spandex & lucite shoes: part 26c, the Twisteds, a series

It's another from the series of my so-called strip life. Part three this time of the Twisteds, when stripping ain't so pretty at all.

Don't want to feel lost? Read part 1, the Toe Twisted, here and part 2, the Brahman, here. Or if you're feeling intrepid, just come on into the Champagne Room...we have a seat for you right over here....

I had a regular named Michael, a lawyer of some financial flavor—tax, bankruptcy, something. An odd little man nattily dressed in Liberty of London ties, bespoke-styled suits and wing tips, he looked a lot like Richard Dreyfuss, if Richard Dreyfuss were a diminutive lawyer and not a Hollywood actor.

Michael was a bit kinky. He saw me as kinky, too; perhaps he saw in me that which I did not yet know of myself—though as he saw me as a Domme, he didn’t exactly get it right. My more natural place is beneath the fisted glove, not within it.

He told me about having a friend whom he would dominate by tying up, inserting various buzzy toys and then reading either Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl” or the children’s book “Mr. Penguin’s Picnic.” He also, completely unrelated to his kink, had a stuffed mouse that he took all over the world and snapped pictures of. The mouse at Cheops. The mouse at the Eiffel Tower. The Mouse at the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

I liked Michael well enough that I actually spent some time with him outside of FlashDancers. We didn’t date, but I went with him to a tattoo convention here in Gotham, and I brought him to my tattooist, Darren at Rising Dragon, to consult about the tiger tattoo that Michael wanted to get on his back.

Michael liked me to pull his hair when I danced for him, to get fancifully Dommey on his diminutive ass. Sometimes he would have both me and my friend Susie dance for him together, and I would take the upper hand with her, bending her over, slapping her cupcake ass, pulling her hair to make her body taut with my grip’s downward pressure.

When I danced for him, his little slug pink tongue would stick out between his lips, which, quite frankly, I hated. But he was a good customer, he was very good to me, and he gave me one of the best gifts I ever got from a customer—a special edition of Fargo complete with a snowdome depicting a body in the chipper, pregnant Marge pointing her gun at the monosyllabic Swede, and little drops of blood swirling the flakes of plastic snow.

I bring up Michael to illustrate that it’s not the kink that made the Twisteds Twisted. Michael was kinky; he was not twisted. He had no desire to make anybody, namely me, feel badly about herself. He just came to Flash to get a bit of his naughty on, spend some money, and leave happy.

This last Twisted in my tales of three Twisteds, I think, is the worst. It was a toss-up for me, initially, to parse out which memory was more painful—the previous one of the Brahman whose ejaculate raped my shoulder blades—or this one whose memory I will relate now. But I’m going with this one because he made me change.

He had power over me. He won, in a way, and for that I will never either forget nor will I forgive him.

This Twisted was a tall, skulking man. Stoop-shouldered and furtive, he had the unpleasant mien of a mongoose or a badger, yet he also carried himself with the full assurance of great, fat, rolling wads of cash. He lived with the invisible shield that only tremendous amounts of money can bring a person. The Brahman might have had the pedigree, but the Feeder had the money.

The Feeder was known to the Champagne hosts of Flash. When they approached you about the Feeder, they did so with the attitude of apology. Their hands wrung before their belts, their eyes darted to and from the floor, their shoulders shrugged with something like shame that they made their money from people like the Feeder.

They let you know that you were not obligated to go with the Feeder; they let you know ahead of time that it was just that bad.

They also let you know that you could expect to make $400 an hour.

The Feeder had a very consistent pattern. The Feeder took a thin girl and a thick girl to the champagne room. There he would have the thin girl measure the thick girl with a tape measure, which he brought with him. He would have the thin girl feed the thick girl candy bars and protein drinks, which he brought with him in copious supplies. He would have the thin girl grasp in her hands the thick girl’s thighs, her belly, her upper arms, her ass, and he would have the thin girl shake them.

He would have the thin girl tell the thick girl that she was fat. That she needed to lose weight. That her flesh was gross and disgusting.

And then he would have the thin girl feed the thick girl big gulps of protein shake, big bites of candy bar.

The Feeder got off on the psychodrama that we girls do to ourselves. His fetish was watching one woman heap the abuse on another that nearly every woman I know has done in the privacy of her own head, imprisoned as she believes she is in her own too faulty flesh.

The thin girl the Feeder took to the champagne room was this Canadian chick named Isabella. The thick girl was me.

Isabella was this skinny flat blonde who would do anything for cash. I know of more than one man who fucked Isabella in the Champagne Room. Obsessed with money, Isabella was shamefree—not only would she do anything for the money, but all she could talk about was her money and the businesses, real estate and other investments she bought with it. Her stock portfolio was sweet.

