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What Happened When My Husband And I Dabbled In BDSM

06/18/2013 10:29 am ET | Updated Aug 18, 2013

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(Trying on BDSM-wear on Carnaby Street in London circa 1986. A harbinger of things to come.)

Before kids my husband Henry and I decided to walk on the wild side one night when we accepted an invitation from friends to attend a BDSM (Bondage, Dominance, Sadism, Masochism) Valentine's Day party hosted by the ever discreet and refined Mike Boner.

I prepared for my Date with Discipline by over-tweezing my eyebrows and self-flagellation with a disposable Bic razor. My shins were flayed hairless. Henry prepared for his Salsa with Submission by letting me pick out his party clothes. When he asked if he could wear his Plantar Fasciitis Orthodic Walking Shoes I whipped his ass with his own belt and forced him into a pair of overly-snug Florsheim loafers. I didn't want him to disappoint the foot fetishists we'd likely encounter.

We arrived at the party girded to be spanked into a coma whereupon sex-ghouls would descend on us with amyl nitrate poppers that would launch us into an orgiastic delirium from which we would emerge tattooed and pierced from stem to stern. And Henry would be pregnant.

This did not happen. What actually happened was much darker.

We entered the party/dungeon to a sight we'd see in Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder flashbacks for years to come; an albino-white, morbidly obese, red-headed eighty-year old man wearing nothing but a spiked dog-collar and a smile sitting in what appeared to be a gigantic bird cage dangling from the ceiling and an equally elderly lady (his wife perhaps?) decked out in a plush kitty suit energetically poking him through the bars of his cage with a sharp umbrella.

It should be noted here that IT WASN'T EVEN RAINING OUTSIDE!

Next we came upon a group of people who appeared to be from a Land's End catalogue wearing Polo shirts, chino shorts and Sperry Topsiders. They passed a joint around, glassy-eyed. I prayed they didn't succumb to mob mentality and force Henry and I into turtlenecks, mistaking us for smother fetishists.

We darted to the bar where neither of us could buy an alcoholic beverage because alcohol gives Henry migraines and it exacerbates my Irritable Bowel Syndrome. A woman dressed like Nurse Ratched must have overheard because she offered to give me an enema. I politely declined while Henry I ordered us hot tea. Herbal hibiscus, in case you were wondering.

We embarked in search of our friends and after fighting our way through various chains and thumb-screws found them in the outdoor patio by a medieval torture rack where a straight-jacketed Asian man named Frank -- who was a math tutor by day -- endured mild pinching from a Queen-sized Dominatrix wearing a halo neck-brace. Her name was Edith and she'd been rear-ended by an illegal. In her car -- for clarification.

As we tried to make sense of the scene our host for the evening, Mike Boner, approached. He was notably malnourished, stark-naked and impressively hairy. I thought perhaps he had some kind of BDSM bit in his mouth, but it turns out he'd just gotten adult braces for an overbite.

He apologized for not shaking our hands because his right hand tenderly held his small, pink, flaccid penis aloft as if it were a sad, tiny, overcooked appetizer on a tray. I couldn't decide whether we should get Mike Boner straight to the ER to see if his member could ever be resuscitated or to the DMV to change his name to something more suitable i.e. Mike Noodle? Mike Top Ramen? Anybody? I could use a little help here.

Instead, thirty seconds later Henry and I were smacked in the face by a strong, frigid gust of winter air as we dashed from the dungeon and fled directly to the nearest Starbucks to order chai lattes and apple fritters to soothe ourselves.

Later in bed that night we tried to have sex in the missionary position, but the memory of Mike Boner's wan penis caused so many bouts of lacerating laughter that we settled for watching Matthew Broderick have awkward missionary-position sex in Biloxi Blues.

It was at this very moment that Henry and I realized that although we were adept at once-evey-ten-years role playing, we were never destined to become sexual libertines. It was a loss we'd just have to learn to live with.

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I'd love to hear your PG-13 debaculous (a new word: debacle + ridiculous) sex tales. Anonymously or not!