4 Poems on
Iconic Writers’ Habitats

Chateau Marmont
(1929-present)

a Gothic French princess on a hill
overlooking the Sunset Strip
a white stone beauty with
a casual toss of gray
head of slate roofing
earthquake proof, turreted
the castle still stands
almost a hundred
years of tread and wear
parties, scandals, affairs
of musicians and actors
of writers making history.

They came under cover
of darkness entered silently
through the garage, no need
for anyone to spot them
no bright-lit lobby
their shame, their value
in the critical eyes of a culture
where privacy not guaranteed
but at the castle they could
mourn, drink, create
inspired and protected
by the knowing kindly staff.

A glamorous shabby-chic
version of the Loire Valley’s
Chateau d’Amboise
opened as apartments
on the teeter edge
of the stock market crash
cheap rooms with cachet.

The movie studios funded
Chateau suites for cheats
to preserve their stars’ gleam
the new owner made it safe
for Hollywood royalty
the hunchback manager
the in-house phone operator
the Garage Boys valets
and maids always silent
on the misfits, iconoclasts,
outcasts, deviants, gays
after the drunken fights
trashed rooms, broken hearts
the news had no clue.

The New York writers came
uncomfortable in LA
at home in the Chateau
Hollywood-on-the-Hudson
and they wrote scripts
Rebel without a Cause,
Sunset Boulevard,
Music Man, Ben-Hur
articles by Dominick Dunne
on the infamous O.J. trial
and so much more.

Run by eccentrics for eccentrics
the castle fell to careless hands
holding companies, banks
threatened foreclosure
the downslide of the aging belle
at the seedy top of the hill
shag rugs patched with tape
peeling paint in shreds, must
furnishings broken fixtures
shabby-genteel, a place
outside of time.

The new owner updated
an elegant conversion
with old-world charm
a historic cultural monument
where hijinks could continue:
Jim Morrison fell off the roof
a lyricist shot himself
John Belushi overdosed
the hideout hit the papers
the Chateau an open secret
of legendary, fashionable funk.

A new era, a new owner
New York nightclub magnate
full restoration upgrade
to a chic upscale loftiness
a buzzy bar scene, swanky
showbiz party exclusives
splashy bashes for the stars
their premieres and awards.

So now the old girl
looks down a long nose
from her perch on the hill
over the new Hollywood
still classic, still historic
with a modern LA brand.

The Chelsea
(1884-present)

“You’ve got a great future behind you.”
—old billboard in Times Square

New York’s most illustrious
third-rate hotel the place
Leonard Cohen made love
to an unforgiving Janis Joplin
and Thomas Wolfe wrote
You Can’t Go Home Again
and Arthur C. Clarke 
2001: A Space Odyssey
Arthur Miller the play
on his iconic ex-wife
Bob Dylan the lyrics
for Blonde on Blonde
and Dylan Thomas drank
until he died young.

The largest, longest lasting
creative community
in the world designed
as a haven for artists
in the old theater district
a cooperative building
twelve stories of red brick
in Queen Anne Revival style
with wrought iron balconies
a homey atmosphere
in-room fireplaces
a rooftop terrace
a basement kitchen
with dumbwaiters
private dining rooms
and a public café.

Attracting a cross-section
of all social classes
the rent affordable
the rooms soundproofed
for musicians and writers
north-facing windows
in studios for painters
short-term or long-term
a friendly residence
an experiment in living
in harmony with others.

By 1905 the co-op failing
financially forcing subdivision
from 125 rooms to 300
smaller spaces
then bankruptcy
after the Depression
and Hungarian émigrés
purchased and protected
the hotel and the artists
for 75 more years.

The theater district gone
meant a downhill slide
a rundown neighborhood
seedy offices, tawdry bars
and gradual hotel decay
clanging heating pipes
shabby rooms, dirty rugs
with further subdivisions
to 400 dingy rooms
still popular, still housing
knowns and unknowns
long-distance truckers
pensioners, burlesque dancers
novelists, crackpots, drunks.

A miniature Ellis Island
of the odd and avant-garde
through the ’40s and ’50s
the bohemians, the beatniks
Kerouac and Ginsberg
and the drug-fueled ’60s
Christo and Warhol
Pop artists, rock bands
Jefferson Airplane, Janis
slugging Southern Comfort
Alice Cooper with a python
wrapped around his neck.

