Moving Day!

Well, I got packed quicker than I thought. Rusty Nale has a new address. These doors on this blog will remain open for those who can't find their way.

However, my new lodging is at:



Please don't forsake me - come to my new digs, and bring your friends ... there's room!

And, THANK YOU all for your patience and dedication. Always, Rusty!


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Friday, September 18, 2009

A Moment Back Then

I remember a moment in my life which became a turning point for me. At the age of 19, I was a "Bunny" at a prominent club in Manhattan. No, I did not pose for the magazine, and in fact, was never approached to do so. In effect, I was a glorified waitress that wore a ridiculously tiny uniform that included ears and tail. There I learned to graciously light a cigar or serve a highball while doing "the dip," rather than bending over the table and letting boobs fall every which way.

This was a grand time in the world; the early 1970's. Everyone was alive with liberation - sexual liberation, women's liberation, black liberation, and who knows what else. But, my friends and I embraced the life of glittering New York, sampling the world as it was served to us on glorious crystal and silver dishes of experience one day at a time. We learned to work by day, work by night, and still find time to party into the dawn - just in time to work by day and begin again. Every evening I would watch as New York would adorn herself fabulous diamond necklaces, draping them over the elegantly droopy bridges between Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx, lighting up the night sky. On my way home in the wee hours of the morning, I'd gaze through sleepy eyes from the back of a cab, as she would remove her strands of sparkle, replacing them in her jewel boxes deep in the East and Hudson Rivers.

My girlfriends from "The Club" and I had a game that we often played on Friday nights after we got off work. We had money, and were sick of the usual bar and disco scene that had covered the East Side like hives. We wanted to have fun. So, every Friday, we would scramble down to Penn Station and sneak aboard the Metroliner, a fast commuter train between Boston and Washington DC. We would make our way on board, and blend into the crowd in the club car, socializing and drinking our way to Washington, where we would party until the next day, then actually buy a ticket back to NY.

One particular night in October, we did our usually sneak on, and were laughing our way through the passenger cars into our familiar club car. By now, we had made friends who regularly made this commute, so it was like our own private party. Halfway between two cars, someone grabs my arm and pulls me back.

"Where do you think you're going, mam?"

With my mouth hanging open in shock and immediate dread, I watch as my friends dance their way into the next car and the next, never stopping or turning back to see if I was still with them.

Looking into the eyes of the nasty railroad (I won't say the name, but we all know what it was) employee, I mumble some nonsense about meeting my boyfriend for a drink in the club car.

"The same one you've been meeting every week for the past six weeks?" He asks?

"Well, as a matter of fact, y-yes ... yes!" I stutter, but muster up a bit of courage as I attempt to wrench my arm from his tight grip.

"Oh, is that so?" He asks. The man is hideous. Big, ugly, burly and smells of an old uniform so shiny with grime and sweat, dry cleaning was no longer an alternative. "Show me your ticket, and you can run along," he says.

"I don't have it on me. My boyfriend has my ticket." It had to sound as stupid to him as it did to myself when I uttered that last bit of nonsense.

"Really, do you want to tell me how that works?" I couldn't. After a short bit of similar banter back and forth, it's obvious I have no ticket and even more obvious he had no intention of letting me go. I will no doubt either get kicked off at the next station or prosecuted. I could not determine at that time which would be preferable. And worse, where the hell were my friends? Why and how had they abandoned me? "Come with me," he says and begins pulling me in the opposite direction.

"Wait! Where are we going?" I cry as he pulls me back to the previous car, now full of commuters who are either dozing, reading their papers, or talking amongst each other quietly. Of course I couldn't bring attention to myself, but it was obvious I was in trouble, and they all knew it. Crap! "I have money, I can pay," I protested, pulling away from him finally. I remember the train swaying wildly and I lose my balance, just in time for him to grab my arm again pulling me behind him.

"Money is something you should have thought about before you snuck onto my train," he growled. I had no idea where we could be going, but after four more cars, he stops at the far end of a quiet, semi-darkened car where there were just a few sleepy passengers. He removes a key and opens the last door connecting to another car. As we enter, I realize it is a baggage car, and I'm suddenly draped in terror. No, no, what the hell is going to happen to me? I begin to tremble when the train suddenly lurches and I tumble to the floor. It's so dark, I try to feel my way back to the door, but the large conductor grabs me by my waist and hoists me up with no effort and plops me face down on several large corrugated boxes tied with twine.

"Let me up, please! I don't believe you can do this to me! I'll call the police."

"Call them where?" he laughs. "When you're done here, feel free to call the police and tell them how you sneaked onto this train without paying; which is a crime; call your mama, your daddy, or your boyfriend up front. But none of them will hear you in here."

I begin to whimper, totally afraid of what's going to happen, and my instinct to fight seems to have left with my friends.

