Ever hear the theory that most men hate women? It's true! It's deep in the subconscious, but it's there. Now, don't get excited, that is not the reason we love to tie their pretty little hands! I'll get around to that later. There's a connection, but let me work around to it in my own way. First off, why do we bear 'em a grudge!
Well, why wouldn't we be mad at 'em! Figure it out: For the first years of our lives we are utterly dependent on them. They boss us around. They tell us what to do. They feed and clothe us and make us learn to play the piano and be nice to the bratty little girl next door who sticks her tongue out at us every time we pass. But these things are just the beginning, the groundwork for the really solid hate we work up to later.
It's in adolescence the going gets rough. We become aware of certain interesting equipment girls carry around with them. We discover, at first with genuine annoyance, that in some strange way we've been programmed to respond to these enticing appurtenances the little darlings wiggle at us all day long. There is a year or two around this period in which we would still prefer to go to the baseball game, but finally the bouncing breast, the thrusting nipple and the nubile thigh get the best of us. It is the first major victory in a long series for the little girls. We, poor twits that we are, fail to recognize defeat. If we manage to put our hand on even one of these female assets we glow with pride. What hopeless innocents we are!
Other male defeats follow in rapid succession. There comes the "Don't touch!" injunction. The sweet young things spend most of their time and half their father's money in seeing just how far they can get their tits to stick out in front and how tight a covering they can contrive for their tight little ass. They then proceed to wiggle and shake these delightful items in front of our faces so we could hardly ignore them if we tried. But when we respond and strive to pay the ultimate compliment of touching these exhibits, we are angrily repulsed with a number of stock broad¬sides that I suppose their mother must have taught 'em: "Don't you dare!" or "Get your hands away, you filthy beast!" or "Is that all you ever think of!" or "Cool it or I'll call a cop!" It's like being asked to a turkey dinner and having the plate snatched away from under your knife and fork.
The male's next crushing defeat is money. Girls and money are synonymous. No money, no girl! With an engaging nobility they assure us that money is not important to them. They are quite right, it isn't. They use ours! The sweet innocent little bag of tricks who says "Money isn't everything" is the one who expects us to dine her at the most expensive joint in town. We pay. This is the beginning of the lifelong rearguard action of our losing battle to make enough dough to keep dear little Phyllis in bread.
Where is bondage in all this! Hold on, I'll get there!
The unfortunate male now approaches the greatest female victory of all. He marries one of them. He does it against every¬body's good advice and against his own better judgment. But the poor bastard's been programmed for it so he hasn't a chance. He surrenders gracefully and gets up to his ears in hock for rings and honeymoons and a house and furniture and bailing her no-good brother out of jail.
You've probably had enough of this. You can recognize the progression. We've got our hero to the place where hate builds steadily day by day along with the bills and the dirty diapers. He's been bilked! When he saw his first bouncing tit he never bargained for anything like this! Resentment builds: subconscious, but it's there!
By this time the poor innocent has made the acquaintance of bondage. But it's the wrong kind. He is in a cage whose symbolic bars are prohibitions: "Don't play poker with the boys" or "Don't ask your folks for Sunday dinner" or "You can't go to the ball game" or "You can drop those horrid people you used to know." There gets to be more bars all the time even though the cage gets smaller and smaller.
The whole thing's pretty sad, isn't it! He's up against that law of diminishing returns only worse. I think, for the purposes of this article, we now drop our hero and leave him to his monthly payments. He has served his purpose, both to his little woman and to us. To dwell on his continuing defeats would be only morbid. He is just one more casualty of woman triumphant! But that isn't how it should be! Something has gone wrong!
The human race didn't start out that way, so somewhere along the line we must have gone astray. Ah, ha, you exclaim, he's finally getting around to it! You are right, I am! Screams aloud, doesn't it! I mean about where we went astray. Man took the wrong turning when he put away the chains, the shackles, the locks and the cage, and closed the slave markets. It ruined the male and was the cruelest thing we ever did to women. We robbed them of being female. We left 'em with more inhibitions and hang-ups than either they or us have been able to cope with since. Everybody got cheated. But most of all, the men!
