My understanding of S&M has been something that has
eluded me since I discovered its existence.
A most prominent Vancouver poet once demonstrated how she
improved her earnings by banging her black pump hard on a table of the Railway
Club where we had our customary Thursday lunches. It seems that businessmen
paid her good money for her to walk on their backs with said pumps. I could not
imagine finding pleasure in being exposed to such excruciating pain.
My friend M, a lovely Italian, liked to play tough by
wearing some of the trappings of S&M. But she might have been doing this at
a time when punks ruled and had adopted some of them.
Voluptuous as M was she
could not hide a soft touch, a feminine touch, a sympathetic touch that made
her such a good friend to chat with over coffee on Commercial Drive.
In spite of her pleasant smile somehow she could not hide
a sweetness that was tinged by a little sorrow. The only time she would not show
it was over a dish of gnocchi at Carlucci’s on East Hastings.