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| Vol 4 No. 47, Apr
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| KIDNAPPED Author Marjorie Skinner asked a stranger for the opportunity to be tied up and kidnapped. You should always be careful what you wish for... The scariest part was when I started to run out of air.
A plastic zip strip cut into my bound ankles, and my wrists were
shackled behind me. The blindfold was so tight I could feel my contact
lenses shifting. A thick gag left only part of my nose open to breathe.
Underneath was yet another layer of duct tape. But it was the synthetic
sleeping bag zipped up over my head--that was the disturbing part. I was
burning up, sweating heavily, squirming underneath all the gags and
ties...
And the fucked up thing is that I asked someone to do this to me.
I got the idea to arrange my own kidnapping from a friend. We were
discussing Brock Enright, who runs New York City's Videogames Adventure
Services (semagoediv.com). It's a
business wherein Enright and his partners are paid thousands of dollars to
perform custom kidnappings on their bored, wealthy clients. These
arrangements often include extreme and violent scenarios. My undergraduate
thesis (on "blood symbolism," no less) had sidetracked me into an academic
interest in power-dynamic fetishes--like bondage and sadomasochism.
Because of this, I was intrigued by the intensity and versatility of a
full-on, engineered kidnapping.
For one thing, kidnapping doesn't necessarily have to be sexual--unlike
the highly sexualized and ever-popular BDSM scene of fashion and
polyamory. Platonically, kidnapping could distill an intense experience of
voluntary helplessness... without the necessity of a boyfriend! So I
resolved to discover firsthand what people were not only asking for, but
paying for. I logged onto the personals on craigslist.com and answered an ad that
said: "Kidnapper Seeks Captive."
MY KIDNAPPER IS KIND OF CREEPY
Surprisingly, getting to know your kidnapper prior to being
kidnapped doesn't really kill the buzz. My kidnapper and I corresponded by
email over the course of several months. For the most part we were
negotiating safety measures ("If I'm gagged, my non-verbal safe word will
be snapping my fingers, okay?"). We also mapped out a few guidelines
("Mild physical abuse is okay, like slapping or hair pulling--but no
spanking."). But despite these somewhat clinical exchanges, he still
managed to creep me out.
First of all, I was troubled when he adopted a flirtatious
tone--commenting that I was "cute" and suggesting I wear a miniskirt for
the kidnap. This made me paranoid, and I made it abundantly clear there
was to be no sexual contact whatsoever; even reprimanding him for
making what I considered "rape jokes." One night he followed me after
leaving work and in the morning I found an email from him reciting the
exact route I had taken to the grocery store. On another evening he
followed me to the bar where I was having after-work cocktails with some
coworkers--an activity he later admitted doing more than once. When I
left, there was a hokey little note taped to my bike ("Did anyone ever
tell you that you make a sexy kidnap victim?").
Be warned: if you ever decide to try this form of recreation, not
everyone will admire your bravery. Boys you are dating will look you
straight in the eye and say, "You are a fucking moron." Your roommates
will start compulsively locking every door of the house. And your mom will
have just a great sense of humor about it.
(The following is a three-way phone conversation wherein my father
tries to convince my mother that my employer isn't trying to kill me via
this story.
Dad: "The Mercury is a business, honey. They have an
investment in Marjorie. They're not just going to let her
die."
Me: "Yeah."
Mom: "WELL, I BET YOU COULDN'T FIND THEM IN THE BETTER BUSINESS
BUREAU!!!")
The only other thing that can make you feel as bad as a mom is the
soulful friend who says she knows a girl who was held for three days and
subjected to beatings and rapes: "I don't know why anyone would invite
that into their life."
PARANOIA
The closer it got to kidnapping season, the more paranoid everyone
became. My publisher and editor, my friends, family, me--even The
Kidnapper was getting uptight about furnishing information about himself,
designed to insure my safety. We reached a stalemate and came to a
compromise: We would meet in person, in public, prior to the kidnap. (This
is what the guys in New York do.) This was both a relief and a bummer--but
it afforded the opportunity to play spy games with my friends.
I met The Kidnapper at a downtown bar, and for my protection, I had two
cronies--Manu and Shannon--act as "plants," pretending not to know me
while subtly scoping out The Kidnapper. Manu articulated the degree of our
tense giddiness when, the day before the meeting, he suddenly seized my
arm and said, "Oh... fuck. What if he has plants to see if
we have plants?!"
Manu and Shannon had two tasks. 1) Visually identify The Kidnapper, so
if something went wrong, I would have witnesses. 2) Follow him out and get
his license plate number. Thanks to a combination of over-thinking,
misreading, and the spliff Shannon smoked while she was looking for street
parking, they failed. They lost The Kidnapper, and didn't get the plates.
We had resolved to meet at a different bar afterwards, several blocks
away. They were to show no sign of recognition towards me until safely
ensconced in a booth--that way we would throw off any plants The Kidnapper
may have planted to see if we had any plants. Once there, Manu
really started to beat himself up, bitterly repeating between inhalations
of a cigarette, "Man, I've never lost a tail."
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