Houdini Wannabes

I don't know about you younger guys, but many of us who were turned on by bondage before magazines like Bound & Gagged and then the internet came along, found a respectable role model for our interests in the person of the almost mythical escape artist Harry Houdini (1874-1926), who got himself tied up and chained up and straitjacketed—and freed himself from those restraints—to popular acclaim, long before even we were born. Houdini gave a certain respectablity to being tied up, and any kid who wasn't too ashamed of his desires ever to let his parents know about them might easily and openly play escape games in his own home with his friends, even while his mother was somewhere in the house. Lots of kids were Houdini wannabes.

I don't know if there are many (or any) professional escape artists still around—they used to be popular at county fairs; on the other hand, I don't know if there are many county fairs still around—but here's the story of one of them. He sent it to me in 1994 and it was published in Issue 44. 

 

MY LIFE AS AN ESCAPE ARTIST

ESCONDIDO, CA. I’ve enjoyed reading your magazine for several years now and finally got around to writing down some of my own experiences which I believe your readers might find interesting. I began my career as an escape artist when I was about ten after seeing the movie “Houdini” with Tony Curtis. In it there is a great scene in which Tony and several other volunteers are challenged to escape from brown leather straight jackets. The movie is a bit hokie, but that scene really got my heart pounding—I knew then that I wanted to get tied up like that!

 

At first I challenged my friends to tie me up with rope. They generally did not work at it very hard and I could escape fairly easily. Then there was my buddy Dave. Dave took my challenge seriously and seemed to get a certain satisfaction out of trussing me up in many different ways. If I couldn’t get out after more than an hour of struggling he would say that I needed to “learn my lesson” so that I would get better. So he’d leave me tied up for at least another hour. I didn’t mind that at all, and actually, I learned a lot from those experiences.

 

One of Dave’s more inventive ties involved two broom sticks and a lot of rope. He’d start by lashing my ankles together and then my knees with separate pieces of rope. Next he’d make me lie on my back as he threaded one broom stick over my ankles, under my knees and against my chest. Then he would slide the other broom stick laterally under my knees and lash each wrist to it on the outside of the knees. At this point the whole tie was fairly loose because I could still bend my knees. But then he’d take the ends of the rope around my knees and pull them down, tying them off to both broomsticks where they intersected.

 

This last tie was a bit tricky since he had to get under my legs to make the knot. First he’d slide a log or a box under the end of the broom stick where it extended past my collar bone and then he’d raise my tied feet and put them on his shoulder. This prevented the end of the broom stick from exerting too much pressure on my collar bone. I remember getting a hard-on when he did that because I felt so helpless as I looked him in the eye. Then he’d take another length of rope and tie my elbows together pulling them very tight. This also served to keep the lengthwise broom stick tight against my chest. He’d then leave me flat on the ground and watch me squirm.

 

This is a particularly difficult tie to escape from, even for the experts. You can’t roll and slide the stick under your knees because it is too long and you’re always working against it. The length-wise stick puts constant pressure on the foot and knee bindings to say nothing about your prick and chest. Dave tied me up that way at least four times before I figured how to get out of it. Each time he left me essentially immobilized for at least two hours. Once he left me for a whole afternoon while he went and played baseball.

 

Once I figured out how to escape this tie he’d figure things to add to prevent it. Sometimes he’d tie my forearms to my thighs; I really got turned on while he repeatedly pushed the rope between my bound legs and then cinched my arms tighter and tighter. Back then I was really hung up though and felt incredibly guilty that I was getting these feelings. I rationalized that this was simply a hobby and that there wasn’t anything more to it. I didn’t have a clue back then. Now I wish I could have enjoyed the whole experience much more. Something told me Dave was ready to go the next step, but every time I sensed he wanted to talk about it, I’d change the topic. Dave moved when I was 16, just as I was starting to confront the deeper meaning of my desires.

 

When I was 18, I headed off to college to learn something that I could make money at. During my freshman year I saw a magician named Dante doing an act in the middle of the outdoor mall near the library. He had a great black goatee, black hair down to his shoulders and wore a pair of black, pointed toe boots with slanted heels. At the end of his show he did an escape from a straight jacket.

