5. Taking-the-Boss-to-an-SM-Club
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Martin, the boss-of-business-development was over in Amsterdam for a supply-chain-conference, and I, as the local resident consultant, was paired-up with him to help provide the best levels of support possible. In this case that meant organizing things; picking him up from Schipol and delivering him to his hotel, making sure as a speaker he was familiar with the room there where the next-day’s session was going to be held, that sort of thing; nothing too onerous.
The hotel was centrally located in the old centre of Amsterdam. It had all the facilities expected of a top hotel, and of course had conference rooms. Martin’s flight had been a little late, so after he checked-in I asked him what he wanted to do that evening, and he replied “I’ll have a quick dinner here, then perhaps you can show me around the neighbourhood; that would be nice”. I agreed, and arranged to pick-him-up at 8.00 pm at reception, accompanied with Marvella, my life partner. We would show him those interesting little places not on the tourist map.
We picked-him-up from the hotel which was in the red-light-district (or the “entertainment-area” as the tram Tannoy used to euphemistically call it), so it was only a few meters along the old canals until we arrived at the Excalibur Cafe. For those unlucky enough not to be familiar with this establishment it is not so much a Parisienne-café-de-artistes but more of a metal-bar, which on those days in the late 1990’s was still playing impossibly loud tracks from the big-four of Seattle grunge. Soundgarden were my favourites, but Pearl-Jam, Alice-in-Chains, and of course Nirvana were worthy stand-ins. Leading the way for Europe came Sweden’s greatest; “Roxette”, of-course.
On the walls were pictures of their regulars, including Big Willem and the boys-and-girls from the local Hells-Angel’s chapter. They only tended to drop by at the weekend. It was a relaxing, sociable place where even my maternal-grandmother might feel at-home. Actually, that’s a lie; she was church-of-England primary school head-teacher and would have been horrified that such places even existed. We liked it though; each-to-their-own!
It had been a few months since we had seen Martin as I had recently transferred to the Dutch office. We caught-up on people-and-events, but it wasn’t quite right; time to move-on, but where could we go? It was too early for the ecstasy-fuelled dance-clubs, we weren’t in the mood for coffee-shops, the male-gay-bars were a hoot (e.g. drag-acts etc.), the few lesbian bars were more an “acquired-taste” (e.g. listening to the sad songs of Patsy-Cline alongside the girls in pink cowboy-hats, though using theory-of-mind I do “get-it”), but both were best experienced by gay boys-and-girls, which none of us were. As for the brown-bars, well they were best reserved for aging locals and tourists. At this point Marvella chipped-in; “why don’t we go to DSM4, it’s an S&M club just around the corner; very female friendly!”. (FYI and cred-worthiness Brits say S&M, for the Dutch its pure SM). Anyway, who could possibly say no to this suggestion, and Martin certainly didn’t. So off we went into the bright Autumn sunlight.
We walked a few meters along the canal then turned left up a dark side street, too narrow for cars, which linked it to the Warmoesstraat, one of the oldest streets in Amsterdam. Half-way-up there was a doorway on the right, with a small neon sign with just the four “welcoming” fluorescent red letters of “DSM4”. There were steps down to the doorway which was open, and beyond only blackness. You really had to know this place existed and was not somewhere anyone would just wander into.
It always took a few seconds for one’s eyes to become accustomed to the low-light levels inside DSM4. The bar at the back was the first object to emerge in darkness of this small space. It was facing the entrance, and behind it on shelves on the wall were drinks lit with a dim red lighting. There were just a few spirits, two bottles of wine, both open, a selection of bottled beers, and still and sparkling water. The sound-system was quietly playing a track from “Underworld”, electronic-dance-music being the signature music of the establishment.
