It’s 3:00 in the morning, the neighborhood is quiet.  There’s a crescent moon still visible overhead and a slight mist in the damp, chilly, air.  Only the merest and most hesitant of breezes gently mingles the mist and the air, pushing along slow moving eddies and wisps before the still backdrop of the suburban street; Anytown, USA.

quiet…  quiet…

And then you hear…                                      

                                                                             “ ‘ting’…  heh, heh, heh.”

                                                                             “ ‘ting’…  heh, heh, heh.”

                                                                             “ ‘ting’…  heh, heh, heh.”

I’m in the basement, makeshift curtains of water-stained burlap are drawn across the squat foundation windows.  The single bulb of an unadorned, shade-less and stark floor lamp illuminates the scene, its yellow light causing sepia hued shadows to be cast about the space.  I’m sitting in an ancient and worn dining room chair which has been draped with plastic sheeting, naked but for a pair of black dress socks which are held tautly in place by calf-suspenders and I’m in the act of de-quilling a family of porcupines with a pair of pliers.

Is this the sort of thing you imagine goes on behind the false façade of modern suburban life?

Geez, what the fuck is wrong with you?  Despite what the media tells you, despite all the horrible stories you see on network television or stream online at your own convenience, not everyone has a sex dungeon.  I mean, I do and so do most of my friends and associates, but that doesn’t mean every person you meet has got one.  Depending on the kind of social circles you run in, that is.