 

Unfortunately, I wasn’t one of the volunteers to help him into the jacket, but I wasn’t disappointed by the show. The lucky volunteers were two guys who jumped up immediately when he made the challenge. They looked like cocky football jocks who had just finished a couple of beers. They seemed to be showing off to somebody as they took on their task with great vigor. Dante seemed to be caught a bit off guard by these guys, but he quickly made a few jokes about their enthusiasm as he continued to play to the crowd.

 

They quickly slid the jacket down Dante’s arms. Then the bigger guy started fastening the leather straps in the back starting at the neck and working down. The leather creaked as he cinched each strap with all his strength, pulling the strap with one hand while pushing against the magicians’s back with the other. The other guy began by bracing Dante from the front. When the jocks began to thread the crotch strap up the back buckle, the magician made some joke about “saving his family jewels,” but that did not stop them from using their full strength. The jocks finished up by joining the ends of the two sleeves together in the back. As every escape artist knows, this is where he must gain slack. The jocks did not disappoint me here. While one gave the magician a bear hug, the other put his knee up into the back of the jacket and cinched the strap, joining the sleeves so tight that the strap could not yield another millimeter.

 

The magician kept up his banter; but as he turned around and struggled a bit to show the jock’s handiwork to the audience, it was obvious that he was bound very tightly. I knew he had a real challenge in front of him. In the tradition of Houdini he then had the guys lay him on the ground and, with the help of an assistant, attach a rope and a device to those great black boots. The rope went to some pulleys hanging from a 20 foot high frame overhead. The jocks then hoisted the magician by his feet higher and higher, upside down, until he was within a few feet of the top. Dante swayed back and forth like a pendulum, his hair hanging earthward. I saw no slack in the jacket. The assistant then tied off the rope.

 

Being upside down actually helps the escape artist because it puts the upper body in tension causing the torso to become somewhat thinner, and gains some slack. It also allows gravity to help as you work to pull your arms over your head. Dante struggled mightily for at least 6 minutes (Houdini could do this trick in less than 2) before he finally got his arms over his head. From there he extricated himself and dropped the jacket to the ground. The crowd cheered, the jocks let him down, and I came in my pants.

 

Somehow I got my nerve up and went to talk to the magician after the show. His real name was Mark. I told him how I had wanted to be an escape artist when I was younger and that I had worked at it for awhile. I also said that I suspected he had gotten a bit more than he had expected for that escape. He winced slightly and confided that it was one of the hardest escapes of his career. We talked some more and then went out for a beer. He asked if I was interested in trying to escape from his straight jacket. Of course I said sure! We went to my apartment where he pulled out the jacket and proceeded to strap me into it. It still smelled of his sweat. It was mostly canvas with leather straps. The neck strap was riveted to a wide black leather collar, and there were large black leather reinforcements at the crotch strap and the end of the sleeves.   

 

I had read all the books on escapes by the different magicians, so I knew basically what I needed to do. As Mark was fastening me into the device it seemed that he wasn’t pulling the straps very taut. So I told him that I wanted a “real challenge.” He said he thought that wasn’t a good idea for a first attempt. But after a bit of convincing he took on a new attitude and began tightening each strap with what felt like all his strength until the jacket tightly encased my body. He pulled the crotch strap between my legs and cinched it tightly as well. Then he strapped the ends of the sleeves together and jerked it until the strap would yield no more.

 

I tried straining my arms against the sleeves and became aware of the pressure of the jacket against my chest and the crotch strap against my cock. I was held fast, and it felt great.

