סיפורי ניו יורק, או עלילות שרון בתפוח הגדול

לפני כשלוש וחצי שנים קבעתי עם ג. אותו הכרתי באותו הזמן כחצי שנה שנעביר אחר צהריים שלם בהשפלות פומביות ברחבי ניו יורק. ג. הוא מסוג הנשלטים שתענוג להכירם ובמהלך השנים ביליתי איתו שעות רבות במסיבות וסצינות בדס"ם כמו גם בפעילויות ואנילה לגמרי כמו שייט קנואים, טיולים והליכה לפארק שעשועים.
חשוב לציין שבאותו הזמן עוד לא הכרתי הרבה אנשים בסביבת האזור בו גרתי כך שהסיכוי שאפגוש מישהו במקרה ברחוב היה אפסי. כשהתחלתי להכיר הרבה יותר אנשים אני מניחה שלא היה לי האומץ לעשות זאת.
ג. הוא נשלט מאוד מנוסה שמאוד אוהב לרצות ושמח להתנסות בדברים חדשים ועל כן כשהעליתי את הרעיון הוא הסכים מיד. מכיוון שחוץ מהיותו מאוד מנוסה בנשלטות הוא גם כותב מאוד רהוט הוא כתב לאחר מכן תיאור של אחה"צ זה והוא אף התפרסם בעיתון שנקרא פרומתיאוס שהינו מגזין שיוצא מדי כמה חודשים על ידי ארגון הבי.די.אס.אם הניו יורקי שנקרא TES.
מטעמי עצלות, וגם מכיוון שג. באמת כותב מצויין החלטתי להשאיר את הטקסט באנגלית, כפי שהיה במקור ועמכם הסליחה (למעשה, לא יזיק עם תשקיעו קצת מאמץ...זה כדאי).
אני רק אוסיף ואסביר שהבעיה שלי הייתה שהעדפתי לא לעשות דברים שיגרמו לנו לשבת בכלא, ולכן הייתי צריכה לחשוב על השפלות שאינן בהכרח בתחום הבי.די.אס.אם הטהור, למרות שגם את זה עשינו. יצא לי לעשות הרבה סצינות של השפלות "פומביות" אבל רובן התרחשו בתוך קהל של אנשים מהתחום, מה שהיה מקסים במקרה זה הוא שכאן היה מדובר בקהל אמיתי של עוברי אורח תמימים.
טוב, ועכשיו לתיאור האירוע, תהנו:

On the Sidewalks of New York


by Janos


Public play is not for the faint of heart. It risks humiliation, even beyond what may have been planned: suppose you run into Aunt Martha? It might not be safe: suppose Officer Krupke takes notice and decides to run you in? It might not be sane: would any sane person undertake what are arguably antisocial activities, in public? And worst of all, it might not be consensual: the possibility of innocent bystanders being drawn into public play is inevitable, and they are certainly not going to be asked for consent ahead of time. Yet after a few years of playing in secret dungeons, a certain boredom can set in, and edgy things beckon. Public play can be on the edge, and it has a certain element of uncertainty, even fear, that yet another flogging scene somehow just doesn’t offer.

Before a TES meeting on Negotiations (see below), I was invited by Ms. Sharon to spend a few very interesting hours on a lovely spring day in Manhattan. She had instructed me to wear clothes that could get dirty, and bring a bottle of water; other than this, I had no idea what she had in mind, but it turns out she had some very creative ideas!

I met Ms. Sharon outside Penn Station at 4:25 pm; she observed that I was about twenty seconds early, which unfortunately did not require her to punish me for being late. She said we needed a little privacy, so we proceeded across the street to the 33rd Street side entrance to the huge Main Post Office. She then converted me into something like the Village Idiot: red baseball cap worn sideways, underwear pulled out, her own backpack slung across my chest, and water sprinkled on my crotch to suggest incontinence. I declined her offer of a safeword (how could we need a safeword on the streets of New York, I wondered?). She beckoned me downward, not to depravity, but to the caverns of the 8th Avenue subway station. After some instructions, we boarded an uptown local.

