CAPTURED LIGHTNING: MEMOIR OF A BULLWHIP ARTIST

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE ETERNAL CITY

A few days later, I flew to Rome, passing over the Alps, an amazing experience with the snow topped ranges blending into the purest white clouds.

At Fumicino Airport, Giorgio my driver did not recognize me because of my beard. I did not look like my own picture. At the hotel, folks seemed genuinely excited to see me. Many had come to the weekend event specifically for my classes. At the first opportunity, I shaved my beard off to make myself look more like my head shots.

First day of the Rome BDSM Conference, I met my host Stefano, a tall, bearded, crystal clear, marvelous fellow who was never too busy to try to make things easier for others. I also met Elio and his girl Eager. He was an Aikido practitioner with superb English, his vocabulary big on short whips and florentines.

I caught up with Anton, who smiled like the trained actor he is, and who turned out to be a big fan of mine. He wore a fedora and sported a white goatee. I sat in on his own whip class – he was on target, but a little tentative. I think I made him nervous because he spent the first five minutes telling the class that I was there and how wonderful I was, etc. His wife was a psychic who correctly guessed my astrological sign (Double Aquarius).

I saw Donatien, a slight fellow, twinkly eyes, a few teeth missing, absolutely over the moon about me – I was why he came, he said. I hoped I would meet his expectations.

Then there was Avi, who showed me his first attempt to make a whip, a paracord number that was surprisingly pretty good. He became interested in making whips after taking my workshop in Victoria, B.C., and he was now on his way to see his family in Iran. When he saw I would be in Rome, he changed his schedule so he could attend the event. I thought he was one of the good ones there, and I liked his gentle soul.

I finally met Mike from Ouch Products, he with the damned good eye for some good leather work, but when he cornered you he kept on talking like a car salesman with his thick British accent. He had brought lots of great stuff with him, but it was pretty pricey for my pockets. We got along well and I felt a kinship with him. I think it would have been suicide to play poker with him.

The workshops went well, but I thought they were slow at 45 minutes (the second-language thing), so I let it become a free cracking session, with me guiding hands-on, with a lot of one-on-ones. Great energy then!

Many people walked up to me to shake my hand, get a photo with me, and I sold all my books that first day.

The dinner in the hotel was superb. I really like Italian, obviously, especially the seafood (mussels, clams, fish, calamari) just caught from the sea, surrounded with clean saltiness to it. Coffee is an art there with a sweet ice cream-like creamer, and the deserts – stunningly delicate, pure, rich.

While I was not hurting, moving easily in the momentary public appearances, I became wiped out in agony when I retreated to my room. Like depth charges in the delay of the pain, followed by the hit. With nothing but the pain in my arms to focus on, I kept trying to sleep.

The first night of the convention, about 200 people, most wearing fetish gear, milled about the balloon-festooned ballroom, socializing after a long day of bondage workshops and dominance classes. Between the snacks and drinks, Mistresses strutted before each other with grateful and abashed slaves crawling behind then, tethered by leashes attached to their ornate collars.

Everyone was bewilderingly friendly, chatting above the squeaking of leather, the rubbing of polished latex, the soft tinkle of chains. Dialogues were in Italian, English, German and Danish (and perhaps Klingon). The bar business was booming with silly frou-frou drinks and manly whiskeys, three deep at the rail.

I was a fish out of water, self conscious and exposed. I didn’t know why, because I was in the bosom of my tribe, but there it was. I sipped my Coke, tonguing the ice every few minutes so I could refresh myself without running the gauntlet of trying to get the cute bartender’s attention, again.

I abruptly noticed a sweet powerball near the bar. I smiled at her, she smiled at me, and that was understood to be our introduction.

I adored her dark hair, athletic build, sharp eyes, lipstick too red, her skin Santa Monica midnight Goth pale, almost a pallor. But the eyes, those sharp eyes, were wide awake, taking everything in, and now they were scanning me.

“You’re the bullwhip guy,” she said. “How’s it going?”

“This has been a fabulous event, so far,” I answered. An easy serve.

“Interesting stuff,” she countered, moistening her lips with her tongue. “Personally, I’ve never had a bullwhip scene.”

“Would you like a little one now?” I asked. “I can accommodate any level of play you desire.”

“What — Right here?” “Sure,” I said.

We took a simple wooden folding chair, set it up in a corner of the room where I could have some calm control over the space, fearing I might clop some idiot walking blithely behind me.

We negotiated: the biggie was no penetration with any fingers or objects, along with no humiliation – she seemed to be primarily a Top, so I adjusted my approach to accommodate her status, in her own eyes and in the eyes of her peers – it’s a razor-thin balancing act but highly doable, highly desirable.

My whip came out of its slumber slowly, coiling languorously before laying out straight behind me, then curling into a new cycle. A quick flick and it sensed the air, like a snake’s tongue. I audibly hissed to reinforce the image as I watched the goose pimples run along her arms, and I had yet to touch her.

