The Gimp

By JP Murphy

The Gimp is a tongue‘n cheek misery memoir. Johnny Dickson is a young Irishman who comes of age cursed with the affliction of an unholy large penis; if that weren’t bad enough Dickson has a second problem as he is sexually aroused by religious artefacts, not members of the opposite sex. Running away to Dublin to escape his small but backward rural upbringing Dickson's troubles were only starting. This is a story that might be funny if it were not true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291871777

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The Gimp

The Gimp

The grotesque, unbelievable, bizarre and unsettling story of a hapless Irish sex slave. 

By JP Murphy and Dr. Svetlana Johansen

Foreword

For over twenty years I was employed as a doctor of Psychiatric Medicine

by the Department of Justice, Prison service, in Dublin, Ireland.

During that time I treated a prisoner with a life story so

extraordinary as to beggar belief. I was asked by that patient for

help in putting his story to paper. Despite medical ethics, eventually I consented, and duly assisted Patient X record his surreal story. Patient X came from an oral storytelling tradition that I tried to capture in the notes I made from audio recordings with Mr. Dickson. Those recordings and my notes were then given to JP Murphy to help him write up the tale of my patient, whom we have named for the purposes of this cautionary tale as Johnny Dickson.

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Dr. Svetlana Johansen. RIP  September 10, 2012

A Statement from author JP Murphy 

I wish the facts referred to in this book to  be publicly known. Dr. Johansen misled me. I did my job to the best of my abilities as a writer, only to find myself in harms way as a result. Following her murder, I realised how dangerous the information she used to write this book was. The publishing company have refused to consider my personal safety despite the fact that I asked them not to publish. 'Publish and be dammed,’ they said. They published. I am dammed. Damned to live in hiding, in fear for my life.

Since the brutal public assassination of Dr. Johansen, I live under an assumed name in the UK. For the record, I would like to state that I do not personally believe that ‘Bossman Gallagher’ ever ran a brothel in Dublin. Nor do I believe that he enslaved people for the purposes of prostitution. What I do know is that Johnny Dickson and Dr. Svetlana Johansen were consummate liars. Both were incapable of knowing the truth, let alone telling it.

Do not be deceived that Dr. Johansen has a medical degree.

She was as mad as Dickson. I would also like to take this

opportunity to state that the Irish police, The Garda, are mistaken

if they think I know the whereabouts of the diaries that Dr. Johansen

took from Johnny Dickson while he was under her medical care in Dundrum psychiatric Hospital. I wish to state categorically, and for public record that I do not possess, nor did I ever possess any diaries that were written by ‘Johnny Dickson’.  

JP Murphy, October  2013

Foreword from the publisher

Our legal team insist we included the statement you have just read by JP Murphy. We refute absolutely his ridiculous assertions concerning our disregard for his safety. It is simply not true that we have no concern for his safety.  We believe that his safety is more assured with this story in the public domain. The following are the facts as we know them.

Patient X , referred to in this  work as  Johnny Dickson, was charged in November 1982 with the murder of a rival musician in Carnew, County Wexford, Southern Ireland. At the same time he was also charged with manslaughter, and failing to stop at the scene of an accident involving the death of a police officer. Patient X or Johnny Dickson if you prefer,  was attempting to make good his escape from Carnew following the murder of the musician when an incident involving the death of the police officer occurred, and for which Mr. Dickson faced a charge of manslaughter, though this charge was subsequently dropped for lack of evidence.

Mr. Dickson was subsequently found ‘guilty-but-insane’ on the charge of murder and sentenced to incarceration at Dundrum Psychiatric Hospital near Dublin. No evidence has ever been put forward to

corroborate Mr. Dickson’s story that he was held prisoner in

a brothel in Dublin. Mr. Dickson came to the attention of Irish

police following his arrest in the company of a gang of known

criminals who were undertaking a drugs deal at a remote location in

the County of Galway, in the West of Ireland; this fact may or may not corroborate the story of the ‘hostage handover’ that Mr. Dickson   claimed to be the point at which he was finally able to escape the captivity imposed on him by gangland figure ‘Bossman  Gallagher’.

