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Another pace-making discovery by the founder of the Olympia Press, Maurice Girodias... Here are the appraisals submitted by three famous literary experts about the book:

"...Blows the lid off the underground sex revolution... A mind-blowing descent into the erogenous obsessions of a sick and sated mass society!"

"...The dirtiest book ever published!"

"...The super-trash novel that makes old-fashioned pornography obsolete!"

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Bondage Trash

Jon Horn

This page copyright © 2005 Olympia Press.


Introduction

Gentle society where daily newspapers record atrocity. If there is any future, day by day the grim toll mounts. Children named and maimed: hapless and helpless victims raped by frightened girls in dark alleyways, and hideously mutilated by knife-wielding madmen. Acts of cruelty?

We are offered a shining surface at all levels. Fans pay millions to jam stadiums and watch prisoners interrogated with frightful ferocity. Conversation at fashionable dinner parties is like razor-keen blades designed to wound deeply. In hundreds of police precincts the screen is bright with violent doings of detectives and criminals who rival one another in whipping, torture, beating, and the more refined forms of unpleasantness in the sexual sphere. Odd and darkly perverse human beings unable to perform the act bring hands or belts down across the buttocks of their partners. There are those who avoid intercourse entirely and yet obtain delicious and forbidden sexual orgasm. All sorts of things happen; it is a sticky business. For example this, from the news:

“(A Nuisance In Theatre.) Our Berlin correspondent wires, reporting that during the performance in the new People's Opera House yesterday, a dentist visiting the city was arrested by detectives for having obscenely molested young women and girls who were standing with him on the parquet. Buxom Jewess Olga P stated that a man came upon her from behind, locking his legs about her dress and limbs, grasping her breasts and belly lewdly. The hitherto blameless man confessed to having been the cause of several acts of luxurious conduct recently in which female members had suffered.”

The dreams of the deviate occur on another planet, yet spanking and slapping, disembowelment, masturbation, special delights, coveted objects, hate and desire, are known to us all. As the noted police doctor has put it, so eloquently: “The compulsions of instinct—eating, shitting, pissing, etc.—are indulged in by all, and therefore sanctioned; the compulsions of will are individual affairs and are treated as such by society, being forbidden, spied on, directed, regulated, docketed, preached at, controlled, assessed, categorized, censored or censured, punished, taxed, fined, measured, licensed, hampered, harassed, exploited, bullied, disarmed, isolated, beaten, mocked, imprisoned, garroted, admonished, insulted, abolished, and envied. As the fashion goes they are called sin, perversion, compulsion, eccentricity...”

It is no wonder then that, especially in this hemisphere, so-called fetishists hunt feverishly night and day for certain divers objects, the possession and handling of which gives them their sole “sex kicks.” Modern techniques and styles have reached the highest refinements in specific fixation qualities.

Consider a couple more cases. A man was caught just as he was pilfering the railroad underwear hanging on the line in the garden behind a high police official's home. It was learned that this individual was given to prowling about the streets by night looking for some opening or crack through which he might catch a glimpse of a person disrobing. About 300 articles of women's apparel were found in his lodging, among them chemises, drawers, night caps garters, garter belts, douche bags, and even queer female dolls. He finally confessed that he collects slices of sausage, preserves them, each slice in a glass jar, and indulges in onanistic fantasies and wrestling fantasies. The case is instructive.

And what of the individual who, constantly in search of sexual object, attacked a young woman on his way to work one morning, threw her to the pavement and ran off with her left shoe, allegedly singsonging “O to put my fat foot and sick taper in your tight sweet shoe” as he made off?

These things give us pause. Today we are surfeited with imperatives. Don't do this and don't do that. Each cult has a secret code. There is a gladiator school for women in every modern land. Even the famed doctor, who carried out a systematic study of appearance-perversions, who ripped aside the black net veil from sexual anomaly—even the famed advocate of “Sex city” yet felt it necessary to cloak certain of his own acts he feared might shock. This expert in pleasant pain is the bizarre philosopher who devoted a great deal of sexual excitement to the problem of being flogged by sexually thrilling women. His infamy derives not so much from the torrent of violence torture and blood-thirstiness he poured forth under the guise of “psychoanalytic case histories” but from the ingenious and cynical rationalizations he wrung from his fevered fantasies of superior torment and “normal vice.”

