I was just about to knock on the door to Apartment 1B when I heard a terrible sob.
"Please don't -- not again!" a young man cried.
Then I heard a whack. And another one.
"I'm sorry I was bad! I'll do anything you say," the trembling voice pleaded.
Then another voice -- this one harsh and cold -- shouted, "Shut up, or I'll put the gag back in, you worthless piece of shit. Give me those ropes. Hands behind your back. Now bend over."
"Oh God, not the whip again, Daddy. I can't bear it." There was a struggling sound. "Not the whip!"
I had forgotten to breathe. My hand was still frozen in knocking mode. What should I do? I was concerned. I was scared. And, frankly, I was curious. So I did knock, as if I were a pert and determined Avon lady.
The two guys were flushed, breathless, smiling. One wore a diaper, the other a scanty, black leather outfit. "May I borrow a corkscrew?" Couldn't I have avoided saying "screw" somehow? "Come in!" they replied.