Mr. Dickson’s claims that he came from County Wexford in South Eastern Ireland  have been difficult to prove. Locals deny that he is from the area.Medical staff at Dundrum Psychiatric hospital do corroborate one of Mr. Dixons claims, namely, that he is ‘extraordinarily’ well hung in the ‘reproductive’ department. The events surrounding the death of Mr. Dickson have raised the suspicion of foul play. A post mortem did not conclusively prove his death by natural causes. Dr.Johansen was suspended from her duties at the Dundrum psychiatric Hospital soon after the death of Mr. Dickson. There appear to be reasonable grounds to suggest that she had conducted an inappropriate physical relationship with her paitent. Mr. Dickson. As Dr. Johansen is no longer alive to defend herself, we feel it inappropriate to comment further. Following the brutal and public murder of Dr. Johansen, the media have raised some question regarding Dr. Johansen also conducting a romantic relationship with Gangland overlord ‘Boss Gallagher’. Evidence suggests that she did indeed visit him while he was serving a sentence in Portlaoise high security prison. Irish Police, The Garda, have suggested that Boss Gallagher wanted Mr. Dickson dead. Mr. Gallagher denies this. Mr.Gallagher was released from prison in 2006. He had served eighteen years for drug trafficking, money laundering and murder.  Mr. Gallagher continues to deny that he is the gangland boss referred to by Johnny Dickson in this book. 

Mr. Gallagher has been questioned by Irish police on a number of

occasions regarding the murder of Dr. Johansen. He has denied any

involvement in her violent death. Police say her murder bears all the

hallmarks of a gangland execution. The writer of this work, JP Murphy continues to refuse to handover documents that Irish Police believe could incriminate Boss Gallagher in a number of unsolved murders, including the death of Dr. Johansen. After his death, Mr. Dickson was interred in the RC church in Carnew, County Wicklow. An elderly woman tends to his grave and lights holy candles for him.

Finally dear reader, let me tell you that the story does not progress in a linear or neat fashion. May we remind you that the narrative is that of a man whom the criminal justice system found insane. 

The true worth of this narrative is found in precisely that fact. We have tried to capture the workings of a criminally insane man

[on paper. As you read this extraordinary story, you must remember that this story is the story of a madman.  This is, as we have clearly stated, a cautionary tale.

Chapter 1 A Brothel. Dublin. Late  1970`s   

My crap life as a gimp had begun……..  I woke up suffocating. It had been my first night imprisoned in the gimp suit. Though it  had been a  cool night, I could feel the sweat trapped between my body and  the leather gimp suit. I was breathing with difficulty. Lug entered the room in his usual sultry manner. He  opened  the windows and let in some fresh air. The smell of the chamber was disgusting. How the clients tolerated it was beyond me. Resisting personal hygiene had  been one of my most effective strategies against Madame  in the fight to protest against my false imprisonment . Through the eye slits in my gimp mask, I could make out small wisps of steam rise from the leather suit. The influx of cool morning air had created a steamy haze of my suffering. I was feeling like death warmed up after that first night in the restraining and suffocation gimp suit. My tongue was dry. My lips were bruised and swollen from the air hose that had been forced through the mask into my mouth. When I was first imprisoned long ago , I remember thinking that I had died and woken up in hell. Now I wish I had died that time. What life they saved me for was not worth having. There was no hope for me I now knew. I would have no more chances to escape now. I was permanently shackled by the gimp suit. Even if I could manage to get out of that, the security around the brothel was now was now heavier than ever.

Also, I no longer even had  power over the economic co-operation of my penis, or the ‘ working lad’ as I had come to call him. The new cocaine and heroin chemical control system Madame had devised allowed  the working lad to operate with her economic targets without my co-operation. The working lad was now just a stand alone cock stoned on coke, hard as a rock, always at attention, always ready to make Madame some money.

The rest of my body was  geared out  on heroin, or gear as they called it up in Dublin. The body. My body was weak, docile and compliant to Madame’ s demands. Madame finally had me where she wanted me. Now, my only role was to stay alive so the working  Lad could make the brothel money. The gimp suit rendered all my previous protest methods of protest impotent. I was now nothing but a common sex slave. Soon after  Lug had come in  Madame entered the room. The room they called ‘The Love Chamber’ but I   I knew it only as a prison cell.  Lug began preparing me for the day’s clients while Madame looked on, pleased as punch that she had finally found a way to constrain me to her satisfaction. Lug pulled off the trouser end of the gimp suit. They were going to hose the ‘ working lad’ down. He was stinking and oozing pus from the numerous sexually transmitted diseases he had acquired in our work as a gigolo. So diseased was he by that time that I had heard that clients were finally complaining about the general condition and smell of the working lad and I. In response to the complaints they had come to hose me down. I had long ago ceased to take an interest in personal hygiene. I had hoped that the smell of me generally and the disease infected working lad  would put off Madame’s clients. Sadly , this was not the case. They had continued to come for servicing regardless of how unpleasant I had tried to make the transaction.