 

I began my struggle and quickly found that it would be easier doing it on the floor. I got down on my knees OK, but when I leaned to roll on my side I hit the floor hard with a thud. I got a bit of slack by wriggling back and forth and began working my arms over my head. It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. After about 10 minutes I realized I was getting exhausted and slowed down my struggle. After a lot more time my arms were starting to loosen up and I inched them over my head. I just about scraped my nose off as I slid my right arm over my face! Once my arms were over my head I realized the next part isn’t as easy as it looks. You work one arm against the other until you get one arm out of its sleeve. Sometimes this requires dislocating a shoulder. Once my right arm was freed of its sleeve I worked it down the inside of the jacket and around to the back to release the crotch strap and then the four straps up the back—I succeeded!

 

I was soaked with sweat and asked Mark how long had it taken me. I had been confined for over 2 hours! However, he said he was really impressed and said I did much better than he had his first time. I was totally exhausted—you have to be in shape to do this stuff!

 

I told Mark that although I’d never admitted it to any one before, I really liked the feeling of being tied up. He looked me straight in the eye and said that was why he became an escape artist. He added that he really gets off when he has a real challenge and is tightly bound like he was earlier that day. I asked him how he got into doing this as a job. He said he first did it at carnivals—then he got an agent who got him jobs mostly for grand openings and other events that needed attention grabbers. He also mentioned that his current assistant was quitting soon and asked if I was interested in the job.

 

I quit school and the rest is history. There was no real pay for the job except food, lodging and travel expenses (this isn’t a very lucrative operation), but I was young and ready for an adventure. Mark and I became great friends as we tied each other up for fun and practice at least a couple nights a week (but that’s another story).

 

After working almost four years with Mark, I had gotten pretty good at escaping from everything from handcuffs to straight jackets and decided that it was time to try out an act of my own. I used the same agent that Mark used. There weren’t any hard feelings. I wasn’t really taking any work away from him because we typically were working opposite ends of the country.

 

At the end of my act I also do an escape challenge. I ask people from the audience to confine me with their own rope, handcuffs, chains or a straight jacket. If no one comes prepared I provide a straight jacket just like Mark did that first time I saw him perform. One of my hairiest challenges happened at the grand reopening of a biker bar. I was a bit reluctant to perform there in the first place, but work had been slow and I figured they’d all be drunk and probably wouldn’t pay that much attention to me. Maybe it would be an easy night. In order to fit in with the crowd I wore a pair of black leather jeans, biker boots and a black shirt. I looked pretty mean—I thought.

 

The first part of the act went pretty well due to the distraction provided by a couple of biker babes who had come back to town. Then I made my challenge. Two guys sauntered onto the stage and egged the rest on to make this a real challenge! In retrospect I shouldn’t have been surprised that several of the bikers had handcuffs on them and that one guy even had a pair of leg irons.

 

Several guys rallied to the cause and brought in the locks and chains they use to secure their bikes. A couple more pairs of handcuffs showed up too. In all, I’d guess there were about 7 pairs of handcuffs, four 8 foot lengths of heavy chain with locks, plus the leg irons. My captors looked the biker part all the way—one guy was real lean, about six foot two, with rugged good looks. He had his black hair tied in a pony tail, a bushy mustache, 3 days growth of beard, a dirty jean jacket, and black chaps over his blue jeans and boots. The other guy was your basic Bubba—five foot ten, about 230 lbs (solid!), long, shaggy hair and beard, black leather jacket, blue jeans, and 16" high biker boots.

 

They secured the first pair of handcuffs on my wrists very tightly and then double locked them. Then they proceeded to put two other pairs of handcuffs on my forearms, each locked the same way. Then the tall, lean guy grabbed me from behind and forced my bound forearms up in the air while his partner maneuvered a pair of hinged cuffs on to my upper arms just above the elbow. They double locked those too.

 

I really got turned on by this—the tall guy’s sweat smelled great and the leather of his chaps and my jeans creaked as they occasionally brushed against each other. But by now also I knew I was in trouble, my arms were already tingling and I knew they were far from done with me.