Marijuana smoke wafting
tattered halls, tattered tenants
paying overdue rent in art
displayed on lobby walls
and hiding from hustlers
pushers, hookers, pimps
holdups, gunfire, junkies
room fires, overdoses, leaps
from the roof or out windows.

A city no longer doable
for artists, the young or old
the hotel sold, closed down
the power of the creative
community forgotten
as history made way
for the fortunate few
rooftop gardens torn up
the wall art torn down
rooms gutted and enlarged
into 155 elite suites
a lobby full of new art
a lobby bar full of chic.

In the city of ashes
the city of gold, the Chelsea
on the Register of Historic Places
the icon casts a glitter sheen
for influencer appeal.

Key West

The southernmost isle
once called Cayo Hueso
the island of bones—
bones from a battle
or Indian burial ground
so there was always this
legacy of lawlessness:
pirates, wreckers, smugglers
drugs, drinking, wilderness
only reachable by boat
the glistening white sand
water jade green and aqua
where ocean and Gulf met.

Pirates hunted for booty
until the Navy arrived
built a base, a busy port
for Greek sponge divers
for Cuban cigar makers
treasure hunters seeking
shipwrecks and sunken gold
then the hotels and shops
cottage homes and bars
the Conch Republic born
of Caribbean and Cuban influx
and escapees from elsewhere
creating a rough culture.

Henry Flagler linked the chain
Palm Beach to the Keys
the East Coast Railway
and a hotel for visitors
escaping winter storms
Prohibition’s restrictions
to where liquor flowed
the Conchs smuggling in
fat boatloads of booze
after a deadly hurricane
blew down the railroad
the Overseas Highway
the route to Key West
the tropical oasis
otherworldly, exotic
a seaside sanctuary
where art could flourish.

Hemingway in residence
fishing, drinking, writing
his most significant works
he nicknamed his island
the St. Tropez of the poor
and Tennessee Williams
bought a bungalow refuge
brought gay friends to stay
in the laissez faire outpost
of the next literary star
Thomas McGuane filming
his rock ‘n’ roll novel
Ninety-Two in the Shade
his pal Jimmy Buffett
on the soundtrack
with no real music scene
in the eclectic bars where
everyone gathered, all types:
politicians and criminals
hippies and rednecks
artists and bums and
he sang for free drinks
began to write story-songs
on the laidback island life.

When “Margaritaville” hit
the charts and the tourists
flocked to the happy hours
cheeseburgers in paradise
cruise ships, mad crowds
crime, trash and trinkets
new rents and home prices
nobody could afford
so the writers left
the millionaires, developers
vacationers and wannabes
an alcohol-fueled theme park
the old island of bones
the legacy of pirates
seeking others’ treasure
blind to it themselves.

Provincetown

A finger of land at the very tip
a sandbar to mainland Mass
a salty spit of gray isolation
after the Mayflower anchored
the women washed, their men
stole Indian corn, skirmished
before moving on to Plymouth
and Portuguese whalers arrived
harpooning thick pods to sell
whale oil, bones, baleen, the cod
catch plush so they sent for family
the railroad down from Boston and
the Cape Cod School of Art
in the diverse community
of immigrants, artists, outsiders.

Ensconced in a lunar dunescape
in the old Life-Saving Station
young Eugene O’Neill penned
19 short plays, 7 long, his first
performed in a decrepit fish shed
Bound East for Cardiff giving birth
to modern American drama
Anna Christie about the fishermen
on the island: a grand place
to be alone and undisturbed.

John Dos Passos down the street
on Commercial faced the harbor and
Norman Mailer’s house where he wrote
the majority of his books in summers
and spent his final years in:
the freest town in America
that was naturally spooky off-season
a place for murderers and suicides
with cold sea air with a bottomless chill.

Painters came for the crystal purity
of the aquatic light, translucent
fleets of squid, flocks of white
gulls drafting faded scallop boats
squawking terns chasing scarlet crabs
red-faced men on creaky piers
inhaling deep the briny scent
the slap of foamy waves
against the rocky shore.

