default image for post

25: Ms. Manners

January 19, 2011 | by  |  Confessions of a Lonely, Single Guy

Three minutes after I met her, she’d offered me a drink.

Five minutes after that, I was mostly naked.

And, how I came to be overlooking the Vancouver waterfront, stripped to my underwear, suspended from my ankles, with her strapped in beside me, biting at my ass like some crazed chimpanzee? Well, that requires a little more explanation.

Let me start at the beginning:

As many of you know, I made a heroic vow last year.

A vow to become more confident, more gregarious, to leave behind a life of social anxiety, and transform myself from loser to ladies’ man. I’d learned a great deal in that time: how to dress, how to approach a stranger, how to make conversation, how to appear comfortable and confident, how to properly get a phone-number. I’d learned how to manage a first-date, how to initiate physical interaction, how to talk on the phone. And most importantly of all, I’d learned how to say “Yes” to people and situations I might never have dreamed of exploring before. Which, after close to a year of complete insanity, had led me to this: the suspension, the biting, the partial nudity, and, eventually, in a way so complete that I can’t even properly describe it, a complete paradigm shift.

The girl hanging beside me was known as Ms. Manners, and, at the time of the aforementioned ass-biting, I’d known her all of two hours. She was petite. She was intelligent. She spoke three or four languages. And she was a friend of DJ StrangeLove’s, which, goes a hell of a long way toward explaining how we’d ended up at a bondage event together in the first place.

It all started with a phone call, three days before New Year’s.

“Dude. A friend of mine needs a date to a party.”

Of course, it was DJ StrangeLove.

“What’s the party?” I asked, suspicious.

“Some New Year’s thing. Sin City, or something.”

“Did you say Sin City? Don’t they do fetish parties?”

“Do they?”

He sounded coy.

“I don’t know, man,” I protested. “That’s not really my scene.”

“I already told her you’d go,” he replied, curtly. “And gave her your name. And phone-number.”

“Is it expensive?”

“Ticket’s paid for.”

“But, I told Leon I’d hang out with him and his girlfriend on New Year’s.”

“Jesus, Ian,” he scoffed, “I thought Times Square was the only place where balls needed to drop this weekend. This is a seriously fun, seriously cute, seriously hilarious girl, and you need to meet her.”

“Are you trying to find me a girlfriend?” I asked, suspicious.

All I received in response was a gale of laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’ll find out when you meet her.”

“Why can’t you go?”

“Sorry, mate. The lady and I already have plans.”

“Really? If she’s so awesome, I’d have thought you guys would want to hang out with her and get sexy.”

He chuckled.

“Oh, we already have.”

Three days later, at roughly seven o’clock in the evening, I arrived at her apartment.

“You can’t go dressed like that!” she exclaimed as she opened the door, gesturing to my sweater-and-jeans ensemble. “We’ll have to find you an outfit.”

And, so it was that, half an hour later, I found myself in her bathroom, mostly naked, being dressed up like Britney Spears.

Though I would ordinarily draw the line at dressing in drag, I was also a few ball-gags short of a bondage outfit, and, as Sin City was in the habit of refusing entry to those dressed “inappropriately”, we decided it was our only option. Following extensive discussion, we’d settled on a “schoolgirl” look: skirt, knee-socks, wig, and a bra stuffed with mini-apples, for that adolescent look. With the addition of a pair of glasses, and some collagen-based plumping lip gloss (that my host assured me was absolutely necessary), the look was complete. Filled with  trepidation, I stood back, and examined myself in the mirror.

Dear Lord, I thought.

I was fucking hideous.

“Well, you’re going to steal the show.” Ms. Manners grinned.

“I hope you’re right.”

“You will.” she replied. “Here, have some more collagen.”

An hour after that, we arrived at Sin City. The party itself was already in full swing, and there were people everywhere; people in fetish gear, people in themed outfits, a woman in nothing but a mesh bodystocking, her privates covered by strategically-placed condoms. There was a dance-floor, a spank-station, even a kissing booth. It was as if I’d stumbled into some bizarre sexual Disneyland, and, from the minute she entered the building, Ms. Manners was like a 5-year-old on Christmas morning.

“This place is amazing!” she gushed.

Then, she vanished into the crowd.

“The first naked person to run up and hug me gets a free beer!” a female voice shouted, from the nearby stage.

