The Marquise

In the months since I've brought back a gargoyle from Eastern Europe and have discovered that the little green buggerer makes REALLY nice ropes, I've been thrown head over scrotum into a world of chains, whips and Romanian hemp. AND, as you've no doubt ascertained from my previous posts, I'm just a little uncomfortable with the idea that male-female intimacy can be anything other than what I had learned from a fifth grade educational video involving avian/apian interactions.

...now, I've realised that I'm in up to my neck in BAAAAAAD things.

A very nice, stunningly-endowed woman had approached me a couple weeks ago to sell our ropes in her boutique. It is located in Montréal's Gay Village, a place most normal, God-fearing people avoid as though their immortal souls were on the line (because they are). A place where men (and vile, libidinous women) openly fornicate on the streets in manners which defy any Earthly description. Or so say those around me who have had the audacity to stroll east of Beaudry street.

Now, I must willingly go there to deliver our wares.

The Marquise, as I have christened her (what a poor choice of words. I'll have to do a few Hail Marys for that one), welcomed me into her bastion of degradation. Though superficially a well-lit, pretty space, the contents of her shop caused me to become a red-eared mute. Latex and leather were combined with steel implements (which I can scarcely begin to imagine how they are to be adorned/inserted upon/into the human body).

Madame La Marquise welcomed me warmly. She introduced me to her intimidatingly smart boyfriend (within three minutes, I understood that this guy had studied in the finest yet most secretive institutes of old-European science). We discussed the terms of our business arrangement and she inundated me with questions of what my life was like since I adopted my companion. I tried to hide my nausea, induced by the items of debauchery which surrounded me, and answered as gregariously as I possibly could.

She assumed I was "in the lifestyle" and made small talk about leather care. She then made a remark which has unfortunately remain engrained upon my now-fragile psyche:

"You know, there are SOOOO many people who take themselves seriously in The Community. How can we be uppity when we have fun by stuffing things up our..."

...and that's when I started retching.

She took immediate pity upon me and sent her significant other to fetch a wet towel to steady me, assuming I had recently underwent a particularly demanding session with a wench of dubious morals. This, apparently, is the kind of secondary effects that occur when one's Mistress doesn't take a particular interest in "after-care".

My desperate mind then had the inspiration of a lifetime: I tossed the recycled shopping bag (hey, even capitalists can be conscious of one's environmental impact) full of premium hemp ropes behind the counter and I bowed to her massive, shiny, rubber-clad bosoms, praying her a good evening but that my Goddess had demanded my presence within the following fifteen minutes, with a night in the stocks as my punishment were I to derogate from my orders.

...she bought it.

The moral (another bad phrasing) to the story is: adopting a gargoyle leads you to bad places. Stay away from really big boobies, no matter how enticing the rewards.

This lesson will follow me forever.