SOMEWHERE NEAR EDEN

[This story was originally posted in the now defunct "New True-Life Stories" section. It was sent to me by an old bondage-addict friend who told me he posted it on a newsgroup site in 2003.]

He wrote: “I received a number of queries recently about the attached post, which I call a monologue, with accompanying action. Don't know why—perhaps some lunatic is thinking of filming "Exit to Eden II" and wants to be sure the rights are clear — in which case, they should ask Ms. Rice.

“So, for the record, I have no additional information on a plan for a bdsm 'resort' in Cuba 20 years ago. The conversation in the story is essentially accurate as to style, substance, and venue, albeit written to fit the kabukiesque parameters of newsgroup erotic storytelling."

Setting: Chelsea Hotel, Manhattan circa 1992. A suite on an upper floor.
Characters: One trim grey-haired, grey-eyed gentleman, late middle age. One younger man, early 30s, bound artistically yet very securely on the bed.

Intro: "This is a rough transcript of a conversation/scene that I have often wanted to submit to the net. I recently learned that the speaker is no longer with us, and I imagine (although I did not know him well) that he would not mind. I make no observations about the truth of his remarks. Mindfucks were his specialty."

So, I see you've been reading Exit to Eden. You know, she wrote a number of other books? You know them? Good.

Just nod. That gag is gratifyingly effective. Perfect for hotel living.

Yes, the "Sleeping Beauty" series. Delightful. I had three-volume sets delivered to my niece and to my nephews when they started school. A small gesture, but I hope that it will inspire them to make the most of their college experience. Or at least keep them company on lonely nights, not that I think they'll have many, the young sex-puppies. Hopefully my genetic predispositions will show up in that generation. And perhaps they will guess who sent them and know how to reach me when curiosity gets the better of them. Welcome to Wicked Uncle Ernie's Holiday Camp.

The nephews and niece could learn from you. Or on you. Oh, don't give me that – you'd be in heaven. They're blond, svelte creatures, a bit feral but very sexy. I particularly desire the boys' asses. They just beg to be cropped. And fucked. Hmm? Oh, they would most likely be subs, to start. The young often tend that way, as you do. As I did. Long before we met, young jedi.

You're wriggling most seductively. Here, let us fasten your collar to the bedpost. Be still. Be good. I will talk, you listen, and then – and then I will whip every inch of you before you please me, this time with the ring gag. Anticipate. Learn. Suffer.

Exit to Eden. Not a good book, you know. Perhaps she lost a bet with Steven King about who could type the quickest hundred pages for distribution at airport gift shops. But I know it well.

Elliott.Slater. Male protagonist of the novel Exit to Eden. Poster boy for bondage. The lonely lady reader's beau ideal of the submissive male. James Bond in Bondage. Except that he's real. He's me.

Yes, I am Elliott Slater. At least, I will say that I am until some other Berkeley native, bookstore owning bondage aficionado with time in Beirut steps forward to claim the connection. And there's the Club. Nobody knew about that. Of course, I'm neither tall, blonde, young nor particularly submissive – but let's allow some poetic license.

Anne Rice is real, too. I don't know her, never met her.

The girl? No idea. I'm hardly an expert on women, but I didn't find her very convincing.  A theme of the book is that she doesn't recognize love when she sees it because her kinky nature blinds her to it. That's backwards. People like us understand the difference between love and lust better than most.

The Club? An erotic Club Med, stocked with chorus boys and aspiring actresses with two year contracts?  Funded by Larry Flynt or Hugh Hefner? Located adjacent to Dr. No's headquarters?  Protected from prying eyes by a friendly government? Swimming pools, movie stars, whipping posts?

Well, the amusing thing is that there was a Club. It didn't last long, and it wasn't on the scale…hey there, let me give you a few strokes on the thighs to wake you up. Uh-huh. It takes a boy to hurt a boy. Let me change the clamps for you, left for right, right for left. Of course, I should whip the nipples first to get the blood flowing again. I always found that to be most entertaining when I was in your position. No thrashing about, now. There. Better? Good.

It was in the early 80s. Some folks here in the city thought that there was money to be made running a sort of B&D B&B. I think there are such places tucked away in New England today, but this was more like a never-ending play party on the beach, and on a larger scale. The idea was that the S&M Resort would be very discreet, very pricey, and staffed by subs who would be high-class call girls and boys in addition to working the place - for very little money, I might add.

I was known to be in the so-called ‘scene' by one of these people, and they asked very nicely if I would be willing to negotiate the deal for the discreet location since I knew Spanish and had a background in…well, let us say diplomacy. The location was a challenge, you see – it was an old resort on an island on the south coast of Cuba that was going to seed. The idea was that the Cubans would stop renting it to a few pasty Germans, lease it to the New Yorkers for some good hard currency, and provide security and privacy for the guests.

You'd like to go there, blue eyes?

Sorry. I didn't know all the details. The main advantage of this little Cuban island was that it was very cheap compared to something similar in the Bahamas. To make a long story short, kiddo, they made it happen. They got the lease, sent some dollars to some henchmen of Castro's in great and indeed laughable secrecy, hired some lovely guys and gals in a casting call party down at a loft (that was the most fun we had — well, aside from shopping for equipment) and shipped a couple of dozen folks down there to spruce the place up for what turned out to be more like Habitat for Humanity than a wild frolic, and then they found that the market for paying customers to The Club was practically zero.

Zero. Like the opening of this ring gag. I think that I will finish this story with my cock inserted into this ring gag that you shall now wear. Stay still and let me put this on you… there. And now…let me slide myself in… there. Oh, very nice. I can stay like this all night. Unless you get busy, youngster.

So, the Club was not a success. Suck. Yes. But I suppose an echo of it made it to the book, as an echo of me became Elliott Slater.

I read that they're going to make a Hollywood movie of Exit to Eden. I'm sure it will be just grand. Maybe they can cast you — in a non-speaking role, if you know what I mean and I think you do. And right now, I must say that you look just like a chap who knows what it takes to make it in Hollywood.

Comments

[Adric Gerard]

Yes, written and posted by me - the younger man.

The older man was not Bob, although Bob does bear a passing resemblance to actor Hector Elizondo - "Martin Halifax" (aka the wise old pervert) in the doubleplus ungood 'Exit to Eden' film.

- Adric