Alone, lost, and in a strange situation, I did the only thing I could think of: hit the bar, and loaded my hands up with as many drinks as I could carry. When I ran into Ms. Manners again a moment later, she was exuberant.

“They have a Spank Station!” she beamed.

I laughed nervously.

“Yeah, I saw that.”

“It’s two dollars per spank. And they have a number of different implements to choose from, from a wooden spoon to the Holy Bible.”

“Uh, cool,” I replied.

She smiled.

“I went for the Bible.”

Then, she was gone again.

I stood, confused.

Who the hell was this girl?

I spent the next thirty minutes wandering the party. My outfit was, as Ms. Manners had predicted, a huge hit. Women flirted. Men grabbed my ass. I didn’t have to worry about fancy techniques; conversations virtually started themselves. On the surface, I could see why the scene appealed to people; as unnerved as I’d initially been, it was actually freeing to be a freak. Surging with confidence, I began chatting up a cute brunette by the stairs.

“I hope you’re not wearing underwear under that kilt,” she remarked, glancing at my legs.

And, while I would ordinarily draw the line at removing my underwear in a public place, the vibe was so open and supportive, (and my senses were already so dulled by the six or seven beers coursing through my system) that I really couldn’t see any reason to disagree.

So, I bent at the waist, and took them off.

The young woman cheered, and we exchanged triumphant knuckle-pounds. Just then, Ms. Manners reappeared, her face aglow, a drink in each hand, and, having (judging from her level of giddiness) likely made a few additional trips to the Spank Station.

“Ian,” she said, her voice serious, “come with me. I need to show you something.”

She took me by the hand, and, grinning, led me up several flights of stairs.

And then, we entered hell itself.

The Dungeon couldn’t have been more than a thousand square feet in total. Two large bay windows gave an unparalleled view of the waterfront. Black lights illuminated the rest of the room, giving it a distinctly disturbing feel. And, suspended before us, giggling madly, was a voluptuous, naked woman having her ass spanked repeatedly by a three-hundred-pound man in medieval torture gear.

“Jesus Christ.” I said.

There were three Doms in the room, including the hirsute medieval one, and, as we entered, they greeted Ms. Manners gleefully.

“You’re back!” said one of them. “Think you want to give it a try after all?”

She nodded her head enthusiastically, but, for the first time all night, a flicker of apprehension crossed her face.

“You’ll love it,” one of the Doms promised.

Ms. Manners turned in my direction.

“This is something I’d really like to try,” she breathed.

The Dom shrugged.

“Or, you two could always try it together.”

I fought to stave off a coronary.

But, at the same time, Ms. Manners’ eyes lit up.

“Oh, that sounds lovely. Ian, doesn’t that sound lovely?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Really? You’ll do it with me?”

And, while I would ordinarily draw the line at stripping down and being humiliated in front of a bunch of strangers, by this point The Line had been left so far behind that it might as well have been in Uruguay. It was so far in the distance, I couldn’t even tell where the damn thing was anymore, let alone know whether I’d crossed it.

And so, before I could really allow myself to think about what I’d just agreed to, we stripped down to our underwear.

Ms. Manners removed her bra, which, at two hours in, marked the soonest I’d ever seen a person’s nipples after meeting them.

Then, it was time to be tied.

The process took nearly ten minutes. As my Dom informed me, we’d be suspended from a number of different positions, so proper preparation was key.

I took deep breaths. Attempted to focus on the scenery. Made awkward conversation with anyone who would listen. By now, there was quite the crowd gathering around the bondage frame, and I was ecstatic that the black light would hide how red I’d suddenly grown.

Minutes passed.

Beside me, Ms. Manners was nearly finished, her body a mass of twisting rope.

Our eyes met for a moment, and I gave my best impression of a cavalier, carefree smile.

She grinned back.

“How’s my hair?”


“My hair. Is it okay?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s fine.”

You daffy broad, I thought.

We’re almost naked, about to be hogtied and hung from the ceiling like sides of beef, and struck repeatedly by a refugee from The Lord of the Rings, and you’re asking me how your fucking hair looks?

Who the hell was this girl?