Mary Oliver wrote for decades
lush poems on the beauty
of the island she called home
the skittish skunk, rusty fox
glistening sand and scrubby pines
the endless surf, the unending call
of the foghorn’s haunting note
winters windswept and desolate
and summer’s blast of blues
sunset orange on the salt flats
soft music in the misty dawn
of inspiration and retreat.

Greyhounds

Have you seen those women?
The confident ones?
The ones who boldly stride.
Like greyhounds they race past my garden.
As I
Barefoot
Heavy breasted
Kneel for the pulling of weeds.

THIS ACTING GIG

The world is overrun with plays,
with busy sets,
overwhelming characters.
The actors are passersby, strangers,
who fire their perverse blanks
inches from my temple.

The cars, the trains, are part of it.
The ruined buildings and
their ceaseless shadows too.
My footsteps on the blunt sidewalk
are the interminable soundtrack
to the tale which keeps on telling.

It’s a love story.
But I’m not the leading man.
It’s a drama.
Simple conversations
are so fraught with dread.
It’s a comedy.
The audience awaits
my very next pratfall.

Sometimes, I wonder
what am I doing in the cast,
why are they all looking at me,
what do I say next.

But then comes the great relief
of forgotten lines
suddenly remembered.
I’m an actor again.
I inhale my motivation.
I exhale my interminable bows.

DIARIES

Each cover had a lock

And there were five of the books in total,

one for every year from when she was 12

to her time as sweet 16.

She says she recorded everything

from the most mundane

to her deepest, darkest thoughts.

A page might consist of

what she wore to school

coupled with her feelings

toward her stepmother.

She held nothing back.

I asked her whatever happened

to her diaries.

She replied that she had stored them

in the drawer of her bed,

until she was twenty

when she took one out, began to read it.

The author was a stranger she concluded.

And it wasn’t much of a story.

So she threw them on the fire.

And those five years seemed grateful

to go up in flame.

They crackled and spat for a time

but ultimately were nothing but ashes.

Only the locks remained.

She let them simmer there.

For all I know, they simmer still.  

HAVING LOST SOMEONE

In the darkness,

overcome with grief,

maybe a hundred,

a thousand, restless souls

throughout the city

whisper as one,

“What do we do now, sad people?”

I’m not saying

they’re the ones

gathering under the streetlamp.

But there’s a great sob

coming from that direction.

And I can’t believe

those are tears of light.

THE OSPREY IN THE MARSH POND

Sheer horror in the water,

a young osprey floating on the surface,

wings fumbling for momentum,

puncture wounds oozing blood.

One of the young birds I’d been watching,

so near to being fully fledged,

but now turning in an infernal arc,

as the parents screech from somewhere above.

Feathers that dealt him flight,

now tilted and waterlogged,

dark eyes scanning his slim chances.

I lift him up, place him on a rock.

No gratitude, just all fear.

My trespass shrinks before his dying breath.

It’s quiet in the clifftop now.

Noon sky turns to midnight.    

THOUGHTS OF A WRECKING BALL

The building is flattened,

steel and brick and glass

scattered in all directions.

The wrecking ball

sways slightly back and forth,

like a mind ticking over.

124 North Main is a done deal.

What’s next?

120? 128?

How about the fast-food joint?

Or the book store?

Or the restaurant with the fat cakes in the window?

And there’re always the guy,

one good swing away,

riding high above the ground

in his little cabin.

He’s God.

I’m his wrath.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.

THE PRICE OF EGGS

The time to prevent fascist dictatorship

was yesterday, not tomorrow.

He said he would burn it all down—

and now we choke on smoke.

He promised retribution.

Made no secret of his hates—

brown-skinned immigrants,

gays and trans, import prices.

Made no secret that his game plan

was Project 2025.

But we didn’t expect he’d hand the reins

to the man who bought him the office,

a billionaire now looting our coffers.

Yes, I’m angry.

Angry at simpletons who ignored his words,

ignored his crimes, his insurrection;

ignored his pandemic failures,

and voted for him because he said

he’d lower the price of eggs.

On Day 1, as promised, dictatorship begins.

We watch him try to end birthright citizenship,

close public schools, defund social programs,

take over the Panama Canal, Canada, Gaza.

Each day brings job loss and threats,

hijacked budgets, chaos.

The time to stave off chaos was yesterday.  

Today, we watch democracy on fire.