She also had these teeth that pointed in towards her uvula, as if to facilitate the head she gave on Flash premises, her head nestled discretely in the customer’s lap, his jacket over it in a lame gesture of gentility.

I didn’t like Isabella much before she was the thin girl in my thick girl psychodrama; I liked her even less afterwards.

The scene with the Feeder went more or less the way that I had been apprised. He gave orders to Isabella—I was seen but not heard. He didn’t address me. I was just the fat body.

“Give her more shake,” he told Isabella.

I don’t like protein shakes, I told Isabella. They make me ill.

“She doesn’t like shakes,” Isabella dutifully told the Feeder.

“Give her more candy,” he said flatly. And then, “Show me how fat she is.”

And Isabella took my juicy thighs in her hands and jostled them up and down, she cupped my womanly ass cheeks and squoze them together.

“See how fat you are,” she said to me in her Quebecoise accent. “You are fat.” She turned to the Feeder. “See? She’s so fat,” she said and smiled.

And this went on for fifty minutes. Fifty minutes of being addressed as an object. Fifty minutes of my body being dissected, measured, hefted, weighed, lifted, jostled and abused. Fifty minutes of Milky Way bars crammed into my mouth. Fifty minutes of my suffering disbelief that I would do this for money.

Fifty of the longest minutes of my life. Fifty minutes shoving all of my shame into a shortened hour—the shame of my too-ample girlflesh, the shame of eating and repenting, the shame of my own self-abuse, the shame of doing this for my living, the shame of believing I was beautiful, the shame that I was reduced to this, the shame that I had expanded to that, the shame of my jiggling, the shame of my caring, the shame of life.

At the end of it, I left numb and $400 richer. After nearly an hour of abuse, I found it hard to go on stage, to take my clothes off, to play the CeeCee game. I think I sat and had a drink or four. I don’t usually drink. I think I did that night. I hurt.

And here’s the real kicker. When I first walked into the Champagne Room, the Feeder told me how the scene would play out. I was given yet another out by him, and yet I agreed to it, I agreed to it all.

“You know,” he said, “lots of girls actually lose weight after doing this. Lots of girls find that after this they want to get thin.”

I just smiled at him, having no idea what was going to be in store for me.

And the thing is, he was right. After that, I did lose weight. After that I got thin. And fuck him for it.

Twisted motherfucker.

(Like what you've read? Go ahead, leave an anonymous tip in the jar above...  Just a couple of bucks makes me love you just a little bit more, even if I never know your real name...)

Comments

[O]

as if you weren't already thin? as if you weren't already beautiful?

Yeah, okay---wow, just wow.

I'm not sure what better indictment there is of him, or of our culture, than that it is possible for such a pathetic little man to make you feel like less than the goddess you in fact are.

I hate him. Another one.

Love
O

[S.C.]

Honestly, that is one of the most bizarre fetishes I've ever heard about...

It actually scares me more than the guy who raised snakes so he could fuck them...

[Brian]

I just read about this guy on another girls blog. What a freek!

Here are the links.
Part 1
http://ex-millennialgirl.blogspot.com/2005/11/feeder.html

Part 2
http://ex-millennialgirl.blogspot.com/2005/11/feeder-part-ii.html

Part 3
http://ex-millennialgirl.blogspot.com/2005/11/feeder-part-iii.html

[T]

Wow, Chelsea girl....what can I say except this guy is a total froot loop. I used to dance too, and never experienced anyone in my 3 years like this. Sure I had some real doozies...but no one like this wacko. Narcissitic (sp?) pig. Well, you have nothing to be ashamed of, as you were as beautiful then as you are stunning now. Keep up the great writing!
Love and wet kisses-
T

[sublove]

For what it's worth, there are a lot of feeders out there. Most of them just aren't bold enough to turn it into a performance or kind enough to make it a consensual act with an informed and paid "victim." I have a friend whose ex-girlfriend was a feeder. She fed her fried and fatty and sweet foods and alcohol and said "I love you big" and then called her fat, pointed out particularly thick body parts, and said no one else would want her when they had fights. There was more to it than that, but it boils down to feeder and non-consensual, and that's appalling.

[Goose]

Wow, that pisses me off that someone would do that not only to you, someone that I feel close to, but to anyone. Fuck him. Or better yet, NO ONE FUCK him. Bastard. I'm sorry you had to go through that. You are too beautiful, smart, funny and wonderful. All the girls were. What an ass.
Goose

[chelsea girl]

Yes, thank you all.

The Feeder is a wretched human being. A friend of mine who played the occasional thin girl said "no more" when the Feeder pulled a scale out of his briefcase.

Sickness, really.

