Anchor ads are not supported on this page.

4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs

S-hopping & M-ischief

Barbarella
Barbarella

It is comfortable for us to pretend, in our nouveau puritanical way, that our fellow family members don't "do it." Adolescents -- Daddy's girls and Momma's boys, especially -- cringe when presented with the idea (and subsequent, unstoppable imagery) of their conception. Conversely, parents have a hard time considering their babies all grown up and everything that being of "legal age" entails; most are unable to separate the 3-year-old girl of their memories from the 30-year-old woman now standing before them. My sisters might blanch at the notion, and my parents may scream out in agony, but here it goes: I have sex. I would characterize the sex I have as fun and playful, as opposed to the grim, efficient, just-lay-there-and-think-of-England variety we always imagined our parents and Margaret Thatcher engaged in. But, like the headlines on fashion magazines often proclaim, even "fun and playful" sex can be "spiced up." On our recent trip to San Francisco, David and I stumbled upon a store that specializes in spice.

It was the morning of our last day in town. The sky was gray and the air was drizzly, a combination I find invigorating. We had taken a cab to a hip breakfast joint, but after polishing each of our plates and sharing a third, we chose to walk the 20 or so blocks back to the hotel. It was three hours before we had to board the train for the airport. We'd already checked out, our bags were packed and waiting for us behind the front desk; time was ours to kill.

The first shop we entered was nestled between two small apartment buildings on an otherwise desolate hill. It was an Asian-inspired shop that seemed to sell everything, be it books, dishes, gourmet snacks, or furniture. Not one, not two, but six hardback books caught my eye. Our suitcase was already pushing 50 pounds, our airline's weight limit.

"What if I can't find them anywhere else?" I rationalized as I handed my credit card to the cashier. David, sifting through a shelf of dishcloths, paused to mutter a " Pshaw! " in my direction; I correctly interpreted the noise to mean, "How are you planning to squeeze all those books into our luggage?"

David bought two dishcloths. I found this particular out-of-town impulse purchase somewhat disturbing, but I let it slip without comment. I had to play it cool if I was to convince him to carry my six new books through three airports.

Sponsored
Sponsored

Five blocks later, a stylish lamp lured us into a modern furniture store. We spent half an hour fawning over a circular, suede "cuddle couch," while an energetic salesman with olive skin and peroxide-blond hair performed what can only be described as an interpretive dance of potential colors and fabrics. In the end, I couldn't decide which I wanted more for my living room -- the cuddle couch in a shade of red, or Daniel, the enchanting colorful character trying to sell it.

As we continued down Eighth Street and into the notorious Folsom district of San Francisco, we came upon a large black banner that marked Madame S, the feminine addition to the famed fetish and fetters store, Mr. S.

I was a preteen when I discovered my parents' copy of The Joy of Sex . I don't know how I knew to look in their closet for the good stuff; it's not like they ever said anything. Perhaps kids just know intuitively to search out that which is forbidden. I had already perused the stack of Playboy magazines, which bored me.

But The Joy of Sex , here was a book from which I could learn something! I knew the gist of course; after all, I'd read several historical romance novels, or as I referred to them, "euphemistic pornography." But this book, these pictures and explanations, they were real , and therefore were to be taken much more seriously. Information on sex -- the raw, nitty-gritty, slap-and-tickle, anatomy-of-an-orgasm stuff -- was not readily available to curious adolescents B.G. (Before Google).

Book in my 14-year-old hands, I flipped past the standard stuff -- information already uncovered during prior closet digs -- and finally came across the chapter on bondage. Illustrations of blindfolds and handcuffs were accompanied by written descriptions of the sensual experiences each can offer when in the hands of a trusted lover.

As the drizzle settled on my cheeks, I paused for a moment to reflect on those pages from my youth, then grabbed David's arm and led him through the metal cage that marked the entrance of Mr. and Madame S's fetish fortress.

Once through the door, our nostrils were bombarded with the heady, industrial aroma of leather and latex. Black seemed to be the color of choice; silver, adorning the black as buckles and studs, was a close second. The store was warehouse-huge, with one giant main room and four smaller (but still very big) ancillary rooms. Wanting to appear knowledgeable, I strode purposefully to one section, bobbing my head to the beat of the techno music that filled the air.

"Want to try this on?" I asked David, pointing to a menacing black article that hung on a silver hook. "I think it's like the stocks: your wrists go through these little ones and the whole thing goes around your chest." David acquiesced with a playful smile. We managed to get the thing down from the wall, and around his chest, then on his wrists; I tightened and buckled, but something looked wrong.

I beckoned to a surrealistically attractive man for help. His face lit up, and his walk as he made his way toward us was the beautiful love-child of strut and sashay. When he reached us, he examined David and said, "It's on upside-down."

For some reason, I was ashamed, the way I am when someone catches me counting on my fingers. "Oh, yeah, okay, well, no worries, we'll just..."

