I'd like to introduce one of my favorite people in the whole wide world - my baby sister, Cait. I'm the oldest of five and she's the youngest and we've got three brothers in between. Anyway, Cait is not only the most freaking amazing sister I could have possibly asked for, she's also Flypaper For Freaks...just like me.
She had this encounter a few years ago before she left for college and I've been begging her to write it down, so you could all see that it's not just me. It really does run in the family.
So please welcome Cait~
My sister has a way of making me do things. Maybe it’s the Catholic guilt we’ve both maintained, or the fact that she is so completely awesome that I can deny her nothing. Either way, I’m doing her bidding.
When I was a teenager, I used to hang around this dingy little coffee shop in the downtown area. And I mean the bad part of downtown. People only ventured this way if they needed a fix of some kind. Gritty sidewalks filled with grittier people, the occasional needle lying on the curb, “emo” and “scene” kids loitering about wearing their skinny jeans and their hair covering what I assumed to be dark painted eyes. Morningstar 76 seemed a magical place where dreams come true.
Oh nay, nay, friends.
I was there one night, seated in a chair that I’m sure hadn’t seen a good day since the 1970s, reading a novel, and chain smoking. Looking back, I know blame this entire event on my pack of Basics.
She was blonde and had black, thick-framed glasses shielding her blue eyes. Pretty girl. Pretty crazy girl.
Her: What are you doing?
Me: (already irritated) Reading.
Her: No, your cigarettes. Basics are terrible. They’re just the tobacco and sawdust swept from the factory floor. You need a real cigarette.
She handed me a Camel Light and pulled out her lighter. I thanked her and went back to my book. Mistake number two. The first had been acknowledging her at all.
Her: Good book? I like to read, too. My boyfriend has a great collection.
Me: Very cool.
Her: Yeah, he is. He’s so open and expressive. I’m really lucky.
Me: Sounds like. (page turn) Congratulations.
Her: Yeah. We’re really good together. Super compatible, you know?
Her: Even in bed. I know it’s not the most important thing, you know? But it does matter, right?
Me: Indeed. (I stubbed out the gifted cigarette and returned to my book.)
Her: He’s really submissive. You wouldn’t expect it from him. See? (She pulls out a photo of said boyfriend.)
I kid you not, this dude looked exactly like Spike from Buffy. No, really. He did. Promise. Hell, pinky swear. He just doesn’t look like the type, know what I’m saying?
Me: No. No, he doesn’t.
And you don’t look the dominatrix type, but I’m sure in your world of vanilla kink you’re a regular Mistress of Pain.
Her: He likes the whip the best. And when I ride him like a pony.
Me: (I whipped my head to face her. This woman had my complete and horrified attention.)
Her: I really like it, too, but the outfits are my favorite. Especially when I dress up to use the good whip.
Me: …Good whip?
For those of you playing the home version, this was mistake number three.
Her: Yeah. It’s a cat ‘o nine. But improved, you know? We bought little round glass beads and tied them to the ends so that he gets that extra sting. His scars are really sexy.
Me: … I bet.
Her: Totally. He asks for it, know what I’m saying?
No, frankly, I haven’t a clue.
Me: Yeah... sure.
Her: I like the knife best.
Me: Right… of course.
Her: Oh! (Excited Sadist Time!) Last night was the coolest thing ever – he asked me to carve my name into his skin. It was pretty intense.
Me: Did he? And… you did..?
By this time, I forgot I even had a book. Hell, I had forgotten where I was.
Her: Of course. He’s been such a good pony lately.
As if this explained it all.
Me: Uh huh.
Her: It bled a lot.
Me: Well, that can happen. It’s the downside of carving into someone’s flesh.
Her: But it healed rather nicely. Wanna see?
Her: (Whips out two Polaroid pictures of a carved up penis and lays them on the table.)
Me: I couldn’t look away. Could. Not. Look. Away.
By the by…her name is Wendy.
Her: Anyway, now he has my name on his dick for the rest of his life. (Nodding.) He’s like my property. …. So what are you reading?
Apparently, being flypaper for freaks is a family trait. Yesterday, my ex theatre prof approached me with his hand shoved deep into his pocket and asked me if “rashes are supposed to be bumpy”.
Wish I were kidding.
I'm not sure how one segues from penis pictures to what are you reading, but apparently Wendy was a special kinda crazy. Sadly, Morningstar 76 is no more, and luckily Cait's found better, Wendy-free hangouts.