 

Next, they took one of the chains and a pair of handcuffs and hooked one cuff onto an end link of the chain and latched the other onto my right wrist. They then wrapped the chain tightly around me pulling my arms to my chest such that my hands were just under my chin. The tall guy gave me a big hug from behind while the stocky guy tugged on the free end until it was tight. He then fastened a padlock through a link of the big chain and around the small chain of one of the handcuffs binding my forearms. They were really proud of their idea and used another pair of handcuffs, chain and lock in the same manner only starting with the left wrist. My arms were now totally immobilized. I could not move them in any direction. To make matters worse, because of the pressure of the cuffs above my elbows as they pressed against my chest, my arms and hands were numb and therefore useless. I also had a raging hard-on which I hoped wasn’t showing through my leather jeans. (I had taken to wearing a jock strap and two pairs of briefs because I often enjoyed my work too much!)

 

But they still weren’t done! Next they took the leg irons and fastened them around my boots. They laid me down on my back and began wrapping one of the remaining chains just below my knees. This was pretty heady for me as the tall guy kneeled and straddled my head with his leather clad legs while he helped the stocky guy locked up my knees. There I was staring up at this rugged guy’s great butt, all tied up and no place to go. Then to finish me up, they rolled me over on my stomach and used the last chain by wrapping it a couple times round my boots, through the chains wrapped around my back and then locking it to itself back at my ankles. This made for a very effective hogtie.

 

I could move neither my arms nor my legs. This was also extremely uncomfortable for me because the weight of my upper body was now pressing the handcuffs into my arms. About all I could do was wriggle and roll onto my side. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get out of this, but I figured I better at least struggle a bit to make it look good. While I was still on my stomach, during my wriggling, I came. That calmed me down a lot—but there was no way for me to get out.

 

After about 5 minutes I conceded and said I’d pay them the $100 challenge award and asked them to let me out. They taunted that I hadn’t tried hard enough yet. My assistant was nowhere in sight. (I found out later that a couple of the other guys had taken him out back and handcuffed him to the fire escape.) I asked again but knew I was in no position to negotiate. For some reason I really wasn’t afraid—these guys didn’t seem out of control, they were just having a good time at my expense. I shouted to the bartender to find my assistant or get the owner to help me out—but he just shrugged and went on serving drinks.

 

So there I was—completely trussed up, in my leather jeans and boots, staring at this great looking long haired, lanky biker dude and no way to get loose. He had this big, shit-eating grin on his face as he kept surveying his handiwork. I was in heaven and hell at the same time, but knew this shouldn’t go on much longer. I’d struggle every once in a while to see if I could get any slack that might help me get free, but I got nowhere.

 

To their credit, at least one of the two guys always stayed up there with me to make sure nobody got out of hand—but I certainly got my share of heckling as I lay there like a side of beef. After about an hour they decided to put me up on a table where they could kept an eye on me from a little farther away. That got me all hard again as my favorite lanky guy grabbed my chest while the other guy picked up my legs as they heaved me on top of a table along the side of the bar. My head rubbed against the lanky guy’s chaps while they did the transfer. I’m glad that bar was dark since nobody seemed to notice my new hard-on.

 

Finally, at closing time, after I had been chained for over three hours, they decided that I’d had enough so they began collecting the keys to my shackles. One by one, different leather jacketed guys reclaimed their locks and chains from me. They got to one of the last pair of handcuffs on my forearms and they couldn’t find the guy who had brought them. It required a special key that nobody else in the place could substitute. The stocky guy said, “well, you should be able to get out of one lousy pair of handcuffs!”

 

Of course he was right; but, by now my hands and arms were throbbing as the circulation returned. I couldn’t move my fingers in any controllable manner at all, let alone grab a lock pick out of my collar. He just laughed and said, “I guess you’ll have to wear those home tonight.” By now my assistant was freed as well, so he drove me back to the hotel, but he was so pissed off over taking this gig that he also refused to help get out of those cuffs. So I went to bed exhausted in my leather jeans and boots and one pair of handcuffs while I waited for the feeling to come back to my hands. About noon the next day, I was finally able to pick the lock and be free again.

 

I remember that night often and still cum when I imagine me all chained up with that lanky guy staring back at me. But that is the last time I’ll do a biker bar—I know I can’t always expect to be so lucky!