When a Misogynist Meets a Whip
WHY YOU SHOULD CARE
Sometimes the good really do get a chance to make right this evil wrong.
By Victoria Pitt
There are many “bad” words in American English, but none of them seem to me to carry the same weight as the word “cunt.” It is the queen of bad words. Visceral and violent, and ending on that hard “t” consonant, it is direct and to the point.
In other words, “cunt” is a fighting word. Or maybe it’s just a fighting word for me. In any case, you shouldn’t call me a cunt and not expect there to be consequences.
But back in the mid-to-late ’90s, I worked as a horse and buggy driver ferrying tourists to must-see spots off the magnificent mile in Chicago. We drivers were an interesting lot: college kids and dropouts, drunks, druggies and misfits. It really was a cross section, an underground society and it was fun if you liked horses and speaking to strangers.
I responded to Eric just loud enough that, I hoped, only he could hear me: ‘You better not be at the barn when I get back tonight.’
Still, just like with any job, not everyone got along. There was a problem between a driver named Eric and me. I don’t remember exactly what the problem was or where it stemmed from but that doesn’t really matter.
What mattered was I hated Eric, and Eric hated me.
We rarely had a day in the barn without throwing insults at each other as we prepared our horses and buggies to go out for the night’s work. We wanted each other dead.
One evening, things were especially rancorous in the barn, and I was happy to be on my way to the carriage stand to leave the literal and figurative stink of Eric behind. It was a Friday night, which was a good night for rides from tourists and people wanting to do the romantic date thing.
When I got to the stand, things were rolling, and I was able to pick up my first ride in no time: a father with his young daughter who wanted a lake tour. Putting on my best smile and going into “storyteller” mode, I told my horse to go so that we could make the first light across the intersection and start the tour.
Just as we started to cross the intersection though, Eric trotted up alongside with his horse and buggy, slowing to take pace with mine. He looked at me and opened his mouth: “You are a cunt. Cunt. You’re a cunt. Cunt. Cunt.”
I was horrified that he was speaking like this in front of a little girl and her father. I responded to Eric just loud enough that, I hoped, only he could hear me.
“You better not be at the barn when I get back tonight.”
Eric put his horse back into a trot and passed me. I turned to my passengers and apologized profusely and made an excuse that Eric had Tourette syndrome and I am sorry they had to hear that. Inside I was seething and fully intended to beat the shit out of him when I got back to the barn that night. I did my six-hour shift planning all the ways I was going to kick and punch Eric. Once it was time to go back to the barn, I put my horse into a trot. I couldn’t wait to get there.
Only to find that Eric had gotten back to the barn before me and put his horse and tack away and was gone. Still pissed, I decided that “tomorrow is another day” and vowed to put a new hole in his ass then.
Except he wasn’t there the next day. Or the day after that. Or after that. Eric had a really good way of never being at the barn at the same time I was for the next few months until I quit that job.
Fast forward three years.
It was a cold Thursday winter night in Chicago. Snow was on the ground, and a friend and I had gone bar-hopping. I had my hair in two pigtails, and I was wearing a red “Girl Scouts of Chicago, Camp Juniper Knoll” T-shirt, ripped jeans and beat-up Converses. Let’s not forget the important plaid flannel since it was the dying edge of the grunge phase of fashion.
My friend and I decided to end the night at a local “punk” bar, mostly because we both had to pee badly and it was the closest place to where we were drunkenly stumbling around. We entered the bar, more worried about getting to the ladies’ room on the second floor than anything else.
The thing is that on this night, it happened to be BDSM night and wannabe professional dominatrixes were on call to punish you if you had $20 to tip them. The bar was crowded, and my friend and I were battling to get to the toilets.
“Hey, look over there, isn’t that Eric?”
I looked over and sure enough, there was Eric. Shirtless and handcuffed to the cage in the bar next to a few other guys being whipped by a bored Domme in her best Hot Topic dominatrix outfit.
“Yes, yes, it is,” I replied. And walked into the toilet stall.
I hadn’t forgotten the “five callings of cunt” directed at me three years earlier, and I certainly didn’t forget the threat I’d given him in the barn that night. I sat on that toilet peeing and thinking hard until I smiled because sometimes the perfect opportunity presents itself when you least expect it.
I finished pissing, and told my friend to grab a drink but stay behind the crowds. I made my way to the dominatrix who was “punishing” Eric, making sure to stay behind him where he could not see me.
“I’ll give you $30 for the whip.”
She said she couldn’t do that. I leaned over and said, “How about $50?” She looked at the money in my hand, looked at me and shoved the whip into my hand and walked away. Eric was still facing the cage, bound, clueless that someone else now held the whip.
“Eric,” I said. He started to turn his head and his eyes got big when he saw me and I started to whip him as hard as I could between each of my next set of words.
“THIS” *WHIP* “IS” *WHIP* “FOR” *WHIP* “CALLING” *WHIP* “ME” *WHIP* “A” *WHIP* “CUNT” *WHIP* “FIVE” *WHIP* “TIMES!” *WHIP*
By this time, Eric was sinking to his knees in pain against the cage. The bouncers also noticed that I wasn’t dressed anything like the other dominatrixes there and that someone was getting legit whipped and came and marched me down the stairs, throwing me out of the back door into a snowdrift.
My friend followed and pulled me up out of the snow. I could barely stand from laughing so hard. I had finally gotten my revenge. It was perfect. And sweet.
What I hadn’t noticed? A man inside who had seen what was going on followed us outside.
“I’ll give you $500 right now to come back and do that to me,” he said.
Which led to a further fit of laughter because remember, I’m dressed in a Girl Scouts camp T-shirt and pigtails and not looking like “Mistress Spanky” at all. But I suppose it takes all types in this world. No judgment.
It certainly was a great finish to a most amazing night though, and finally, all was right with the world.
- Victoria Pitt, OZY Author Contact Victoria Pitt