By John Vogel
As a class, we had all been warned about the sex dungeon.
The call came in towards the middle of the shift, around 10:45 PM.
Everyone but the four of us were dressed in black, glossy leather outfits that I can only assume cost more than my uniform—boots included. Bystanders watched the controlled chaos unfold in the parking lot, as oxygen masks were slapped on leather clad subs and doms alike. The only ones who didn’t care were the motel staff; they are very used to this, as it happens every Friday and Saturday.
I was told I wasn’t allowed to touch anyone, only take vitals, which didn’t count as touching. No application of gauze, no oxygen administration, I couldn’t even cut the leather mask off the guy in the swing.
“He’s passed out, let Fire cut him down,” the lead medic said to me as I stared at the leather starfish suspended from the scaffolding.
“What about the thing around his groin?”
“Hmm….” he said, tilting his head as he visually inspected the apparatus.
“Let Fire do it. You know they’re into that kinda thing.”
The day before our ride-alongs started, our grizzled lead Instructor, a career paramedic, gave us a few do’s and a lot of don’ts.
“Be there insanely early. Not 10 minutes ahead of clock-in; be there 45 minutes ahead. They will not be waiting 1 second for your dumb ass who can’t read a clock.”
“Don’t argue with your medics; you’re a dumbass until we say otherwise.”
“Keep your mouth shut unless it’s a question.”
Pretty basic things to keep in mind. We were only 2 weeks into EMT school, and none of us had any interest in getting a bad report back from our ride-alongs, which counted for a considerable amount of our overall grade. Our instructors were pros, and we were less than rookies.
“Oh yeah, and whoever has night shift for South L.A, if and when you get to the sex dungeon, glove up double and if you get even the slightest prick, tell your medic ASAP.”
The room was quiet.
“Good luck”
So I found myself sitting in the middle of a leather fashion show on a Friday night in South L.A. The original call was for a man, 40’s, who stopped breathing. The two medics I was assigned to knew immediately where this was, and more importantly, what it was.
“They rent out 4 or 5 rooms for the weekend and convert it into—ahhh you know, like a sex thing….like a dungeon-thing. Whips, chains, leather, candles, whatever. They make decent money doing it, but man, every freakin’ weekend they take something too far and damn near kill someone.”
Luckily the Doms who ran the show knew the routine: “I stopped when he stopped. Gave him a few whacks with the slotted paddle but he was out. I considered using the clamps to see if I could wake him back up but thought I might as well be safe and called you guys.”
Ironically, as she called, another room had a small fire break out due to some lit candles that smoked out the room and everyone in it.
I stood, clipboard in hand, waiting for one of the medics to give me an order.
“You, come watch this. You can tell your class you saw something on your ride.” another paramedic said to me.
I heard the sound of metal being cut and a large thud, like a sack of potatoes hitting the floor.
It was the starfish; Fire finally cut him down. They tried to catch him, but due to the slick leather, he slipped right through their arms.
“I don’t want that guy for transpo, he’ll wake up and throw a fit. Lets take the skinny guy with the smoke inhalation. He hasn’t stopped crying since we arrived.”
We loaded up the crying twig covered in wax and metal studs and headed off for the hospital.
“What should I write for the patient report?” I asked
“Uhh male, 30’s, smoke inhalation. Very kinky.”
