At an S/M restaurant, I nursed my drink while a woman in a leather dress pleaded with the diners to take a spanking. She stood on the stage and extended her bare arms in a gesture of supplication. "Come on!" she screamed. "Who's been bad? Who's having a birthday? Who's getting married? You all deserve to be punished!"

No one responded. The eaters concentrated on their paellas and bouillabaisses. A couple of them stepped outside, presumably to make cell phone calls. The dominatrix waited beside her St. Andrew's cross alone. She stroked a flogger hanging from a wall draped with whips.

The next thing I knew, the leather woman was standing next to me. "Let's do a show," she said.

"You don't understand," I said. "I'm a top man."

I pointed to an S/M poster on the wall over the bar. "I'm like Mr. Steel Penis there. I hunt white women and Web them in my Japanese shibari."

"After another drink," she said, "you'll be the world's biggest milquetoast. Especially if you drink milk."

She ordered me a White Russian, and I drank it. But I felt no more submissive than when I arrived. I got up and headed for the exit.

But before I got there, I felt the swat of a paddle on one of my buttocks. I whipped around and saw my friend, the cowhide princess, running away, laughing.

I wanted to strap her to her own cross, and thrash her with her own quirt. But I knew, from studying the S/M menu, that dessert would cost me $30. I couldn't afford revenge.

I promised myself that, when I came back, I would speak softly and carry a big bread stick.