Posts filed under ‘men who clean my house make me hot’

Kink/BDSM dating sites

“Omnivore,” you ask, “where do you find all these kinky people to hurt and order around and do other perverted things with?”

I laugh carelessly, lean back in my smoking jacket, and say, “Why, the Internets, of course!”

Internet dating has been good to me. Craigslist played an instrumental part in my reclamation of my sexuality at the end of a five-year dry marriage — and based on the other posts I’ve seen on Best of Craigslist, I’m not alone in that regard.

Craigslist is, alas, notoriously unreliable for anything other than casual sexual encounters (men really do seem to like to fuck — a lot — and will make repeated attempts to get laid even against the worst sort of odds). About a year ago, I had good luck finding serious candidates for houseboys on Craigslist as well. There was plenty of dross to sort through, of course. But for every 20 inappropriate responses, I’d hear from at least two or three sincere applicants. More recently, though, my Craigslist posts have been flagged off within moments of appearing. Given that they never violated the Craigslist Terms of Service (I know — I read them) and given that M4W posts of the same type remain undisturbed, I can’t help but feel like an oppressed minority. Perhaps it was the housework piece that pissed people off. Or perhaps folks just couldn’t believe that there are people out there who get off on domestic servitude — men, specifically, who want a woman to order them around and then beat them afterward. I know the technology behind the Craigslist flagging system, and it’s possible for one very determined person to flag a post. Whatever the reason, Craigslist is no longer a viable option for me.

Ace introduced me to two websites that appear to have been around for a long time: Collarme.com and Bondage.com. Both of them claim to be the biggest online BDSM community in the Universe or something. The Collarme site is painful to look at, but I was incredibly flattered at the number of responses I got when I first put up my profile. Ace told me it was primarily creepy guys and prodoms, and now that I’ve been on there for about five months, I’m afraid I’m no longer fresh meat. None of the submissive men who initially contacted me panned out into actual meetings, but frankly I was overwhelmed by the initial number of responses. At the time I signed up, I also had two houseboys and was enjoying myself thoroughly with Ace.

Bondage.com’s design is slicker, but I’m really not too thrilled with the “pay extra to see naked pictures of people” thing. I know websites have to make money, but I get really squicked by a trend I see a lot in the kink community: namely, perverting genuine female desire into a money-making opportunity. Bitchy Jones does a good job of articulating why commodifying female desire hurts EVERY kinkster (see #3 here). Axe also talks about it from the male sub side. So I’m not going to spend more time on that point right now, especially since I’m really here to talk about finding kinksters through the Internets.

What I do want to say is that I was delighted to discover these websites but disappointed at actual meeting-people results. I’ve had MUCH better luck with OKCupid.com. OKCupid is not a kink site. It’s just one of the coolest online dating sites I’ve ever visited. Aside from all the fun quizes and the fact that — at least when I was using it a lot back in January/February/March of 2008 — there are lots of like-minded, interesting people there, it also has something I came to rely on a great deal: the kink badge. The site was created by a bunch of smartypants from Harvard (which doesn’t have quite the cachet as a bunch of smartypants from MIT). As a result, it’s got a fun design, that light-hearted insouciance of the early Intarwebs (in the late 90s, people were more interested in making cool websites and less in monetizing them), and complex algorithms that take your answers to various questions, compare them to other people on the site, and award you little personality badges based on the result. You have to take them with a grain of salt, but overall I’ve found that if someone has the kinky badge on their profile, chances are better that we’ll be sexually compatible. I met Ace, Bran, and Chiquitita on that site.

The other thing I really like about OKC is that people are less deterministic about their dating goals than they are on other websites. Most dating sites seem to fall into one of two categories: “let’s fuck and never talk to each other again,” or “let’s get married and have babies/a house/a dog.” The majority of dating sites also have an annoying habit of requiring you to specify that you are looking for EITHER a man OR a woman. OKC lets you choose “either.” And you can guess what the Omnivore is selecting.

More recently, Axe introduced me to Fetlife.com. It’s a very, very new website put together by some folks from Montreal. I recently discovered that a good number of people on my blogroll are there, and got one promising message from someone interested in becoming my houseboy. So we’ll see.

May 20, 2008 at 12:21 pm 3 comments

If you beat the servants but don’t fuck them, is that polyamory?

