July/August 2002


How to be a Scene Pariah
by Chris M


Becoming a scene pariah is easier than you might think. People do it all the time without even trying. Its really quite simple: just keep breaking the rules of scene etiquette and frankly human civility, and you’ll be a pariah in no time. Its largely a matter of attitude: Keep repeating: This is all about me. Me getting what I want now. Do this and the transformation will occur as if by magic. How to become a scene pariah? Lets visit a leather event in town, and see how its done.

It begins when you arrive. “Dress discretely” said the invite but you know it doesn’t apply to you. You wear leather chaps, engineer boots, a military cap tipped at as rakish angle and a belt like Batman slung with every toy you own. Look! There’s a friend in plainclothes talking with a couple clearly not dressed for the scene. He’s carrying a gym bag and seems uneasy, as though he wasn’t expecting to meet these people here tonight. Greet him by his scene name as you pass. “What’s up, Floggermeister?!” and smirk at the poisonous stare he hits you with as you step inside.

As you pony up the admission, consider whining about the price. Seven dollars? Someone had better play with you tonight for that kind of money. To put yourself in the mood you sidle up to the bar for a double scotch. Hell, make it a triple. Don’t forget to stiff the bartender so the house comes to regard us as cheapos.

You wave at Frazier who glowers back at you. He can’t still be mad about the wax drippings you left all over his equipment last month. Isn’t some submissive supposed to take care of cleaning up? You join some other friends including Jack who offers a frosty hello. He’s not ticked about you showing up empty handed at his party two months ago, and swilling the modest stash of beers that he had stocked, is he? True, bringing a vanilla first date without letting her know what KIND of party it was, was questionable form, but that’s water under the bridge, right? After some banter, you start telling stories about some pretty girl you want to play with “We get together all the time” you assure your skeptical friends. Share lots of details about her play interests, and to show your equisite tastes, confide what a boring player she is. Repeat whatever snippets of gossip you’ve heard to add validity to your yarn, while your at, invent some elaborations of your own.

A woman joins the circle and expresses interest in a dominant named Steve. “Do you mean Steve Johnson who claims to work at Lockheed but really works for the CIA? What a dweeb! He doesn’t know anything! Why not consider playing with me?” She hits you with a look you might give someone with a large insect squashed on his forehead and excuses herself.

Some other friends show up but you’re already bored. You can form friendships in the office. Your here to score! Tonight!! To liven things up you tell a hysterical joke about two Irish Faggots that had ‘em howling at the bowling league, but strangely it does not go over well and once again you find yourself on your own.

A second woman approaches: pretty enough, but a bit on the heavy side. Grimace at her full hips, and comment on her weight. Women love honesty right? Besides Kate Moss could walk in here any minute. Still, she bravely asks if you would like to play. But dismiss her commenting on the busy schedule you have planned. It shows your time is in high demand.

Ah, here comes someone you would like to play with. No Kate Moss, but more attractive (to you) than the other one, and dressed in dominant attire. She’s already talking to someone else but butt in anyway. Keep repeating how pretty she is, and stare, if you wish, at her breast line. Ask again if she’s sure she doesn’t want to play right now. Hey, She might have changed her mind! You paid seven bucks after all. It’s the houses job to keep you entertained. Plead with her. Beg. “Can I please!!!!!” you whine, trying politeness as a last resort.

When that fails to work out, you go prowling for others. You spy a new girl, swarmed by guys, and thinking quickly, you differentiate yourself from the rest grabing her ass. She turns slowly and laughs. It worked! She’s in the bag! “My, what a friendly place.” she purrs. “I think I’ll get my coat now.”

What a shame. Such a pretty girl, and yet, obviously not serious about the ways of the scene. Perhaps its time you checked out some scenes in progress, so you duck into the back where the real play usually takes place. A gorgeous dominatrix works on a plain looking gentleman stretched on the St. Andrews cross. “Boy she’s a real piece, Huh?”, you demand loudly to the guy standing next to you. “What’s she doing with him?” Heads turn, but by now you’re used to this response. Inch forward into their play space. Who knows? Perhaps they’ll invite you to join them. Instead, the dom stops and asks politely if you would mind moving back a bit. You depart in a huff, without returning her apologetic smile.

Ah, good ! Here’s a whipping being done by a man who clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing. Step forward, laughing a hearty laugh, to help him with some good old fasioned "mentoring" You barely missing getting swatted in the head yourself, as you begin offering helpful advice. He gives a half smile, and a polite “thanks” but shakes his head when you volunteer to demonstrate. Dumb shit. How does he expect to learn, without consulting a “real” master such as you. Why are there so few “real dominants” like yourself. And how does such a dweeb have such a nice girlfriend anyway.

Denise snarls and turns away when you smile at her. Strange. She used to be so friendly before the first and final time you played together. That was some night, you must have had her on that cross for two hours. It was packed, people were waiting for their turn, but you showed your mastery by holding it as your own. Perhaps you overdid it by ignoring her "yellow" safeword, but it was important to show how stern and commanding you are. Why is she being such a bad sport? Come to think of it almost no one has played with you since then. What is with these people?

Wait! Stop everything! There’s a woman you HAVEN'T hit on yet, quietly talking with Mistress Judy. Kind of big boned but sexy. . . in a Sigourney Weaver kind of way. Ogle her all over, and switch into pickup mode. Good! She’s smiling and batting her eyelashes oh so coy! Judy’s smiling too. You’re getting laid tonight after all! As you begin your pitch she’s smiling and - my, what a deep laugh! What?? No! She - Good Lord! “FAGGOT!” you yell over your shoulder as you stride angrily away.

No it has not been a good night. To make things even worse, Big Mark, the unofficial one-man-security-detail is eyeing you intently from a nearby stool. You flash him a big grin, but he responds by just staring through you. You complete another circuit but strangely find no one to talk to. You hear snatches of conversation, people making plans to get together and recollecting parties you didn’t hear about. What is everybody’s problem? Can’t they see from your gear what a serious player you are?

Closing time, and a crew begins dismantling the equipment. Instead of offering to help, grab a last round for the road, stiff the bartender one final time, and head out.

Jeeze. Another night with no play. Maybe you should stop coming. Everywhere you go its the same: People you don’t understand how to accommodate a genius such as you.

And people were so friendly when you started coming six months ago.