"No problem!" interjected our new friend, "I'll show you how it's done." David looked wary; his eyes opened wide in my direction and I shrugged at him.

"Sure, sounds good. Let's see how this baby works," I said, winking at David.

I hadn't taken into consideration that this young, strapping man was a lot stronger than me. Once the "chest-to-wrist restraint" was on right-side-up, he pulled on the straps so hard that David's entire body jerked toward him. "Here, I'll hold him steady," I offered, earning myself an appreciative flash of perfectly straight, sparkling white teeth.

Once finished, the man stepped back to survey his work. With his wrists bound to his chest and his hands hanging free, David kind of looked like a miniature T. Rex. He waited patiently while I laughed, although it's not like he had other options.

"Looks good! Let me know if you need anything else," said our helper, before returning to his post in the middle of the main floor. Behind me, two women (in the Madame S section of the store) organized strap-on accessories and chatted with each other, as relaxed as if they had been stocking shelves at Bed Bath & Beyond, rather than shelving stocks at Bits, Ball-Gags & Bondage.

David looked helpless. I took pity and unbuckled the many straps that contained him. But, before I unbuckled the final straps that held his wrists, I was struck by an excellent idea.

"I'll let you out, if you carry my books back to San Diego," I said. He laughed at me, which didn't get him anywhere. I waited for a proper response. I even left him for a few minutes while I investigated the ladies' half of the store.

Finally, acknowledging his predicament, David gave me his word -- he would carry my books. Triumphant, I set him free, and handed over my shopping bag.

The latest copy of the Reader

Please enjoy this clickable Reader flipbook. Linked text and ads are flash-highlighted in blue for your convenience. To enhance your viewing, please open full screen mode by clicking the icon on the far right of the black flipbook toolbar.

Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all
Previous article

At 4pm, this Farmer's Table restaurant in Chula Vista becomes Acqua e Farina

Brunch restaurant by day, Roman style trattoria by night
Next Article

The danger of San Diego's hoarders

The $1 million Flash Comics #1
Barbarella
Barbarella

It is comfortable for us to pretend, in our nouveau puritanical way, that our fellow family members don't "do it." Adolescents -- Daddy's girls and Momma's boys, especially -- cringe when presented with the idea (and subsequent, unstoppable imagery) of their conception. Conversely, parents have a hard time considering their babies all grown up and everything that being of "legal age" entails; most are unable to separate the 3-year-old girl of their memories from the 30-year-old woman now standing before them. My sisters might blanch at the notion, and my parents may scream out in agony, but here it goes: I have sex. I would characterize the sex I have as fun and playful, as opposed to the grim, efficient, just-lay-there-and-think-of-England variety we always imagined our parents and Margaret Thatcher engaged in. But, like the headlines on fashion magazines often proclaim, even "fun and playful" sex can be "spiced up." On our recent trip to San Francisco, David and I stumbled upon a store that specializes in spice.

It was the morning of our last day in town. The sky was gray and the air was drizzly, a combination I find invigorating. We had taken a cab to a hip breakfast joint, but after polishing each of our plates and sharing a third, we chose to walk the 20 or so blocks back to the hotel. It was three hours before we had to board the train for the airport. We'd already checked out, our bags were packed and waiting for us behind the front desk; time was ours to kill.

The first shop we entered was nestled between two small apartment buildings on an otherwise desolate hill. It was an Asian-inspired shop that seemed to sell everything, be it books, dishes, gourmet snacks, or furniture. Not one, not two, but six hardback books caught my eye. Our suitcase was already pushing 50 pounds, our airline's weight limit.

"What if I can't find them anywhere else?" I rationalized as I handed my credit card to the cashier. David, sifting through a shelf of dishcloths, paused to mutter a " Pshaw! " in my direction; I correctly interpreted the noise to mean, "How are you planning to squeeze all those books into our luggage?"

David bought two dishcloths. I found this particular out-of-town impulse purchase somewhat disturbing, but I let it slip without comment. I had to play it cool if I was to convince him to carry my six new books through three airports.

Sponsored
Sponsored

Five blocks later, a stylish lamp lured us into a modern furniture store. We spent half an hour fawning over a circular, suede "cuddle couch," while an energetic salesman with olive skin and peroxide-blond hair performed what can only be described as an interpretive dance of potential colors and fabrics. In the end, I couldn't decide which I wanted more for my living room -- the cuddle couch in a shade of red, or Daniel, the enchanting colorful character trying to sell it.

As we continued down Eighth Street and into the notorious Folsom district of San Francisco, we came upon a large black banner that marked Madame S, the feminine addition to the famed fetish and fetters store, Mr. S.

I was a preteen when I discovered my parents' copy of The Joy of Sex . I don't know how I knew to look in their closet for the good stuff; it's not like they ever said anything. Perhaps kids just know intuitively to search out that which is forbidden. I had already perused the stack of Playboy magazines, which bored me.