Bran isn’t crazy about polyamory. I’m not crazy about monogamy. Yes, I’m one of those bad bisexuals who actually DOES want to sleep with people of different genders. I know, I know, bisexuals are absolutely capable of monogamy–about as capable as anyone of any other sexual orientation. I’ve certainly been capable of monogamy for long stretches of time. Hell, I’ve been capable of not cheating on a partner who refused to have sex with me. I have my reasons for wanting a gate in my little picket fence, though. I’ll tell you all about them later.

There’s sex and then there’s sex, though. I know, I know, polyamory is about more than sex. But right now I’m talking about sex. Relationship-wise, I’m really at capacity. Things resolved with Chiquitita nicely in that respect: she balked at the prospect of getting the sexxay on, and I was relieved because I know exactly how much work women are. So does she. So we snuggled all night, slept over (something I have yet to do with Bran in spite of all our @w3$0me sexing), and now we talk about sex with boys. Which is easy and fun and relatively drama-free. I’ve reassured her that the not-calling-after-the-first-date thing is some sort of XY-chromosome-related phenomenon and nothing to do with her.

Bran has, however, said on more than one occasion, “you need a houseboy.” Which is promising and true. Especially since Bran clearly doesn’t enjoy the domestic stuff. In fact, he’s diagnosed my houseboyless state precisely on occasions when I’ve asked him to do domestic things for me. Like, say, lint-brush the cat hair off my black cardigan.

I do need a houseboy. And not just because I’d rather spend my money on something besides professional housecleaners. I can train a houseboy to clean AND tidy exactly the way I want. I can teach them how to fold and hang up the clothes that pile up in my bedroom — and know that they get a kick out of doing it because it’s such an intimate act. And I can do other stuff with a houseboy I’d never dream of doing with a professional housecleaner. Like, say, tell him to strip naked, throw his belt across the room, and make him crawl across the floor to me with it in his teeth. So I can beat him with it.

I’d pretty much given up on finding a new one, though. The last few prospects petered out — my so-promising young curious one just freaked out one day on his way over here and stood me up. The other prospect I’d been emailing with canceled on me at the last minute and then got snippy with me when I told him he wasn’t serious about meeting. Dynamics are important. I don’t need a brat. I need a good boy who knows how to clean. I recently got a message from someone on Fetlife who sounds very promising. But they all sound promising via email. The proof is in the pudding. Or the cleaning and the beating.

And it does have to be a boy. I’m sorry, but I like genderfuck. I like making a man do women’s work. Maybe it’s my way of getting back at my slovenly family of origin (I’d say it was my slovenly brother but really, Mom was just as bad). Maybe it’s my way of getting back at men in general. Fuckers with their baseball talk and their 30%-on-average higher salaries. Whatever it is, it’s my kink and I’m not apologizing for it. I mean, aside from apologizing for it at the beginning of this paragraph.

The problem, of course, is that my relationship with my houseboys is sexual. Even if I always keep my clothes on, it’s sexual. Once, I acted against my better instincts and let a married man come over and vacuum my floors in the early mornings. Married in the traditional sense. Vacuuming my floors was a sexual act for him. And for me. I felt horrible, because I knew there was a woman whom I’d never met whom I was helping to harm. Even if she never knew, I was harming her. And him. And, most importantly, myself. I had to stop. It was bad. I still feel bad. I’d never even mention this if you knew my name. It was the one thing I said I’d never do. I never had intercourse with him, but it was still sexual.

Part of my journey of accepting my kink has been acknowledging the sexual nature of domestic servitude. Honesty, dignity and respect. These are my baselines. I’m not comfortable with myself if I’m not honest with myself and others. This really sucks sometimes, because denial and lies are very convenient. But once I’ve acknowledged something I can’t lie about it.

Which may, in the long run, lead to some problems between myself and Bran. Or perhaps not. Perhaps we’ll be able to figure out a way to help him feel special and valued. It would certainly relieve him (and me) of expectations for him to fulfill a role he’s not cut out for. Bran is not a houseboy, a true sub, or a pain slut. Submissive men are awesome. I love so many things about them. But in terms of the person who walks beside me, I need a different sort of power dynamic.

I want both. I need a lot of love, a lot of caretaking. I’m a big woman with big appetites. And I’m tired of apologizing for it.

