|Yes, I know... I know. I am dumb.|
In a distant corner of my mind, a voice was yelling "It's a trap, it's a trap, it's a trap".
OK, it is pretty habitual, for me, to ear that voice... but usual, it happens reading emails or Collarspace "better then real" profiles from the U.K. (where the whole "consensual" has no legal standing, no matter how informed the consent was... all is grievous bodily harm, which is indeed akin to put a chastity belt on masochists).
Usually it is just a thrilling nice little voice, but right now it is a yelling behemoth...like some dumb Reality show host that just discovered it has been eliminated from the show.
Or BRIAN BLESSED, trying to be really bombastic.
OK, OK, you do not understand anything I say. Let's take a step back.
You see, I met this woman on-line - nowadays, it is almost always on-line, as I have no patience and no wish to play the "enlightenment" lottery any more.
The "lottery": meeting a woman in real world, and try to explain her the fine facts of BDSM between consenting adults: either I find a 50-Shade-ette, either some religious maniac, a fearful "vanilla" that runs away and spreads the tale that I am a dangerous pervert, or simply an utterly uninterested woman. Over time, it wore me thin.
It worked better, I suspect, back in the '80s in California, when Jay Wiseman was playing the field and earned his experience in domly affairs, that in today's Galicia - deep down, it is still the catholic core of Francisco Franco's power - so the percentages are not really the 33-33-33% that Jay talks about in his "SM 101" book. More something in the range of 40-15-25-15...
The photos she sent, to get a portrait, were of a thirty-something woman.
I checked with google images search-by-image, and they weren't already available on the 'net, so chances were that they were really theirs - or from a cousin.
She also sent me a "proof of identity" ( it now appears that it only proves that some of the younger generations are way better than what I believed possible, with Photoshop - I mean, better than me).
The syntax of the emails was maybe a bit crappy, but so is my Spanish, so - who could say? Not me.
Maybe she just wasn't the brightest tool in the box, but if I were only to meet the bright ones, I would never see an ass worth an erection.
At thirty+, in these awful modern days "work before living" environment (those who have a work), reading and having the time to do pilates is limited either to journalists, writers and fitness instructors; most other people choose either A or B.
On the other hand, she wasn't stupid either, something that I am not so sure that it can be said about myself, at times. At times like this, at least.
OK, I know... I am digressing. I tend to do it, when I really want to avoid an issue - I will try to keep myself in check, from now on.
She let slip that she was living in the nearest "big" city - OK, 80 thousands inhabitants is no big city at all, but it beats the nearby town - 15000 - or the place were I live - 350.
Yes, I know... what the fuck do I do in the only place in Western Europe that is as scarcely populated as (and way less socially progressive than? ) Illinois?
I know - the only possible answer is that, deep down, I am a moral masochist.
Anyway, I thought that she was interesting (she did breathe, after all)... so, I tried to prepare the encounter "by the book" - Saturday afternoon, not too early, not too soon, in a coffee bar where the coffee is barely drinkable, yet STILL drinkable (Italian expatriates like me, usually we bitch a lot about coffee in foreign bars; we have our reasons.).
A place that I know, but where I am not known too much - and that she know, it appeared, though this was all more likely as she lives there, while I have to take a car and drive a bit to reach the place.
And gasoline still is some 5 dollars a gallon (in Italy, it's still 7$... when the price go down, they raise the taxes; the country where petrol never cheapens).
OK, digressing again.
I entered the bar - that was two hours ago, or twenty years ago - depends on when you r... agh, digression - which means, some comfortable fifteen minutes before the agreed-upon time.
No soccer play at this hour, so nobody was looking the game on the 94 inches screen (when the hell did they placed that monstrosity? Why the hell bars in Spain have so many TV sets???? If it was for watching tv... - digression).
The only other client was a girl, something like fifteen years old, by the look of her.
OK, no problem, we are not going to discuss anything even slightly outrageous, me and the lady - when she arrives.
Also, the last time I saw a girl that looked 15 to me, it was at the supermarket - I was perplexed when she climbed in her Passat and drove away .
It is not uncommon for local women to be shorter than, say, my 11-year-old niece, and it messes up my age recognition abilities quite a bit.
Oddly enough, the kid started looking my way. Then she took a peek at her phone - and I started feeling a bit uneasy. And then she came over to my table - hopefully, just a young waitress - and she finally said 'Hola, Dabotz - Soy yo, Andrea".
That is when the yelling voice started.
Indeed, the smartest idea would have been to rise from the table, say that I forgot the car open, and run away as fast as possible, while the voice kept yelling in my metaphorical ears.
But... I have been her age, with a head full of fantasies I did not dare to confess to anybody, no idea of how to reconciling them with reality, and it didn't help one bit.
About this, any of my ages between 9 and 35 counts, really.
Given the place where we live, chances are that she has even less adults able to put things in perspective, around her.
In a way, I owed my long lost kid self to take a couple of hours and try to explain the ABC of ... BDSM to her, as seen from my point of view - everybody has his, and mine may be as flawed as that of anybody else, but it is mine.
Dotting the I and crossing the Ts... starting with a first question, that I really fell that I need to ask.
- "Would you mind telling me whose photos did you send me?"
- "My big sister's. Taken by her boyfriend"
- "Big sister? How old are you?"
- "17, and you?"
- "Like in your Fetlife profile?"
- "Uh, you are not supposed to enter that site till you are at least 18."
I do not know her FL nickname, and she got to me through my kinky e-mail. The guys of FL will have to pick her on their own.
- "OK, don't take it wrong but, given your age, nothing is going to happen between us, OK?"
She makes a pout when she hears it...
By the Spanish law, she may be legal tender for a fine "vanilla" fuck, but BDSM has a bit more stringent moral requirements than pure sex, at least in my book.
It's the "informed consent" part that screws things - if one can't enter.
- "That said, if you have a question, I will try to answer, in the limits of what I know, which isn't very much, I am afraid to say".
- "It isn't much?" - she makes a weird face again, as if she doesn't really believe it.
- "Yes, it is not very much." - I have another kind of bad feeling, now.
- "But, your drawings? They are so vivid..."
- "Yes, I have a great fantasy, kid. Fantasy, you get it? And you shouldn't look that crap till, say, next year."
- "Oww, I hoped it weren't like that."
I spent the successive hour and a half disabusing almost every of her overly romantic ideas about the whole D/s relationship thing. I fear that I got to bring her back to the vanilla side of the force - OK, of sex really - for the time being.
If she is really an SM person, she is going to be back in some months or so, possibly when she is 18.
Probably with some douchebag, that will burn her out for a couple of years or so... it is not like there is a scarcity of those in the scene.
Raise his hand whoever has never crossed a woman who got burnt with one of those guys, and took a break of some months, or years, from the scene. You never met one? Never met a sub woman in your life, confess!
If and when she'll be back, she will regard me as boredom incarnated - which I am, kind of.
Fuck, it is really hard to do the right thing.