Can you take me home where we can be alone?
New York has a service for every customer, even those who want to be kidnapped. Brock Enright, kidnapping-artist with a degree from Columbia, runs a company that will force you to face your worst fears, gag in place.
It begins with a list of your greatest fears. For a few thousand dollars, Brock Enright’s personalized kidnapping service will make them come true. Your devoted captors might stuff you into a duffel bag and lug your duct-taped limbs to the tarred plateau of a roof or a no-man’s land of warehouses, far from the gloss of Manhattan. In the smeary darkness, they would develop features: a mask with the loose and leathery skin of an old man. Maybe a dirt-encrusted panda suit that stinks like a stale refrigerator. Enright would have consulted your questionnaire, the one where you cited ‘bananas’ as a top-ten terror. He might rub the anxiety-inducing fruit into your skin or toss in some impromptu touches—maple syrup, depilatories, and electric shoe polishers. No two abductions are staged the same way. Your custom-created torture could stop at a code word or drag on for days. Enright and his team of hijackers might strike when you’re zipping to work on the subway or showering in your apartment. After the trauma, which some clients compare to meditation, you may feel relief, exhilaration, or nothing at all. You can always pay Enright for a repeat performance.
The twenty-six-year-old New York artist began his successful kidnapping business for his thrill-seeking buddies, but has since opened to the public. In the past decade, he has pulled off almost forty abductions. Enright videotapes and edits his encounters with obsessive precision, sometimes exhibiting them in small galleries like the Dealership in Brooklyn. All sessions are recorded for legal purposes, though some are kept confidential and locked inside a vault.
related { No sex. No bj, no butt-fucking, no happy ending. No rimming. No shit. No electricity. No blood sports. }
photo { Helmut Newton }
