She seemed very disappointed, but didn't press the issue. I rinsed the dishes, but she had to unload the dishwasher before she could load it, and so it took her longer. I used the opportunity to sneak back into the bedroom and find what I wanted. Several months after we were married, we'd gone to a Halloween costume party, and she'd let me pick out her outfit ... an peasant skirt and blouse that proved to be VERY risqué (I went as a nasty Scottish Laird, demanding my "Right of the First Night"). I laid out the outfit, then went back and confronted her. "I want us to go somewhere," I told her simply. "I want you wear what's on the bed."
"Rod! I'm not going to go ANYWHERE wearing that thing!" she protested when she'd seen what I'd picked. But I simply ignored her, walked back out into the living room and made a phone call to make sure the store I wanted was open. Fifteen minutes later, there she was, her entire body covered in a soft blush.
She looked fantastic. The blouse had such a low-scooped neckline that only the brassier she purchased especially for the costume would work without showing. I was browsing the internet once for "famous TV ad campaigns," and came across a commercial by a famous 50's actress named Jane Russell that touted brassieres for the "full figured gal" ... and that fit Elaine to a "t." She was big up top (and rather generous in the hips department, as well). In the low-cut blouse and push-up bra, it was practically like she was offering herself to every man that looked. And every man WOULD look, believe you me. But I just nodded as if I had fully expected the effect, as well as her compliance. "Leave your purse," I stated frankly. "You won't need it. Let's go." And I held the door to the garage. She blushed some more, but walked past me with lowered eyes and got in the car.
We took the 134 to the 5 to the 118. The San Gabriel Mountains were on our right, the Hollywood Hills on our left. Now, I realize that every city in the world has its own culture and its own language, at least to some extent. For the 99% of my English-speaking audience that has never been to Los Angeles, please allow me to tell you a little about ours. First, it's a bit of a standing joke that if anyone asks you how long it takes you to get from ____ to ____, then no matter what you put into those blanks, be it your home, Great Aunt Sookie's house, Disneyland, whatever, the answer is ALWAYS "Oh, about 45 minutes, depending on traffic." The last part of that sentence, of course, could add two hours, easily. And so, when Elaine asked me where we were going, I told her that she'd find out when we got there in about 45 minutes, depending on traffic. This won me a small smile before she blushed even more and tried not to look at the truckers who were all looking down at HER.
Yet another oddity in L.A. is our habit of naming every freeway "THE." Odder still, we simply can't fathom why visitors to our fair city ask us why we do that. There is, of course, no answer to the question. It is simply so. Anyway, from the 118, I turned off on Sepulveda. (For you 99%, that's pronounced "se-PUL-ve-da.") Now, there are a lot of cities that boast about having the longest street in the world. Our entry to this claim is Sepulveda Boulevard, which stretches 42.8 miles from Long Beach to the San Fernando Valley, under the runways at LAX, over hill and dale, through some great neighborhoods and ... well ... some not so great. I had researched where I was going ... which is pretty much a necessity, if you actually want to GET anywhere in L.A., and after several more miles and several turns, I pulled into the parking lot of the store I was seeking.
My last little entry in your Los Angeles trivia lesson is a comment on business. California is the number one state economy in the country. It almost doubles the second-place state, and is ten times the GNP of many others. Don't get me wrong ... there are problems, too. Several manufacturers bailed out of Southern California in the 1970's and 80's citing high taxes and stifling environmental restrictions. But, without exaggeration, there are more professionals per capita here, in just about every conceivable market, than anywhere else on earth. Be it rocket propulsion or lawn care ... folks WANT to work, and pride themselves as the best in their fields. So, it's the people that make California work ... and it works very well. However, in L.A., there is only one industry that earns the moniker "THE Industry," and that, of course, is entertainment. TV, movies, music recording, you name it. You're either in THE industry, or you know somebody who is, be it a writer, editor, actor, set designer, hair stylist, grip, or any of the hundreds of other occupations involved.