I gently tossed the whip forward as if I were feeding ducks in a park. First to the left, then to the right. She could hear the whip moving through the air, even without cracking. She focused on the sound of the swish. I knew the external world was disappearing from her awareness. We were dancing together, wordlessly.

Thump onto the carpet, the smooth slide to the back position, the hoist, the heave, the so-satisfying pop, followed by the next thump, slide, and pop. Thump, slide, and pop. I increased the speed, concentrating on the target, building to the final release. She caught her breath; I was breathing along with her, a duet of inhalation/exhalation. We were in sync, outside of time itself. As intimate as a direct transfusion, a vampire’s feast.

I stepped closer, draping the whip over one of her shoulders, sliding it slowly along its length until it dropped to the carpet. As I did this, I gently hissed again, completing the snake image. I watched her nipples getting hard as I began to focus intensely, as well.

I stepped back so I could lay the whip out full length. I stroked her hair gently with the cracker without popping. It swished through the air. She’d seen my skill, so she was not afraid of an accident at this point, but I was still taking no risks, no gambles, because there was nothing to prove here to anyone else. The world had disappeared for me, too. It was just her and me in the eye of the hurricane.

A loud noise next to her head would have jolted her out of the trance I was lulling her into so I limited the volume of my cracking whip. I stepped in closer again and touched her shoulder with my hand. I liked the feel of her skin. I used my fingernails to lightly scratch a line. I watched it redden up. I did this to see how her flesh would respond to the touch of the whip. It’s never the same for two people. Old sailors are difficult, because their salt-tanned hides don’t show subtle caresses. It had to go to welt country with them. But not with this one. The blush was delicious. I had marked her, I had claimed her, temporarily, I had taken possession of her, and she gave up her control, her ego, freely, riding the waves, balanced on the creaking folding chair.

My whip embraced, caressed her and the folding chair together, coming at her from both sides, from behind her, there was nowhere to hide from it, a dragon’s claw with feathers between the talons, soft and sensual, sharp as spice. I could have been painting a cobweb strand by strand into a cocoon, breathing life into the geometry of my whip’s monologue with itself. I flowed to her breathing, inhaling with her like a Lamaze technique, as if she was giving birth to herself. Her pussy glistened with a milky moisture, and I could tell her pupils were dilating more with each breath. I trod deliberately, my boot thumping the carpet with my full weight, giving her an anchor to focus her attention on during this sailing experience — she was a kite on the breathing wind, and I was both the kite string and gravity itself. Stars shivered just above the ceiling where neither of us could see them, their harmonics as tangible as light and shadow. No cat ever kissed a mouse so tenderly. I breathed on her softly, letting her hear the full exhalation of my wordless song, defining us both in this place and time.

I skated on the moment, a blade on the ice as she extended her leg to touch mine. I shuddered, an ecstatic frisson I could not contain. Colors were brighter, the silence roared.

She gasped, touched her tongue to her lips. I ramped up the intensity, lowering my head, a low growl rumbling through my chest. I was sucking in the oxygen more deeply now. I tapped her with the cracker like a blind man wielding his all-seeing white cane. The tap, the drop, the slide, then another tap – an ecstatic cycle.

She came; I shivered, sending the whip out over her collar bone, the tail caressing the back of her chair. I slowly pulled the whip free, sent it out again, ramping down, now. Her muscles relaxed.

I caressed her shoulder with a slight squeeze as she leaned her cheek against my hand. She opened her eyes and closed her knees with a deep inhalation.

Suddenly we were awash in a sea of applause. I became aware that everyone had been watching us, enraptured by the moving tableaux, standing outside an imaginary magnetic line encircling us in our private world now suddenly public, naked. She put her hands on her thighs. I extended my hand to help her to her feet. I was firm, her anchor in the after-moment. We embraced, full body. Her hair smelled of sweet sweat.

Our eyes glanced off each other; she was embarrassed, ashamed, grateful, and defiant, now in possession of herself again.

We backed off from each other, as I resisted the temptation to turn and take her hand and bow to the audience. A cluster of people (mostly bottoms) surrounded her, some inspecting her for damage (there was none).

I was grateful to her, for her authenticity, her fearlessness, her trust. The sheer pleasure of sharing the moment. The next day we had breakfast, and I tried to learn a few more of her personal details, ones I had not asked about the night before. Where she was from, her domestic situation, her aspirations, her history, her desires. She answered with a broad vagueness. I made a decision to see her again, if I could, the next time I was on the Pacific Northwest of the United States of America.

But we never met again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PROMETHEUS

Next day, another workshop on SM applications successfully delivered. They’d reacted like they’d never heard any of this before. Wow. Afterward, more idol-worship – one young lady saying thank you for clarifying her own submissive experience. A domme took me aside and said she cracked like she’d never cracked before, and her arm was buzzing. I reassured her it was real, and not just in her head.