May 17, 2008 at 9:38 pm Leave a comment

How to find a submissive houseboy on teh Intarwebs (in 12 easy steps or less)

  1. Spend at least half an hour writing a witty but firm advertisement for the appropriate section of the free online personals website of your choice. Briefly describe yourself without any overtly identifying characteristics. Specify that you are NOT a prodom. Explain that you are looking for a submissive man to come clean your house and then kneel naked on the floor while you beat his ass to a whimpering pulp. Specify that the lucky recipient of this honor should actually get off on it, as you will be getting off on (a) him cleaning your house for free and (b) beating him. A lot. With a riding crop. And his own belt. And your hands. And various other implements.
  2. Specify that you are not interested in meeting anyone who isn’t single or didn’t get the go-ahead from their girlfriend/wife/boyfriend/german shepherd/it’s-complicated. Make sure to mention other qualities that would disqualify him for service. Such disqualifying attributes might include illiteracy, slovenliness, desire to be used as a toilet, enclosure of a photograph of manjunk, or possession of a mullet.
  3. Prepare yourself for one or more of the following kinds of responses:
    • One-word responses with blurry headshots, “headless horseman” shots, or photos of manjunk attached.
    • Bilious diatribes about what a manipulative, perverted, sick bitch you must be.
    • A counteroffer: “why don’t you come over to my apartment instead, wash my dishes, and suck my dick?” Attached photograph of manjunk is optional.
    • “Why don’t you just hire a service the way I do?” (Is there a service that offers brawny men who clean your whole place, then strip on command and crawl across the room with their own belt in their mouths? Where’s the website? I wonder if I can afford it!)
    • One, two, or possibly (possibly) more serious inquiries.
    • A notice that your ad has been flagged off for violation of the website’s Terms of Service (you’ve read them and are clearly NOT in violation. Not unless all those sick perverts mandoms looking for girls to spank are, too, and yet their ads seems to stay on for months at a time)
  4. Ensure that you are using an anonymous (aka “slut”) email account to respond to the handful of serious inquiries you’ll receive. As comfort level increases, exchange given names, then photographs, discuss expectations and desires about the arrangements. I recommend limiting the email exchange portion of the screening to no more than one to two weeks (about 5-10 exchanges. And 10 is pushing it.) This helps you avoid the “face for radio” phenomenon. It also helps you screen out people who aren’t serious about meeting in person.
  5. When in possession of the applicant’s first and last name, run a superficial background check via Google, Zabasearch, and the National Sex Offender Registry. Encourage the applicant to do the same with you. If any unexpected results come up, discuss with the applicant. Bear in mind that sex offender registries sometimes include the names of people convicted of questionable “offenses” like 18-year-olds making love with their 17-year-old sweethearts.
  6. Pay attention to your gut. Pay attention to the wording of the applicant’s email. Read between the lines. Bear in mind that he doesn’t necessarily have to be a suave and well-written correspondent to get the job. But pay attention and trust that little inner voice. It doesn’t lie.
  7. Arrange to meet your potential new houseboy in a public place, preferably for lunch on a Saturday. Why lunch? Who knows whether broad daylight makes things any safer, but it puts me at ease. It also removes the “date” energy and makes it more like a job interview. Why Saturday? Because if, after lunch, you decide this is a good fit, you can take him directly home for a trial task. I usually have him do the dishes or vaccuum a single room. This will give you a sense of whether he’s actually any good at housework — and of how quickly he works.
  8. Make sure you get his mobile number beforehand, in case you need to call to let him know you’re running late. You might be running late, but he should be on time.Be prepared for the possibility of being stood up. Poor submissive men–especially the sincerely submissive ones you want for this type of work and not the ones who still think it’s all about them — are bound to have mixed feelings about their sexuality. He may chicken out. If he does, don’t bother trying to make contact again. If he calls or emails, ignore it. He broke something that never be unbroken when he broke your date and there’s no way to salvage the dynamic.
  9. If all goes well at lunch, invite him back for a tryout (see above). If you like him, offer him a little treat at the end. Like, say, having him get down on his hands and knees, putting your feet up on him, and lecturing him. Or make him kneel upright, grab him by the hair, and stand over him scolding him. You know, do what you do. That dom thing, which is why you’re reading this to begin with right? If you don’t know how to do this part, I’m surprised you made it past Step 1. Especially at the beginning, less is more.
  10. Make sure to treat your houseboy with respect, like a valuable new toy. Do all that stuff that good kinksters are supposed to do, like establishing consensus, using safewords, and making time for aftercare. Frame your time together appropriately, and you should be able to hold onto a good houseboy for quite some time. But bear in mind that this is a difficult kind of relationship to maintain over the long run unless he already has a primary partner elsewhere. I don’t recommend fucking the servants, but your houseboy is likely to have needs not directly related to service, submission, and titillation.
  11. Be prepared for the possibility that some stingy, demanding bitch will get her claws into him he will meet another dominant woman who wants to Own him. Try to keep the lines of communication open so that you can find yourself another one before he leaves your service.
  12. Repeat ad nauseum. Or until you get disgusted with the process. Bitch about how hard it is to find good help these days to your friends, or to the Internet. Laugh at yourself a lot when you do this. When you get tired of houseboys, call your maid service or consider *gasp* actually cleaning the house and sorting through your papers yourself.