To the left against the wall was a long, low, black-leather-sofa with matching pouffes and micro-coffee-tables. To the right was a caged-area adjacent to a small stage with some adjacent steps which led downwards to a lower space, the “SM dungeon” FYI “SM studio” is what us insiders more commonly refer to them as it sounds far “cooler”, and they’re not always in the basement! In the middle of the space were a few bean-bags surrounding a large coffee-table on which lay ashtrays, various glossy up-market photo-magazines such as the FT (Fetish-Times), Secret-Magazine and Skin-Two, and fetish-ephemera (e.g. flyers for parties, bespoke BDSM-clothing, and predominantly female “service-providers”, etc.), all illuminated by six flickering red-table-candles.
On the black walls were large framed and glassed kink-photographs, interspersed with the occasional shelf of pervy books and magazines. Everything was in black or red, the signature colours of SM and the fetish sub-culture to which Marvella and I belonged, in the same way as pink is for the gay community. Incidentally, black and red are also the colours of the anarchist movement, which somehow feels appropriate.
What should be understood is that DSM4 was not really an SM club as such, and in reality, it wasn’t even a proper licensed bar. Merely entering it felt like membership had been bestowed on you. Unlike genuine and typically ultra-exclusive clubs such as “The Crypt” there were no rules, no charge, no membership waiting lists, no committee, no nothing. In today’s jargon it might be described as a “pop-up” venue. The alcohol, drinks and sundries were all bought-in from the local Albert Heijn and sold-on at a huge markup. It paid no taxes, and there were certainly no “health-and-safety” inspections (the Dutch aren’t big on that sort of thing anyway!). Once I let-out one of those mega-stupid quotes to a colleague you instantly regret, “that SM dungeons can be quite dangerous places!”, to which he replied “Andrew, I could never have guessed!”. I meant banging-your-head or slipping-over or something similar, but the “damage” had been done.
At that point the hidden-door behind the bar opened and Johanna and Gerry appeared. At that time, they were still an “item” and had set-up DSM4 together, he focusing on the running of it and her on the styling (SM can be ultra “fashionista”). He was a 30s-something escaping the day-to-day dreariness of the UK, she was a young 20s-something, native Dutch from the countryside, and was just visually amazing.
In a sense, all of us who were on “The-Scene” (that’s what we called being an active member of our sub-culture) were refugees, escaping previous lives from across Europe and beyond, and finding our places in that big, welcoming sin-city called Amsterdam. At that time “the-scene” was centred in the city, but folk-lore said it had started in Hollywood in the late-40’s. Everyone referred to it as “the-scene”, not the “SM-scene” or the “fetish-scene” or even the “kinky-scene”, but just “the-scene”. Nothing is forever, and “The-Scene” began migrating towards Berlin in the early-00’s, which reminded me of the advice my maternal grandmother gave me, a fine example of wisdom being cascading-down the generations: “beware of German SM” (she was far-ahead of her time).
Gerry wore a skin-tight-sweat-shirt and leather-trousers, but she always wore a full-length, tight rubber-dress which forced her to take little, shuffling steps, even when out shopping (we often came across her in the red-area with her supermarket bags!). He was small, less than 165 cm, but she being Dutch was a magnificent 180 cm or more, and that was before you factored-in the Amy Winehouse style sky-scraping hair-do with the black curls tumbling half-way down her back which framed her Goth make-up, finished-off by the lace-up fetish platform-boots she precariously balanced-on. We never did see her tumble-over, but it must have been a close-run thing!
Johanna tottered forward through the bar-flap to welcome us. She turned to Martin-the-boss and said with a slight Dutch accent “welcome to DSM4, first time here? Let me show you around before Gerry gets your drinks, white-wine, red-wine and another red-wine?”. Martin nodded as there was no choice in the matter; this was her fate-accompli technique which she had used on Marvella and all that time ago, the difference being we were kinky, but Martin wasn’t. Her direct approach eradicated any embarrassment and allowed her to take charge. There was no opportunity to “make-your-excuses-and-leave”; you were committed!
