The Attorney: Birds of a Feather

    I met a man. 

    He emailed me to set up an appointment.  He wanted to be beaten–that is it, that is all.  The letter was concise, precise, and  businesslike.  We arranged the particulars in about ten minutes.  

     When I saw him walking up the stairs, I was utterly astonished.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  

      The man looked perfect. I don’t mean that he was spectacularly handsome–he was conventionally attractive, but not movie-star good-looking–but that his bearing and appearance was impeccable. He ran up the stairs quickly, effortlessly.  His posture was ramrod straight.  

     I welcomed him in and introduced myself, shaking his hand.  He was an attorney.  His hand was not soft.  I felt callouses on the base of the fingers.  Weights, maybe?  He did not look me up-and-down the way most men do (consciously or not) when they meet me.  He looked me right in the eyes, taking in my face.  

     He had a high-and-tight military hairdo.  His shirt was blindingly white.  The necktie, the cufflinks, the locked briefcase.  

     He reminded me of me. 

     He reminded me of The Surgeon.  

     I brought him a glass of water.  We chatted for a few minutes.

     I did not detect the slightest bit of nervousness in him.  I have never had someone visit me who was not nervous before.  He said that he identified primarily as a sadist (I believe him), but for whatever reason wanted to be beaten every now and again.  

     He undressed.  Usually, they strip like 10-year-olds, leaving their clothes wherever they drop, and I have to get on them: “Were you expecting your mother?!  Pick that up and fold it!”  This one folded everything perfectly.  Perfectly!  He paid attention to the crease in his blouse!  

      “Do you want safewords?” I asked.

      “No,” he said.  Matter-of-fact.  
       I said: “You can lean over and grab the edge of that dresser if you need something to brace yourself.”  

       He didn’t need to brace himself.  

       I beat that man.  I beat that man.  I made him sweat, and turn red, but he didn’t make noise and didn’t ask for a breather. I looked at him frequently, checking in.  His brow was furrowed, he was off somewhere inside of himself.  Processing the pain, perhaps, or keeping his equilibrium.  

       At the end, I said: “You have quite a few welts.  Do you want an Advil? Ice?” 

       He shook his head no and cleaned himself up with a washcloth and some wet naps.  Then he got dressed.  I watched him, fascinated.   He was so intense.  Like a hawk.  

       He turned to me.  “You’re very serious about this.”

       It startled me.  That was just what I was thinking about him. “Yes.  This is an expression of my sexuality and personality.” 

       “I see that.  I’d like to make another appointment.  What are your limits when you switch?”
        How did he know that I switch?  Birds of a feather….  

       We scheduled a session for next week.  

         Anxiety.  Anticipation.  

         If I am attracted to him like this, something must be WRONG.   This is how I met the Surgeon.  This is kinda how I met John, my truly bad Ex.  

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