The following is in response to the prompt/post on Lady Jabberwocky’s site:
Describe your fondest Halloween memory.
It was laziness on my part.
To avoid the unfriendly stares and elevated cover charges that I would garner at a fetish nightclub in Seattle called The Vogue, I’d started wearing PVC clothing, crushed velvet frocks and skirts, mesh tank-tops and other BDSM gear that would put me squarely into the “acceptable” attire category. Sure, some of my motivation was “touristy” in the beginning, but my main motivation for attending the club was that the music was largely gothic and industrial at the time. When I wanted to burn off the anger and frustration stemming from a recent divorce, I wanted angry, dark, angsty music and this club happened to have it. It was a bonus that it was located less than two blocks from where I lived.
When I moved back home from Seattle, I almost instantly was hired as a barista/café manager. Not only had I come from the land of espresso drinks, I had gotten barista training from some of the best in the hopes that I could generate enough investors to start my own in a place where coffee had three states: weak, artificially-flavored or rocket fuel. The “café” was a permanent espresso cart in a medical building and did a huge amount of business with the local medical staff, augmented by the patients coin. They wanted someone who could transform them away from being an average espresso cart to a destination that happened to be in a medical building, so they took me on — I was cheap, more experienced than other aspiring baristas and had a flare for the theatrical.
Halloween finally rolled around and I was told I’d be out of place without a costume. After years of gothic attire, followed by hippy looks and renaissance clothing as everyday wear, I’d moved beyond dressing up for Halloween, so I couldn’t be arsed to come up with a costume. Instead, I pulled out some old nightclubbing gear: PVC pants, biker boots, a mesh top, a dog collar with chain and a toy cat-o-nine for a prop. I used some makeup to give my exposed skin some semblance of bruises and a harrowed look to my eyes. I used eyeliner to write “SEX SLAVE” on my forehead, just to make sure everyone was clear as to what I was.
I figured it would be novelty at most, or I’d be banned by the clinic admin from dressing up in the future. Either way, I hadn’t expected the reaction I got.
One of the owners showed up in a lab coat and mad scientist getup. The other was possibly as tasteless (or more) as I was and dressed in a pilot suit, wearing an alligator head (this was right after the plane crash in the Florida Everglades). I don’t recall what others wore, but it was the usual kind of stuff you see on Halloween.
The reactions I got were expected at first. Older professionals shaking their head, rolling their eyes at my attire. “There goes Michael again [sigh].” Patients getting a good chuckle out of the fool dressed up as a sex slave. Younger administrative female personnel blushing and avoid eye contact as they ordered their mochas and lattes.
Then, one of the older nursing assistants (in her 60s) stopped by and tried to tease me about my costume, trying to break my façade as a submissive sex slave. Instead, I told her that I’d been a bad bad boy and that I needed to be punished.
I handed over the cat-o-nine and got on my knees, figuring I’d fixed her little attempts to make me blush. Instead, she playfully “whipped” me. Little did she know, one of the owners had her snapshot camera out and started snapping away pictures of me on my knees and her whipping me.
The surprising part? All the pictures later showed her enjoying whipping a little sex slave less than half her age.
For being such a good sport, we gave her a complimentary drink. Besides, we had photographic bribery material, and it only seemed fair.
While that was memorable in of itself, it didn’t stop there. Soon, other older women in her age group started dropping by for their picture with the sex slave, including a few that had rolled their eyes at me earlier. So many post-40 women stopped by, that we ran late on closing down the shop for the day.
And they all smiled gleefully as they “disciplined” me.
I don’t think I laughed so hard at myself before that event or since.
Oh — for the record… The Administration caught wind of what happened.
I was banned from dressing up ever again.