We have now arrived at our favorite topic. Without apology I am going to suggest we take a good hard look at it. We have been treating it as fun and games, which indeed it is, but could there be a more serious application for the cord and the chain and the emotions that go with them. Need we unlock the handcuffs in time to go to the Gillinghams for bridge ...? Need we ...! And that new washer and dryer we've been hearing so much about ...? Seems to me a Bishop gag could make the existing appliances resume their old attraction.
A bit late, you say. Well, admittedly there's a lot of slack to pick up. But remember, there's a whole new generation of daughters on the way up, they could still be saved. Perhaps we stand at a turning point. Suppose we made a fantasy real.? We could!
Little Jenny, aged fifteen, is off to school. A careful mother checks her coat, her books, her shoelace, and last but not least slips the handcuffs on the willing wrists, making sure they are a notch tighter than that day last week when Ma had her suspicions ...! To the youthful Jenny the shining tokens on her wrists would inhibit nothing. But they would make her aware of being female. To her it would become natural that boys did not wear restraints. The boys were MALE! Jenny would know her place.
Bondage would come to have duality. We have rodeos in which the cowpoke rides a bucking horse for fun. But the following day he may be going through exactly the same set of motions with the most serious intent of training a horse into ways of usefulness. We have a parallel. Don't stop the fun, but make it pay.
Window shopping of an afternoon sends wifey dear home tired and discontented. Obviate the hazard by joining her feet with a neat set of ankle shackles before you leave for work. If even this fails to deter her from too many koffee klatches with the neighboring girls, you can always have a longer chain trailing to a ring set in the floor. It's all very practical.
Absurd, you say, it could never happen! It could, y'know. You could make it happen, and very easily too. Since you, in this New Order, would now be head of the house you would be called upon to provide preventive bondage and punitive bondage. The first stops the dear girl from getting into trouble, the second teaches her a lesson when she manages to do it anyway. You come home to find she has ransacked your desk to find your tickets for Saturday's game and has given them to her cousin who's in town for the weekend from Gopher Burrow, Wyoming. Obviously, she has busy little hands that could do with an object lesson, so you tie them behind her back for the evening, after she has done the dishes, of course. Simple, humane, and damned attractive!
What an industry would burgeon! Handcuffs would be of silver, and cords of silk. Shackles would be works of art. The girls would watch to ensure their chains shone no less brightly than the lady's next door. And as for that snippety cousin Florence with her new collar from Paris ... well, we'll show her! But don't shudder, boys! This time the money would be well spent. One envisions the GNP rising to all-time highs.
Every well-appointed home would have its pillory. Its location would be worthy of some thought and planning. It does not have to be in the basement. Why not the front lawn! A nice little lesson in humiliation along with her couple of hours with her neck and hands neatly out of mischief. Prominently displayed on the kitchen wall would be the schedule of penalties for her infraction of the household rules. But don't let yourself be governed by it entirely. If you want to put her in the stocks for a couple of hours just for the hell of it, do so. She's your girl and they are your stocks. Never let her forget. That's the essence of the New Age: she's your property. And why not!!! Dammit, she cost enough.
You will have heard the term "The emerging nations." Hard to say what they're emerging from or where they aim to go. But they can teach us a trick or two. I got this info first-hand from a female who has just emigrated on the basis that North American girls have it a lot better than any girls anywhere else. We could have told her that, but it's nice to have our opinion confirmed. Anyway, this charming and highly educated young woman told me of some manners and customs that leave me green with envy. If I could offer counsel to any of these enlightened people, I would certainly suggest they go easy on this emerging bit. I'd say they have about done all the emerging they need to do. Any more might be dangerous. They beat their wives.
Yes, actually! The lucky so-and-so's! They have things in good order in these places. No matter what their social status may be, hubby is boss. The girls know exactly where they stand. The first bit of querulous questioning about "Where were you to four o'clock this morning?" and the girl barely has time to say "Ooops, sorry!" and turn her cheek before the first clout con¬nects. The system works fine.
