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Had I had time to ponder my predicament, I might have wondered if my childhood days at a catholic school had left me with the fantasy in which I was currently engaged. Certainly there were similarities between those days and the present. For example, it was the case that the interior of the building had the same old house flavour as that of my school. Equally there was the current sight and sound of that leather strap as it was raised and delivered with painful force across the palms of my hand. The fact that the sound was audible to others going about their business in complete disregard to my plight bore yet another resemblance. It was there, however, that the analogy stopped. For a start, we did not undress for discipline at school. Yet here I was, stark naked, stood to attention for all to see. At school a woman did not deliver the strap. Yet this delivery was from no ordinary woman but one bedecked in knee length high-heeled boots. Finally, I do not recall. There was no home for Sara Wood, there never had been. There had been foster homes. Homes where bespeckled fat-thumbed men had tried to introduce Sara Wood to the finer arts of oral sex when she was nine years old, where wild-eyed women pushed her to her knees – Bible in hand – to repent for sins she had never committed. There was in Sara Wood’s life no fridge in the kitchen to feed her empty belly, no television in the den to fill her empty time, nor were there chat rooms or the ‘net late at night in a darkened bedroom were she could learn about the carefree, empty lives of teenagers spread over the American landscape like a thin coat of white paint. So, Sara Wood kept to the shadows of the city, although there were times when it felt like the city did it’s very best to keep her there in the dark light of day, out of sight, out of mind. What little comfort in this word she could buy she paid for in the currency of her soul, on her knees in alleys or spread apart in the front seats.
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