by Johannes Goransson on Mar.18, 2013
The Correct Sadist, by Terence Sellers
“Mercy, mercy, mercy me
I’m so scared, please comfort me
I don’t wanna be, don’t wanna be
Your back street boy
Hanging ‘round the House of Joy
Helen of Troy—“
Pretend there is an underground. Bands unheard of, playing hard to get, paintings sight unseen. Authors of oblivion: rumors; sightings. Here then gone for (the higher) good. No search engines or rewind but sudden undocumentably strange encounters of a fugitive kind.
When Jean Michel Basquiat’s very temporary group Gray played their 1/4-second-long songs fans applauded wildly, yelling “Less! Less!”
Terence Sellers/Angel Stern wrote a raft of books, one surfaced: The Correct Sadist, self-published on Vitriol ‘83 then by Grove in 1985. She holds a degree in forensic psychology from the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. I flopped tracking her by Internet or even on hard ground, NYC Doomsday Y2K. Yet, bare teeth bred, when I get my nose open I bring down my prey. So, I brought her at last to bay.
We sashay to Café Jean Claude looking recherché. “My House of Domination?” Angel feigns a pout, insouciant, bemused. “It’s like a Cadillac dealership. Uh oh. In an economic crisis luxuries are always first to go.”
While her tomb-world text includes instruction, case histories, plus role-play-dead Discipline & Punish reparteé, what looms loud is its esoteric, almost Tantric training lyric meant to cut a diamond strictness into the Superior’s mind.
“Like some exotic monster I rarely emerged from the green darkness of the ocean floor, where my frail phosphorescence lit the way. These light and fluent creatures, who fled easily to watery surfaces and air I envied; I wondered at their careless trust in a foreign light. I surface slowly into their bright and confused stream to find they care nothing about my icy home below. They know that to follow me would be their death as slowly the terrible pressure crushed their bodies. Enough that they are well-amused by my lurid coloring and profusion of antennae.”
“Oops! Silly me. I totally forgot. I left a German broker bound and gagged back on the rack. Let’s close with profiteroles, then I suppose we ought to go.”
When a masochist pleads, “Beat me; beat me!” the best Sadists say, “No.”
Her dungeon’s five floors up in a New York Hell’s Kitchen shotgun apartment. One room is convertible, doing double duty as torture chamber/charming parlor when her Pueblo of Pain hosts no craven slaves. Its shoddiness surely shows the force of Freud’s wish fulfillment. You gotta really wanna make believe to fetishize that K Mart tent-pole cage.