’t have to go home to your wife but you’re not going to fuck me anymore.”
“Nobody but me would fuck a fat shit like you,” he announced, “so if you leave me you best be sure you like a life alone.”
“I like it just fine,” I said. “Now tell me…tell me you release me, that you won’t call or text me, you won’t come by my place, you won’t look for me. It’ll be like I don’t exist.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I release you.”
That was the last I saw of Angelo and his cane. In the time since I made him release me, I dropped from 325 lbs to 220 lbs…I hope to get under 200 lbs by August, when my sister christens her second baby. I’ve steered clear of drinking, although I do still smoke cigarettes. I deleted my Facebook, took a yearlong break from all social media in fact. I signed onto g+ because I don’t like a life alone. I don’t miss Angelo, oh fuck no, but I do want to connect with like minded people. I was supposed to go to a party last night but backed out at the last minute because I heard, from a friend of a friend of someone who knows him, that Angelo would be at that party. I’m not the same depressed, worthless-feeling person I was when I met him, no, I feel so much stronger and better about myself. But I don’t want to look at him, if that makes any sense. I’m not mad at him…if I spend eternity mad at him I’d never have time to get anything else done. And I’m not afraid of him…I’m afraid for whatever poor girl is wearing his dog collar, but not afraid of anything he can do to me, because he can’t do anything to me anymore.
I may be single now & still to find my ONE, my right fit…I may be yet to become anyone’s one right fit, but at least I know I’m moving in the right direction towards that. When I get there, I will say “there’s my territory” and love him all the more because of what I endured along the way to him.