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Control Tower

by Mistress Matisse

It's psychologically harrowing, and frequently physically painful as well--but once you consent to it, there's no way out. You just have to get through the experience, knowing that even after it's technically finished you'll still be dealing with the aftermath. I'm speaking, of course, of the process of moving. I just moved my dungeon to a new location, and I'm pleased with my new space--in an exhausted way. But Jesus, what a hellish weekend.

Even looking for appropriate dungeon spaces is a bitch. Realtors and landlords are talking to you about the carpet and bathroom fixtures, and what you're really wondering is whether there's a beam in the ceiling that would support your suspension bondage rig. And just how soundproof are those walls? I scored, though--the former residents of my new place were a leatherman and several of his submissive boys, all possessed of both the skill and the inclination to do a lot of dungeon-improvement projects.

Having the Metropolitan Dungeon boys pass their place along to me was the good part. The bad part was the moving day itself--beginning when Abbott and Costello from Brand X Moving Company showed up, three and a half hours late, and announced, "Oh, this is gonna take a lot longer than they told you. I don't know if we can do this today." Once I verbally harassed them into actually moving my belongings, their languid pace made me long for my five-foot signal whip.

My dungeon furniture aroused suspicion. "What's this?" they asked, staring at my black-and-chrome bondage table. "It's a goth massage table," I answered. They shrugged and put it on the truck. "What about this?" they asked, carrying the spanking bench. "It's a Pilates bench," I replied. "Sort of a new European-prototype one."

But then we got to the cage--and you know, a seven-foot vertical steel cage resembles nothing other than... a seven-foot vertical steel cage. The only nonhuman creature you would possibly put in this cage would be, perhaps, a newborn giraffe. "It's a go-go cage," I said. But Abbott and Costello just exchanged oh-she's-one-of-those looks, and our relationship went further downhill from that point.

So that's quite enough nonconsensual submission for me for a while, thank you. I'll be very happy to get back to my usual round of European Pilates and goth massages. Who wants to dance in my go-go cage?

matisse@thestranger.com