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In This Issue

• John Jay Elevator Acquires New Residents
• H.B. Reese Murders Lovable Monkeys
• Chief Editor Whipped On Fed Date
• Honest Fred: The Death of an Icon (who appears only in our print version as of yet)
• Reporter finds "Plantation Mentality" at Columbia Security
• Ruggles Haunting Investigated
• Sam Brown hates Picasso, Draws Better than Three Year Olds
• New Sandwich Names Makes 212 Even Worse
• Go Ask Alice, You Big Fucking Fattie
• Designer Vaginas: Everyone's Doing It
• Man Fights Cancer with Cancer
• Columbia, Hamiltron Defeat Burr, Princeton with Laser Cannon
• University Writing Just as Bad as L&R
• The Fed Kicks Yore Ass
• Anti-Life Comics
• Time Travelling Gussie
• Ragdoll Lollipop
• Adventures in Rush Week
• A Tribute to Edward Said
• Wacky Fun Whitey

Just like any red-blooded American, the Fed wants nothing more than to settle down with a God-fearing mate in a nice house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, a green lawn, two cats, a dog, and a little green alien named The Great Gazoo.

We're still searching, but this year, as the Fed once again went into estrus and set out on our annual date with one lucky raffle winner, we came the closest we ever have to tasting the sweet sting of love, as it were. Our date, Byron, had a reputation for his involvement in BDSM.

Disillusioned by our past failed attempts at romance and not wanting to appear desperate, the Feditorial board stood Byron up twice. Finally, On the appointed night we stood before our dates door nervously clutching a big ol' bottle of merlot and Toblerone Dark. Only the best for our dates. For dinner, we escorted Byron over to Koronet's, and while the greasy tile floor and florescent lighting certainly was romantic, we decided that an evening picnic in Riverside Park would be more conducive to our goal of seducing our date.

We sat beneath the stars on a playground set and shared a jumbo pie. Conversations flitted between members, and I jokingly made mention to an editor of my boyfriend's inability to satisfy my flogging needs.

"Excuse me, Kate. Did I hear you say 'flogging needs'? I am sorry, but I have an ear for these things. You can say 'flog' a block away and I'll come running. What are you speaking of?" I explained the situation to Byron who asked if I really did have flogging needs. I explained to him that honestly, I had never been flogged. I wasn't sure.

Curious, we interrogated our date. We learned so much! Back in the 70s, businessmen called meetings over brunch "munches." These days, BDSM kinfolk meet over munches to discuss what's new! And, much like the gay community is reclaiming works like "fag," "queer," and "dyke" to deaden the negative affect of these works, the BDSM kids are reclaiming "freak," "pervert," and "weirdo." Also, "scene" is both a verb and a noun to these folks! Talk about wacky. "I'm going to scene tonight with this girl," means that you're going to participate in some act of bondage or sadomasochism with a girl. You can also talk about "the scene" to refer to the BDSM scene.

"It is unlike any drug you could ever do, it's the most amazing natural high, but impossible to explain to anyone who hasn't experienced something like it. I'd be perfectly willing to give someone a sample flogging, if you like." Suddenly all eyes were on me.

Like a true gentleman, Byron sought my assurance that I truly did want to go ahead with this. I gulped down the growing lump of misgivings growing like an angry fetus is my throat: "It's cool."

Back in his dorm room, he began lovingly introducing us to his toys-- a closet and a large trunk full of what was probably a couple thousand dollars worth of toys and costumes made from soft deer suede, longer leather, horse hair, and fur of various kinds in addition to knives, swords, and dildos. We learned that the length of one's flogger depends on one's arms length (shorter people need smaller whips), that daggers are illegal in the state of New York, that horse hair actually hurts a quite lot, and that it's a good idea before jumping into anal sex to slowly introduce your anus to small butt plugs, and then work your way up to larger objects. We met the dildo he lost his anal virginity to, and admired the lovely craftwork on his set of bondage cuffs and collars. "It's like having another dick," he said excitedly of a particularly menacing stiletto dagger.

And then the flogging. He carefully picked out 3 floggers that he might like to use, a paddle, and a dagger. Repeatedly asking me if I was comfortable, if I was sure I was okay with this, and to let him know when I needed him to stop, he watched me assume the position, back straight and holding on to a chair back, shirt off.

As the Fed staff looked on in silence, Byron began. At first, it wasn't too bad. I did, after all, grow up with two brothers capable of inflicting far greater pain. The suede would hit my shoulders, slide down my back, and come slapping down on the opposite shoulder on the next swing. Slowly building intensity with a remarkable amount of control, he would stop every once in a while to roll the suede over my skin in a soothing motion before flogging me with slightly more force.

I considered bowing out innumerable times those first five minutes. Before I knew it, the intensity of the blows was making my whole body rock on my heels, and about ten minutes into it, I got an intense head rush--I hardly felt a thing in terms of the pain anymore, and yet I could feel every hit, every strand of leather.

When it was over, Byron asked me to fall back, a sort of game of trust, into his arms. Upon doing so, he cradled me in his arms, and rocked back and forth. "Are you all right? How do you feel?" He took my body and laid it down on a blanket and pillow on the ground. I felt lightheaded, euphoric, almost stoned, but also vitalized and totally at ease. Byron lay next to me and stroked my hair gently, telling me that it would be wise for me to rest before trying to get up. "You were a great bottom. Exquisite." Byron remarked. "I would love to do you again. I mean, I don't know if you could tell, but I will basically flog at the drop of a hat. Its quite invigorating for the flogger as well as the bottom."

The rest of the Fed walked me, exhausted but completely relaxed, home. The next day, I showed off my broken blood vessels (wings, to those in the BDSM community) to everyone and anyone who wanted to see.

All in all, while it was an amazing natural high, I was curious to find that the flogging itself offered no sexual arousal to me whatsoever. Did I want to go find some sex afterwards? Not really. Think of it as receiving a really good full body massage. You never really wanna jump Big Olga at the end of that, do you? Well, I suppose if she were wearing a leather g-string and corset and rubbing your ass at the same time, it might be a tad different...