I love you all too,
cg

[Digger Jones]

Wow. Reading that did make me angry at that man. But thinking about it makes me understand his scene: If *he* was to call you fat, it would have been easy to blow him off as a costumer and a man. But the fact that it was a woman...even if she was paid to act it and you knew it...that said those things sank in much deeper. Unexpected, that was. A serious mindfuck. Or mind rape.

How does a woman recover and restore herself after something like that?

D.

[VJ]

Several thoughts here beyond 'disgusting miserable pervert' CG.

1.) I hope Dick Cheney is a bit more preoccupied presently.

2.) Only the Internets can get you a fix on this perv. the same damn day. Amazing if it's the same sicko.

3.) There's Lots of 'feeders' out there, both M/F and it's a complex sort of psychological drama, sometimes it can be quite benign, but this is obviously not the case here. There's porno sites for this stuff too, so someone's making money off of it too.

4.) We've yet to plumb all the perversions out there or even those that were/are commonly seen at the clubs, right?

5.) A new generation of discrete camera phones and/or much smaller CCTV's can give a new boost to the giddy heights of old fashioned extortion. Think of what this clown would give to keep his nasty habits out of the papers. Think of the mercurial talents of some of your co-workers or the management of some clubs that would be willing to go though with this. You can just smell the flop sweat from here.

6.) I'm wondering what's to keep anyone from throwing up on the guy after the girls got paid. That would be one obvious response.

7.) Much, much worse than the Brahman. Even with not a hint of direct violence, still pretty damn sinister. Vincent Price would play the role in the movies, but of course with a bit more kink.

8.) Again as with #5, the management must have a long list of these favored pervs. What's keeping others from using this information? Is this something the police could use? Have there been active surveys on the crminial component just visiting or frequenting titty/dance bars?

9.) Definitely the type of perv action you can somehow easily get 'live' in some cities that you'd have to troll for weeks to obtain on or from the 'net/BBS'.

10.) Why is it so damn easy to degrade other people for fun and profit?

There's a few dissertation topics in here someplace. Cheers & Good Luck, 'VJ'

[figleaf]

Oh CG, I'm so sorry you had to experience that.

I'm going to go a bit against the grain here and say the guy seems more... I dunno, sad than sick. Him, I mean, not you I mean. I totally understand how it was sickening for you.

In a way it would have been more... well, easier to handle if he'd just been a clueless ogre or an amorally self-centered prick but it's just painful that he knew what he was doing -- he'd give people chances to back out -- but then he'd do it anyway.

It doesn't diminish what he did at all, nor what it did to you and all the other hosts he fed on, but man! It changed you to spend 50 minutes with the guy and I just keep thinking how he's got to live with himself his whole life.

There's no way to type the sounds of revulsion mixed with pity I want to make for people like him. (I just spent several minutes trying.) I'm so sorry it had to be your veins he needed to drink from. I'm even sorrier he has to drink at all.

Take care,

figleaf

[chelsea girl]

Actually, Digger, how I got over it is kind of the next bunch of installments...

Thanks you all for your support.

I appreciate it, more than you know.

cg

[Phillyvixen]

What a disgusting specimen of an excuse for a human. To get off on that is just sad. And im sad for you to have gone through it, and i'm sad for our world to have people like that in it.

[Amber]

Wow. I'm catching up on all of your blogs a bit late (when I should be studying, but this is much more fun). I've only just read this one, but I just had to post a comment, because it's one of the most horrible things I've ever read. Just when I'm convinced that I've seen the worst of humanity, I read something like this. It's absolutely incredible to me that you could experience something like this for an hour and go on to recover. That guy is a freak of the highest order. The more I read, the more impressed I am with the kind of inner strength you must possess to deal with this kind of crap.

[ElectroInfecto]

I just wanted to write to you to let you know that that is NOT what most people who consider themselves "feeders" get off on. I'm a female fat admirer, feeder and feedie, but I'm completely consensual about it and most of the time, it's all played out as fantasy. (Real weight gain takes too long and someone's weight is their personal choice, not mine to tell them or theirs to tell me.) Feeders usually get off on the girl (or guy) getting fatter, but they LIKE that. Yes, we may say "oh, you're getting so fat", but it's said as a POSITIVE thing. It's the fatness and the weight gain that gives us the stiff clit or the hard-on. To hear that this guy got off on the denigration that most women give themselves over their fat... well, it saddens me that you and other women got hurt by it, but the other part of me says that everyone has their kinks and there's nothing wrong with anyone's kink... the only thing that's wrong is using one's kink to abuse someone else. (And, obviously, the way he played out this kink ended up being emotional abuse on the end of the person receiving it.)

However, he's not into feederism... what he's into is humiliation and shame play. Because it was obviously the humiliation part that got him off, the self-shame. Feeders delight in fat bodies and bodies getting fatter. It's a positive thing in our eyes. We don't put people down for it.

I'm so sorry this man hurt you. Truly.