I took more breaths.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. In fact, this should be exciting, shouldn’t it? I was having a brand-new experience, after all. Isn’t this what healthy, adventurous people strove to do every single day? How many of my friends could stand up and say: “I spent my New Year’s Eve being tenderized by a hairy fellow with a thyroid problem”? If I didn’t like it, I never had to do it again. But, for now, I should simply relax, lay back, and open my mind to the wonder of a new experience.

I was experimental.

I was open-minded.

I could distance myself from it, take note of my observations in the moment, and draw a sensible conclusion afterward. Like a science experiment.

“Here we go,” my Dom said. “Is this okay?”

Yeah, of course it is, I thought. It’s a goddamn retirement cruise.

A second later, we were hoisted into the air. The rope bit into my wrists. Observations, I thought. Focus on the observations.

The first thing I noticed was that it hurt.

The second thing I noticed was that it hurt a lot.

Beside me, Ms. Manners was in her own world, arching her back in ecstasy as two of the Doms took turns spanking her at maximum strength.

Now, everyone has their own responses to dealing with anxiety.

Some people laugh at inappropriate moments. Others freeze, unable to make a sound.

I, on the other hand, could not shut up.

It must have been a horrible sight: me, eyes wide, gaping like a goldfish, mouth spewing a nonstop deluge of superfluous words and phrases.

And, what’s worse, it was mostly puns.

“It’s been great hanging out with you tonight, man.”

“I’d love to help, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

“Do you think we could rope someone into getting some water for us?”

It was profoundly unfortunate. By this point, Ms. Manners was completely ignoring me, as were both of the Doms, preferring instead, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, to enjoy the experience with the hot, mid-twenties woman who shared their particular kink.

I tried to remain calm.

This wasn’t just the weirdest thing I’d ever done. It was by far the weirdest thing I’d ever done. I was completely out of my comfort zone. In fact, as far as I could tell, not a single aspect of this situation was in any way familiar. I could have been on fucking Mars, for all I knew.

“So, uh, what’s your name?” I asked the ogreish Dom, hoping that the conversation might return some semblance of normalcy to my evening.

“Skunky,” he replied.

“How about you?” I asked the next.


You had to be kidding me.

At this point, Ian (who I will now call “Satan”, for ease of reference), and the other Dom moved us into a new position, and resumed their spankings.

Suddenly, I felt the sting of a hand across my buttocks.

Then, it happened again.

And again.

And, suddenly, we were both being spanked, and she was biting at my thigh and ass-cheek, and I was nipping at her breasts and shoulder, and then we were flipped around, and the crowd was murmuring their appreciation and then our faces brushed one another, and all I could think of was how truly excellent it would be if I could work up the courage to just kiss her while we were hanging there… and then it was over.

Satan removed our restraints, thanked us, and we put our clothes back on like nothing had even happened.

“Wow,” I remarked, slipping back into my skirt, “that was crazy.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I kind of wish you’d just started kissing me while we were up there. That would have totally made the moment.”

I cursed myself.

“Oh, yeah. Uh, totally.”

“I would have done it myself, but I kind of have a crush on this guy I’m sleeping with right now. You know how it is.”

Then, she was gone.

Yep, it was official: that was the weirdest science experiment I’d ever been involved in.

On the lengthy cab-ride home, I thought about what had happened.

If DJ StrangeLove had challenged my existing perceptions of sex, love, and relationships, Ms. Manners completely shattered them. Who were these people in Vancouver who existed outside all of the cozy boundaries of “normalcy”?

People who had sex with others, and still maintained a loving relationship.

People who had crushes, and still didn’t mind a quick bite of stranger-ass.

And I realized that, despite my nerves, the experience with Ms. Manners had awakened something in me. Something primal. Something aggressive.

I wanted to branch out. I wanted to experience all of the things I’d been missing.

For the first time, I wanted to truly embrace being single, and all that came with it.

I was officially about to become a menace to society.

Ian Hannon is currently lonely, single, and a guy.



  1. So great! A nice snap shot of Sin City.

  2. do people (females) like this actually exist? and where do I find them?

Leave a Reply

Comment moderation is enabled, no need to resubmit any comments posted.

About Us

The Dependent Magazine is a Vancouver-based publication of daring and creative works of journalism and entertainment.


Want to get involved?


Send text, pictures, videos, and crude drawings to

The Facebook

Copyright © 2018 · The Dependent Magazine | Vancouver | Powered by WordPress