Our grandchildren will sift through its ashes.

Copyright 2/2025                Patricia Doyne

Ever Again

I heard the “thuck” as the Proud Boy

smacked my head with a baseball bat

–his staff of righteousness–as if he

were playing cleanup for the St. Louis

Cardinals.

I felt a brief flash of pain, followed by

a metallic taste on my tongue and an

acrid odor in my nostrils.  Was I dying?

I wondered.

“Goddamn faggot,” he cursed me and

then my mother, for giving birth to such

a puke.  I’m certain that He delivered

numerous subsequent blows but I felt

nothing–ever again.

Mom, You’re Prettier than Lucy

Lucille Ball was our household icon. She

was pretty and funny and clever; she was

everywhere: on TV, in the movies, the

newspapers and so on.  We couldn’t get

enough of her.

As a redhead myself I naturally gravitated

toward Lucy. In fact, I thought wistfully that

a marriage between Lucy and popular

comedian Red Skelton, another redhead,

would produce the ideal parents.  I was

eight years old.

So one night, when we were in the basement,

watching television, Mom tossed me the

latest TV Guide, which featured on its

cover a photo of Lucille Ball. “She’s pretty,

isn’t she?” she asked me. i surveyed the

photo critically, then issued my opinion.

“Mom, you’re prettier than Lucy,” I said quite

honestly. She looked up from her crocheting,

startled.  “Me?” she squeaked, unbelievingly.

“Sure,” I reiterated determinedly, “you’re lots

prettier than Lucy.” I glanced at her,

wondering why she was so surprised. “Do you

really mean that?” she asked softly. I told her

I did.  I’d no idea I had rendered such a

profound compliment.

I guess it was a combination of things that made

me feel that way: a son’s love, a positive, nurturing

role model, and she was, in fact, quite pretty. Mom

said nothing more, but looked back down at her

needlework, a little smile playing on her lips.

Quicksilver

I knew that this world wasn’t for keeps.

In youth, I clutched

to my breast many precious things–fresh

turned soil; newborn

kittens, the soft hand of my dear wife.

In middle age I

beheld objects I treasured–a vivid yellow

field of corn, in

full flower; drops of dew clinging to

gossamer wisps

of silk, strung through a copse and glittering

in the morning

sunlight. my daughter dressed for Prom.

With age I know

things I will always keep close–the strength of

righteous liberty;

love of country and of God; and the knowledge

that life is but

ephemeral, and will soon pass like quicksilver

through my fingers.

	Black and white photo of a covered wagon with two women inside and two young men walking in front in breeches and shirts and scarves. The women are in skirts and coats with covered hair.

Examine a close reading of Brechtian theatrical drama “Mother Courage and Her Children”. 

“We’re doing an honest trade in ham and linen, and we’re peaceable folk” exemplifies Mother Courage’s mercenary enterprise that distinguishes her entrepreneurial proprietorship as the chief source of bread winning for the fulfilment in familial obligations. Sustenance of livelihood and survival hood is solely dependent upon the provisions of money generated from the returns of investment in the trade cart. The sergeant’s feigning of interest with the belt buckle and the recruiter’s abduction of Eiliff gobsmacks the dumb girl Kattrin, who gesticulates wildly. Eventually years follow and Eiliff is commissioned for pilferage and thievery of cattle from the supply wagons of the settlers.

Eliff’s “The Song of the Girl and the Soldier” is a notebly sung in chorus for the valour and bravery, gallantry and heroism in the office of the veteran general. However ousting of protestant by the Catholics implicates measures of extradition policies to exterminate the defenestrated regime. Catholic reinstatement to power is imminently catastrophic for these peaceable folks as soon as allied forces have been defeated by them. Mother Courage’s masquerading with chameleon stance and camouflaging Kattrin in ashes; Yuvette’s fastidiousness to wager a ransom price at the behest of Mother Courage to take over the custody of Swiss Cheese occur as an after effect of the repercussions. Mother Courage’s profit satisficing initiative forlorn recognition Swiss Cheeses’ cadaverous corpse ushered by the crusaders of Catholicism. “The Song of the Great Capitulation” is caroled by Mother Courage for her nonchalance and lackadaisical demeanor in involving herself into a court martial trail. “I changed me mind. I ain’t complaining” propounds her expostulation in refraining from alleging the battle. 

