Cheated into bondage

Zipperhead’s is a famous store here in Philadelphia. The store is
on South Street, sell cools clothes and shoes, some handcuffs and leather
and stuff, and is a great place just to hang out and watch people in.
Well, I’m in there for a reason yesterday: Saltgirl, whom I am
meeting at a kinky sort of party this weekend, bought a bitchin outfit
she was telling me about, but couldn’t find the wide shiny belt she
needed to really complete the ensemble. No problem. I knew just the
place.
So I’m in there in the bondage-y section to your left as you walk
in and there’s this ultra-cool woman behind the counter, who has
piercings in places well, that you wouldn’t even find in a second-hand
_Gray’s_(which, incidentally, you could buy, just up the street, in
Philly’s largest used bookstore.
She’s helping me look through the belts.
“This one’s nice…”
“Motorcycle chains, eh? A bit rough for this girl.”
“Ooh, how about this one?”
It’s gorgeous. Silver on black leather, extra wide, but it looked
way long.
“It looks great, but I’m pretty sure it’s too long.”
She tries it on herself. “Fits me okay. What’s your girlfriend’s
waist size?”
“Um.” I hesitate. “27.”
“I hate you both. Please leave.”
I laugh and she hangs up the belt. “Now *here’s* a beaut…”
She pulls down this cool-looking thing that was made out of large-
diametered silver O-type rings connected to little leather doo-dads that
connected to smaller leather silver D-rings that connected a wholemessa
chains that connected to another D-ring etc all the way around.”
“Can we measure it? Looks great. She’ll plotz.”
Gets out a tape measure. Shit. 32″ at the smallest hole.
“Sorry,” she said, about to put it back.
“No, wait. I know the guy who owns ‘The Leather Rose’. It’s on
my way home. I’ll just have him take out one of the O-rings, a doo-dad,
and a set of chains. How many inches will that take off?”
She measures. “About 5. Perfect.”
“Cool. And I’ll come back and give what he takes out to you for
being so helpful for being so nice. You could wear it through your-Then
he walks in.
In *my* town.
Into the coolest street in my town.
Into the coolest store on the coolest street in my town.
With his ditzy blonde wife and his stupid little entourage of
hangers-on.
Yup, last night was the night Morton Downey Jr. did Zipperhead’s.
Everyone in the store immediately recognizes him and we all look
at each other and shake our heads. It’s tough not to laugh at the guy.
Real tough. But wetry to be good. And we watch them walk through the
store with this kind of disdainful mocking ‘people-really-*buy*-this-
stuff?’ attitude that pisses us all off. I’m wearing a heavy leather
riding jackets w/silver epaulets and little cat-o-nine-tail fringes
hanging from the zippers, so you just know Mort wants *my* autograph.
The woman behind the counter and I decide to fuck with them. We
start talking about how good the Eagles looked crushing Dallas on Monday,
but ever so often raising our voices and shouting a buzzword or two
Morty’s way.
“Yeah, that was the best,” I said. “I can’t believe I didn’t
CAULKING GUN bet it.”
“Randall looked awesome FILLED WITH CREST & BEN-GAY? A 60/40
MIX?”
She’s good, damn good. “OF COURSE. The offensive line was
amazing. They were playing GAUZE PADS better than they actually are.”
“I know what you mean. Playing AND SOME BETADINE over their
heads. ANAL SPECULUM.”
“MOLLY BOLT ENEMA. And you know, Dallas made some key plays too.
The Eagles just looked Super Bowl. AND WE USED REVERSETHREADED SCREWS
BECAUSE OF THE HEAVY VIBRATIONS.”
“YOU COULDN’T DAMPEN THEM?” she asked.
“NOT UNDER Randall! ROLLER COASTER YOU DON’T.”
“GUESS NOT.”
By this time, Mort and co. had seen enough. As they passed us to
get out the door, we smiled at them and all we heard them say was
“Fucking freaks”.
It was the best.