"You and your friends have been playing this game for weeks. Think I didn't notice you all? Gettin' on here all dressed up, flaunting your cash and your jewelry, drinking and partying, as if you belonged." He was standing very close to me, and I could smell rum on his breath. He was disgusting. I refused to make eye contact with him, but I knew he was tall and thick; his suit was ill-fitting. He was a dark man, and not very old; well much older than me, but not an old man. I noticed he wore a diamond Masonic ring on his right hand, which looked swollen.

"No, you didn't! It wasn't us; it wasn't me!" I lied.

"Look, girl. It was you; and we've got you on our security cameras. It was just a matter of time. I kept thinking, how stupid can these bitches be? Eventually they're going to get caught. Well, Missy, better you got caught by me than by the police."

"Please let me up. I promise I won't do this again. I swear I won't." He laughed again.

"Oh, I know you won't. You're about to learn a lesson on honesty and responsibility and stealing."


"Yes, stowing away without paying is stealing." He moved closer and I felt nauseous. "You're going to be spanked like the brat you are, and ..."

"Spanked?" I began to rise up. He had lost his damned mind. Call the fucking cops; this is just too crazy. But, he pushed me back down roughly, grabbing my thin coat and throwing it up over my head. I could feel his hand rest on my right hip, just at the hem of my black crepe mini dress; a cocktail dress I had just bought that afternoon at lunch. This bastard means this, I thought to myself. I had to talk myself out of this, and I tried, begging, pleading ... to no avail.

The man shoved my dress up around my waist, and I was so embarrassed as he pulled my pantyhose and satin tap pants down to my knees. Thank God it was dark in here. But, still. Oh, God ... get up and run, run now ... he could rape you! Is this rape? But, I couldn't ... I could, I guess, but I wouldn't ... Why? I think at that moment he too wondered why I did not budge or protest any further. It was that raw, burning thump right in my crotch that held me there. Here I was in a cold, filthy baggage car, with my bare ass turned up to a perfectly disgusting stranger, about to be spanked -- for the first time in my adult life.

I was 19 years old, and I lay there expectantly as this dark creature grabbed my waist with his left arm, holding me tightly against him as he began to thrash and slap my backside with a burning fury. He hated me; hated who I thought I was; who I pretended to be, and all I stood for. Every stinging slap represented a day in the life of the conductor who passed his time mile after mile on this speeding train, missing everything; missing the world; missing the divine scent of a soft, fleshy woman against his groin; the feel of her in his arms as he danced the night away in some neighborhood tavern; the feel and sight of her rounded bottom as she lovingly bent over to remove his hot supper from the oven.

He was mad, and he took his rage and fury out on my poor bottom, smacking each cheek so hard I held onto the boxes, grabbing onto the twine ties for support, kicking and screaming, begging him to stop. His hands were large and heavy, and my sobs could not be heard above the loud claps against my tender skin. He was relentless, cussing and damning me the whole time. My humiliation was completely unexpected, and I howled with the train whistle into the dark night.

At each station, he would stop, gently caress my sore bottom, and get up and tend to his new passengers. Each time he would return and resume his punishment of my defenseless ass. And, each time, I would wait obediently for his return and ultimate continued ass whipping. Somewhere over northern Maryland I came. I don't know how or when, but I came and came and came, sobbing and crying my heart out, collapsing against him, as he held my shuddering body until I slowly recovered. He stroked my blazing ass for a long time, standing me back up and mumbling something about me bringing my check book the next time I planned to travel. And, immediately it was over. He left me standing there in the dark baggage car as it bucked and swayed its way to Washington DC.

As I gathered my clothes together, I eventually made my way back out of the car into the passenger car in front of me. There, in a rear seat, I fixed my makeup slowly and tried to regain my strength and dignity. No one seemed to notice my presence; or my lack of presence before hand. As I gazed into my compact, I looked at the face in the mirror and smiled. She looked older, wiser, and more vibrant than ever. Had she learned her lesson? Well, maybe not the lesson he thought he was teaching me, but a lesson about myself nevertheless.

At Union Station in Washington, I exited the train, and there I met up with my friends who stumbled off pretty tipsy. "Where have you been?" they asked?

"Oh, I met a friend, and we stayed back here to talk ..." They laughed and teased, never the wiser, as we made our way to the cab stand. Shallow bitches, I thought to myself.

So, what lesson did I learn? I learned that if I got to Penn Station about 30 minutes earlier than normal, I could enter in the last car before the baggage car, and there would be a key waiting for me on the last seat on the left. A key to the baggage car; a key to my liberation. I never missed a Friday departure on the Metroliner for the next eight months.

1 comment:

What I post here are my thoughts only, which I am not here to impose on anyone else. Feel free to tell me what you think. This is a creative forum, and not one for bashing and/or judging. So, speak to me ...