Black and white photo of a covered wagon with two women inside and two young men walking in front in breeches and shirts and scarves. The women are in skirts and coats with covered hair.

Nonetheless, Mother Courage snatching of the looted overcoat of the soldier and her preceding denial in offering clothes to bandage wounded crusaders subverts her bourgeois mercenary identity. Kattrin’s brandishing of her mother with the plank and the chaplain’s exploiting of the wardrobe outfit resurrects the impresario of veteran insignia. The braggadocio of Mother Courage is ameliorated by Kattrin’s uprising to feminist womanhood as reflected in the maternity caregiving to an orphaned destitute. Mother Courage is truly the distinct hyena of the battlefield in relegating pacifism to ruining her business. “War be damned” is inverted by Mother Courage through her militaristic stance to bolster profits. Painstakingly the male survivor Eillif is implicated in war crimes during peace treaty coalition and trailed to justice.

Ultimately Mother Courage and Kattrin are harboured to the brink of existentialism and grave inhumanity befalls upon their gothic macabre. “Once fertile areas are ravaged by famines, wolves roam the burnt out towns…Business is bad, so there is nothing to do but beg.” Mother Courage’s reclaimed womanhood and feminist body polity consciousness transcends patriarchy and masculinity as reflected in abjuration of employment in chaplain’s tavern. The heartwrenching predicament of Mother Courage and Kattrin as harrowing survivors envisions utopian legacy of peasantry and peasanthood, “Happy are those with shelter now/ When winter winds are freezing.”  

Mother Courage is alien to religiosity and ideologies and fosters ambivalence towards adversarial circumstances for her entrepreneurship. A formidable quester of wartime profiteer, striking, bargaining, lying and cheating to earn her survival. Brecht’s idolization of Mother Courage’s personae  cherishes transcendental triumphalism of Christianity: “hatred against the sin but love for the sinner”. Brecht’s heroine is a stalwart embodiment of craftiness, shrewdness, canniness and resourcefulness.

Brecht chastises and lambastes Mother Courage’s inhumanity towards the dead body of Swiss Cheese. This inevitably chilling climax crystallizes theatre audiences, readers and critics of modern European drama. Despite dumb, Kattrin, the guardian of goodness’ precautionary vigilance of crisis and her sacrificial martyrdom symbolizes an astounding climax without deus ex machina. Yuvette’s transformation into a colonel’s lady from a camp whore epitomizes pragmatism and materialism unlike other characters and their mise-en-scenes.

Unlike Mother Courage, Yuvette’s femininity and womanhood salvages to the brink of prosperity by discarding the world of squalor. Terrifying and endless struggles of Mother Courage breaches armistice and beseeches war feeding enterprises. Brecht’s characterization of soldiers and generals, stewardesses and butlers, harlots and whores, peasants and tradesmen harnesses twentieth century realistic traits of surviving a doggerel world. Warmongers are victimizers whose fatalistic preying dawns upon the human beings possessing virtues as pacifists and abolitionists of wars. Emotional appeal and theatrical flair of the tragical drama is the exposition of crucial roles cast by the victimized and traumatized as embodied by Mother Courage and Her Children. 

Further Reading, References and Endnotes

Brecht On Theatre Translation by John Willett, From the Mother Courage Model, pp. 215-221

Five Great Plays Mother Courage and Her Children pp. 207-215, Stephen Unwin, A Guide to the Plays of Bertolt Brecht, Bloomsbury. 

A TOENAIL THING

“SORRY, I KNOW I’M NEW AT THIS, BUT ISN’T THAT CANNIBALISM?” I ask Carol through the mouth opening of my black latex bondage hood as I turn my head around to look up at her. Before she can answer, I add, “And if it is cannibalism, how does that fall into any of the BDSM categories?”

I’m lying on my stomach on a crumpled bed in a cheap dingy Motel 6 suite while Carol sits comfortably on the back of my bare upper thighs with her bent legs firmly straddling my hips. She wears shiny black thigh-high faux leather boots attached by garter straps to a tightly-laced black vinyl corset. In her right hand she grips the shaft of a braided black leather flogger, now rested at her side after our light warm-up session, while holding silver metal nail clippers in her left hand. After I turn my head around, she thrusts the nail clippers into my face and snarls at me.

