By Max Shapiro People think I'm joking when I write about how my sweetie smacks me for any old reason .
or no reason at all.
Sure.
Let me show you my bruises and scars some time.
One day, picking myself off the floor for the umpteenth time, I groaned, "You ought to go into the dominatrix business, mommy.
You'd be a natural." "What's a 'dominatrix?'" she asked suspiciously, drawing her fist back.
"You're not making fun of me, are you, you little worm?" "No, no, I'm serious," I assured her.
"Men go to these women to be hit and whipped and stomped and verbally abused and made to feel like lice.
You see, they have this secret, psychological need to be dominated and punished like bad little boys, and they pay good money to be serviced that way." I had gotten her attention.
"They pay you for that?" she asked in disbelief.
"How much?""I don't know.
The last time I went .
I mean, the last I heard, they charge as much as $300 an hour." Barbara's jaw dropped, and the next day she began researching dominatrix ads in adult publications.
They all managed to be arousing and depressing at the same time.
"Have you been a naughty boy? Let Mistress Verushka spank your bottom until it's as red as a fire engine." "Submit to Mistress Marsha.
She will humiliate you by making you crawl on all fours and bark like a dog." "Have you been whipped lately? Mistress Melissa, the wonder woman of whips, will beat you into submission." Etc., etc.
All the ads included photos of scowling women who looked like a cross between a Playboy model and a concentration camp guard.
Many of them carried whips and were dressed in studded black leather, masks, and thigh-high boots.
"I bet you could get a lot of business from poker players," I said.
"They want to be punished.
That's why they play poker in the first place." "How disgusting!" Barbara snapped.
"Why would I even consider doing such a depraved thing?""For $300 an hour." "Can you help me write an ad, Maxwell?" This is what we came up with: "Have you been a naughty poker player? Have you been calling with small pairs in early position in a raised pot? Do you chase inside straight draws when the board is paired and suited? Have you been loaning money to railbirds? Let Mistress Barbara, Queen of the Cardroom, administer the punishment you deserve by beating, whipping, and scolding you.
It will cost you a painful $300 an hour.
Poker lessons extra." We submitted it to Card Player, but the magazine indignantly refused to accept it - unless we paid in advance.
After the ad ran we sat back and waited.
It was a short wait.
The first customer was "Super Mario" Esquerra.
For once, he wasn't flexing his muscles.
"Mario is very bad boy," he sobbed.
"I act like a bully, telling people to do fighting with me, but it is all a big bluff.
I'm too scared to death of everybody.
"I'm scared of my shadow.
I'm just big sissy.""Boo!" Barbara barked, and Mario jumped three feet in the air.
"I'll teach you to go around threatening people." She punched him viciously in his stomach, smacked him in the face a dozen times, choked him until he turned blue, and made him lick her boots."Ooh, boy," he smiled, picking his teeth off the floor.
"That was good.
How much I owe you?" The next customer was Phil Hellmuth Jr., who snuck in sheepishly.
"Nobody else is here, are they?" he asked, looking around fearfully."Don't you dare question Mistress Barbara, you little bug!" Barbara shouted.
"Why are you here?"Hellmuth fell to his knees.
"People think I'm a cocky know-it-all with a big ego, but the real truth is that I'm always guessing when I play a hand.
I get lucky a lot, and when I lose I pretend to blow up because an inferior player beat me, but it's nothing but nerves.""Another phony!" Barbara sneered.
She grabbed a copy of Lou Krieger's book, Poker for Dummies, and smacked his head with it as hard as she could.
"Here, you worthless insect.
Read this and learn what you're doing.
Now, give me $300 plus $29.95 for the book and get the hell out of here." Her next appointment was with Barry Shulman, but I doubt that Card Player would let me report what happened, so I'll skip over that part.
John Bonetti was the next customer.
Barbara had changed from her black leather into a dealer's costume, and as soon as he walked in she threw cards at him, called him every name in the book, and ended up by dumping an ash tray on his head."Oh, thank you, thank you, Mistress Barbara.
I'm such a rotten individual for bein' so awful to dealers.
I desoive to have you hoit me like I hoit them, an' now I feel significantly better," he said, crawling out the door.
A moment later there was a hesitant knock on the door, and Michael Wiesenberg walked in.
He wore a flowered dress and carried a big handbag.
"Please help me already, Mistress Barbara, dollink.
I think it's Aunt Sophie into who I'm turning.""Sorry, I don't do transvestites.
Try the second floor." The next customer was the Mad Genius himself, Mike Caro "People believe me when I tell them that I'm the world's greatest poker authority, author, columnist, and that I invented the Internet.
I hate myself for deceiving them.
The truth is that Dirty Wally writes all my books and columns, but he's too modest to take credit for it.
Please administer the humiliation I deserve for my treachery." Barbara yawned.
This business was starting to get old.
"OK, you sniveling little creep, repeat after me: I am a nothing player.
I am surrounded by a powerful subjugating force to remind me that I'm just an insignificant insect.
Now get out of here and leave $300 on the altar." The last customer of the day was Big Denny.
"I likes ta dress up in goil's clothing," he confessed.
"If I puts on dese bloomers, will ya spank me?" Mistress Barbara turned pale and gave him Mistress Marsha's phone number.
The next day she closed out her business, donated her leather outfits to Goodwill, and returned to her old job.
She had decided to stick to what she was best at: beating up people at the poker table.
Poker.
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