May 5, 2008 at 10:19 pm 3 comments

When in doubt, lists are good (restoring my freaky cred)

Bran says he’s boring my readers, because no one has commented on the last two posts. “I think they’re only interested when you’re branding me or something.”

Which I haven’t actually done, of course. Although I do have to admit that the idea is appealing, in an entirely fantasy-never-gonna-happen-story-of-O kind of way.

But just in case my last few posts have been too mushy and tame, I present to you the following pieces of evidence that I am still a huge freak.

  1. I came on Bran’s face. I can’t entirely tell if he likes it, since there is usually some choking and coughing involved. I actually did this on our first date, and he told me via IM that he felt like we was drowning. The implication, however, was that it was not an unenjoyable experience.
  2. Ace will be gratified (he would be more so, perhaps, if he were still in receipt of my attentions) that I’ve come to appreciate the joys of fucking a man up the ass with a strap-on. It’s true. I really do get into this place where I’m going buck-wild, and excited, and energized, and very very in-the-moment. I love not only the power of it but the sensual joy. Sure, it’s an act of giving. That’s why I’m picky about who gets to feel my cock up their ass. But it’s hott. With an extra T. For hottness. Because I can spell.

    All sorts of things I was sort of uncomfortable about before no longer seem to bother me with Bran. Probably because it’s completely reciprocal. And even though I do have a very strong streak of the femdom, there’s a reason why I go by the handle Omnivore. I like reciprocity. Reciprocity is hott, with two T’s. Another thing that happened on our first date is that he licked my little anus all around with that wicked tongue of his and made it feel AWESOME. He’s also mastered the art of fucking my various orifices with his tongue: mouth (which can be sort of creepy and yet turning-on-y at the same time), cunt (heaven), ass (gunh).

    I’ve learned a technique for assuaging my concerns about e-coli infection as relates to anal play. You sort of check out the region with your fingers and nose and eyes first. If it’s all clear, then you can use your tongue. If not, there’s always gloves, which I absolutely love for anal play because cleanup is a breeze (just pull off, and all incidental poop is contained nicely in an inverted latex package). And if you can’t deal with a little poop, as the Midwest Teen Sex Show points out so lucidly, you’re not ready for anal sex.

    Later, after all the sex and in an attempt to make our time together something other than just a booty call (he did arrive before the 9:00 pm this-is-definitely-just-a-booty-call cutoff time), we lay on the couch and watched some anime.

    “Heh,” I said. “You fucked me up the ass.”
    “I did,” he replied. “You begged me to do it.”

  3. While I was fucking Bran up the ass with the littlest dildo from the Bend Over Beginner Kit, he said something that made me come all over his leg. I wish I could remember what it was. But coming while fucking him was pretty awesome.
  4. Later, he made me come again by saying in that wonderful forceful way of his that he was fucking me while I was tied up. I know the latest magazine articles say that women don’t really make tons of noise when they come, that we’re all concentrating on the sensation of coming and that you can tell because of the tightening of our vaginal walls, but I am in fact a screamer. And I came. Noisily. Gushily. I’m glad one of the comforters was between me and the mattress because I’m out of upholstery cleaner.

