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CHAPTER 17 : THE MUNCH : JANUARY
14 Months And 447 Days After Jenny’s Disappearance
It’s about three months after my adventure with Ylena; over a year now since Jenny disappeared. I can’t believe it’s so long. The anniversary was painful and of course the press were around again asking questions. After the initial ‘forensic’ part of their investigation, the Police contacted the media with the story and there was a wave of interest. Jenny’s parents were seen as tragic figures: a close family loosing a much loved child. And me? I felt I was treated with much more suspicion. The husband: was he instrumental in his wife’s disappearance? Did he drive her away? Did she run away from him? I began to feel more like a liability that an asset to the media campaign and so we agreed that Jenny’s parents would take centre stage and keep up the pressure on the media, trying to find their daughter whilst I should stay in the background. I suppose The Press want to tell a good story as well as report the news and the idea of a brutal – or boring – husband disposing of his wife or merely driving her away is an easier story to tell - an easier tale to believe - than the truth: a much loved wife and daughter who, without reason, disappears into thin air without warning, never to be seen again.
I’ve tried to convince myself that something happened to Jenny but the longer it goes without any word the more I’m convinced that she left me. It seems a terrible thing to say; as though I’ve given up on finding her. That’s not true of course but I suppose if I’m honest I’ve felt that was what happened all along. It was my fault that now she’s gone.
I’m checking my emails. There are two significant emails for me in my inbox.
The first comes from Missing People to update me about hits on the “Find Jenny” website they helped us to set up. There have been plenty of hits but no news. I stare at the email for several minutes – and then go to the site, to visit her once more. There she is, looking out at me from the screen, smiling, silent. I heave a sigh and stare back. It seems cruel to go too soon – as if she would know, in some odd way. I used to visit every day and speak regularly to the contacts at the Charity. I used to think it would all come right, if I could just be patient for a little while. After all, if I had almost found her, through my own efforts, surely the police would soon actually find her? Then weeks quickly became months and now more than a whole year has passed. The charity has been very supportive and at least they help Jenny’s parents and me to do things, so we are not just waiting, passively, for “developments” (as the police say) to take place. But there never are any developments and I am left to search for her in the places she seemed to be at home and always, she is never there ….
Which brings me to the second ‘significant’ email.
Corinne has proved as good as her word: an invitation to a munch has arrived. There’s an email from her in my in-box this morning, with a contact address and a copy of the note she’s sent introducing me. “Someone I know that is just starting to get into the scene, very much exploring how it might be for him,” the note says, which sounds like a pretty good summary, to me.
I email the contact. I’m not really sure how much detail to go into so I just say I’d like to come along and what are the arrangements for the next meeting?
The reply is a bit surprising. It’s not that different to some of the invitations I get to events connected with my work ,but I suppose I should stop being puzzled by how “normal” BDSM is to the people who are part of it. I’m also surprised by the venue. It’s a pub not far from Warwick, beside a canal. I know it. I’ve been there a few times and it never struck me as being “that sort of place”. What sort of place? Is it really any different from any other bunch of enthusiasts meeting one another in a pub? Before, I would have said definitely “yes”. Now, I’m not so sure.
The email comes with some notes which make up a set of terms and conditions. The whole thing is obviously highly organised and, as I read, I can see that each of the regulations makes a lot of sense. “The Munch is a casual get-together in a public but kink-friendly setting,” the email says. “The dress code is for casual everyday clothes – no kinky or fetish wear, please, it just upsets the other customers and makes life difficult for everyone. No toys allowed either and no selling or photography. Kinky conversation is more than welcome but remember folk are there for interaction not to listen to monologues. Fetish fascists are definitely not welcome. Please don’t indulge in ‘scene’ behaviour or play. It isn't a Play Party or a Fetish Night – but you could go on to the PER party later. Please be polite and discreet with the vanilla serving staff. Do NOT try to "convert" them, they are VANILLA and at work, so please pause the kinky talk when they are serving. Most of all though, enjoy the company and have fun.”
At the bottom of the note the organiser has added. “Corinne didn’t say if you were bringing anyone or not. It’s probably easier if you do but if not, don’t worry.”
I hadn’t thought about bringing a companion, but it makes sense: If people think I’m a Dom will they think I’m trying to recruit their subs? if they think I’m sub will they expect me to hit on the Doms? It’s like single people turning up at any other social gathering. The world isn’t really organised for singles.
Could I invite Cathy Corbin? I’m sure she’d come, if only to help me for Jenny’s sake but I’m not sure how I’d explain it to George:
“ I’d like to take your wife out on a date to meet a bunch of kinks and perverts.” Would that work? Possibly not! In the end I decide to go on my own and manage any misconceptions which arise.
I arrive just after the the start of the event. It’s never a good idea to be first but perhaps that may not be the case, for something like this. The curious feeling of being appraised by men and women as I come into the room is a strange and unfamiliar one. I suppose it’s something women have to put up with all the time, in the vanilla world, but I’ve never experienced it before. I’m not sure how, or even if, to introduce myself but decide just to be straightforward: “Hi,” I say, “I’m Joe.”
