thump and whip

Former Missouri Speaker of the House Rod Jetton, recently divorced, apparently met a woman from Sikeston, Missouri, and arranged to spend an evening with her. Among other things, he may have discussed over the phone the sort of sex he was into and the usage of something like a safe word during the date, the ‘word’ “Green Balloons.” Pre-date stuff.

Well, she ended up having a bad night. And even though she barely remembers what happened, she actually got him arrested. Even though she never once said “Green Balloons.”

Jetton went to the woman’s residence in Sikeston, Mo. with two bottles of wine, according to the report.

“(The woman) said she did not see him pour the wine because she did not follow him into the kitchen, but he returned to the living room and handed her a glass of wine. (The woman) remembers watching a football game and said once she finished the glass of wine, she began ‘fading’ in and out and remembered losing consciousness several times during the evening,” wrote Detective Bethany McDermott in her report.

McDermott reports that Jetton and the woman agreed on a safe word of “green balloons” to use as a stop word during intercourse.

“(The woman) recalls Jetton hitting her on the face very hard. She then remembers waking up, lying on the floor and Jetton was choking her. (The woman) said she did not know what happened with her memory because she had been drunk but had never had the blank spots in her memory,” McDermott reported.

“(The woman) said Jetton stayed the night with her and when he woke up he gave her a kiss and said, ‘You should have said green balloons.’ Jetton left the woman’s residence and had not returned,” McDermott added.

You gotta be kidding me. All you have to do is say “Green Balloons!” How hard could it be? “Green Balloons”, a perfectly good safe word. Coupla words. Well, phrase.

Actually, a ’safe word’ should probably be a word. Maybe “Green.” Not a great choice, but at least it’s a word. “Balloons” too, also a word. Come to think of it, given the funky stuff that’s going on, the second and third syllables might be a tough call. With maybe your head crammed into a spiky contraption, can you even form syllables? “Gweee Bwooos.” Throw some of Rod’s Rohypnol in for good measure, and can you do better than vowels? “Aieeeeee Aaoooooooo…”

Y’know, maybe this guy knew exactly what he was doing, maybe he’s just a nasty piece of work. Me not knowing here, really, just thinking out loud, but if you’re going to get rough, blanching pain would probably be the thing. You’ve got to push your body pretty hard to get there, so the ‘word’ should probably be a short and simple one so there’s no mistake, never a risk that the damage could end up permanent. Right?

And the signal probably should dodge your ‘personal tastes’, so to speak. It matters just what your game is. If you’re into ball-gagging, the best safe word is every bit as good as a seance. If your lover, say, likes to cuff you to the headboard, he’s not going see you flip him the bird, even in stereo. Perhaps if your partner is the strangling kind, forget composing a Haiku to complain.

“Winter bark gun grey
Circl’d tin shiverrraackk…..”

And remember: some guys only like to smack you right in the mouth. I feel these people are un-date-able, but I’m not that hip any more. In the middle of an evening with someone like that, and your lips now nothing more than lopsided Dunkin’ Donuts, don’t count on freezing the action by whistling the Meow Mix song: “Hooh Hooh Hooh Hooh, Hooh Hooh Hooh Hooh…”

Come to think of it, after some Republican dirtbag you barely know tells you he wants to charmingly beat the sensible defense out of you, just forget the whole thing. And always think again when anybody tries to assign you a special ’safe word’. Like “Sisiyphus Bleats Breep”. Or “Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!”. Better pause when you hear something like this: “It’s simple, all you have to say is ‘Coonskin Synechdoche.’” Or, “Honey, I find ‘FUCK! YES! KILL!’ works.” Yeah, but only when some off-duty cops next door hear it.

Unless, of course you’re REALLY into a Sikeston bruising, hey, not judging. Then you might just want to rig up some closed circuit thingie to capture all the highlights your gray matter will be too ‘Missouried’ to recall.

Like, perhaps, when the sensuous choke-play, having gotten a little too intense for you, caused you to cry out “COCKTEASE CARDINAL RICHelllloooooerrk….” Or when the tender head-slaps left you a little raw, and you tried to yell “MAIDEN MILFING MASTODONS!”, only to get edited by an overhand right, *splagow*. In the real fight game, they’d say you were ‘telegraphing’, rookie. Too bad, now there’s nothing you can say, or see or think, for a while.

Meanwhile, knowing Rod, he’s come back with his word–“SHUTHEFUCKUPBITCH!”. And now he’s crushing your windpipe like a python and trying to bounce your head off the mattress like an angry kid with one of those comical inflatable hammers. You think “Jesus Christ, my head–it’s actually squeaking. I shouldn’t have bought the Tempur-Pedic.” Aw, but the fellas in the mattress store said it would be good for you, oops. All of the circumstances have got Romantic Rod in a very negative positive-feedback loop. Sikeston Sharon, meet Death. Death, yes, Sharon, hello, goodbye.

Ugh, don’t watch. Actually don’t die. Forget Rod Jetton and his erotic brand of naked rage Republicanism. And there, those are safe words for some of you who still think romance is about getting chocolates, and late night phone calls, and clouted.