First, she discussed the pictures on the wall, where each one was taken, who took them, who was in them, etc. Then she showed-off the small stage, and recounted the specialist-acts that performed there. Then it was the turn of the cage which she was particularly proud of. It took a whole day to install and was made out of spot-welded dywidag (pronounced dividag), or rebar as it’s also known. I chipped-in with some crass insights from my time in construction. Then came her big-ask: “do you want to see my dungeon?”. Now who could decline such an invitation, and Martin certainly didn’t.
Johanna led the way down the steep steps in her platform-boots, followed by Martin, then me and Marvella. On the way down my mind jumped to one of those mount-Everest documentaries where the sherpas have to traverse the Khumbu the ice-fall, climbing up-and-down treacherous ladders. It was quite-a-lot like that. Johanna reached safety, followed by the rest of us, and our little expedition re-assembled and was ready to explore.
It was darkly lit by more red-candles strategically placed around the small space. The sound-system here was playing a track from “Enigma”, the de-rigour music of-the-time, which was used ubiquitously across “The-Scene” as a backing-track to all studio/dungeon activities. Johanna shuffled forward towards the big-five pieces of “kit” that any self-respecting SM establishment would possess.
First to our left was the St. Andrew’s-Cross, essential for taking your subby for a spin. She explained that it was locally sourced from a woodworking-cooperative who used only the finest sustainable hardwoods. It was solidly built, safely-and-securely attached to the wall, and alongside the tawse and kilts, and it generated a certain sense of pervy-patriotic Scottish pride (let’s not even mention the unforgettable sight of contestants competitively tossing-their-cabers in front of large crowds and the late-queen at the highland games). She also proudly mentioned the restraints, being Velcro strips rather than leather-straps with buckles: “far safer, quicker to use, and just as secure; all our SM furniture uses them”.
Then she moved to the Catherine-Wheel opposite, the second piece-of-kit from the cooperative. I’ve always had my health-and-safety doubts about these, and although seeing your “sub” being spun-around is an erotic must-for-many, I have horrible visions of the wheel-and-sub detaching and careering-off. Like that TV game-show she then spun-the-wheel while commentating on how balanced it was.
Then it was the turn of the stocks set against the far wall, the third piece-of-kit from the cooperative. She explained how comfortable they were and could be used for extended periods while providing a safe restraint for the whipping-and-flogging of slaves. She bent down to the floor to show the feet restraints as “you don’t want any uncontrolled kicking during a scene”, a sentiment she was sure that we all could agree on. She then added “it also provides “easy-access” to both male and female slaves.
Then it was the Singapore-Sling in the middle of the space suspended from the ceiling by bolts, which being mostly leatherwork, did not come from the woodworking-cooperative, but instead from “Leather-Ladies”, a supplier of all things-leather to “The-Scene”. She added that she always tried to use local manufacturers and services from the wide-ranging cottage-industry that supported our community.
At that point a young couple who I didn’t know, came down the steps dressed in immaculate fetish gear and moved towards the sling. There were a few words in Dutch between them and Johanna, who then said “and now let’s see it being used”. The young man carried a wide Velcro strip with a pair of handles attached, which he proceeded to wrap-around the mid-drift of his young lady partner. She then sat on the edge of the sling before reclining backwards which revealed the rings in her tiny pierced nipples which showed above her crotchless leather-waspie.
Johanna tottered to the back of the sling and Velcroed the young ladies’ wrists to the back two chains, and her boyfriend did the same to her ankles to the front two chains. Johanna grabbed a tube-of-lube from a shelf and liberally applied it to the young ladies’ breasts with a confidence that they knew each-other very well, before handing it over to the young lad who then did the same to her front-and-back openings. Johanna’s final contribution was to throw the a single-condom pack to the lad who unwrapped it, put-it-on with quite some ease, before “initial-docking” with her “bonus-hole”, or “front-hatch”, to use a spacefaring euphemism. He then grasped the handles he had attached to her, and started to rhythmically “pump” every three seconds or so in time with the natural swinging frequency of the sling.
