Men Who Knit Promoting and inspiring the art of knitting amongst men.

I present, for your consideration, a dominatrix I call Mrs. X. She Who Has Always Been Obeyed, Dammit! reigns a benign knit-autocracy on the Upper East Side of New York.

You know the look. The scan of the raptor's eye, swiftly sweeping the knitted object, detecting errors, sampling weakness, scanning for technique flaws, surface blemishes, sizing-judgment imperfections. A calculating machine for how much energy is required to fly the victim away to the aerie for hideous consumption. You can only hope that shock takes hold before the deed begins.

Barking orders to worshipers who have paid well for her indulgences, she commands a position to see the front door of the shop, her back to the management's office. "Knit two more rows!" she beckons to a courtier cowering in a comfy chair. Other supplicants await orders as their handiwork proceeds.

The initial impact of this woman is at once strangely attractive and terrifying. Well coiffed, up swept silver hair, pursed blood-red lips, black elegant dress and well-honed nails befit a carnivore, albeit wool, silk, linen or cotton. Acrylic and other new species are indigestible and left for the bottom-feeders.

This evening, I scan the shop's offerings on the walls, I am greeted by her priestesses. I become the unwitting fodder for today's menu.

"Oh, you are a knitter?" The question rolls out like the oily first wave of the Exxon Valdez.

"Yeah, I am. I can show you what I'm working on." The exchanged smiles between the staff is gleefull for the feast to come.

The raptor's gaze moves my way and a voice that crackles like a candy wrapper at the opera yet smoky, seductive, and saccharine pleads, "Let me see." I suddenly feel like Hansel in the forest.

I display my latest. The object is tested, analyzed, reviewed and weighed in 30 microseconds. Disappointment is clear on her face.