I almost add “and I’m interested in BDSM” but then I tell myself, they know that because why else would you be here?
One figure breaks away from the middle of the reassuringly ordinary crowd and comes over to me. It’s a big, balding man with a short beard and bare but heavily tattooed arms. He looks like a biker, although he’s wearing jeans instead of leathers. “Hullo Joe,” he says, “welcome. Glad you could come. I’m Zeph – in other words, zz604@hotmail.co.uk.”
This is the email address of the organiser and he shakes my hand warmly. “Well, thanks for letting me tag along,” I respond.
I know it’s a foolish stereotype but he looks just like I imagine a dominant man should look. Actually that’s not fair. I suppose I have two versions in my mind, this guy and a rather thin, effete man with carefully groomed hair and a thin moustache.
“You won’t know anyone, I guess?” Zeph asks.
I look around not expecting to recognise anyone but then I realise that there is at least one couple that I’ve seen around the university canteen when I’ve lunched there with Jenny. It’s a bit of a surprise. What if someone here knows me? I don’t know their names so I say, “No, I’m afraid not,” but I’m starting to feel uneasy.
“Well don’t worry, they won’t bite. Well, not the subs at any rate!” He laughs. A large warm confident laugh. “And don’t worry if you do see someone you know. They are here for the same reason you are, don’t forget. Look, I have to get a few things sorted. Harriet and Peter have been coming here for a while. They are good fun. Zeph places a large heavy arm across my shoulders and guides me towards them.”
The three of us talk for a while. It turns out that Harriet and Peter
have been into the scene “ forever”. They look like throwbacks to the nineteen sixties. When the rest of their friends were into the hippy scene, turning on and dropping out, they must have been discovering BDSM.
“It felt like we were inventing it,” Peter says.
“It was more underground than smoking dope, believe me!” Harriet agrees. “There wasn’t the network that exists today, the social groups.”
“No internet of course. Just a few magazines...”
“... That came out when they felt like it and you could only buy in very strange shops. Do you remember scouring ‘Forum’ for the occasional kinky article or letter?” Peter nods and Harriet continues. “Nobody you could get bondage toys from. We had a pair of police surplus handcuffs and that was our toybox.”
“We used to try to get hold of some of the American bondage magazine for ideas..”
“And those paperback books – in yellow bindings.”
“And there was ‘Atomage’... “
“And watching ‘The Avengers’ ...” Harriet is smiling, remembering. “I’m sorry. This is very rude. We get a bit caught up in the past sometimes. It’s just good to see people enjoying things much more openly. I think we’re all very lucky. How did you get into this?”
“Well my wife introduced me to it, I guess.”
“Is she here?”
“No.” The conversation is really not going in the direction I want it to. “We’re, well, she’s away at the moment.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yes. I think she’d rather be here. In fact I’m sure of it. Everyone’s so friendly.”
Peter nods. “Yes, they’re a good bunch of people, mainly. There’s a couple of folk I wouldn’t want to get into a scene with – top or bottom – and some of the more extreme games that some people like aren’t our sort of thing but if that‘s what they like, then fair enough.”
“I suppose it’s a hang-over from our ‘whatever turns you on, man’ days,” says Harriet. It’s true they’re obviously a pair of old hippies at heart, kinky ones, but hippies nevertheless. I can imagine them enjoying themselves with a Hendrix CD. She pushes back a wayward strand of greying hair. As she does so, I see a small key tattooed on the back of her hand.
Zeph slides in beside me on the couch. “I see you are getting on famously.” I hadn’t noticed him come back and actually I’ve forgotten my reservations and concerns.
“He’s been very tolerant. We’ve been rambling on about the ‘good old – bad old days’ and he hasn’t looked bored once.” Harriet smiles.
“That’s because I wasn’t bored at all,” I reply. “Thanks. I mean that. I guess it’s reassuring to meet people on the scene who seem so normal.”
“Normal!” Peter throws his hands up in mock offence, “that is the worst thing anyone ever accused me of.” Harriet leans across and kisses him on the cheek. It’s one of the most tender things I’ve seen anyone ever do in public.
“Come on,” Zeph says getting up. “There’s someone else I’d like you to meet.”
I say my farewells to Harriet, Peter and Zeph.
There’s a woman making her way towards us. She’s about as wide as our host but good bit shorter. She’s wearing the same style of jeans and a sleeveless denim top. She’s got fewer (althoughnot too many fewer) tattoos. They look like a pair of book ends. She’s obviously his sub or slave or whatever he calls her.
“So is this the new visitor?” she asks, holding a hand out to great me in a way that seems very forward for a submissive. I shake it and nod.
“Joe McEwan,” I say.
“Mistress Esme,” says the woman. She turns to Zeph. “Run along,” she says, “and make sure someone is organising a drinks order.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Zeph says with a smile before turning to me, saying, “Excuse me,” and heading off to the crowd of folk slowly coalescing around the upstairs bar.