Although Martin-the-boss was not at all kinky, the above sight had obviously made a rousing impression on him. As Martin followed Johann to the last piece-of-kit, a whipping-bench, I could see him keep looking back to the sling; just checking things were progressing smoothly I suppose. The whipping-bench was the woodworker’s “piece-de-resistance” as Johanna enthusiastically talked-in-detail about its multi-role usage while Martin continued to sneak glances at the young couple. Then it was back-up the steep steps, but at least here there were just one set of them. Once Marvella and I had visited an SM studio above a sex-shop in Utrecht-Straat that straddled five floors, with ladders between each one. Needless-to-say it was our only visit there.
Back above-ground Johanna returned behind the bar and we sat down next to our drinks that had been placed on the coffee-table, and began to talk-shop. It was almost as if the last ten minutes hadn’t happened; instead, it was about the conference, supply-chain, that sort-of-thing. The wine was awful, as usual, so I pulled-out some hash I had and ate a little (I don’t smoke). Marvella joined in, and to my surprise so did Martin-the-boss. With 20-20 hindsight was not such a good idea as he had not been exposed the industrial-scale usage of the “herb” that Marvella and I had become accustomed to.
The evening progressed; cheap-wine, hash, talk and repeat. The place began to fill, and after about an hour Maxine came in with her “slavin“ (slave-girl in English), and a lady-on-a-leash. In the early days Marvella and I weren’t sure of this “dynamic” until it was whispered to us; the lady-on-a-leash would be one of her clients. Miss-Maxine was a professional “domme”, a superstar of “The-Scene”, who occasionally liked to humiliate her lady customers in public. As a professional dominatrix she liked to look-the-part with perfectly coiffured shoulder-length straight-black-hair matched by a knee-length lace-up leather dress, but she always wore incongruous black-trainers rather than boots when working as they were “necessary to stop slipping when whipping people”. In contrast her slave-girl, who had a boyish short haircut wore, a short, white mini-dress with matching-coloured tights and shoes; very “virginal”.
We had gotten to know Maxine quite well, so much so that she had invited us around to her studio. It was very up-market, very feminine, and Marvella’s and my gay-detectors instantly “tripped”, especially after seeing the small collection of Barbie dolls on one of her fully-stocked shelves. She, like most on “The-Scene”, would emphasise her position on the domme/sub axis rather than over the straight/gay one. Being exclusively gay would be like a professional footballer only having a right-foot; instead, she advertised and targeted her services in “corrective-therapy” at “discerning-couples” and “discreet-ladies”; at least that is what it said on her business-card. Remember this was the 1990’s when we all still had business-cards!
The client, who was wearing a business suit, was taken to the stage and totally undressed by the slave-girl-helper, except for her red, short, stilettoed shoes, all under the instructions from Maxine. The helper then unhooked a short metal-bar with leather cuffs attached to a rope and pulley, which was hung behind the stage. She then attached each of client’s wrists to the cuffs, and pulled-down on the rope which in-turn pulled-up the metal-bar until the client was forced to stand on tiptoe. Two ankle straps were attached from the sides of the platform which kept her legs slightly apart and facing the front. Then the corrective-therapy resumed.
Maxine pulled a multi-tasselled whip from the carpet-bag she used as a giant-handbag, and began to whip her client across her breasts. The whip was more for show than for effectiveness and left no marks. Every few strokes Maxine would come up close to the client and stare into her eyes which helped her to judge whether the therapy dosage needed to be increased in intensity. It clearly was needed as Maxine pulled a second whip from the carpet-bag, but this one was short with no tassels. She then flicked the whip upwards between the client-lady’s legs who then let-out a gasp of pain-and-surprise as her limits were being explored. She then attached a red ball-gag to her client and continued the therapy.
This is how it works in the domme/sub dynamic (FYI domme is female, dom male). The Irish comedian Dave Allen used to tell a joke about a sadist who would tie-up a masochist, then refuse to whip them. What actually happens is “CNC” (consensual-non-consent). The domme discovers the limits of the sub and pushes beyond them, which generates an extreme thrill for them both. Over time this leads to total control, as had happened with Maxine’s slave-girl.