But we meet a meek and virtuous man... scarcely a wholly normal member of the sex industry, ignored by the laissez-faire regime, he drifted, seducing. Compiling his diary of great disorders, and using such material in auto-erotic and cult rituals—the notorious moonlit garden parties where persons devoured pretty pastilles filled with Spanish fly and revelled in grim irritation of delicate tubes and dreamy agony of these strange banquets.

The doctor met him in some adornment brothel after he emerged from gaol the first time. Grotesquely altered, expurgated and tampered with, yet vigorous and hideously fat, he whipped up public opinion, bribed some influential glandular anomalies, pursued his vague ends. The police network would not have it so. An extraordinarily perverse woman was recruited... she lured him to undress completely, threw herself at his feet, begged him to threaten her with a pistol she drew from her pocket. Forced to obey. Since she was a respectable woman he bound her hands together and whipped her savagely. She was completely covered with blood, all her wounds, her food and drink... The doctor stood stock still in rapt admiration. He would usually observe. Once in a great while he paid the girls large sums and beat their bare breasts and buttocks. He made certain cuts with a knife in the body and left.

“The victim succeeded in tearing her bonds and escaping via window,” the Chief reported. A great outcry arose. The erotic symbolist was interned, transferred, declared insane, freed temporarily during sexual revolution. Imprisonment added strange luster to his genito-urinary world-view. He contented himself not merely with using forbidden people and forbidden words, but deftly attacked the fundamental assumptions of our cunning morals, and was promptly outlawed by our public guardians. But philosophy does not concern us here.

The normal person cannot fully savor the so-called fetishistic bible, the taste of poisons, excrements and forbidden fruits, the narcissistic unconditional impulse... These people make and hide such books with great care, and if they allow their secret volume to be circulated, it is only because they have given up the religion and moved on to still darker precincts. Lists, incantations, frantic and frankly unliterary repetitions; stylized tableaux... They derive some obscure power from the composing, keeping, and perusing of productions which must remain to the norm the bizarre and inscrutable revolting nonsense of a murky twilight world. And yet...

On our next hospital picnic we brought the book along. A bull's face was raped, tortured, beaten, flogged by wealthy men and their powerful mistresses. Shy tender sisters; I pointed to the buxom one: “Let's strip her naked and amuse ourselves with her. We have got to be amused!” She piously declined, and this is as it should be. Pedarasts and sodomists—that is, we—prefer to violate women through the anal opening rather than vaginally. This is naturally a painful and precious experience, often associated with sadistic practices.

Crouched on all fours she took on medicos and businessmen pretending to be bandit satyrs. Virgins and interns fleeing into the forest... either cheeks or breasts slapped powerfully, purple and red... The buxom one: “In vain I begged him to spare me... he bit my tongue.” (Notice the key phrase here.) Fun and games, savage chafing; we flew into ecstasy after enacting some rustic vignettes, the ms. a veritable treasure trove... “I fell to the ground before him, my breasts and buttocks received delirium, mania...”

We experimented with the “grab-em, stab-em” orientation: torture rack taken from the station-wagon and set up, a demented old “women's doctor,” a group of local sadistic idol-worshippers from the glen only too glad to maul and manhandle young girls, the louts... These scenes our warped inventiveness made into heady and unruly psychodrama...

Control experiment: we were observing a pair of dogs copulating and I remarked: “It all reminds me of the odor mother had.” Then some humans. They couch themselves, come eventually. “If both these elements occur together,” observes the specialist, “reactions to stimulus and environment may be excessively developed; kill it.” The assistant pulled a switch. Fzzz FUTZ!

