Where is S. Crabb? Or perhaps the question should be, Who was S. Crabb?

The known facts are few. In 1998, S. Crabb published the book Chats on Old Pewter. The imprint was Masquerade Books, out of 801 2nd Avenue, Manhattan. Masquerade was the descendant of the famous Grove Press, which published everything from Samuel Beckett’s plays to My Secret Life. Masquerade also published erotica, but of a specifically niche-market sort, along with Philip José Farmer and Samuel R. Delany.

Little is known about the author. The stories are culled from Leg Show magazine, and it must have been there where I learned in an author’s bio that S. Crabb was an academic somewhere in the world (the book itself bears no author’s bio). Perhaps he was a philosopher, with his creed the belief that Man should erase the capital letter and serve at the feet and footwear of his Mistress. But based on one particular short story, I would guess that S. Crabb is or was a literary critic influenced by the French Post-sixties semiologists and deconstructionists.

We’ll get to that short story in a second.

There are 12 short stories in the mysteriously titled Chats on Old Pewter. And what does that title mean? The idea of chats, or even debates, suggests the opening words of Venus in Furs, where the narrator offers his own philosophy of the Hammer or the Anvil, the only choices left a person in the game of sex. But “on” old pewter, as in, about the tableware? Pewter is a most malleable metal, and perhaps that is the hint … that “man” is also pewter, to be manipulated and re-created by Woman. And what about the author’s name? Presumably a pseudonym, perhaps the name is meant to evoke the behavior of a crab, a creature that lives as low to the ground as a foot, that lives its life a shoe level, where a human male creature should. In fact, there was an earlier book also called Chats on Old Pewter, written in the 1800s by Henri Jean Louis Jo Massé, and it was – literally – a book discussing styles of old pewter relics.

As a sample of S. Crabb’s writing style and general interests, and indeed the style of Woman whom the author favors, here is an excerpt from the story “The Insolent Blonde.” The set up is that in a photographer’s studio three fashion models are out being photographed while the janitor is in their dressing room cleaning up. It must have been a footwear fashion shoot, as there are numerous mules and stilettos lying around. The janitor can’t help himself – he must fondle one of the model’s shoes. As he is standing there sniffing, the trio comes back.

One thing to note is how quickly the other two models fall under the spell of Cari and quickly join in with the torment of the janitor-slave. In S. Crabb’s philosophy, all women are inherently dominant, and only need the prodding of a mentortrix.

One of the stories in the set is a masterpiece of S/m eroticism. I have read it off and on for …. what is it now, 23 years? The tale has remains as fresh now as the day I bought the book in a now-defunct off-beat store called Counter-Media.

But don’t be put off by the story’s title: “The General’s Whore.” That’s what the soldiers call her, but they do so because they are unaware of her power, and what certain pleasures she provides their General. One soldier does. As the tale opens, Pedro is peeling potatoes at the behest of Conchita, the title character. Because she is the special friend of the General, la Diabolo Bonita has unique privileges and sway over the camp. For example, if it amuses her, Conchita can order Pedro to peel potatoes all day, every day. As the scene opens, Pedro is peeling away, clumsily handling the starchy tubers. But when he hears her Boot Heels click on the tiled floor outside the kitchen, he fumbles, and a wet blob of potato leaps from his sweaty hands

“He watched in horror as [the chunk of potato] wobbled to a stop at Conchita’s feet. It nudged the toe of her ankle boot, leaving a wet mark on the pale green kid.”

You can imagine what happens next. Or maybe you can’t and will be pleasingly surprised by the machinations that subsequently occur. Of course, there is kneeling before Conchina, there is boot worship of a sort, but there is also a level of meta-narrative that captures in its peculiar way an essence of the sadomasochist drama. Here’s how the domination starts:

“She twined her fingers in his hair and jerked back, forcing him to look her in the eyes. This was the moment she loved best of all., when the punishment existed only in anticipation She reveled in her sense that she could do anything she wanted with him, and that he would thank her for it afterward. His pleading look was like wine to her soul; she sipped it with slow enjoyment. Let him wait! Let the wretched dog wait for his supper. She would have some fun with him first.”

Later in the narrative, the author steps back, and taking a page from the world of literary criticism speculates on what is really going on between Pedro and Conchita, that they are engaged in a theater of the mind:

No more quotes. Any student and fan of submission should track down the book immediately. With “The General’s Whore” one has the double pleasure of imagining Domina Katherine playing the role of Conchita, with Her glorious curly raven-hued hair, Her controlling eyes, Her fierce will, and Her delicious feet, legs, and footwear.

The book is occasionally available online. Here is S. Crabb’s Amazon page.

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