I was lying on a bed of nails and she walked off with her ex-boyfriend.
No, that’s not some lame metaphor—she actually did walk off with him right while those damn nails were digging into my back.
Perhaps that was the point at which I should have realised that she didn’t give a fuck about me.
It really got that bad. With Lilianna I mean. Yes, it was a bout of oneitus. And this is my mea culpa.
OK,you’ve read Rational Male, you’ve read Pimp by Iceberg Slim, you’ve read Heartiste (back before he went nuts), you’ve read ROK. Hell, you’ve even written for ROK. But you can still catch feelings. It happens.
And, as Tom Torero has pointed out, it often hits players harder—not because we get hooked on the sex, which is easily replaceable, but on female affection, which is not.
Somewhere between Budapest, Berlin and London I caught feelings for this skinny little brunette Hungarian girl with a taste for Depeche Mode and having her bare ass spanked.
Yes, the sex was great, and yes, her blowjobs were just as accomplished as my ex’s. But here’s the thing: girls are tricky. And as soon as you let in a little chink of light, as soon as you lose the frame even momentarily, they’re apt to crush you.
That I presented myself to her as a dom when we met in Torture Garden is embarrassing. She told me she was a sub. And yet in the power struggle between the two of us she won out—right up until the end, that is.
I am not really a dom in the BDSM sense—I simply don’t know enough about it, about what to do—but I am certainly dominant in terms of male-female polarity. Or that is my aim. But show a girl that you like her, even a little bit, and you can guarantee that she’ll make your life hell for it. Unless she’s in love with you, that is.
That night in Zagreb keeps returning to me like a fucking Agatha Christie novel. Little shards of it come back, glittering, sparkling and lacerating, demanding my attention.
I only remembered about the bed of nails thing this morning. Look, it was a weird party in Zagreb full of fetish goth people who listen to too much Sisters of Mercy while self-mutilating. They’d laid on a bed of nails for the revellers—what can I tell you?
We’d watched a girl orgasming on it. Yes, really. Human sexuality is a very strange thing.
I decided to give it a try myself.
Pathetically, a small part of my motivation for doing so was to impress Lillianna. Look at me, I’m so tough, lying on these nails, even though a tiny girl half my size has just done the same thing.
Lillianna encouraged me.
‘You should try give it a go if you’d like to.’
I stepped forward. There were two men standing beside the nail bed helping people get on and off. One had a long beard and looked like Rasputin. The other was wearing a three-piece suit and a monocle like something out of Dickens.
(Later we found out that these guys were not actually even official nail bed helpers, but just random partygoers, a point that somewhat disturbed me in hindsight.)
They each took one of my hands and told me to back up so my ass was over the nails. Then they explained how I should crouch and then lie back so as to position my body weight evenly over those four-inch mini-daggers.
As though preparing to take a bungee jump I steeled myself, leaned back and tried to relax as much as I could as they lowered me down..
It’s a strange experience. The first thing I felt, not without some concern, was the material of my pants being punctured by nails as my ass touched down.
This didn’t bode well.
‘Just relax, you’re doing great’, one of the guys said.
I attempted to do so. Now my back and shoulders were being spiked. It was particularly painful around my upper back. I grimaced.
‘Stay relaxed,’ said one of the guys. ‘The less you resist the more even your weight will be and the less it will hurt.’
I cleared my mind. This would be like meditation. If I could just think of nothing, offer up no resistance, then all would be well.
I zoned out. Amazingly, it worked. While the nails still dug in, the less I tried to avoid the pain, the less my body pressed into them the less pain there was to endure.
In the background all the while I could still hear Liliana’s voice as she spoke excitedly to the girl who had gone before me. It was nice that she was watching. Nice that she was there to support me in this somewhat unusual—and potentially hazardous—endeavour.
Once I’d relaxed the guys left me lying there for quite a while. Longer than I’d expected. I grew restless, even a little worried. What if they left me there and just walked off? How the hell would I get up? Any reassignment of weight could lead to severe and painful consequences.
But now they were back.
‘You had enough yet,’ one of them grinned as they held out their hands and grasped mine, pulling me up into a standing position once more.
It’s hard to describe the sensation you feel when you are relieved of discomfort in this way, but let me tell you it was pretty spectacular. It has been said that happiness is the cessation of pain. Let me tell you, I felt a warm glow of genuine happiness as I stood there, finally separated from those unforgiving nails.
And then I looked around for Lillianna. Sure enough, as I feared, she’d gone. Annoyed, I went to look for her. If I don’t find her soon I’m calling an Uber and getting the hell out of here, I said to myself.
I bumped into her a second later. She was with Rafa, her ex-boyfriend. They’d walked off somewhere together.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘How was it? It was so cool that you did that!’
It is funny how in the moment I can still too readily accept what is unacceptable. Is it a dick move for a girl to go to a club event with a guy and then wander off with her ex—-particularly when he’s in a vulnerable, even dangerous situation? Yes, sure it is. But, perhaps because of my remaining inherent British politeness and reserve I tacitly accepted her amenable tone and didn’t make an issue of it (my eventual walk out from the club was to come later).
Then this week she messaged me to apologise and to invite me to a BDSM party in Budapest at the weekend—-on the proviso that we may not be able to ‘play’ since she has also been seeing a ‘vanilla’ guy from Tinder and she doesn’t want to ‘cheat’.
One more thing, I do like you and I also have fun playing with you but am also seeing a vanilla guy for a while in Budapest lately so am not sure until when I can be playing around as I do not like cheating. With this other guy we havent even kissed or anything but I do kinda like him so I would like to be free if you come over to visit me. Well in regards of playing…so to play only if we both feel like.
Otherwise I would be glad to spend some days together. I do not have anything else to do these days other than the conference.
So if you are happy to hang out without pressure feel free to come over for some fun.
Yes, it beggars belief. And it’s odd seeing as the attraction was still present a few days ago when she was blowing me enthusiastically in a public sauna.
But no matter—I’m done. I didn’t respond. I’ve had no contact with her since Saturday and won’t again. I’ve lost all respect and interest in her.
Trying to salvage positives from such a shitshow is a bit like trying to argue that Brexit is going well. However, of nothing else it has reminded me of the need for cast iron frame at all times. It also demonstrates that you can’t second guess the nature of a girl, and that no matter how sweet she may seem, she is still in possession of those same deadly feminine wiles as her bitchier sisters.
It has also forced me to look anew at my own dating life. For once again I was in danger of sliding into some form of monotonous coupledom with this girl due to my desire for comfort and her affection. But this cannot be my gameplan, since the whole point of striking out on own, leaving my job and so on is to find freedom.
The fact that this somewhat sordid business has forced me to forget all thoughts of Lilianna for good and to pursue other opportunities is something I can only be grateful for.
I’ve said it before and I will continue saying it until the day I die—your greatest leverage is not giving a fuck and your greatest power is your ability to walk away at the drop of a hat. Carve that into your flesh somewhere: I certainly need to.