I have got completely the wrong end of the stick with Zeph! “I’m sorry,” I say to Esme, “I thought well, ... I didn’t realise that you were his... well, sorry. Should I have asked or something?”
Esme smiles. “That’s all right. There’s no way of telling. None of us have a big arrow pointing down at us.”
“Black for dom, red for sub?” I say.
“Exactly. It would make life easier - but not as much fun.”
I nod. What colour is my arrow, I wonder?
“Of course it would be a bit of problem with Zeph. Him being a switch.”
“Switch?”
“Someone that can take either role. He only bottoms with me but with others it’s a different matter.”
“Ah, I see,” I say. But I don’t see. Not at all.
Looking to change the subject, I point to a big green “PER” on the wall. “What’s that?” As far as I can see it’s some sort of poster but what for is not clear.
“They’re the play party organisers.” She sees my confusion. “Normally after the Munch those of us that want to play ……..” She looks at me to confirm that I understand what she’s getting at and I nod to confirm I am on her “wavelength” …… “Well we go on there. They always get a good venue and after we’ve spent an hour or two talking kinky, plenty of us want to do something kinky.”
“Understandable.”
“Especially because we don’t play at the munch. This is meant to be a non-threatening social event. Besides, the ceiling’s too low to swing a whip.”
I grin. “Well it is a non-threatening environment,” I say. And it is. I’m finding it easy to talk to her and it’s only after a few moments that I realise that Zeph is waiting quietly at her side having returned without a word.
“Excuse me a moment,” she says and turns to him.”Yes?”
“It’s all in hand. Can I get you something?” Zeph says, leaving the ‘Mistress’ unspoken.
“Mmm, please. A red wine. Something French. How about you?” she asks me. It’s obvious she’s not asking Zeph.
“The same. Thanks,” I respond and Zeph scuttles off. “I thought there was some sort of unspoken rule about no alcohol with play.”
“Normally I wouldn’t, but there’s no party tonight. It’s been put off until next week, so I’m going to indulge.”
“So what is PER?”
“That’s not how you say it. Look again.”
I look across at the poster again. I can’t see how else you could pronounce ‘PER’.
“Think about the colour,” she says.
Zeph returns. “I found you a glass of ‘something French’, as requested,” he says.
Suddenly I understand the trick. PER in green. The French word ‘vert’. PER-vert. “Pervert!” I exclaim.
Esme smiles, “Very good. Exactly right. Look, why don’t you come along next week? We’ll be there. I’ll look after you. You needn’t get involved in anything if you don’t want to, but if you are really interested in learning more about the scene, you’ll definitely have the chance.”
It seems like a chance which will be too good to miss. I tell her “yes”. Zeph gives me a flyer with the details on. I stuff it inside my jacket as she runs through a list of people for Zeph to introduce me to. I barely have time to thank her before she’s bustling away to welcome another newcomer. It’s a busy social event but she’s obviously on top of it. But then, that’s why they’re called ‘tops’, I suppose?
As I make my way home I begin to thinking about people in our office. Could I see any of they going to a Munch. Chris Parker? Absolutely not! Craig and Sylvie Evans? Could be. Who else?
What about Gwenda? Tall, black, muscular, witty – and a very good engineer. I have never thought of her sexually before but now her face - her voice - steals into my mind. Soft, warm, lilting, Carribean. I imagine her standing in leather jeans, tight white cotton blouse. She is holding a drink, talking to Harriet. As I look at her in my imagination, she turns and smiles ….
Footnotes.
1. Pub. Colloquial English for a “Public House”, in other words, a bar but more than that: somewhere you can go to enjoy company and food and spend a convivial evening. Interestingly ‘pubs’ are characteristically English whilst ‘bars’ are more common in other parts of the UK such as Scotland.
2. Forum. Styled as “the International Journal of Human Relationships”. Before the Internet was invented, Forum was probably the best source of information about sexuality and kink - and it was available in (most) mainstream newsagents. You can check it out at their web site.
3. Atomage. The legendary fetish magazine (in the UK) published by John Sutcliffe from the 1950’s to the 1980’s. There is a tribute site on the internet, just search for Atomage.
4. The Avengers. British TV “secret agent” series screened from the 1960’s to the 1980’s, memorable because the female lead was always a very strong, self-assurred, and tough individual (although sometimes with an unfortunate tendency to end up in the clutches of a ruthless adversary). The first actress to play the part was Honor Blackman, appearing as Cathy Gale who went “on mission” wearing a leather cat suit! Honor Blackman was in real life a Judo black belt and wrote “Honor Blackman’s Book of Self Defence”. She came to international attention when she played “Pussy Galore” in the third James Bond Film “Goldfinger”. The last actress who played the role, Joanna Lumley, has recently forced the British Government Policy to change its policy towards the care of retired Gurkah soldiers from the British Army. Clearly, the role still attracts females who can kick ass!
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2010
All characters fictitious
No reposting without permission.
E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com
Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
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