Now, don't get me wrong. These people are not primitive. I saw the family album. They have as many clothes and as many cars and the same houses we have here. The only difference is that their little girls know their place and keep it. When they get bored, they question their husband's judgment and get soundly thrashed. Everyone is happy.
Mind you, whilst I'm all for this sort of thing, I do feel a bit of caution and finesse is warranted. No sense spoiling her bridge¬work or breaking her glasses when nature has provided a most obvious and convenient portion of her person for correction. But what I'm really working up to is the second campaign. Having established dual bondage as a part of the American Dream, we can then move on to the small matter of caning their bottoms if they don't behave. We would then have the perfect State, the envy of all! We might even add something to that inscription on the Statue of Liberty. Something about bending over ....
But we want to talk about bondage. The fact is that there isn't all that much to say about it. The logic of keeping a bit of cord and a pair of handcuffs around the house is so obvious that it needs no enlargement. My main motive in putting pen to paper here is to propound my own sentiment that we don't do it enough or for all the reasons that justify its use. Its possibilities are manifold. For instance, why go to the expense of putting feminine wrongdoers in jail. Wouldn't it be better to set the term of their sentence and then make 'em wear handcuffs for the whole time? If they have been very bad girls, we can go a step further and make them take short steps with something shining between their ankles. Or for truly awful crimes a nice bronze collar ....
Builders would conform. Each room in a house would have a stout ring firmly embedded in the wall or floor. The little girl could be clipped to it in much the same way as cowboys used a hitching post. It would be a wonderful convenience. All the better homes would have a dungeon. No ghosts or water dripping down the walls (though it's a nice thought!), but a grim stone chamber where wife or daughter or girl friend can do a bit of quiet thinking while tethered to the wall. What a marvelous atmosphere for good resolutions. Large cages would be sold in the better pet shops.
And think of weddings! Here indeed would be fertile ground.
Most wedding ceremonies are soaked in symbolism. Let's do it right. If the little darling didn't know her place before, then make certain she knows it now. That bit about marching up the aisle on Daddy's arm, it could now have some practical point. She needs a bit of support because her feet are chained. Think what a magnificent accompaniment Mendelssohn's immortal march would make to the clatter of the links as she makes her way to what had always been the greatest female victory.
And don't let's bother with a ring, unless it was through her nose! There can be no doubt as to what will take its place. When the sacred moment comes, the groom will tightly clasp the hand¬cuffs on the proffered wrists, knowing that from now on he'll have at least a fifty-fifty break. He will lead her proudly to the waiting car by a tether to a collar around her neck. The best man need not be entirely redundant, he can carry the keys. The groom's gifts to the bridesmaids could be silver thumb cuffs with which they can practice on each other.
Oh, happy day! Mind you, the poor sap still needs beware through the honey¬moon. He is in a vulnerable state of mind which his darling bride will seek to exploit to the full. I can see some practical advantage in relieving little Poppy of her ankle chains, but he should balk at any coaxing about the handcuffs. They stay on! If he takes 'em off, he's lost. Woman's nature does not change. If she can fox you, she will. Man is her natural prey. It is up to us to let her know we're hep. This is one of the reasons I look ahead to campaign number two.
It sort of rounds out the treatment and fills in any bits that bondage misses.
There's the matter of shopping. Need I say more! Even the most delightful damsel can be difficult in a department store. So, make her carry a bit of cord in her bag. She might as well, every¬thing else is in there. If she places her hot little hand too lovingly on too many costly items tie her hands behind her back. Doing this bit of domestic authority in public would be a salutary lesson, both for her and for other watching wives. If she then substituted her tongue for her fingers her bag may as well carry a gag as well. A gag will also obviate that interminable animated chattering’s when she meets someone she knows and you have to stand and look at the foundation garments.
One treats it with humor, or as a clinical study. Perhaps it is not all that easy to come to grips with because it means so much. We would like to impart our knowledge and our dream to those who read or hear. But behind the quips and the notions and the dreams there lies a vision of a land in which the cord and the chain will have their place. A liberated place wherein Man will hold the key and tie the knot and a smiling girl will hold out to him the bonds she longs to bear.
