DATURA by Leena Krohn

Author:Leena Krohn
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Cheeky Frawg
Published: 2013-09-24T04:00:00+00:00

Kinky Night

“Here’s your ticket,” the Marquis said one day and shoved a piece of paper at me.

“A ticket for what?” I asked and took a closer look at the paper. It was a ticket to the Kinky Club’s Industrial Fairy Tale with Fetish Science Fiction.

“I want a short article on the city’s kinky scene,” he said.

“You go then,” I said. “I don’t feel like it.”

The Marquis had suggested at many editorial meetings that The New Anomalist should start a column for deviant sex, or at least that we should publish something on the subject every now and then. “We have to expand our readership,” he insisted. “When something stops growing, it withers away,” he would say. I was of the opinion that branching out in that direction would actually drive away part of our readership.

The Marquis didn’t listen, of course. And so I found myself at my first and last kinky night, watching a cabaret titled Glam HC Sex Industrial. To be completely honest, maybe I was a little curious about what was in store.

The young audience was dressed in black costumes decorated with shining metal. The only colors in sight were their red, blue, and green hairdos.

On stage, a man—I’m sorry, in this context the correct word is slave—was sucking the toes of a tattooed woman. It went on and on. The woman gyrated and made small, supposedly erotic noises as the man slurped on each toe in turn. I got extremely bored, and I thought that the slave and his mistress must also be eager for the performance to end. I was sorry I hadn’t brought the Voynich manuscript or my knitting with me.

Once the toe-sucking had been completed, the woman urinated on her slave. He drank it. This elicited resounding applause from the audience and recaptured my attention.

Had I had my knitting with me, I might have felt like one of the la tricoteuse, the women who would sit by the guillotine knitting during the French revolution. I remember reading that in the Nazi concentration camps, the most sadistic guards served the same drink as one of their fiendish methods of torture. And now people were paying to watch it being gulped down on stage and applauded.

I was already very uncomfortable when a woman in a white thong walked on stage artfully twirling a shining knife. She had a slave, too, this one a girl. The woman cut a heart into the skin between the slave girl’s naked breasts. Blood trickled, and the “torture” continued with more cuts to the stomach and buttocks.

More people came on stage dressed in spiked collars like badly behaved dogs and Loogaroo. Disgusted, I watched as they pierced each others’ nipples and genitals to their hearts’ content. Spiked clubs and other equally inappropriate objects were attached to sensitive places, but the climax was yet to come. The audience really came alive when one of the men set himself on fire. As the flames rose, I heard cries and squeals from the audience, not of horror, but of pleasure.

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