So I went to see Mistress Hell. I don't know what her problem is. For $175, you would think she could hit harder than that. (Or at least make the effort.) But instead, she kept annoying me, asking if I had been a "naughty boy." I told her flat out that I wasn't there to play games. Which was fortunate, since her "dungeon" was a musty little basement pathetically furnished with only the most basic equipment. A padded sawhorse next to the water heater, some flimsy leather implements (tourist items mostly, probably from Mexico) hanging on a pegboard over the washing machine. And it was cold, too. Most professional houses keep their rooms at a nice, humid seventy-eight degrees. The dommes tend to sweat, especially in tight leather (or latex), but naked clients expend a lot of energy just being nervous. "Don't make me discipline you," she warned -- as if I would actually allow her to waste my time like that. (Mistress Hell. What a stupid name.) Of course, I knew that when I returned to Chicago, my regular Mistress would be infuriated by my transgression. And, at twice the price, she would make me pay. Anyway, I mention this only because Mistress Hell's roommate is a lesbian morphine addict (hair dyed dark) who deals in small arms. Quality merchandise: AKs, Uzis, Semtex-H (explosive plastic)... So, if your neighbor left any behind, I can speak to The Mistress for you. Cash, of course. Unless you prefer morphine or a free session.