I had decided against law school at the eleventh hour and, in a panic, accepted a job offer from a small non-profit in a town I’d never been to. Alone in a new place, I spent a lot of time at a local coffee shop that could have passed for a Hello Kitty playhouse. This is where I met the other kinks — the dommes, the subs, the swingers, and Pete, our token ponyboy. A group of people, mostly queer, who wanted to spank their lovers (or be tied up, or swap husbands for a night) met once a month, fully clothed, to sip lattes and talk BDSM best practices. The coffeehouse was home base. Meetings were private. You could cut the sexual tension with a butter knife, and it would thank you and ask you to do it again. There’s a long tradition of southern progressivism that looks a lot like those meetings. Like-minded people assembling quietly and in small numbers to discuss how best to liberate themselves and others shaking their heads over the puritanical types. It seems a little myopic now, but I still don’t disagree. When our meetings split into smaller groups, the other kinky ladies and I talked about this a lot. My first kiss was with my family pastor’s daughter; the first boy who asked me to hurt him during sex grew up Hasidic; the first girl who asked to hurt me was newly ex-Muslim. #NotAllSadomasochists grow up amidst authoritarianism, but there’s an undeniable correlation. (You’d be surprised how rare that last request is.) Two hours total, including 45 minutes of play and 45 minutes of aftercare. $300 to be delivered via PayPal. I got to his apartment building three minutes early. In hindsight, this was incredibly stupid of me, even if he had been vetted by a colleague. Domme work is sex work, and sex work is dangerous. It’ll stay dangerous so long as clients can be arrested for buying what we’re selling them. David’s apartment was about what you’d expect of an upper middle class former frat boy: washed concrete floors; tasteful, minimalist decorations; Eames chair. If it sounds like this came easily, that’s because it did. I’d had enough practice with kinky sex partners beforehand to sink into the role of Boss Bitch quickly and thoroughly. Plus, I was getting more out of this than a paycheck. The kit I’d brought was tailored to his session: synthetic fiber rope (easier to sterilize), a brand new riding crop (still ultra stiff), scarves (so versatile!), and a general purpose first-aid kit. The amount of pressure it takes to break skin changes depending on the body part, the skin’s tautness, a person’s age, and so on. I whipped the back of David’s thighs, the soles of his feet, and his buttocks on and off for half an hour, pausing to rest my arm and let him catch his breath. Aftercare flies by sometimes. That’s adrenaline and endorphins for you, I guess. I cradled him on the living room floor and told him what a good boy he’d been. Then I helped him to the bathroom, drew his bath, and washed and bandaged his cuts. I made him some tea, tucked him into bed, and left. And as Simone de Beauvoir wrote, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” After going off script for over an hour, I wanted to return to the safe, familiar territory of gender roles, to be the gentle caretaker misogynists swear lives deep in my and every other true woman’s breast. I felt guilty.
title: “What It S Like The First Time As A Dominatrix” ShowToc: true date: “2024-10-01” author: “Marian Garber”
I had decided against law school at the eleventh hour and, in a panic, accepted a job offer from a small non-profit in a town I’d never been to. Alone in a new place, I spent a lot of time at a local coffee shop that could have passed for a Hello Kitty playhouse. This is where I met the other kinks — the dommes, the subs, the swingers, and Pete, our token ponyboy. A group of people, mostly queer, who wanted to spank their lovers (or be tied up, or swap husbands for a night) met once a month, fully clothed, to sip lattes and talk BDSM best practices. The coffeehouse was home base. Meetings were private. You could cut the sexual tension with a butter knife, and it would thank you and ask you to do it again. There’s a long tradition of southern progressivism that looks a lot like those meetings. Like-minded people assembling quietly and in small numbers to discuss how best to liberate themselves and others shaking their heads over the puritanical types. It seems a little myopic now, but I still don’t disagree. When our meetings split into smaller groups, the other kinky ladies and I talked about this a lot. My first kiss was with my family pastor’s daughter; the first boy who asked me to hurt him during sex grew up Hasidic; the first girl who asked to hurt me was newly ex-Muslim. #NotAllSadomasochists grow up amidst authoritarianism, but there’s an undeniable correlation. (You’d be surprised how rare that last request is.) Two hours total, including 45 minutes of play and 45 minutes of aftercare. $300 to be delivered via PayPal. I got to his apartment building three minutes early. In hindsight, this was incredibly stupid of me, even if