Personal ads got me stabbed!

The only personal I ever answered was for a woman wanting me to take care of her iguana named… The only personal I ever answered was for a woman wanting me to take care of her iguana named Chachi. It was pretty mundane for the most part, and totally harmless. This basically just confirmed my suspicion that personals are for people who are too socially inept to navigate the real world. But several weeks ago, I responded to an ad in the paper for a “slave wanted.” Thus began a fascinating relationship with a woman I simply knew as “Frau Gutzeit,” which has proven my previous suspicions violently wrong.

Here is a letter to Gutzeit, which you might find educational. I hope you’ll see how rewarding the master-slave relationship can be.

Meine Liebling!

Danke Schon for the beating you administered last Thursday. The lacerations are scabbing over nicely, and with a little luck, the scars should be permanent – let’s keep our fingers crossed. I apologize for doing all of this so publicly, but it was the only way I could think of. I know the whole point of being a slave is that complaints are useless, so let’s call these “grievances.”

First off, there are certain parts of the male body that simply cannot be tethered to a tricycle (unless one is wearing roller skates). Also, despite your repeated efforts, medical science has shown us that there is no way to turn a rectum “inzite aut.” I know what you’re thinking – I’m being anal. But I’m just trying to flesh out the terms of our agreement. For instance, early on, we decided on 1) no compound fractures, and 2) second-degree burns at most. And I admit – you’ve restrained yourself admirably. However, I’m starting to become a bit suspicious of your real intentions.

For example, I thought we agreed on no more than 30 seconds of asphyxiation. Maybe I’m wrong on this one though, my memory is a bit foggy these days. In any case, I’m SURE I yelled our stop word – “blitzkrieg” – right before my trachea was crushed. What’s your game, Liebling?

I appreciate you trying to teach me German – I know people pay a pretty hefty sum these days for instruction from a native speaker. But I think your strategy of having me associate German words with different acids applied to my skin is, well, flawed. I look at the cysts on my arms and think “was that one Tisch, or Taschenrechner?” You know, psychologists have said we need a minimum of seven repetitions to learn a new association, and I don’t think I have enough skin surface area to accommodate even the most basic vocabulary.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m willing to let all that slide. And I have so much to be grateful for. I’m indebted to you for my lifetime of abnormal gait. Thanks to you, I can only eat solid foods on alternate days of the week. And who else has long tracts of Schiller branded onto his buttocks? (Adel is auch in der sittlichen Welt!) In fact, if you want to see your artistry on display, check out this month’s issue of “Modern Chiropractic Marvels.” You see that “gross abnormality of the lumbar spine”, page 522, figure 2B? That’s me!

OK, I’ve buttered you up enough, so now I have to get down to business. It’s not easy to say this, but you’ve hurt me, Liebling, and not in the good way. I know the terms of our little enterprise were “maximal humiliation and minimum consideration,” but still, nothing could have quite prepared me to see little “Oskar” last week.

Let me back up a bit: When you said “SLAVE wanted,” I thought you were ready to commit to a single sexual minion. It’s not like you placed an open add calling all slaves, is it? Anyway, after your biceps were fatigued from beating me last time (beware of lactic acid buildup by the way), I stayed around for a bit. When I looked through your keyhole, I saw you open up your wine cellar and call forth a small Hispanic dwarf. Although I DO commend you on your policy of equal opportunity employment, how do you explain Oskar and his Tin Drum? Did you plan to look me in (what’s left of) my face and tell me? Was that a hand-stitched Luftwaffe uniform I saw? Trust me, if my tear ducts weren’t singed shut, I’d be crying right now.

Part of me wants to sigh and say “that’s just my Liebling – the same one who nursed me back to consciousness with German folk songs.” But another part of me is less forgiving. My servitude isn’t something I take lightly, and there are some wounds that even your breast milk can’t heal. Maybe this kinda thing flew with the Fuhrer, but this little junge is hurting right now.

Damn. Here I go again. I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. I mean, your technique? A-plus. That fatwah you issued against me? Very classy. But maybe its time you were a tad more thoughtful. Just an idea.

So see you next Thursday? Should I wear the minstrel outfit?

Jason Castro is a columnist for The Pitt News.