I'd wanted to crack a whip in the Colosseum, but that bucket list item got away from me. Despite the tight schedule, I thought I could do it until some people advised me that the Colosseum was on High Security Alert since the Louvre attacks. They had a genuine concern that I would be killed if I went through with it. The Italian police were on edge and carrying brutal-looking weaponry, ready to respond violently to something that sounded like gunshots. My friends’ concerns were honest enough that I called off the experience.

I wondered what the feedback sheets from the attendees would say about my workshops. Stefano brightly said they were wonderful. He’d already decided to invite me back for next year, carefully adding, “If we do it.”

At the Gala Dinner, I was sitting by myself when a young lady came over to chat and asked if we could play at the party after the dinner.

I found her at 11:30pm, and we walked into the big room. No one was playing anywhere, it was a sparse crowd, so I picked a good space with a padded horse.

The 5-foot Celeste whip in my bag sprang to life. I was now cat-and-mousing her, lovely body tattoos and authentically responsive reactions.

Some of the folks, I found out later, had never seen anyone play with a bullwhip like that. I also amazed folks by being fluid, playing with her 360-degrees, doing wraps to get the whip to her far side, creating the totally-devoured experience.

I ramped her up a few times, humming to myself like a happy hangman, then had her sit in a chair facing me. For a moment I wondered if the headsman who executed Anne Boleyn felt the same way. I did some neck wraps, heard some distant gasps from behind me.

When we finished, I gave her water and grounded her, then noticed the room was packed, everyone staring at us. Amazed. Again.

But it was just the same kind of scene I’d played in my Houston Days with my regular bottoms.

Later, I dropped off to sleep and dreamed. I was a passenger in a car. We were heading up a ramp too fast and went straight into a guard rail in front of us. Instead of stopping, we glided over it smoothly, and suddenly we were in the air and going down. I realized we were going into the water and I braced myself. But we just kept falling, falling. I awoke with a jolt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

SUNSET

Dan and Rikke dropped me off at the ever-familiar airport in Hamburg, where I wandered the corridors until departing for Frankfurt. More delayed flights and changed gates before I zipped to Fiumicino Airport outside Rome for the last leg of my European tour.

I took a cab to the apartment, absolutely crashing from the blood sugar drop (into the 40s), the heat and exhaustion. My hands were shaking so much I couldn’t text Stefano, my host. I was swirling down the drain with no hope of rescue, when Andrei and Sara arrived on motorcycle with sugar packets in their pockets. They got me upstairs and settled in, so by now my sugar was up in the 50s. We ordered pizza and Cokes. I was still wobbly and woozy, but getting set for my weekend ahead.

The apartment had three bedrooms behind a massive iron door that unlocked electronically. The kitchen was so tight there was no room to pull out the chairs at the tiny breakfast table. I was chided the second night for leaving lights on — electricity is expensive in Rome.

On Friday I met Stefano and his girl Gemma at AKA, the club. I listened to karaoke for hours, hanging out with Mike Cannell and Dena.

The workshops next day were washouts, with only 8 people attending and only one private lesson (given at a discount because it was for a fellow performer).

Anton Pellicano visited us for a few minutes — always good to see him, even if it was a brief meeting. He gave me the gift of a silver coin from the Vatican.

Workshop that night was a demo. Stefano volunteered the diminutive Gemma to be my model. I played and talked, keeping it light, to a Level Two. But when I asked her how she was experiencing it, she said, “Five or Six.” It was obvious to me that she was nervous, not able to relax into the experience, perhaps also feeling some performance anxiety with her Master sitting there, watching intently.

Sadism has many magnitudes, from selfishness to psychic vampirism to ultimate selflessness, reflecting Nature itself. In my own vocabulary, I was an "Enlightened Sadist," a contradiction which I reconciled the same way a person could be a sober drunk.

Consequently, I got requests to play with a lot of people, partly because they knew I had nothing to prove to them or others (or to myself). As I said, the whip was the only toy I knew of that could go from Zero to Nine-point-nine. The only thing that came close to that range was electricity.

I get to play in those upper numbers rarely, maybe two or three times a year. If that was the only range I could play at, I’d barely be playing any of the time. Most folks want to play at a Two Level. They want the taste, the thrill of the experience without the suffering. If you start slowly and ramp them up gradually, though, even Level Two players can go a little beyond themselves as they come to trust you and as they get used to their body sensations.

I had one dance partner at AKA who was nervous about welts being seen by her mother, so we played at a continuous Level One, resulting in a warm blush like a sunburn to her upper back. It would fade in a few hours, but it was an emotionally intense scene, nonetheless.

The farewell lunch took place at Luigi’s in the old section of the city. AKA’s first storefront had been on the corner. When Stefano walked in, they hailed him as a long-lost brother. The bees and the birds were buzzing and chirping in the hedges around the outside dining area. The calamari was the best I ever ate, and the crème brulèe afterward was perfect, in a word.

Stefano smiled. “We have to be the good host,” he said. “It’s what we do.”

This elicited applause from me and Mike and Dena. Spirits were high.

The trip home was uneventful — except for one terrifying tumble on the escalator in Hamburg – and it only took me three days to get back onto my schedule at home....