Was it not an apt and happy coincidence then, that these crudely magical writings should fall into my hands and be snapped up for punishment at this time, when illumination of the scatologic human syndrome has for the most part dwindled to the blase embers of a dun vicarious passivity? Incidentally, I once saw the man from Vienna, known to all devotees as the individual who visited bondage prostitutes and had them stick a feather up his anus, at which he would crow “Kikiriki!” Cockadoodle-do!

I would also like to call attention to pleasurable sensations (including orgasm) produced from acts of cruelty accompanied by the desire to hurt, wound or even destroy—these are easier phenomena for our modern sensibilities to comprehend. From early childhood, most of us tend to cooperate with stable control, if for no other reason than to get our goodies; our individual insecurities of course become so great that we help to bury the lashing-out urge, the mastery urge, the mystery urge; our underlying patterns of sexual fury simmer and evaporate, or are channeled innocuously. But, as the authorities point out, the most basic instincts involve pain perplexities and a reversal of rational behavior. As for therapy, simply heightening pain desires that lurk within is not enough. In advanced quarters one hears the same sort of conversations over and over again. “Naked women repel me, nor do I find any joy in women dressed.” “I am not in the least doubtful that he also had an orgasm, though we never exchanged a word on the subject.” “That woman is one whom one would love to have tread upon one.” There are always a few squeeze-freaks about who revel in the crowd and keep getting under foot. Functionally, the sexual person is the humiliated, subjected, and constrained one. More and more I note the dizzy thrall precipitated in sexual objects by Lord Fauntleroy collars and cuffs (the latest rage) and the like worn by sexual subjects. I myself confess to a special susceptibility to washable goods, but I don't yet wear a ring on my penis, and I could certainly He abed and achieve the heights of lascivious rapture. I believe it is vitally requisite to the life-force aspect of shrunken normal need to fathom the basic dynamics of the perversion challenge, and perhaps even to finally assert a hostile camp before the enemy's instincts of dominance; and simply, to afford greater sex kicks and daydreams to the few; to explore lewd modesty and defensive surrender, forces which can drive a body into excesses...

Peradventure a bizarre half-world in which discovery would jar the most sophisticated member. The nature of the study: to depict your next-door neighbors, your friends, your relatives even... to titillate the prurient and make the salacious underground salivate.

The vicarious quota doomed to disappointment in sex of any modern fashion: such seekers thrill to sober if somewhat scabrous demoralization. Understandably, the dredged atomic picture of, for example, husband/wife swapping, is a piffling contribution to the sexual amenities, divorce services, psychopathology, and pornography. This practice, of course, it is important to say, is, at one and the same time, in my considered opinion, more, it goes without saying, and, in view of the nature of the study, must, and certainly will, be developed. But the modest scope of these my introductory notes barely permits me to sketch a bold cartoon of the basic reasons for this nightmare world, and this is of prime importance. The consenting adult underworld of abnormal bestiality practices, flagellation, “bondage,” sex slavery, various forms of torture involving Sadie/Maisie, orgies involving all sexes, racial niter-change in its most radical forms, the use of all manner of torture apparatus (machines, cords, ropes, chains, whips, straps, etc.), transvestitism, and the use of regalia and fetish harems in order to end the variation on the sexual theme, so sedulously sought...

All this must ultimately lead to satiety and ennui. The indulgence of denizens in the give-and-gain of sexual satisfaction, where the average man and average woman find peace and sleep in repletion, “singles” must perforce go on and on until—and this is true even of normal activity—there is a simple answer. The compulsive “sex-pix” photographer who must take pictures or have his own picture taken “in the act” is not limited to married couple, as statistics would indicate. However, the invert, the pervert, the revert, the transvestite, the devotee of sadomasochism, the old onanist, the paroxysmic nymph and satyr, the voyeur, the frotteur, the hanky thief, the necrophile, the thrill seeker, the husband/wife—all these unhappy souls, and many more as yet unnamed, make it ever more difficult for the wholesome big business of the once important fuck-and-suck exponents.

