BDSM for Creatives

Some artists like to get kinky.

Sally N Miller
Aug 8 · 3 min read
Image: Creative Commons

Graphic Designer: In his leather assless chaps, your creative director leans over you at your desk. He cups your mouse.

“Change the font!” he commands, “I want it bigger.”

“But it will take up so much negative space,” you implore, your cheeks burning.

“Make it half 13 pt Comic Sans and half 11 pt Helvetica,” he orders. “Comic Sans. Helvetica. Comic Sans.” He smashes your reliable hard drive and lashes you with design mockups.

“Stop!” you plead, flushed.

He cuffs you to the chair, whispers into your ear, “I’m just going to photoshop everything in myself.” Then walks away.

Freelancer: A check arrives before 30 days. You don’t cash it.

Independent Filmmaker: You are strapped to a bondage bed. The filmmaker gives shot-by-shot commentary of his first student film. The director’s cut.

Writer: You’ve just written the best essay of your life. Naked, twirling a feather tickler, your editor walks into your office (well, coffee shop. What writer has an office?). She clamps your moleskin shut. Then slowly, with the end of her tickler, firmly presses the backspace key. One slow click at a time she deletes your best lines. Her eyes never leave yours. She knocks a scalding cappuccino onto your knees. It’s hot! As hot as the wax she drips onto your copy of The Elements of Style.

She ties your hands behind your back and yells, “I AM GOING TO ADD ADVERBS TO THE END OF ALL YOUR DIALOGUE.”

You call out your safe word, “Stephen King! Stephen King!”

Actor: You show up for audition after audition after audition. Getting a no at every reading. You are humiliated and you love it.

Musician: You are in the recording studio. Your music producer has bound your hands with the strings of your guitar. His biceps ripple under his Yankee Hotel Foxtrot Wilco shirt. He twists and turns and twists again the tuning keys of your guitar until you can’t stand it.

“Tell me you want me to hurt you,” he whispers.

Out of breath you reply, “I want you to hurt me.”

“Say it again,” he says, twisting your tuning knobs.

“I WANT YOU TO HURT ME!”

He begins singing, “never made it as a wise man.” You hear the first note, you can barely breathe. Like someone is slowly suffocating you.

It’s “This is How you Remind Me.” By Nickelback

Improvisor: Wearing nothing but a dog collar and chain, your partner drags you onto the stage. “Bark like a dog!” she says and yanks the chain.

“Woof! WOOF!” You call out for a suggestion from the audience. It’s a Friday midnight show, and no one is there. You are thrilled by the embarrassment. Your partner jerks the chain again and again. Just when you thought you couldn’t be more demeaned, your troupe will only “no, and” you. The pleasure is too much.

Humorist: Meh, you’re not really into that sort of thing.

Slackjaw

Medium humor. Large laughs.

Sally N Miller

Written by

Sally is a mild-mannered librarian except when someone tries to steal a book. Words at The Belladonna, Points in Case, & McSweeney’s.

Slackjaw

Slackjaw

Medium humor. Large laughs.

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