And just one of the multitude of sidelines in THE Industry is porn. They like to call it:"The Adult Industry." Oh, there are a lot of people that frown on it, obviously. But let's face it, when you've got a business in your community that's responsible for billions of dollars in revenue, it only makes sense that you would tend to overlook some of the detractors.
It was at one of the vendors of this industry that we now arrived. It was a rather non-descript building, as you may imagine, but it announced a few of its wares in large red letters that were trimmed in neon bulbs, though those sat unilluminated in the daylight. "Adult Books -- Videos -- Accessories." Elaine's eyes widened, and she sat stock-still, even when I got out, walked around the car, and stood holding her door open. She looked up at me like a young doe caught in the headlights, then she took a deep breath and swung her shapely legs out of the vehicle and stood. She held my arm tightly as I walked into the structure.
Behind the counter sat one of the skuzziest individuals I've ever seen. He was a man of about forty, slightly shorter than my five-foot-eleven, and perhaps two hundred thirty pounds. His beard wasn't so much long as unkempt, and his oily hair was drawn back into a short ponytail. He looked up at us with a minor attempt at showing interest and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I called earlier," I told him. "Your website advertises that you have the greatest selection of sexual restraints in the area. My wife here would like to see what you have."
The guy silently closed a paperback novel entitled "Ravished Nuns Tied and Trained," stood up and walked around the counter to us. He wore stained leather pants and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots, and his brawny right forearm displayed a Hell's Angels tattoo under the sleeve of his filthy white tee shirt. He stood inches in front of Elaine, who clutched my arm with crushing fingers, and he said: "Madame, it is indeed superlative luck on your part that you happened to find your way into our establishment. We do, indeed, possess an impressive assortment of the devices you so desperately seek. If you would please precede me into the area at the rear of the edifice, I would be most pleased to explain the differentiations between those items which make up the finer echelons of our inventory."
I might have made a small sound in the base of my throat, but I gallantly kept from laughing. Elaine, on the other hand, continued to regard the man with mute, wide-eyed wonder, and after a long pause, I gently urged her in the direction indicated. The biker followed us as we walked through a hanging curtain of wooden beads and into Bondage Wonderland. The room was large ... maybe twenty feet square ... and the walls were stocked with so many displayed restraint devices that I came to a flabbergasted halt, staring around me in stunned awe. To this day, I have no idea what half the stuff in that room was supposed to do, but our guide slid past us with a quiet "If you will pardon me ...," and stood in front of the far wall, which looked as if it was the all-encompassing final word in sexual discipline.
I glanced nervously at my wife, who was staring in open-mouthed shock, before I finally realized that my own mouth was agape, and I tried my darnedest to put on the mask of one who was supposed to be a little more urbane about such matters. When I finally turned back to our salesman, he was holding up a pair of standard handcuffs, the bright silver finish having already captured Elaine's unwavering attention. "Now, these are obviously customary, regular-issue restraining paraphernalia used by the constabulary in The City of Angels, as well as other centers of urban population. Their only strong selling point is their ease of operation." He held out his hand to Elaine as he said this, palm up. Automatically, she reached out and put her hand in his. In a wink, he had brought the cuff up, smacked it gently against her wrist, and the narrow ratcheting portion spun around her arm and snapped into place with a metallic click. He let go of it and turned back to the wall for something else, and Elaine watched with bulging eyes as the thing swung gently to and fro from her slender wrist in front of her. She was utterly enthralled. "Been on the receiving end of a pair of those me-self, once" he muttered under his breath, before turning back to her with another pair ... this one with a chain almost two feet long between the cuffs.
"Now, this little beauty is a pair of leg restraints, obviously designed to be used on your lovely ankles and hamper proper mobility. Ah, but you see, used in another context, it also has the propensity for marginalizing movement of the arms, as well." He had walked around her, and now held both of her wrists by her sides from behind, though he hadn't actually attached the thing to either wrist. Elaine simple stood there, blinking her big eyes, staring straight ahead of her. "You can well imagine the degree of utter helplessness this might elicit," he told her. "If you were lying prone on your back, you understand, your hands would be trapped. Useless. Unmoving. You would be utterly immobile. Defenseless. Powerless. Vulnerable."
