The Yodeling Dominatrix
The first time I saw her, I thought she would be perfect as Maria von Trapp in a Russ Meyer remake of The Sound of Music. Sure, she caught my eye- with that figure and those legs in that get-up, how could she not? True, she was funny, but there are lots of funny women, though I can't think of one who looks quite so good. She wore her hair in pigtails- something I'll admit having a fetish for, but even that small, delectable detail, which under normal circumstances would have caused me to lock my gaze on her like bear trap snapping shut, couldn't gain my full attention. She was a sexy red clown competing with a table full of food and booze, people chatting away and a circus swirling around her.
But it's true what they say- that clothes make the woman, because the second time I saw her (I have no idea how much time had elapsed- an hour? two? twenty minutes?) she strode to the center of the floor, all 6'10" of her, in a pleated, skin-tight, black pleather dress. The front was cut low, removed actually, the better to expose a blood-red, patent-leather bra. It was like my brain split in half- everything stopped, yet I was aware of of every single sensation, like I had plunged underwater. I heard the distinct crack of a whip- a well-made one, signaling a baptism was about to start.
The familiar chords of AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" started up somewhere from the stage, the drums kicked in, she took over the room, strutting in time to the beat. A remarkably tall siren beckoning from the deepest recesses of my repressed fantasies, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She sang with a German accent, which only made it all the more decadent and delicious- Marlene Dietrich on a "one-way ride." Then, where the chorus was supposed to be, she let out a tremendous "Yodel-ay-hee-huuuuu!" and I think the audience went a little nuts. I'm not certain, because my brain split into quarters at that moment.
The Yodeling Dominatrix had arrived and proceeded to turn the audience of Teatro ZinZanni into her slaves.
I had to meet her.
After the show we were introduced. She immediately held me in the palm of her hand and within minutes (moments, actually) at her feet. I dared to touch the eight-inch heels without her permission. She bent me over and held her crop aloft- a warning to behave. I succumbed. You would have, too.
Two weeks later we had our first rendezvous at one of my usual haunts. She had arrived before me, so the hostess led me to her. It wasn't so much that she sat in the booth, but was holding court waiting for a supplicant- at least that's how I felt. Everything she wore was skin-tight- including alligator boots which climbed to her knees. I thought the encounter would last an hour, maybe one and a half at the most. Seven hours later I returned to my apartment, spent, tired, and in a daze. That's what happens when one spends time in the company of Manuela Horn.
We ate. We drank. We drank more than we ate. We were told we had to leave.
Our next stop was for some real food, though more beverages were brought- Manhattans, of course. She ordered sausages, as any true Austrian woman would. Delicious, thick, juicy sausages, which she ate with her hands. I used my fork simply as a matter of defense, though it was of no use. I was aware we were seated in the middle of the room and all eyes, regardless of gender, were on her. I watched her too, with what? Desire? Lust? Fascination? Does it matter? All I can remember was the slow-motion sensation of watching her lick the juice from the tips of perfectly formed tendrils (merely fingers on most humans).
I felt the genie spring from the bottle. It was one of those moments you live for.
"Come with me," she said.
Helplessly, I acquiesced.
Soon we were in another part of town to see a show featuring performers who were friends of hers. As we walked in the door she was greeted by numerous people and I understood what Arthur Miller felt when he entered a room with Marilyn. There's no place for you. You don't exist- you are merely there, sucking up space where a well-wisher would like to be- to get closer to her. The fact that you are there with her doesn't even register because she's already taken up all of existing space in the room just by her presence alone. It's an ineluctable truth.
Then the party girl came out (I've learned it doesn't take much)- she lives for a good time and loves to entertain people. The show was pretty damn funny and included a pudgy, naked man dancing onstage holding a tissue over his genitals. She acted as if it were the kind of thing one sees everyday. After it ended, we wound up at Martuni's and somehow the hour passed midnight and then the cast of "Hair" came in and took the place over. Before taking my leave of her, we agreed to meet again and I watched her watching me as the train pulled away from the platform. I would think of the look on her face at that moment for days afterward.
The next morning I awoke exhausted and elated. She had told me about being on "America's Got Talent" as the Yodeling Dominatrix and of her day-to-day experiences working with companies like Cirque du Soleil and Teatro ZinZanni. It was illuminating and more. She has such a unique presence- intimidating and mysterious because of her looks and height, but completely open and unpretentious. She's a pussycat, truth be told, and she likes to purr.
A week later she arrived at my apartment early in the evening in white pants, black turtleneck, a short, white jacket trimmed in faux fur, fivefinger shoes, an eight-inch-wide leather belt, a jaunty black cap over her long blonde hair... and a black, well-oiled, hand-tooled whip. She had been eating oysters all day in Tomales Bay. I had prepared a pot roast and bought some Italian wine. Once again, the gaping disparity opened up before me.