he had been vetted by a colleague. Domme work is sex work, and sex work is dangerous. It’ll stay dangerous so long as clients can be arrested for buying what we’re selling them. David’s apartment was about what you’d expect of an upper middle class former frat boy: washed concrete floors; tasteful, minimalist decorations; Eames chair. If it sounds like this came easily, that’s because it did. I’d had enough practice with kinky sex partners beforehand to sink into the role of Boss Bitch quickly and thoroughly. Plus, I was getting more out of this than a paycheck. The kit I’d brought was tailored to his session: synthetic fiber rope (easier to sterilize), a brand new riding crop (still ultra stiff), scarves (so versatile!), and a general purpose first-aid kit. The amount of pressure it takes to break skin changes depending on the body part, the skin’s tautness, a person’s age, and so on. I whipped the back of David’s thighs, the soles of his feet, and his buttocks on and off for half an hour, pausing to rest my arm and let him catch his breath. Aftercare flies by sometimes. That’s adrenaline and endorphins for you, I guess. I cradled him on the living room floor and told him what a good boy he’d been. Then I helped him to the bathroom, drew his bath, and washed and bandaged his cuts. I made him some tea, tucked him into bed, and left. And as Simone de Beauvoir wrote, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” After going off script for over an hour, I wanted to return to the safe, familiar territory of gender roles, to be the gentle caretaker misogynists swear lives deep in my and every other true woman’s breast. I felt guilty.
title: “What It S Like The First Time As A Dominatrix” ShowToc: true date: “2024-10-06” author: “Eric Gaines”
I had decided against law school at the eleventh hour and, in a panic, accepted a job offer from a small non-profit in a town I’d never been to. Alone in a new place, I spent a lot of time at a local coffee shop that could have passed for a Hello Kitty playhouse. This is where I met the other kinks — the dommes, the subs, the swingers, and Pete, our token ponyboy. A group of people, mostly queer, who wanted to spank their lovers (or be tied up, or swap husbands for a night) met once a month, fully clothed, to sip lattes and talk BDSM best practices. The coffeehouse was home base. Meetings were private. You could cut the sexual tension with a butter knife, and it would thank you and ask you to do it again. There’s a long tradition of southern progressivism that looks a lot like those meetings. Like-minded people assembling quietly and in small numbers to discuss how best to liberate themselves and others shaking their heads over the puritanical types. It seems a little myopic now, but I still don’t disagree. When our meetings split into smaller groups, the other kinky ladies and I talked about this a lot. My first kiss was with my family pastor’s daughter; the first boy who asked me to hurt him during sex grew up Hasidic; the first girl who asked to hurt me was newly ex-Muslim. #NotAllSadomasochists grow up amidst authoritarianism, but there’s an undeniable correlation. (You’d be surprised how rare that last request is.) Two hours total, including 45 minutes of play and 45 minutes of aftercare. $300 to be delivered via PayPal. I got to his apartment building three minutes early. In hindsight, this was incredibly stupid of me, even if he had been vetted by a colleague. Domme work is sex work, and sex work is dangerous. It’ll stay dangerous so long as clients can be arrested for buying what we’re selling them. David’s apartment was about what you’d expect of an upper middle class former frat boy: washed concrete floors; tasteful, minimalist decorations; Eames chair. If it sounds like this came easily, that’s because it did. I’d had enough practice with kinky sex partners beforehand to sink into the role of Boss Bitch quickly and thoroughly. Plus, I was getting more out of this than a paycheck. The kit I’d brought was tailored to his session: synthetic fiber rope (easier to sterilize), a brand new riding crop (still ultra stiff), scarves (so versatile!), and a general purpose first-aid kit. The amount of pressure it takes to break skin changes depending on the body part, the skin’s tautness, a person’s age, and so on. I whipped the back of David’s thighs, the soles of his feet, and his buttocks on and off for half an hour, pausing to rest my arm and let him catch his breath. Aftercare flies by sometimes. That’s adrenaline and endorphins for you, I guess. I cradled him on the living room floor and told him what a good boy he’d been. Then I helped him to the bathroom, drew his bath, and washed and bandaged his cuts. I made him some tea, tucked him into bed, and left. And as Simone de Beauvoir wrote, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” After going off script for over an hour, I wanted to return to the safe, familiar territory of gender roles, to be the gentle caretaker misogynists swear lives deep in my and every other true woman’s breast. I felt guilty.
