Control Freak Sideshow

"Step right up! Step right up!"

He yells four nights a week. The other two nights we usually travel. Long stretches of highway. Cornfields. So many cornfields.

"Step right up and see the greatest traveling side show still around!"

He wears a bright red suit with a shiny cape and a tall tophat. When crowds are low he pulls a flask from his pocket. When crowds are plentiful he stands on a box to shout over the din.

"Control the freak! See what she can do! The most flexible woman alive! Step right up!"

The long cables attached to my binds feed through a series of pulleys terminating in four wooden handles.

"A live marionette! Control the freak! Make her dance! Make her stretch! Make her moooooove!"

He always puts a foul twist on the last word, often winking at a potential male customer when he says it.

Money is paid. An eager-looking group of young men enter my tent. I lay on the floor, still, sprawled, crumpled and waiting to be controlled. They take the handles to my cables and pull me to a standing position. They get four minutes, unless they paid the premium rate, but I doubt these young men know to ask for the available extras.

They spin me around and around, make me jump, bow, twist, and convulse. I am their's. Their puppet. Their entertainment. Their slave. They have the cables, the power, the control.

Outside, the yelling continues. More people line up, waiting their turn to be my master.

Maybe it isn't right. Maybe it is. Maybe it's more common than you think. Maybe it's you.