I'm sure the first thing we all thought when we saw the photo of Dasha Zhukova Abramovich and the bondage chair was: ooh, hot BDSM.
My own race play consists of me as Kato doing a kung fu leap on Loved One as Inspector Clouseau, and then yelling at him in some guttural language that may be cod Chinese or just cod landed in Newfoundland.
Sometimes we reverse roles but I am not very good at being a clowning buffoon. There are some things men do better — I'm sorry, gurls, but let's just face the ugly truth on that one.
At other times I pretend I am the leader of the vanguard party addressing the millions (played by Loved One) and shout at him in long words that he can't understand or some such egregious polysyllabic sesquipedalian bumsuckery sublimating my drive for white supremacy that I must codify to render invisible the underlying hierarchy or it will make my friends' heads go pop.
Then there are the times we play Wendi and Rupe. He complains because we have to roll around on Monopoly money and old pesetas from holidays we can no longer afford.
I'm thinking of bringing the Opium Wars into our race play, and do opium while he sails a gunboat up my Yangtze. (Will poppy-seed cake do?)
Never mind the social and economic relations — here comes mighty whitey and he's got the horn.
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