I joined this BDSM dating website just a week ago after a long spell of unsuccessful online dating through more mainstream sites in the two years since my divorce. Though I’d never tried BDSM, or anything too kinky, I’ve always been drawn to pushy domineering women (and vice versa) so I figured BDSM may be my bag. After a little internet research, I registered on the site as a “sub” (submissive) seeking a relationship with a “dom” (dominant), hoping for a match. Carol is my first date.

Carol is angry now and glares down at me through the small eye openings of her face mask. “Do you even know what BDSM stands for, you submissive little bitch?” she asks me harshly while raising her right hand and flicking her wrist so that the leather tails of her flogger fly back behind its neck.

“Yes,” I reply eagerly. I’m exhilarated and energized by the threat of another flogging. “I googled ‘BDSM’ last week before I registered on the website; it’s an acronym for bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism.” My heart rate picks up in excitement and anticipation as I watch Carol brandish her flogger.

“You forgot domination and submission, you fucking imbecile,” Carol barks at me while cocking her right arm and readying the flogger for another downward attack.

I acknowledge her with a quick nod. “I understand, but domination and submission are redundant of other letters already in the BDSM acronym so they’re included under the D and S letters for discipline and sadism. It’s just cleaner that way instead of having duplicate letters.”

Carol rolls her eyes at me with an exasperated smirk while lowering the flogger to her side. “OK, Wordsworth, so which of those BDSM letters are you?”

I think about this for a moment, then reply, “Well, like I said, I’m new to this so I’m still trying to figure out which BDSM subgenre suits me best,” then add, “But under any conceivable definition of the BDSM categories, I really don’t think that cannibalism qualifies.”

Carol purses her shiny black glossed lips then nods in agreement. “OK,” she responds hesitantly, “But it isn’t really cannibalism per se if I just want you to eat my toenails and not any actual body part.”

I flash Carol an empathetic smile, then try my best to ease her obvious discomfort without being patronizing. “Well,” I explain patiently, “I never took an anatomy class but I do think that toenails are considered a body part. I mean, think about it, they may not have nerve endings or sensitivity but they couldn’t exist without a human to attach to – right?”

Carol nods coolly, reluctantly acknowledging my sound logic. “OK, but going back to the BDSM categories, if the point is to inflict pain on me when you remove my toenails, then I think that’s either sadism or masochism even if the eating part is technically cannibalism.”

I nod politely then ask as diplomatically as possible, “Well, if you want me to inflict pain on you, then why are you handing me nail clippers? Aren’t those supposed to clip your nails painlessly instead of just ripping them off your toes, and thereby inflicting pain? I don’t mean to be difficult, Carol, but it just seems like me using nail clippers on you is antithetical to the whole BDSM routine.” I pause then add, “And also, if you’re the ‘dom’ and I’m the ‘sub’ in this scenario, then aren’t you the one supposed to be inflicting pain and not me?”

Carol looks down at me silently. Her large brown eyes – so fierce and confident just moments ago – now look sad and doleful like a puppy lost outside in the rain.

Unable to restrain myself after sensing Carol’s vulnerability (and smelling weakness), I pounce like a jungle predator: “Carol, I don’t mean to be rude – and I’m sorry to be so forward – but have you ever done this before?”

Carol blushes deeply and turns her head to avert her eyes from mine.

I feel Carol squirm uneasily on top of me and sense her embarrassment like a sharp pang in my chest. I feel horrible knowing that I’ve humiliated and disrespected Carol in her “dom” role, and I can tell that I’ve violated some cardinal rule of BDSM etiquette. Maybe this isn’t my game after all.

Thinking quickly, I do my best to backtrack and rehabilitate myself with Carol. “I’m so sorry, Carol, I don’t mean to be a prick, I’m just new to this – it’s literally my first date since I joined the BDSM website – so I’m still not really sure how it works. If you’re still feeling your way along here too, that’s totally cool – we’re both taking this journey together, like exploring a new city that we’ve never visited before.”

Carol relaxes and I can feel the tension drain from her body. She pulls off her face mask and looks at me with a shy grin. “Actually, yeah, I am new to this. It’s only my third BDSM date. The first guy made me slap him with a hog crop then peg him with this silicone strap-on that he brought to the hotel in his backpack, and the second guy cut himself on his ankle spreader bar then just ran out of the room.”