Lug  turned on the  water hose. He  sprayed  the lower half of my body with a cold jet of water.  The working lad looked a sorry state. The constant demands for sex from clients and injections of cocaine had  taken their toll. Aside from the foul smell, the working lad was encrusted with needle scabs, all going septic. Worse, since the chemical regime had begun, the working days were getting longer. The cocaine kept the Lad upstanding and available for duty all on his own.  Madame no longer took any account of my needs as a human being.  With the arrival of the gimp suit, I knew that I was

Just a life support system for the revenue earning working lad. 

Madame and Lug had started giving me larger and larger doses of gear to pacify and control me. 

Even before the restraining influence of the gimp

suit, my body was already a junkie barely able to protest at the

number of clients we were was servicing daily. The only positive thing on the horizon  was that the more diseased the working lad looked, the more I wondered if he might have to be amputated. My extraordinary appendage was beginning to look so diseased that I was sure he might poison the both of us to death. This might not be bad thing and would at least  be a happy release from my life as sex slave. The sad and sorry gimp life that I had ended up with.

As soon as the hosing down was complete, Madame took out a syringe. She injected cocaine into the working lad to get him stiff and upstanding for the first of the days clients. She then injected me with a shot of gear. No sooner had she finished that the first client of the day walked through the door. .

Madame muttered  to me that this one was paying extra, so I had better behave, and  not fuck it up, or Lug would beat ten shades of shit

outta me. This was clear enough, no confusion there.  The punter rolled in through the door , and  I could see immediately why she was paying extra. I knew what she has on her mind from the extraordinary instrument strapped about her loins. It was a harness with a wooden cock. She had intentions to sodomise me. This was  the one thing that I managed to avoid, so far. I had beat  Lug back from having his  way with me on more than one occasion. I was not going to let some demented nutter with a strap-on-dildo defile me in the only place where I managed to keep my dignity.

Much as I protested and attempted to  make things difficult for the client, I was so drugged up, chained down and restricted by the gimpsuit , that I  had almost no ability to resist. Dry and hard, I felt the wooden dildo violate me in the butthole. What kind of a demented witch wanted  to use such a device I could only wonder as I winced with the pain? Why would any woman want to use something like that on a bloke?

I could understand if she had wanted to use that with another bird. Girl playing guy kinda thing. But she was acting out poofter fantasies. I felt my insides moving as she attacked  me with the wooden implement. I tried to cry out, but the mask held back all sound and nobody was hearing me. The gimp mask smothered  the sound.  I was well and truly a gimp now. That much I knew.

The punter was completely getting off on the experience. Obsessed as she was with fucking my butthole with the wooden cock, I thought the nutter client had  no interest in the  working lad atall. But I was wrong. In the middle of rogering me, she took a whip started and abelting the working lad in a whip around gesture from behind. In her violent reach-a-round I could see she was soon whipping the skin off the working lad . The working lad was bleeding profusely.  The scabs from the injections were being torn away. I felt a  heady blur behind my eyes from the pain. Then I blacked out. Came  too. Blacked out. Again.  Again I came too . Again she was still at it. I  had  no concept of time. No idea how long she was pounding away at me and whipping the working lad. What kind of human being got off on whipping and fucking a semi conscious gimp?  I prayed for death.  I was better off dead than living as I was now. I hoped she would be the death of me. With death ,  at least  I could finally be free.  About the moment when I was to pass out again,  Madame and Lug rushed  in.  They were horrified by the state I was obviously in, concerned that my earning potential was likely to be damaged.  It took all their strength to pull her off  me.