    Bran is so shy about tying me up. I had to beg him to do it, and sort of helped him along. But it’s true what one of my subs from last year had to say about bondage. It does sort of intensify the feeling — of intercourse, of orgasm. An extra frisson, a tension between what you want and what you can have. And, I suppose, there’s some sort of Freudian thing about security and being held tightly. I always get excited in the middle of sex with bondage and scrabble to get the bonds off so I can touch the man (or woman) fucking me. This time, when I tried, he pushed my hand away. Which was even hotter. And when I finally did get one wrist free he just pushed me down with those wonderful strong arms of his.

  5. He gave me a lovely spanking as well. I’m glad that he responds to feedback and direction. Not all of my lovers have had the emotional security to do so.
  6. I’m still in need of a good houseboy. The one I’ve got actually canceled on me last-minute so he could go do something involving the earning of money. Really, now, where are the boy’s priorities? As we discussed over lunch last week, it’s clear that he’s not really kinky. And the important learning I’ve gotten from his service is that you can’t instill kink any more than you can iron it out. I think he’d make a great personal assistant, but it’ll only work if the payoff for him is sufficient. This is where sub men once again prove their worthiness: sexuality, especially of the unfulfilled variety, can be a powerful motivator for service. ViciousWishes asked me some questions about protocol related to the search for and screening of a good houseboy. I’ll share those in a separate post. Once I’ve got some applicants, I know what to do. But for the time being, I’m stymied as to how to find new applicants. Craigslist has been the best source so far for potentials, but someone on Craigslist has decided I’m either a spambot or a whore and flags my posts within minutes of publication. This really irks me because it is the sexual exchange I’m seeking. My posts don’t belong in erotic services, dammit! Men who clean my house really do make me hot. And I want a man who gets hot cleaning house for me. Who enjoys pain. Ah, well. In the meantime, I’ll soldier on as best I can. And perhaps consider reactivating my profiles on Collarme and Bondage.com. Yawn.
  7. Chiquitita and I are still orbiting around one another. In an email this morning, she wrote “Rarely have I met someone whose every message to me would make me want to say ‘awwwww.'” Girls require more effort than boys, but the payoff is almost always worth it.

April 22, 2008 at 4:34 pm 7 comments

Hope springs eternal

I posted another ad for a houseboy in the Miscellaneous Romance section of Craigslist.

The last one got flagged off so fast only one serious response came through before it was gone. Some trick-ass bitch on Craigslist must really hate dominant women, or thinks that bona fide bitches who do it for the sexxay don’t really exist.

[EDIT: The post was up for all of five minutes before it got flagged again]

I was corresponding nicely with the one serious inquirer, but he balked when I asked for his first and last name. It’s just protocol, yo. You’re coming to my house, after all, touching all of my intimate things. Don’t I deserve to do a quick Google and sex offender registry search on you first?

I’m sure that you are all weeping for me in the face of my desperate plight, especially you poor submissive men in search of an owner. “Really, Omnivore,” you’re probably saying. “Aren’t you just a tad greedy? After all, you’ve got that delicious Bran playing puppy with you and fucking you hello, not to mention that young new boy who likes to kneel at your feet and sort your mail.”

To which I will reply, “Yes, that’s true. And I haven’t even told you about that sweet, curvy girl with the pixie haircut and the funky sense of style with whom I’ve only been on two dates.

“BUT!

“But,” I will say, “I am indeed a greedy bitch, and after 20 years of dating people, I’ve decided to stop feeling ashamed of asking for what I want. Bran’s too busy with grad school to clean and it’s not really his kink anyway. And while the sexxay is awesome, he’s not a pure submissive. The new houseboy shows promise in the personal secretary department but doesn’t really know how to vaccuum a room properly and doesn’t like pain. And Ace spoiled me forever in that department; I want another submissive boy with a high threshold for pain who will sweat and stretch and scrub until the place is spotless and then take off his clothes and kneel when I order him to. I want him to look up at me with that look, that look that maybe only Ace had but which I’m hoping to see on the face of another sub, a sort of dark and hooded and completely surrendered look that says I’m yours. Use me. Hurt me. I love it. And you love it. Please.

“I’m greedy enough to want two houseboys, not just one. AND a boyfriend. AND a girlfriend.”

Yeah. That’s what I want.

Is that so wrong?

