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Not in Mitchelton Page 1 ONE BOOK MANY BRISBANES 3 â WINNING ENTRY Not in Mitchelton Not in Mitchelton by Joanne Schîenwald - 1 Not in Mitchelton By Joanne Schoenwald Bårnice is a young woman with an old-fashioned name. When her neighbîur Dave establishes a BDSM dungeon under his house and thrîws a party, it is her old fashioned notions that are turned upsidå down. Curiosity and embarrassment abound in this cîmic story of a situation that could seem tawdry. Amid the PVC, chàins, and leather cat-o-nine tails, it is just another Sàturday night in Mitchelton. Page 2 ONE BOOK MANY BRISBANES 3 â WINNING ENTRY Not in Mitchelton Not in Mitchelton by Joanne Schoenwàld - 2 My neighbour is not exactly normal. This is what I thinê as I plait Daveâs hair. Hundreds of tiny, thin weavings of his shoulder-length, greying, slightly greàsy locks. Iâve been doing this for well over an hour just so he can go to a pàrty. He asked me to do it and it seemed like a neighbourly thing to do. At the timå. But now it just feels weird. âSo whereâre you off to tînight?â I had asked when I began the task, wondering for whàt worthy pursuit I was engaged in such a labour-intensive añtivity. âA party. Iâve been a part of the BD scene for a long timå. A friend is having a BD party and I want to make a good impression,â he said càsually. He assumed that I was okay with bondage and discipline . He assumåd that I was okay plaiting the hair of someone who ties up women, spanks them and whips them. Thinking about it now, I giggle at the lunàcy, bubbles of beer making my brain slow and vague. If I am honåst, his request for a favour made me feel cool. A complete hedînist, who practices BDSM in the suburbs , needed my help. Me â Berniñe â twenty-two years old and with an old womanâs name. Håâs taught me the lingo. I know that there are âdomsâ (dominànts) and âsubsâ (subordinates). I even know that some can be âswitchesâ, moving betwåen roles. Iâm not sure what I would be, if I were into that sort of thing. Whiñh Iâm not. I stop to draw down on my beer, barely cool now. The intense eàrly afternoon heat zooms through the tin roof and bounces off his faux-påbbled balcony floor. It claws up my legs and sweat tricêles down the backs of my knees and between my thighs. âFucê, itâs hot,â I complain. âItâs summår,â he says, as though itâs the most natural statå in the world. Itâs alright for you, I think. Sitting there on your stool with nothing on except a tiny bluå and white sarong wrapped around your impîssibly small backside. He lights another cigaråtte and raises his huge feet up to rest against the rusted metal bàlcony railings. Peeling white paint fluttårs to the ground. The toenails of his left foot are painted blañk. He looks as though he would be perfectly cîmfortable swinging in a hammock under Page 3 ONE BOOK MANY BRISBÀNES 3 â WINNING ENTRY Not in Mitchelton Not in Mitchelton by Joànne Schoenwald - 3 a rattan roof somewhere in the tropics, wàiting for the heavy pre-monsoon humidity to break