WHIPPING

Some of us think that holding on makes us strong. 

But sometimes it is the letting go.

---Herman Hesse, Nobel Prize winning German-Swiss poet, novelist, and painter.

DREAM: Whipping the Man. (November 3, 1991. Two years and one month after my memory returned.) 

I am in a spacious Victorian house with high ceilings and beautiful wood floors. The house is empty of all furniture.  I am there to be a prostitute. 

I observe them bring a man into the room. They tie him down on a table and they whip him. Supposedly he is into S & M and enjoys it. People are watching. A man tells when to stop the whipping.

I am standing in the room and I see something go past the door that makes me hide my eyes.  

I have had several dreams where I am on an estate with large sweeping lawns like the one described here.  Pornographers often rent houses in beautiful settings where privacy was available.

I have tried to remember what walked past the door that caused me to hide my eyes. It was a ghost-like smear across my vision, and I had a  physical visceral reaction to it. It must have been something so horrible I don't want to  remember it. 

THE PHOTOGRAPHER

In 1983, six years before my memory returned, I met a professional photographer at a party and engaged him in conversation. He was easy to talk to and we hit it off. I'll call him Robert.

“Do you give private lessons?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Come to my studio and I’ll see how I can help you.”

He lived in the Castro District of San Francisco and his sunny photography studio was located on the lower level of his house. Mounted on the wall in the staircase were a series of artistic photographs of nude same sex couples, embracing. In his studio, I sat at a large table and displayed my photos taken at the opera. He talked about cropping and commented that I had a good eye.

“How much do you charge?” I asked.

“Rather than asking for payment, I like to exchange services,” he said. “For example, I might ask for a massage in exchange for a portrait session.” He brought out photographs of couples and a man dressed in bondage garb.The man had on a head mask, neck collar, chains, high heels, and glossy black leather pants that exposed his buttocks. Robert watched me closely.

Completely oblivious to what others would have figured out, I reminded myself he was an artist and lived on a different plane than others.

At the end of our session when I insisted on paying him, he said, “Take me out to dinner.”

A few days later I called and invited him to a popular restaurant. We talked well into the evening. His life history was unusual and his stories interested me. 

“I belong to a bisexual sex club,” he said. "I regularly meet at the home of a married couple. I have had a long-term affair with both the man and the woman. My relationship with the man has been the most satisfying liaison of my life.” He then added, “I'm also into bondage. A psychiatrist helps with my masochistic feelings.”

Sitting quietly, I was pleased he trusted me enough to share his feelings. Life and group therapy in New York had taught me to be non-judgmental about people’s lifestyles. At the same time, I was disturbed, and wondered what had happened in his life to cause him to enjoy being abused.

Near midnight, I drove him home.

“Would you like to come in and see my whips and other paraphernalia?” he asked.

Shocked, I declined with a shake of my head, and started home. Now, feelings came to the surface. My mind reeled. Why had the various clues gone unseen? What was there about me that refused to see what was going on? Why was he so forthright with his lifestyle? Why would he think I would participate?

Deep depression descended upon me. Empathy for this sad man was mixed with distress over what had transpired. Why hadn’t I picked up on his proclivities when he showed me the S and M pictures? My mind was in turmoil.

 At four a.m., when sleep would not come, I called him and said, “I feel bad.”

“Don't worry about it. I'm okay,” he replied, ending the conversation. I never saw him again. 

The next day I started therapy once again.

 

ABOUT MY PHOTOGRAPHY

From time to time friends ask why I end most blogs with a photograph I have taken, many of which have nothing to do with what I have written.  

My photography is part of my story, and is one of the ways I kept from going crazy. Every weekend I would travel miles to find photographic subjects. I tent camped in beautiful places and enjoy the healing powers of nature. These adventures are part of my story.

Anyone suffering from post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) will benefit from spending time alone in the great outdoors. Mother Nature will help you heal.  

Glorious California Poppy 

 P.S. My book, ABDUCTED, My Struggle to Remember will be published in a few weeks, and will be available on Amazon. I’ll keep you posted.

 Onward and Upward.