
I’ve just been asked if I’m available for abuse over the weekend. I have a roommate in New York City. Let’s call her Maria. I call her the Queen of the Gypsies because she’s traveled all over the world and never keeps an address longer than a year. She’s a filmmaker, art dealer, human rights activist and clothing designer. She knows a lot of people. Apparently she knows a Nice Guy who’s a masochist with a foot fetish and would like to come over and clean. The entire loft. For free. How does she know him?
“I used to be in the S&M scene, you know…”
"What exactly does that mean, he wants to clean the place for free?"
“Organize the closets, dishes, anything you want.’ Her arms are flapping, Martha Graham-style as she moves through the apartment. “All you gotta do is yell at him.”
"About what?"
"About anything."
"Like what?"
"Think of something. And he's AMAZING at TOILETS."
This guy's called Pony Boy she’s Mistress Jade. They've known each other for five years, never using real names, and they’ve never had sex. This is, unbelievably, not uncommon. Foot fetishists are rarely looking for sex. Some might say they’re looking for something more intimate: an assault to their sense of self-worth.
I’m skiddish, of course. if I have a problem with it, she says, she’ll invite him when I’m not here. I do have a problem with it, I'm repulsed. I'm also repulsed by Frank Lentini, the man with three legs and two penises. This fact doesn’t stop me from staring at his picture every time I get the chance, of course. After a few minutes I agree.
“Good. You have to come up with a name. Mistress Something.
“He’s not going to touch me or anything, right?”
“Oh, no. Never. Just tell him he’s a worthless piece of sh** and he might ask to suck your toes. But you don’t have to let him.”
You wonder who on earth wants to be told that they’re worthless, much less travel all the way across town for the pleasure. A relationship of this kind has to be organized and planned. Not exactly like stumbling home with someone after a party. I wonder if I’m going to participate – however peripherally – in a psychotic event. I wonder if, instead of barking insults, I should ask Pony Boy how much sleep he’s been getting lately. Appetite shift. If he’s had or is having suicidal ideation.
Being depressed for me is like having a thousand Mistress Jades in my head. They hog-tie my thoughts. They collapse my body into a motionless mass. They tread their spike-heeled boots over my life force. But what would happen if these voices were attatched to real bodies? Is this really worth thinking about? I just want a clean apartment and a toilet scrubbed with bleach. Still, I can't help but wonder: is this man trying to fetishize his demons and thereby conquer them? Or is it simply a sexual lifestyle choice? Like being gay? Actual clinicians submit this argument. Others contend that it’s a psychological disorder. Is depression a masochistic disorder? What do you think?
Also: any ideas for a mistress name?