Kidnapping

It is always a moment of, well hardly truth, but of small confusion when someone who believes himself to be a masochist of rich and varied kinkiness to find himself rattled by another’s fantasies.

(My first instance of post-virginal prudery was learning of fist fucking. I never was willing to do that to a guy.)

I’m not really given to porn or erotica other than what I and my hand manufacture in the dark of night. (Yeah, I do wank in the daytime.) But the pervy confessions of a female sadist are pure cream. Their authentic dreams always have more impact than what other masochists may spin however closely aligned their desires are to mine.

Recently a couple of female tops that I greatly admire have written stories that begin with kidnapping a man. What they do to their captive is much worse than abduction. But the kidnapping itself raises a bright red flag.

Naturally I wonder why. My usual recourse is to scan my childhood. But aside from an odd false memory I’ve had for many years that on the first day of class in first grade all the other students came in wearing military uniforms I don’t see anything close.

I think this aversion is rooted in adolescence, that time of life when so many of us basked in the sheer joy of life. The comradeship of our fellows. Feeling that you belonged. A sense of purpose and place.

Yes, most of the preceding is a lie.

What comes to mind when I think of the life of teenage Richard? Three things:

I

That manly man’s man: my daddy. I remember how daddy hugged me and told me how much he loved me. Those tender moments were offset a bit when he did a bipolar emotional somersault, went into a rage while I cowered for fear he would pick me up with one arm and slam me into the wall. To be fair, daddy never did that. And my bedroom had a lock.

I developed little skills. Like strategically planning a shower in order to avoid eating supper when he did. Now I was what you might call a sensitive boy. Or a wimp. It is a matter of perspective. I never could figure out why children raised by single mothers were to be pitied. Momma did try leaving him for my sake. Trust me, a rifle in the hands of a man you think might use it can alter anyone’s plans.

You might say that during those years I felt trapped. Completely trapped.

II

Having to spend so much time in prison was a real drain. The other prisoners were selfish, superficial, ignorant. Some of the guards were such martinets. Their greatest pleasure seemed to be the extortion of answers to questions that were rarely interesting. Any deviance from normality and the status quo was strongly frowned upon.

Many times I was called before assistant wardens to explain - even though I never broke a rule - why I insisted on being so damned different. More than once therapy was mandated.

Prison was ghastly, joyless: There was no escape. I felt I would be trapped in prison for all eternity.

Most of you call prison by another word: school. Happily a kind man arranged to have my sentence commuted and I left a year early.

III

You know, Savannah, Georgia where I grew up and spent the first eighteen years of my life is a lovely town. It was even more beautiful back then. No art students inhabiting what was my first elementary school. Too few tourists to matter.

Twenty-four small parks downtown. Eighteenth and nineteenth century buildings, many of which had hardly been touched in decades. I could almost pity people who visit Savannah now. Old building replaced by banal structures that resemble massive Kleenex boxes. The empty neglected places now filled with cute shoppes and trendy restaurants that you can find in Anytown, USA.

That is the Historic District anyway. And if you are passing by on the highway I recommend you drive through for a bit and then head back on your journey. Most of Savannah is boring suburbs without distinction or charm.

Part of the culture of Savannah back then was courtliness. Some of shared the illusion that our manners were better, our really uninteresting lives more charmingly lived, or at least we possessed more refinement. I’m happy to have absorbed that nonsense. It can give a bit of style to submission.

At best Savannah was sterile and middlebrow. Most of the population was rednecks earning minimal wages.

Sundays seemed especially unkind. Bright and sunny. You could go to one of the little parks, sit on a marble bench and read. And watch the male hustlers wander up and down, up and down hoping for trade. And wish you were elsewhere.

For me Savannah became a place where I could never expect to meet someone worth knowing (not true, but). My sexuality couldn’t find happy expression. It seemed a place of narrow minds and shallow hearts. The larger world was filled - I thought - with more expansive people, high culture and sexual freedom.

Let me out, let me out! That was my constant thought. Honestly I was an unenterprising lad: means and method of escape too time to achieve.

Eventually I fled. No father, no mediocre town. Life - and I kid you not - became a golden adventure. I met lots of people. Many raffish and louche: all to the better for a formerly timid boy of narrow acquaintance and large ignorance.

Now - if you have somehow read this far - does all of this have to a panicky reaction to a couple of fine women who enjoy kidnapping fantasies.

In emotional effect my adolescence seemed defined by unfreedom. I had no rights. I was enclosed by forces that held me tight. Honestly I could - and did often - speak my mind: that won me bafflement and exasperation.

Not only are my old oppressors defeated but I’ve been lucky enough to escape the bonds of employment by working for myself most of my adult life.

The idea of the loss of self-determination - to the degree that we have it in this country - scares me. Scares me shitless.

These, not uncommon, parts of a ‘sensitive’ child’s life are why the idea of being kidnapped freezes me.

NB for careless readers. I have no criticism of kidnapping fantasies. This is an anatomy of my aversion.

Given the extreme nature of my BDSM fantasies at times I’ve almost always avoided nonconsensual scenarios.

Early on I did imagine being trapped after a shipwreck on a deserted island with a cruel and powerful egomaniac. But I had no idea how or that my dreams of pain, punishment and control could be enacted any other way.

Once I discovered consensual BDSM the dirty stories I told myself began with me voluntarily giving myself to the top. And often - however bizarre and horrifying - my consent had to be renewed on some schedule.

An appropriate closing line escapes me.