But The Joy of Sex , here was a book from which I could learn something! I knew the gist of course; after all, I'd read several historical romance novels, or as I referred to them, "euphemistic pornography." But this book, these pictures and explanations, they were real , and therefore were to be taken much more seriously. Information on sex -- the raw, nitty-gritty, slap-and-tickle, anatomy-of-an-orgasm stuff -- was not readily available to curious adolescents B.G. (Before Google).

Book in my 14-year-old hands, I flipped past the standard stuff -- information already uncovered during prior closet digs -- and finally came across the chapter on bondage. Illustrations of blindfolds and handcuffs were accompanied by written descriptions of the sensual experiences each can offer when in the hands of a trusted lover.

As the drizzle settled on my cheeks, I paused for a moment to reflect on those pages from my youth, then grabbed David's arm and led him through the metal cage that marked the entrance of Mr. and Madame S's fetish fortress.

Once through the door, our nostrils were bombarded with the heady, industrial aroma of leather and latex. Black seemed to be the color of choice; silver, adorning the black as buckles and studs, was a close second. The store was warehouse-huge, with one giant main room and four smaller (but still very big) ancillary rooms. Wanting to appear knowledgeable, I strode purposefully to one section, bobbing my head to the beat of the techno music that filled the air.

"Want to try this on?" I asked David, pointing to a menacing black article that hung on a silver hook. "I think it's like the stocks: your wrists go through these little ones and the whole thing goes around your chest." David acquiesced with a playful smile. We managed to get the thing down from the wall, and around his chest, then on his wrists; I tightened and buckled, but something looked wrong.

I beckoned to a surrealistically attractive man for help. His face lit up, and his walk as he made his way toward us was the beautiful love-child of strut and sashay. When he reached us, he examined David and said, "It's on upside-down."

For some reason, I was ashamed, the way I am when someone catches me counting on my fingers. "Oh, yeah, okay, well, no worries, we'll just..."

"No problem!" interjected our new friend, "I'll show you how it's done." David looked wary; his eyes opened wide in my direction and I shrugged at him.

"Sure, sounds good. Let's see how this baby works," I said, winking at David.

I hadn't taken into consideration that this young, strapping man was a lot stronger than me. Once the "chest-to-wrist restraint" was on right-side-up, he pulled on the straps so hard that David's entire body jerked toward him. "Here, I'll hold him steady," I offered, earning myself an appreciative flash of perfectly straight, sparkling white teeth.

Once finished, the man stepped back to survey his work. With his wrists bound to his chest and his hands hanging free, David kind of looked like a miniature T. Rex. He waited patiently while I laughed, although it's not like he had other options.

"Looks good! Let me know if you need anything else," said our helper, before returning to his post in the middle of the main floor. Behind me, two women (in the Madame S section of the store) organized strap-on accessories and chatted with each other, as relaxed as if they had been stocking shelves at Bed Bath & Beyond, rather than shelving stocks at Bits, Ball-Gags & Bondage.

David looked helpless. I took pity and unbuckled the many straps that contained him. But, before I unbuckled the final straps that held his wrists, I was struck by an excellent idea.

"I'll let you out, if you carry my books back to San Diego," I said. He laughed at me, which didn't get him anywhere. I waited for a proper response. I even left him for a few minutes while I investigated the ladies' half of the store.

Finally, acknowledging his predicament, David gave me his word -- he would carry my books. Triumphant, I set him free, and handed over my shopping bag.

Comments
Sponsored

The latest copy of the Reader

Please enjoy this clickable Reader flipbook. Linked text and ads are flash-highlighted in blue for your convenience. To enhance your viewing, please open full screen mode by clicking the icon on the far right of the black flipbook toolbar.

Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all
Previous article

Gonzo Report: Goose may have indie vibes, but they’re still a jam band

Fans turn out in force for show at SDSU
Next Article

Tijuana sewage infects air in South Bay

By September, Imperial Beach’s beach closure broke 1000 consecutive days
Comments
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed Big Screen — Movie commentary Blurt — Music's inside track Booze News — San Diego spirits Classical Music — Immortal beauty Classifieds — Free and easy Cover Stories — Front-page features Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts Feast! — Food & drink reviews Feature Stories — Local news & stories Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore From the Archives — Spotlight on the past Golden Dreams — Talk of the town The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it Letters — Our inbox Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news News Ticker — News & politics Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated Poetry — The old and the new Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers Reading — The hunt for intellectuals Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds SD on the QT — Almost factual news Sheep and Goats — Places of worship Special Issues — The best of Street Style — San Diego streets have style Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves Theater — On stage in San Diego this week Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads Your Week — Daily event picks
4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs
Close

Anchor ads are not supported on this page.

This Week’s Reader This Week’s Reader