She sighs deeply then continues, “But they both felt so sure about what they wanted that I didn’t feel comfortable asking them to do my toenail thing,” and adds, “With you I just felt so much more relaxed and confident, like I could ask you for anything and you wouldn’t judge me.”

Tears begin to well up in Carol’s eyes. She ungrips her leather flogger, which falls lightly onto the bedspread, then raises her right hand to her face and wipes the budding tears from her eyes before they can cascade down her flushed cheeks.

I turn over on the bed then pull off my bondage hood and lay it beside me on the bedspread so that Carol and I are facing each other. I reach my right hand to her face and gently stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. “I get it, Carol, I really do – and I’m sorry to make you feel so self-conscious and uncomfortable. That’s really not my intent.”

Carol lowers her face and gazes down at my bare chest while nodding slowly. She reaches her hands out and removes the small metal clamps that she’d fastened to my nipples during our warm-up session. I feel a warm tear drop from her face to my solar plexus and watch it trickle down over my side, gaining speed as it passes over my rib cage then onto the bedspread. “Most guys I meet just aren’t into my toenail thing, so that’s why I joined the BDSM site. I just thought maybe I’d meet someone who’s more open to it.”

I take a deep breath then say, “I thought we really hit it off at dinner – we both love sushi thai and had so much to talk about with our careers and goals and hobbies and everything – but the whole BDSM part of this date is kind of going off the rails and not how I expected.” I add, “Honestly, I don’t even know what to expect, this being my first time and all, but I don’t want this to ruin our date. I really do like you and I hope that you like me. Maybe we can just hit the rewind button and start this part over?”

Carol nods her head vigorously in agreement while wiping her eyes again. She looks relieved and refreshed. “I feel the same way, I really like you and don’t want to screw this up over my toenail thing.”

I smile up at her, pleased with myself for reviving her spirits.

Carol raises her eyebrows then asks with renewed spirit, “Wanna go back to my condo to watch a movie?”

“Sounds awesome,” I reply with a reassuring grin, “Any specific movie in mind?”

“Of course,” Carol replies with a suggestive smile, “Edward Scissorhands … I really like him.”

A few hours later, we’re at Carol’s condo after stopping on the way for gelato. Dressed back in our civilian clothes, we’re nestled together on her living room sofa watching the final scene of Edward Scissorhands, which Carol is thoroughly enjoying. She turns toward me and lifts her far leg over my lap then begins to grind her crotch against my thigh.

“I love this part,” Carol whispers into my ear as she begins to grind harder, “The way that Edward uses his scissors to save Winona Ryder is so fucking hot.”

“Right!” I agree enthusiastically.

The movie ends after Edward stabs and kills that what’s-his-name nerd kid from Breakfast Club (and Sixteen Candles and Weird Science). As the credits begin to roll, Carol purrs into my ear while continuing to grind my thigh, “Wanna play Edward Scissorhands?”

“Sounds great,” I reply. Though I’m not quite sure what this game entails, I don’t want to be a buzzkill again after our date was barely rescued earlier at the Motel 6. Everything is going well now, but I know that can change on a dime with Carol if I say the wrong thing.

Carol beams at me then jumps up from the sofa. “Cool!” she exclaims, “Just stay here while I go put on my dominatrix outfit and get my scissors!”

“Carol, that’s OK,” I say before she runs off to her bedroom. “You don’t have to bother changing your clothes—,”

But before I can finish my sentence, Carol quickly pivots then strikes me with a hard open-handed slap across my face, which immediately stings while my face burns hot. “I’m the one giving the orders, you fucking slave! Now you’ll sit there, keep your goddamn mouth shut and wait for me like mommy’s little boy-whore!”

I curl up on the sofa and nod to her dutifully with my best sad-eyed Edward Scissorhands face, reminding myself to stick to my submissive role in Carol’s exciting new game.

A few minutes later, Carol exits her bedroom decked out in a skintight full-body black vinyl catwoman suit and a new face mask with feline ears protruding from the sides. She struts into the kitchen on black stiletto heels and opens a drawer beneath the marble countertop next to the refrigerator. She looks and then rifles furiously through the drawer with both hands. After about a minute of searching through all her kitchen drawers, she pounds her fist against the countertop and bellows, “Goddamnit! I can’t find my scissors. I must’ve taken them to work and left them there!”

