The Reality Institute

the s&m dinner. by Stephen van Dyck


This is cross-posted from Stephen’s blog:

the s&m dinner.

A friend of mine in the music school at Calarts, Jason, invited me to go to an S&M dinner with him and his kinda girlfriend Meredith. The whole concept sounded strange: meeting at a restaurant in a public place to be around people with a sexual interest in common. Pain, mainly. So, of course I went. I’ve known Jason and Meredith for a while, so it would at least be nice to see them off-campus if this event turned out tame. The two of them live in the same dorm section, and only realised that they shared this fetish when they coincidentally dressed up as mistress and servant for Halloween. At the CalArts Halloween party, I found Meredith holding Jason on the floor with her foot. She would lean her weight onto him, and he would scream, kind of in delight.

Parking was easy at the Four and Twenty diner in Studio City. I had to arrive late, since I was coming straight from class. I popped in the door and before I even spoke, a man in white with a long moustache—probably a chef?—pointed me to a room in the back. At first glance, the group seemed to me a lot like the friends my mother would meet with for spiritual and religious discussion when I was about four or five years-old. I mostly just remember their names: Fred and Betty Whipple, Bob and Dot Smith. It kind of makes sense that they would seem similar. Especially since those women my mother knew would come up to me like they wanted to pinch my face. Oh, if my mother ever knew I was going to an event like this, her cremated remains would be rolling in their urn. I sat down next to my friends and introduced myself to the S&M people.

They were all between 40 and 80 with no exceptions. The women shook my hand with a lumberjack grip, while all the men hesitated even to reach their hands out. Two of the women looked me in the eye like they wanted to have me for dinner, both telling me I was very cute while the handshake lingered into a squeeze. One of them had large breasts and was kinda hot, like Angelina Jolie but twenty years older, bigger and with glasses. Weirdly sexy, and somehow, I think she could tell that I thought so. The other of them, Mistress Lisa, a frumpy elementary school teacher-looking middle-aged woman, immediately asked if I was a submissive. “I can be.” Then she growled back with a creeping smile, “If you can be, darling, you will.” A nervous young girl, a waitress, interrupted to take my order. She looked like Ugly Betty but with her hair tied up in a ponytail. She smiled uncomfortably widely, braces fully showing, as I asked for strawberry rhubarb pie, her eyes lurking around like she wasn’t supposed to look at anyone. Mistress Lisa dominated conversation for most of my time there. She told me how she was once playing with her child’s Cookie Monster talking handpuppet, and somehow it ended up on her husband’s penis. As she fondled him, it would make sounds like it was munching and then “mmmm.” The husband really liked that, she said, and then she laughed like a wicked witch. Meredith told Mistress Lisa that I like men, and then she recommended lots of gay S&M groups. She also explained that she had mostly gay friends growing up, because it was the easiest way to get to be around submissive men. She said most of her friends died in the early 80s.

Then, her phone rang, and she said, “Oh, I bet that’s Georgina, my little slave girl who needs permission to masturbate.” Sure enough, it was, and she asked us if she should let the girl touch herself. We nodded, and then the lady next to her, the hot one with big boobs, said, “Of course you should let her. Everyone deserves pleasure.” Then, when she got off the phone, she told us her slave girl was a pre-op MTF about 20 years-old who serves her often. Around the same time, I overheard the hot lady telling the Madame that her husband loves sucking on her cock. Her husband looked bashful, then smiled and nodded. The Madame must have been 80 years-old, her facial expression stern and staunch and her grey hair wrapped up in a bun. Lisa told us there were only two times people gasped in reaction to the Madame. The first was when she forgot someone’s name. “She will never forget your names… never!” she confided to us. And the other time was when the Madame was spanking a guy for a demo in front of the rest of the group, and he said, “Is that the best you can do?” The Madame didn’t speak to that man again for three months.

I kept looking at the other lady, the one with the big boobs. She would look back and wink. She eventually switched seats and sat across from me, and told me I was cute again. She asked me if I was into fisting. She would sometimes converse with the fellow next to her, but kept her eye on me. I spent most of this time analysing why it was that I was avoiding reciprocating interest. She was really hot, even if a bit old. But then I couldn’t help but think that these women weren’t very far off from the dirty old gay men—the “chickenhawks” in the gay world. These women were built, had strong jawlines, almost looked like men, but dressed posh and wore lipstick. They looked like big horny older drag queens. Of course I was turned off, I decided. I’d feel like an escort. My two friends finally decided to call it a night, so we all left.

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