After a few more strokes Maxine judged the therapy completed for the evening, and now it was all cuddles, kisses and recuperation and the client ready to rejoin her loving husband and 2.3 children without any marks or injuries. Job done! Maxine then joined us leaving her client still tied-up on the stage with the slave-girl kneeling by her client’s side. Johanna waved at us, and a minute later brought-over Maxine’s beverage-of-choice, “a pot-of-tea” as she did not drink alcohol! Then the three of us talked about the usual mundane stuff of life; shopping, the weather, and work. We all agreed that we still enjoyed our working lives despite the ups-and-downs, even though what we did was quite different.
It was getting late by now and it was time to leave and get the somewhat “unsteady” Martin back to his hotel. This went well and as he went to the lift, we arranged to have breakfast together at 8.30 pm to help plan his talk for the conference. As Marvella and I walked back to our flat I thought it had been a good, fun evening, everything was on-track for the morning, and what could possibly go wrong now?
In the morning, I was feeling “rough”, caused by the mix of two competing hangovers, alcohol (feel-shitty) and hash (feel-spaced). I got to the hotel’s breakfast area dead-on-time but couldn’t see Martin. I decided to order my slimmed-down breakfast and wait for Martin to join. After thirty minutes Martin had still not appeared. After forty-five minutes and the conference speech time rapidly approaching, I realized I had to act to avoid my worst nightmare; I would be blamed for “poisoning” sweet, innocent Martin, and my consulting days would be over. I tracked-back to reception, “blagged” Martin’s room number out of them, went up in the lift, and found his room.
I knocked on the door and waited; no reply. I knocked louder, but still no reply. Finally, I knocked louder still and shouted as boldly as I dare “are you OK?”. There was a pause, then the reply came; a low, pitiful “aaaagh…”. He was alive and communicating! I then expressed the urgency for him to get-up, to which in a feeble voice he replied “but my legs won’t work!”. This threw me somewhat, “what do you mean your legs won’t work?”, to which he responded “they just won’t work!”. I thought for a moment; there was still time to walk him around the block and freshen him up, and passed-on my plan, to which he replied “but I can’t get up, my legs won’t work”!”. I didn’t know what to do so just shouted, “your on in forty-five minutes!” and went back-down hoping for a miracle.
I located the conference room and sat down at the back. The talks had just started; usual stuff about b2b, the impact of the internet, cooperative supply-chains, that sort of thing. Martin’s slot approached and alleluia, there he was. With all the skills learnt from a life-time in business-development, and super-charged by the hash-hangover, he started his pitch. It was rubbish, it always was, but said with such style and conviction that people didn’t notice. His hash hangover only fuelled his excesses; “the future would bring funky new features”, “real-time alignment of metrics driving quantifiable change”, “integrated-logistics paradigms”, “device independence” and all “encapsulated in leading-edge software applets supporting portal-led applications”.
It was Martin on steroids and was total gibberish, a triumph of style-over-substance, but the audience loved it. He’d gotten away with it and I had seen a true guru at work. The compere asked “any questions for Martin?”; there was silence, then a lady stood up and spoke. She was wearing red shoes. It couldn’t be, could it? I looked at Martin and I could see he was thinking along similar lines. She launched “Martin, how do you see the differences between US based CFAR and its European equivalent playing-out in a medium time-frame?”. God, how was he going to get out of that?
I should have had no doubts; he aced it. I can’t remember what he said exactly but his florid verbal excesses seemed to go down very well, but he was in danger of “overselling” as we called it in-the-trade (i.e. “time to “shut-up” and “get-off”). I suspect most of the audience were a little hazy on CFAR themselves, and I certainly was. All I remember was his final fling; “well that’s my view, but how do you feel things will evolve?”, and skilfully turned the question back. Brilliant! There was silence followed by the compere asking “any further questions for Martin?”. There were none, so he thanked Martin for his incisive insights and the audience clapped! They actually clapped! We were all privileged to be in the presence of a master at the height of his powers.