Carol enters the living room, looks at me sternly with the nail clippers that she now holds firmly in her right hand, then points them at me. “I guess these’ll just have to do. Now sit up and take your shirt off!” she commands me.

“Wait a minute, I’m confused,” I say, “Aren’t I supposed to be Edward? And even if you’re Edward, he never used nail clippers.”

Carol nods silently to herself, walks back to the kitchen then returns holding a large carving knife in her right hand with the nail clippers in her left.

“A kitchen knife?” I ask, barely able to conceal my surprise.

Carol clearly is frustrated and looks at me impatiently for a moment before responding. “It’s a knife, why does it matter what it’s supposed to be used for?” Her voice quivers when she shouts out her next command, “Now just shut the fuck up and strip!”

I’m unable to subdue the laughter that escapes my throat. “But Carol,” I explain in between laughs, “There are special BDSM knives and daggers. Nobody uses kitchen knives. I thought you just wanted to poke around, not carve me up like a pot roast!”

Once again, I push too far and let my mouth get the best of me. “And you still have the nail clippers! Carol, is this whole Edward Scissorhands game just a ploy to get me to eat your toenails again?”

Carol’s face reddens like an electric stovetop while she looks up to the ceiling and  screams something unintelligible, then flings her knife and nail clippers across the room at the wall. She drops to the floor with her hands pressed to her face, then turns on her side and begins to weep uncontrollably in front of the sofa.

I hop up and lift her onto the sofa, where she lies down then hugs her knees to her chest and curls up into a ball. She rocks back and forth in this fetal positon while her weeping intensifies.

I wrap my arms around Carol’s shoulders and feel her shaking like a poodle while her violent sobs continue. I try to calm her down with quiet soothing shhh whispers.

After a minute or two, Carol’s sobbing slows down and she looks up at me with tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking bad at this. I’ve never used a knife on anyone before, but watching Edward just gave me the idea and got me in the mood.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I whisper softly into her ear while gently caressing her hair.

Carol’s sobs subside while I massage her arms and shoulders to loosen her tension. After a few moments, she looks up at me in embarrassment and says, “Sorry I’m such a hot mess tonight. I’m trying too hard to fit into this dominatrix role and it’s just not happening for me.”

I smile back at her while giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “Tell you what, why don’t we just shelve the BDSM play for tonight and take a bottle of wine out onto the balcony? It’s a beautiful night.” I nod my head toward the balcony with a wink.

Carol sits up on the sofa and looks out the sliding glass door to the balcony, then turns back to me with a smile. “Sounds perfect,” she says with a quiet sniffle. She stands up from the sofa and walks to the kitchen where she pulls a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and takes two wine glasses from a wood cabinet above the countertop. She walks over to the balcony door, looks over at me with a grin and nods her head toward the balcony. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”

I walk over to Carol and take the wine bottle from her so that she can use her free hand to open the sliding glass door to the balcony while holding the wine glasses in her other hand. We walk out onto the balcony then sit on cushioned chairs on either side of a small patio table where Carol sets down the wine glasses, take the bottle from my hand and pours us each a half glass.

I raise my glass and nod to Carol to do the same. I look out over the balcony rail into the starry black night sky then turn back to Carol with a soft smile. I extend my glass toward hers and toast, “Here’s to our first date, and to your toenail thing.”

Carol giggles as we clink glasses and says, “To our first date, and the end of my toenail thing. I’m over it”

We both turn our heads to look out past the balcony and sip from our wine glasses. I move my hand across the patio table and place it atop hers on the armrest of her chair. We sit quietly and enjoy the comfortable silence while taking in the beautiful night.

My heartbeat slows down and I close my eyes. I feel perfectly calm and at ease. I open my eyes when I feel Carol’s soft warm lips gently kiss my cheek. I look over at her with a smile.

Carol leans up in her chair and moves the patio table forward so that she can pull her chair next to mine. She rests her head against my shoulder. “I’m so glad I met you,” she says as she raises her soft brown eyes to mine.

I squeeze her hand as we drink our wine and gaze out into the serene night sky.

Neither of us speak a word.