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06-21-03, for Ruthie
Whips and Chains and Puppy Dog Tails, That's what Birthdays are Made of
No introduction tonight. She gives the patrons of La Taverna no time to adjust to her presence, no time to speculate, no time to wonder what she's bringing, what gifts she's bearing (or what parts she might be baring…). No. Just Our Nymph on the stage.
The lights are dark, we can see her in shadows only, but there is a hum from the rarely used footlights and we know that they will, at any moment, reveal the scene for tonight's presentation.
And the Patrons are not disappointed. In one instant, the stage is bathed in a harsh, white light, which throws an ominous shadow of Our Nymph against the bare white wall behind her. Ominous, yes. But more than that, it's a lurking shadow, one of intimidating proportions. It hangs there, threatening, warning the Patrons. But warning them of…?
Our Nymph. Could it be? Where are the soft lines? Where are the delicate slippers? Where is the gently plunging neckline? Who is this? This…this…this figure clad in black leather, studded bracelets encircling each tiny wrist, silver zipper poised between her breasts? Since when does Our Nymph, our sweet, delicate, oh-so-caring and sensitive Nymph cover her calves and thighs in vinyl boots? Since when does Our Nymph encase her dainty fingers in black satin gloves? And when, oh when and why, did Our Nymph cover her wand with rough braided leather?
But it is, without a doubt, Our Nymph. Which means that it must also be a birthday. There is a palpable silence, a nervous hush, but no one moves. No one dares. But no one knows why, after all, this is just Our Nymph, isn't it?
She stands in the center of the bare stage, lit by the white lights, a stark, crisp image against the plain wall behind her. But it's not just a wall. It's a cabinet—we can see, just barely, the line where the doors pull away and open. One hand, one arm raises, the arm with the now-frightening wand, and she gives a quick, decisive flick of her wrist. Sparks fly from the tip, and the doors behind her slowly swing outward, revealing the contents of the cabinet. Could these be presents?
“Ahem.” There was, of course, no need for the attention-getting beginning, but it's tradition.
“Thank you.” Her voice is cold tonight. Terse. Controlled. Different.
“Yes, we have a birthday, but it's one that I don't believe you're worthy of viewing. Our birthday girl tonight is, shall we say, ‘demanding.' And she's earned your respect. Which means, of course, that I expect you all—yes, you too, Sir. Sit down. If you needed to relieve yourself, you should have thought about that before we started. You're interrupting.
“Now. Yes, respect. The gifts tonight reflect what I've been told is our Birthday Girl's true talents. Her absolute personality distilled to its finest form. Sit up, and I'll consider sharing them with you.
“Behind me you see that which is … Ruthie.”
She turns and brings forth the first of many objects from the cabinet behind her. When she turns back around, we can see, cradled in her hands, a whip. But not just any whip. The handle is nearly as long as Our Nymph is tall. The tail of the whip glistens against the wooden floor. A thin, stiff tail with a twitching tip. “This,” explains our Nymph, “is for the woman among us who is known for her artistry in whipping authors.”
There's a small roobah-roobah moving through the bar as patrons begin, hesitantly, to whisper.
She snaps the tip of the whip against the floor and stomps one of her stiletto heels, leaving a visible scuff in the floor. “Quiet.”
And, strangely enough, it is.
“Next, I give you this.” And from the cabinet, Our Nymph brings forth a clanking row of matte-silver links, a chain. “As many of you may know, Ruthie prides herself in keeping her authors in chains while they're being whipped.”
One brave soul stands and comes to the foot of the stage. “Um, Nymph?”
“Hush. Sit. I'm not done.”
And, strangely enough, he does.
Next, from the deeper recesses of the cabinet comes a satin-and-bone structure, something that appears more like a structure, something “built” than something sewn. Our Nymph holds it in front of her so the Patrons can see, and at the same moment the doors to La Taverna open, and a boisterous voice is heard.
“Hey! It's to fucking quiet in here! What is this? A bar or a funeral?”
The voice, and the bearer of the voice, is met with a hush—a frightened, fearful hush.
Our Nymph taps her vinyl-covered toe against the wooden floorboards. “Here. Bring that one to me.”
And, strangely enough, they do.
He's brought, struggling (albeit not too hard) in front of this nymph-who-no-longer-resembles-Our-Nymph, who quickly wraps the satin contraption around the poor sap.
“Hold still. Hold him.” She stands behind this volunteer, and with one foot braced against his back, as the patrons strain forward for a peek under her raised leg, she pulls. And pulls. And pulls. Until the man is red faced and trying to gasp. Gone is his boisterous voice. In fact, gone is his ability to make a boisterous—or any type—of voice. And, gone is his waist.
“I've been told by one of her employees—Willie? Billie? William. Yes. William. I've been told by William that our Birthday Girl, Ms. Ruthie Herself, is a pleased with a cinch. I think this will be good, don't you?”
Strangely enough, the patrons all knew not to answer.
“While we allow him to stand there, thinking about what he's done, I draw your attention to the next present.” With a wave of her leather-cased wand, the lights move to shine up to the rafters, where the patrons see a primly dressed elderly lady swinging from a body harness. “Again, I've been told by her authors that Ms. Ruthie is quite attached to hanged up proper grandmas. And, as many of you know, we Nymphs aim to please.”
“And now, for the coup de grace!” She waves her wand and the poor, cinched sap's trousers are around his ankles. “Over! Touch your toes!”
And, maybe not so strangely enough, he does.
From the cabinet, that dreaded, dark, evil cabinet, our Nymph brings forth the biggest, darkest, widest “plug” seen in La Taverna since, well, since that unfortunate demonstration after the last Black Rose convention (there are, folks, some things that are best left to the experts).
“I've been assured that Ms. Ruthie, our Birthday Girl, is most fond of keeping her authors plugged. In fact, I've been told, she's most fond of the anal variety. So…”
“Okay! Enough!” A voice from the back of the bar interrupts our Nymph as she's mere inches away from the volunteer's, um, more personal areas.
“Nymph. You've got it all wrong.”
The Patrons gasp. One big, collective intake of breath, but it's enough to break the spell. Our Nymph stops, delicately sets the plug on its base on the floor and kneels down to listen to the frantic whispers of the patron, who has moved to the foot of the stage.
Every few seconds our Nymph repeats, incredulously, something being explained to her.
Mutter, mutter, mutter, “whipping STORIES into shape?” Mutter, mutter, “chaining authors to keyboards? But that's, that's, that's metaphorical, isn't it?
“Oh dear.”
She stops and looks back at the victim still shaking, bent over and holding his ankles. “Oh. William said that pleasing Ruthie IS a cinch? Oh darn. You know, she won't be overly happy to hear that. And that?” She looks up at the body harness, and the body, swinging from the rafters, “A hang up about using proper Grammar? Oops. Sorry!
“But. But, but what about…”
Whisper, whisper, whisper. “Oh. Oh dear. Oh, I am SO sorry.
“Folks. Turns out there was a bit of a misunderstanding. It seems that Our Birthday girl likes to keep her authors plugging away. In fact, she's…well, she's apparently quite anal about it.
“So, you can see, can't you? You can see how this all came about?
“Tell you what, let's just pause here, and while I'm cleaning this up, you all can wish Ruthie a happy birthday!”
