by women for women

My attempt at being a dominatrix

We met on a social media site. My friend convinced me to take this dating bull by the horns.  Play up my dominant persona. What could it hurt?

I was growing tired of falling in love with youtube guitar-heroes, subscribing to their channels in hope’s they might spy my cute account pic and dream about running their calloused fingers through my hair in a spooning formation never once executed by two carbon-based beings, discussing diminished chords and harmonizing like Teddy Pendergrass and Stephanie Mills.

But “guitar jamz” Freddy holding brief, boyfriend fantasy dwelling in my mind was no longer cutting it. I longed for greener pastures, but I was tired of being taken advantage of. So my friend convinced me to become a dominatrix. She sent me two articles on the subject. I didn’t want to get paid, that was a slippery slope…

I was not looking to foment some long-standing relationship, nor make my mother proud. I was looking for someone who was functionally literate, as concerned about his partner’s orgasm, had recently bathed and was nice to his Mom. No, I was not interested in credit scores, this was going to be a mutually beneficial interaction of the basest sort.  It was my birthday and he was to be sandwiched in between me being drunk and going downtown by myself to see a show. Yes, that’s right.

We planned to meet at my apartment. I scoured for leftover halloween attire–whips, chains, furry handcuffs, some latex maybe? I threw on some fishnets and grabbed a cat o’ nine tails and readied myself to dominate the hell out of this dude.

Except, I got a nice guy. When he finally called, he sounded nothing like all the other weird-os. He sounded humble and calm. He offered to bring wine and dinner. Red flag number one. That’s too intimate. Food and doing it just don’t meld together nicely. Digestion and sex just don’t go together. We’d work out the logistics when he got here. I knew he was just being coy and his dormant, super-freak was just waiting to spring into action. I would sense the high velocity of his love before any doppler radar did. We would inadvertently fall in love and have a clever story to recant to each over laughter and Corona Lights in Tahiti. “Hahaha. Remember the first time you met me and tried to whip me, honey?” “Oh, I how could I forget, darling? Your face went pale!”

He arrived. He had the charm, energy and alacrity of Cream of Wheat. He wanted to “take is slow.” I was rushing. I pulled out my cat-o-nine-tails and he nearly sprung off the bed. “What is THAT?” he demanded. I instructed him to use it gently on me. He lightly traipsed it against my body like a low-powered 70’s, carwash wrap-around. I lost interest and started to feel empty.

Then we tried to kiss. His breath was pungent. We kept our clothes on. I touched him and he quivered. Something happened because he moaned. I sloughed it off. My alarm went off. Perfect timing. It was time to leave for my concert and this situation was a fucking stillborn. I went to get up and he stopped me “Wait a minute…um…do you have a towel? Sorry, it’s been two months for me.” I looked over and it was evident that he had climaxed on himself. It wasn’t until later on that I read Melissa Febos “Whip Smart” that I would realize just how much work is involved in this dom shit. She was working in the dungeons in NYC while getting her MFA. She explains in great detail how being a dominatrix is work–sometimes very dangerous and difficult work.

He continued to call me for a while after that, although I’ve never seen him again. Maybe there was something alluring there. Maybe his intrigue wouldn’t leave him alone, but I decided to let sleeping dogs lie. So I’m back to subscribing to handsome, guitar instructor’s youtube channels and saving myself for someone who’s more on my level. Besides, it’s getting close to Valentine’s Day and y’all can have at it. I’ll be in my room practicing my chords and diva snaps.

About Plavia Rantham

Plavia Rantham
I was born in little town near the Appalachian Trail, raised on Sweet Tarts, Solid Gold and home-made, Cabbage Patch Dolls. My neighborhood bragging right was "Best Linda Blair impersonation" which wasn't so much an impersonation as it was my feelings about growing up surrounded by rednecks who didn't like "black music." I'm now a freelance writer living in NYC.
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