I wanted to know where the Dominatrix came from. How did a mother of two, well-versed in the nuances and history of traditional yodeling, learned from her father as a child, end up dressed in pleather, expertly wielding a whip? Somewhere beneath the surface there was a different truth, and I wanted to uncover it. It turned out to be simpler than what I constructed in my imagination, yet layered with textures from a surprising array of life experiences.
Her physical stature impacted her career in unintended ways. Sure, she would love to be cast as Juliet, but a stage director once told her, "We can't hire you- where are we going to find an entire cast over six feet tall? Romeo would have to be almost seven feet!" Instead of fighting it, she's made it work for her by creating her own cast of characters. The Yodeling Dominatrix is just one facet of who she is- as is the Oktoberfest girl, and there are more- Roxie the gangster moll, a sexy milkmaid named Gretchen, the stern Fräulein Brunhilde von Schmetterling. She's a singer. A comedienne. An entertainer first and foremost. And she lives for it.
She also admits to relishing the control she has over people when she's dress to thrill. The power of the role intrigues her and its pull is strong. There was a man in Seattle in who came repeatedly to see her in a show and each time he'd ask for her crop across his behind, always requesting it land harder than the last time. The dominatrix persona creates an invisible but palpable psychological boundary between her and the audience. That so many wish to cross it is something she ponders often, causing her to want to understand the triggers of desire she pulls in people.
But there's also a playfulness to the masquerade. Take a look at this video on YouTube called Parenting 101 with the Yodeling Dominatrix - instructions and helpful hints for parents to "train your kid like you train your dog."
Manuela told me about Mr. Big, a fearless 3'2" dwarf she works with, whom she met at an erotic fair. Sometimes she dresses him up in drag. I flashed back to 1987, when I was working as a DJ in a North Hollywood strip joint, and Herve Villechaize used to come in frequently to take home one of the dancers- a six-foot-tall heavy metal queen named Jana whose hair added six additional inches to her height. He'd come over to the booth, say hello, and then pull out a gun- his most recent purchase, usually. They were always ridiculously large handguns. Watching them leave together always made me smile, knowing the gun would be brandished again before the night was over.
I asked her to tell me more about the erotic fair, deciding Herve and the strip joint were best left undiscussed, and she did. Somehow I knew we shouldn't linger too long on this topic, but I kept asking her for more details, which she gave. I found her forthrightness disarming. Nothing was off the table with her. She appreciates burlesque, erotic art, and painting naked bodies. This was a tangent I could have stayed on forever, but I also knew I could end up chained to it, so we moved on eventually, though not before I had some interesting images set in my mind.
We talked about music. I have this fantasy of her incorporating Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" into her act. She wants to be on David Letterman and the idea of Paul Schaffer leading the band through the classic riff as Manuela towers over Letterman is almost too delicious to contemplate. I can hear her yodeling in the part where the guitar slides downward after "wanna whole lotta love.... yodel-lay-hee-huuuuuu, wanna whole lotta love... yodel-lay-hee-huu." I see it as the first step in her inevitable path to world domination- "... you... need... me... BAM. BAM... whoaaa, yodel-lay-hee-huu!!!"
She's committed to furthering her career as a singer and has a recording studio in her Seattle home. After her current appearance in Teatro ZinZanni's "On the Air" closes, she'll resume work on an album of covers including "Highway to Hell," "Tainted Love" and "Like a Virgin"- all with yodeling of course. She also wants to move toward rock, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the Zeppelin cover will get made one day.
Manuela also performs in her own shows, where she incorporates a variety of her characters. Next she year she'll take her act on the road, hitting festivals and rock concerts in her "Rock and Yodel Show", bringing the party with her, and encouraging audiences to "Get your yodel on..." She loves to see people having a good time and she feeds off of the audience's energy.
There's a joyful exuberance in everything Manuela does. She can walk into any room and own it without an effort. But underneath the raven-haired dominatrix in her pleather dress exists a thoughtful, inquisitive blonde who speaks in a soft voice with a lilting German accent. This is the woman who really entertains the audience- who knows that life's not always a party and that's the very best reason to have one.
She can't see herself ever retiring. Instead, she wants to die onstage- to take a final bow and then expire on the spot- in about 70 years. She imagines she'll be naked, with her costume projected onto her. I hope to be there that night, in the front row of the audience.
Manuela will be performing with Teatro ZinZanni in the company's terrific On the Air- their last production before the Speigeltent comes down and relocates to Broadway and the Embarcadero sometime next year. The final show is New Year's Eve, leaving you plenty of time to hear her yodel (and get a spanking should you desire one).
While it's best to experience Manuela live and in the flesh, if you're too timid to seek her out in person, you can find her here: Manuela Horn.com Facebook My Space YouTube