She sat some distance away while on the train; by her instructions, each time she ran her hand through her hair, I was to sing “God Bless America” to the passengers. This was a bit disconcerting, as I can’t sing at all; couldn’t remember the words exactly; and abhor disturbing innocent bystanders. No matter, in for a penny, in for a pound. I performed my highly unprofessional stage show four or five times on the ride uptown. Another part of her instructions were: “If anyone gives you money, give it away to someone.” After a performance or two, she stood up, walked to me, and gave me a dollar! For all the other passengers knew, we had no relationship; she was taking pity on me, or, more likely, hoping to shut me up. What to do? Following her instructions, I tried to give the bill away to a passenger seated nearby, who declined. His expression of horror said it all. I put the bill in my pocket. The passengers were no doubt getting bored with all this; fortunately, at 72d Street the plot thickened. An apparently homeless man boarded, made his speech, and started to walk around with his cup, soliciting donations. Of course, I gave him my dollar, glad to be rid of it and to fulfill Ms. Sharon’s instructions. At this point one of those New York moments ensued. Amazingly, half the car then contributed to the panhandler too! I guess if the Village Idiot can spare a dollar, the least they could do was to join in! And while this was happening, Ms. Sharon signaled that I was to sing again, so I began once again, “God bless America . . .” And this prompted yet another twist in the plot: the homeless man, perhaps still recovering from his good fortune -- he’d made more in five minutes than in a usual day of underground roaming -- apologized for interrupting my singing! We had forged a fellowship of the downtrodden. After we left the train at 86th Street, Ms. Sharon told me how much she enjoyed my interaction with the homeless man, and I had to agree that I enjoyed this too!

To continue the experiment we proceeded into Central Park, and Ms. Sharon gave me marching instructions, literally. I was to march, military-style (we had both seen Army service it turns out, albeit in different armies!), following her instructions as to direction; at any obstacle, I was to march in place. She had a penchant for marching me up to a group of people, forcing me to stand in front of them marching in place; this produced various reactions: first they’d ignore me; then they’d stare; then they’d look away, wondering whether to flee or fight, I suppose. I wondered if we could get away with this stuff anywhere but in New York!

We found a somewhat quiet place in the Park, and Ms. Sharon now taught me (or tried to!) three phrases in Hebrew, instructions for a puppy: Beg! Lie Down! Caress my leg with your snoot! And we practiced this a while. She produced a slipper, and Puppy played Fetch. This again produced various reactions from passersby; small children were enthralled, but one mother said “That is pathetic!” and, yanking on the arm of her offspring, stalked off angrily. But the child looked back, entranced by Puppy.

We moved on, finding a walk facing the extensive public tennis courts, and now began the most intriguing exercise. Ms. Sharon instructed me to assume one of two positions, in the middle of the walk and facing the courts, while blindfolded: I was either to kneel, with my arms out to the side, palms up; or stand, with hands behind my head. She pinned a sign to my back and said she would be “in the area.” I started in the standing position, and quickly zoned out as people passed by, the tennis games continued, and the occasional bicycle whizzed by inches away. After a few minutes I went to the kneeling position, and, relaxing even more, stayed there for perhaps 15 minutes. Now, I had no idea what the sign said; but I had clues: one passerby said, “I don’t think you’re an idiot. I think you’re a genius. Right?” Of course, I could not say anything, so perhaps he left convinced more of idiocy than of genius. At some point, or so I learned afterwards, a crowd of young male tennis-players had formed off to my left; Ms. Sharon, observing from a distance, was amused to watch them speculate as to what I was up to. Apparently they discussed the possibility of throwing tennis balls at me! Blissfully unaware of all this, and after a long time in the kneeling position, I switched to the standing alternative, which apparently produced quite an effect on the audience. After perhaps half an hour in all, Ms. Sharon decided to “rescue” me, fearing that things might get out of control. As she came to me and removed the blindfold, the effect on the crowd was electric; if such a lovely young woman was somehow associated with me, how could I be the Village Idiot? They wanted to know, “What is this? Is it some kind of experiment?” We just walked off, smiling. Ms. Sharon showed me the sign (which I was proud to exhibit at a local Munch the next night); it said, “Clap if you think I’m an idiot.”

As a denouement, we found a more secluded place, and Ms. Sharon, waiting for a moment when we were alone, applied nipple clamps under my shirt. This is really a devilish technique in public, for she could then torture me by what looked like to passersby a loving caress of my chest. Finally, she instructed me to lie down, and she applied her shoes to my face, neck, chest, and crotch, always pausing when children (or police!) were in the area. We were both riding an emotional high on the subway back downtown. Fortunately, Ms. Sharon didn’t ask me to sing again!



[english]