From Robin's SM-201 Website
Jump to navigation Jump to search

This article is part of the SM-201 Life's Lessons Project

This article was written about a dream I had and it is satirical ---

Here I am in Norcross, Georgia and I am just waking up.

It is about 3 o'clock in the morning, just a few days short of my 63rd birthday. I am attempting to put to paper a dream that I just awoke from.

BackDrop, as a club is jokingly referred to as being like Ethiopia. In a lot of ways, it is the beginning point for the BDSM in the San Francisco Bay Area; it is old; it isn't as populous as it once was; it is now somewhat barren compared to the "hot spots" that are about today, and no one seems to find it important to visit it except as to examine "memories past".

The dream was centered on the idea that BackDrop had moved from the Bay Area, again seeking fertile ground for a rebirth. Somehow, I ended up in the town of Norcross, GA. I have nothing against Norcross, nor am I sure how the city was chosen. In the 1970s, I remember traveling to Norcross to attend a computer school, and I remember how absolutely barren the city was in terms of anything kinky. I was forced to drive from Norcross to Atlanta to find the only two adult bookstores I believe we're in the state of Georgia. They may have been more, but I only had two weeks to look. There were no BDSM clubs, organizations, nothing. There were a lot of "tittie bars" and the like, but nothing that piqued my kinky brain: nothing that even moved my "Open-ended, Logarithmic Kink Meter" (OLKM) either way from its center point either way even one iota. (An OLKM is very similar in concept to the Richter scale, but it measures things that move me but not the Earth beneath me. There once was a lady from New Jersey that got an eight on the OLKM. I still have mementos of her around the house and the club building, but that is definitely another story and I digress...)

I had opened BackDrop in a warehouse (typical) and we were having a Sunday afternoon open house in an attempt to build membership (again typical). There wasn't too much party happening, but we had a group of about fifteen or twenty people there. About half of them had been to BackDrop, California and each had brought a friend, girlfriend, or spouse. We were all sitting around "The Clubhouse©", reminiscing about days long since past. Several people had expressed concerns about the clubs' long history, and the fact that it had moved so many times. I had explained that the club was love and avocation, not a vocation. It is a calling, into which I have offered up over forty years of my life, countless dollars, and several marriages.

Everyone was, "kinda’ glad I was in town", but a little hesitant about paying the exorbitant ten dollars per year dues since we were new in town. I offered up a deal, by which they could pay five dollars for the year, but, even so, got very few takers. Yes, everyone was impressed by the library. Yes, they were impressed by the fact that we were the only game in town. They then reminded me that the city had changed. There were now gay, lesbian, and TV/TG groups. Hell, there was even one group that professed a religion of Matriarchy, in which anyone who sinned could find penitence by having the High Priestess listen to confession, then scourging the person until they promised to go, and sin no more.

The party just, more or less, withered like a peach in the hot August, Georgia sun. I placed a sign on the front door to let people know we had migrated to the bar next door, where there were "Girls, Live Girls, Girls Who Will Undress & Excite You", as the signage on the door proclaimed. I sat at the bar drinking beer (strange since I don't drink beer: I graduated from beer when I left the Navy in the mid-'60s, and I no longer drink alcohol because I am diabetic. I was on my fifth or sixth beer. We were still talking about ‘days long past” and how this person, or another, had had their first experiences at BackDrop.

As the sun began to find its final, evening resting place, I had remembered that I had not locked the front door. I entered the back of the club space and found to my surprise three couples who were milling around, exploring the space. I asked them if they were her for the party, and they all agreed they were, "Here for THE Party." Each of the men produces something akin to a children’s baseball bat but made of aluminum. They all seemed to delight in beating me, explaining how I was a devil worshiper, an idolater, a person who had sex with animals, a pedophile, and (worse yet) a "Yankee Scoundrel". That is when I got angry and tried to convince them that they were wrong, I have had sex with a lot of young ladies, but all were over the age of consent; and while I am interested in Pony-girls, I have never had sex with a four-legged animal. True, there was that young lady I met in Japan while stationed there in the Navy, and she was a REAL animal, but again not the four-legged variety. I tried to explain the even though I had lived all over the world, I was born in Virginia and therefore had Southern blood in my veins.

I tried to convince them that the person we were looking for was in the back office, and I would take them there and provide them with a formal introduction to scoundrels who deserved all of their anger. They followed me through the labyrinthine hallways that connected the library, offices, bathrooms, and private play spaces. While continuing to beat my back and legs with the mini-bats, I opened the back door of the warehouse and stumbled into the half-darkness of the evening. The air was cooler here and the music from the bar filled the street. I found the strength to dive into the open space yelling for help. Almost everyone at the bar came to my rescue, and once I was proclaimed to be "an all right person of true Southern Heritage@ the baseball bat people left the scene. I was helped back to the bar for another (?) beer and a few bandages.

When I asked about calling "The Police", I was informed that he had just left, and did I really want him to return to take/give another report? I was being "smothered" by a pair of sissy boys, all dressed in red and white gingham outfits, trying to wipe the blood from my face and putting wet towels on my back to staunch the blood and pain. I am not sure if the were trying to help, or just make a pass at me. I politely, of course, thanked them for their help and support. I told them I wished to retire to my home and my bed, and half walked, half stumbled from the bar. A couple saw me leaving the bar and basically said. "The police should come around and clean up that kind of place. It is giving our pretty city a bad reputation."

I continued my journey, in pain, to my home. I looked up at a two story, brick building that claimed to have meetings twice a month for people who were gay or lesbian. The building had been firebombed some time ago, and the corner of their sign had been charred.

I recall the poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost:

 "Whose woods these are I think I know.
 His house is in the village, though;
 He will not see me stopping here
 To watch his woods fill up with snow.
 "My little horse must think it queer
 To stop without a farmhouse near
 Between the woods and frozen lake
 The darkest evening of the year.

 "He gives his harness bells a shake
 To ask if there is some mistake.
 The only other sound's the sweep
  Of easy wind and downy flake.

 "The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
 But I have promises to keep,
 And miles to go before I sleep,
 And miles to go before I sleep."


Jump to: Main PageHistoryIconsLibraryLife LessonsLinksMicropediaMacropediaTime Line
What links hereReferences and SourcesContact InfoHelp