In truth, the desideratum who needs scatological trimmings on his leather apron in order to climax his sex experiences, as this book graphically reveals, is an early student of sex. Pleasure is incidental. Assuredly, it is good that this is so, before out-of hand rejection and sexual overindulgence release deviation in every imaginable form from the dark shadows of perversion paths where dirty pictures are sold to stray John Does.

The circulation of nude or nearly nude male (and female) models, human and nearly human, may disgust and horrify the average individual, if possible. Frustration and fear explain the how and why. I am not referring here to the purveyors of condemnation, repulsion, rehabilitation, and normal sex, aimed at homosexuals for many years. We deal with new and flagrant chancrous phenomena, though do-gooders still belong to that melieu which, most naively it would seem, censor the mails looking for new thrills via old French postcards and novels. And when these do not offer them the relief they seek from their trim grounds, Grecian justice, and strict law enforcement, they go berserk.

Fact: the high courts have handed down some pretty arbitrary double-talk of late. “Heterosexuals have no literary scientific or other merit,” mused the Supremes, and, whatever we may think, this ruling constitutes the last and binding word on many of your neighbors, friends, etc.; everyday people, some of whom will undoubtedly read this book with great interest. The Supremes' latest declaration, applauded by sundry but like-minded influential groups, must needs provoke grave repercussions from other factions who would indulge their appetites in any—and I do mean any— variation on the sorry sexual jest. The court decision is, on the face of the items, as offensive to this healthy minority as current community standards of decency, and it is only a matter of time before the entire category of strangers in our midst, who crave to carve and cream with prurient interest on social-minded suggestions of our legal-moral forces, have their say.

The law, of course, should not proscribe the greener pastures, a further melancholy fact in what passes for a marriage of initiates and innocents. I was, and am still, unable to say: “What of it?” and drug a young virgin. Who is hurt? Yet there are those who, in the course of an active life, find their greatest satisfaction in assimilating forward-sounding attitudes toward disease infection and misery. To all these, the life of pipe-dreams once did for colonial prison physicians hurt by their innate queerness. Now all may freely wander into deviate districts where the spurious security they seek is lost and found.

Please remember: the operative word is deviate. Today, liberals, characteristic of the dilemma, have their own bars, their clubs and restaurants, their magazines and newsletters; they even have certain areas of the city where they predominate and where they can flaunt themselves without interference. Tolerance exists. We note that styles which deviates and whores affect are toned down, advertised cleverly, and snapped by the avant-guard of the dwindling but monied “norm,” and this is how its always been. Yet now the minorities have managed to inveigle into their sexual clutches some of the ugliest well-meaning geniuses and social thinkers of the day. Based on the dubious vote of so many brain-stormed victims among the young (and this has nothing to do with the homosexual wolf in the heterosexual fold), the “consenting-adults” program was adopted to attempt to cope with protests from the patronized workaday world, and was approved or ignored by this ilk. Therefore special canteens, health farms, conversion clinics, round-table discussion forums and state clubs for flagellation and abnormal nature worship have been formed of late, strangely enough not surreptitiously!

An age of transition is bound to appear a wee bizarre. Old debauchees raid the ranks of the dim and the untouched, blatantly foraging for prey; the industrial whirlwind scatters a thinly disguised humanity throughout the nation, leaving nothing to the imagination; abnormal sexual companions cruise the streets; special squads of youths preen and posture and parade themselves or their productions... “Deviate and circulate openly,” is the password. The population explodes in conflict-drives camps, rutting suburbs, and the haunts of nudist paramours, which report impact conditions... Many are quietly tortured to circadian rhythm methods... Sexual historians crop up everywhere, everyone becomes a mistress, assassin, or spy... Imagination's restless clientele moves between assigned waystations. Capital, saturnalia, bloodsucking, masks, lessons...

 

THIS IS FACTUAL DOCUMENTATION, ALL CAREFULLY RESEARCHED AND CAREFULLY CHECKED FOR AUTHENTICITY, COMPLETE AND ACCURATE, SERIOUS, THOUGHT-PROVOKING, AND WORTHWHILE.

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