Doctor!, Doctor,  Madame screamed at the client . What the hell do you think you are doing? You’ll kill him, Madame screamed. I was momentarily touched at her concern until she went on to express the reason for her worry. Look at the state of him, he won’t  be able to work for weeks. You’ll be paying  for the loss of earnings. Madame was furious at the client. The   Doctor as they called her. As usual, Madame was only concerned for what she could make from me and was not in anyway interested in anything else. She turned to Lug and spoke "

Lug, take that bitch to my chamber. We need to have a

little chat about how the good Doctor here is going to pay us for

the damage she has done to our top earner." Lug dragged the mad Doctor out of the love chamber. I could barely believe the state I was in when I  finally got a chance to see what she had  done. The poor working stiff was bleeding, raw and seeping pus, and my butt hole felt  a sorry state from being intruded by the wooden dildo. ‘ Doctor’ , Madame  had  called her. What kind of a doctor behaves the way she had? Eventually a real doctor came to clean me up and bandage the working Lad. I`d at least get a few weeks off work to recover from my wounds. Madame and Lug removed the gimp suit later that day, but not the chains. And they were still injecting me with gear to keep me under control. However, they were reducing the dose, causing me to have lucid moments during the day. Bad thing, lucid moments when you spend your days tied up and drugged up as a sex gimp. When I had a lucid moment I started to think about the life I used to have. Bad thing, lucid moments. Bad ,because at such moments I couldn’t stop remembering the home place.

Chapter 2

When I wasn’t stoned I thought about the bastards back beyond at home……... I still could not forget all those who had treated me so badly. Those who made me run away. Back then I was innocent and free. I remembered escaping the rocky outcrop that I called home. I remembered the conversations, nay , the yanderins, I had with the oulfellar,  from time to time.  Conversations that were little more than yeanderings. Yanderings that sounded little more than nonsense to outsiders. What other folk in the Emerald Isle refer to as talking shitte. Talking shitte is the art of droning on and on. And on and on. And then some.

Droning on and on about nothing in particular, and at the same time everything in general. My oulfellar was a great man for talking

shitte. Yanders rolled off his tongue by the bucket full. From one

end of the day to the other. Saying that, it was the cheapest form

of entertainment where I came from. We lived in an inhospitable

mountain region; a place where life was always hard and more often

than not impossible. Though the oulfellar was born and reared

there, he had barely a good word to say about the place. So it was that he

yandered at me on the subject of escaping from the hard and

harsh Rock. The solid lump of a mountain where we lived technically fell short of official classification as a mountain by some seven feet, according to the experts. We didn’t split hairs over such a technical detail’s where I came from. To us it was a mountain.  Mountain or no mountain, the suggestion was forever in the air that the rock was a place best gotten away from. The sooner, the better. That was the  advice we got from all and sundry as we are being weaned. London or New York were good choices to be getting away to, we were told.

I was leaving the secondary school  that year, and everyone was telling me that it was high time that I mapped out a future for myself.  I was already behind my academic peers, having been held back a few years. There were a few suggestions around the homestead that I was none too bright. Granted, I took a few years more than most to finish school, but

that can happen to anybody. I had bad teachers. My mother insisted to the neighbours that I was a slow developer. I knew I was growing up and my schooling coming to an end when the oulfellar suggested that I should head away to the West for my future. He uttered immortal words that were scalded upon my soul, Go West young man, said he to me, with a sincerity that left a great impact on me. The advice to take a direction was new. Before that I was usually only advised a specific location to escape to. I tried to piece that new information into my limited knowledge of the

world beyond the harsh rock. Were London or New York in the West?

The oulfellar would surely have mentioned either of these

places by name if that was the case. That left the Village of

Bally-Do-Natin. I knew that place to be to the West of our rocky 

homestead. I also knew it to be a Godforsaken good-for-nothing

spot. For months after, I was convinced that my father didn't think too much of me. Why would he want me living among the hated enemies

of the next village over. Bally-Do-Natin indeed. I was well put

out. My oulfellar was advising his own flesh and blood to live in a

place that drew little but negative reaction and passremarkable

commentary?  We are a superior lot where I came from despite our

poor circumstances. Despite the challenge of our environment, my

people felt they have done well in the time they had clung to the unyielding

mountain. The rock had provided our clan with an existence of sorts for many generations.  The same success at eeking out a living on

the harsh rock was not to be seen in the people of Bally-Do-Natin. They were a bunch of losers. Even in the ignorance of my very early youth, I

knew that I could never be moving to Bally-do-natin to make my way

in the world. Maybe my oulfellar meant the next village over again?

A livelier townland than Bally-Do-Natin that went by the name of Gan-daoine, from the Gaelic name meaning the place without people. That it was a town without people was true to a point. There were  four pubs and a population of near twenty souls during the day. At night, when the villagers return from their jobs all over the county,  the population swelled  to many hundreds overnight. The pubs filled to overflowing every evening. They were a town full of heavy drinkers.  Apart from that, the town was also noted for regular faction fights. All in all however,