April 10, 2008 at 7:07 pm 7 comments

It’s so hard to get good houseboys these days

So my longest-lasting houseboy (and arguably one of the reasons why I’ve come to terms with my bitchy pervert self) just canceled our arrangement last week. He “broke up” with me via email. Now this is where things get tricky, because we weren’t technically going out. No, we were not going out at all. He would come over to my house, change from his cashmere sweaters and wool slacks into a white T-shirt and black shorts, and take orders from me. He was a wonderful housekeeper, very thorough, left things spotless, and worked so hard he’d sweat (“Jewish boys really know how to clean,” said one of my Jewish friends as I was regaling her with tales of my sexxay life.) Then, after the house was clean, or clean enough for my tastes, I’d beat him. I’d scold him. I’d put my feet up on him. I’d tie him up and drip wax on him. I’d spank him, use my crop, use his belt.

It was heaven. For both of us. At the beginning, of course, I couldn’t deal with the way he’d moan when I came down hard on him with the crop. I couldn’t deal with the sexual thrill I’d feel from the sound of his moan, from his reaction to the pain. At first I told myself it was because I couldn’t deal with his getting turned on by it. But later I realized I couldn’t deal with my getting turned on by it. Sometimes I still can’t deal with it. It can’t help but feel wrong to get pleasure from other people’s pain. I try to justify it by saying that it really only turns me on if it turns on my sub, and it’s true that the feedback loop of lust and desire and sexxay and pain and hurt and intensity and release is what I like about sex — all kinds of sex, although all kinds of sex don’t involve pain. But the thrill I get out of causing someone pain makes me identify with all the villains in those evil interrogation scenes. That’s an uncomfortable place to be. To understand the thrill — visceral, sexual, in-the-head-ual — of imposing one’s will on another human being, seeing how much they can take, how far before they break. That’s a very uncomfortable thing to discover in oneself. It makes me wonder what I might have been capable of, who I might have become, in different circumstances.

A few months ago, I cooked him lunch, had a frank discussion with him about my own kinksexual awakening, and finally tied him to my bed with the 24′-length rope-under-the-bed system I’d had him bring me but had only used on other playmates. That afternoon, I had what most people would define as sex with him. There was no penetration — on either of our parts — but there was orgasm. There were genitals out there in the open air. And beatings. Lots of beatings. At one point, I was whaling on him with the end of the rope I’d used to tie his left wrist, and he called for Mercy (safeword), and it took a strenuous effort on my part to stop. He had marks afterward. We talked afterward. There was pillow talk. I remember him going on about one of his sons and reaching over to pinch his nipple, and then he just stopped in mid-sentence and went “unh.”

“You can keep talking,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“I know I can,” he said, “but there’s the question of whether I want to.”

Things were never the same after that. I don’t know if that old saw about not sleeping with your slaves is true in a houseboy-style relationship or if there were other factors at work, like incompatible schedules. We were never much of a personality match anyway. But when he emailed me to say

i have found a Woman to take an interest in owning me and we have decided to give it a try on an exclusive basis.

As such she has told me it is time to end my service to You as she will be using all of my efforts.

I was hurt. Blindsided. This is where kink and polyamory intersect, and I can see how demanding bitches dominant women might not be good at sharing. But ultimately, it was probably more about him than either of us. I could go into why that is, but I’m not getting paid enough to psychoanalyze him.

So the bad news is that I’m down one pain-slutty submissive with mad skillz with a broom. The good news is that at this very moment I’ve got a tender young thing who’s curious about kink emptying out my shredder and sorting through the mountain of paper on my desk. He’s not as good with the cleaning, but he’s very eager to please and willing to be trained. He told me he’s attracted to professional women and likes to kneel beside me while I work. I’ve put him to work as a sort of personal secretary, which gives me a mind-buzz-power-thrill that is really just too @\/\/3$0me for words (or 1337 speak). Too bad he doesn’t like pain.

I posted on Craigslist again for another boy and got one decent bite before the Mandom Nazis flagged my ad. We’ll see how that turns out. Hopefully he’s a pain slut. Bran and I play with pain, but it’s different with him. I guess it really is true that switching changes the dynamic of a relationship. Not that I’d give up the feel of him pressing my knees to my chest and pounding my cervix for all the clean, shiny floors in China.

April 8, 2008 at 6:30 pm 5 comments

We interrupt this philosophical discussion for more kink

I’ve been working on that godawful third part of my clever little essay for frickin’ ever.

In the meantime, may I present to you my morning:

5:45 am: Wake up. Kitty purring next to my face, sitting very patiently. Go back to sleep.

6:00 am: Progressive alarm clock starts chirping at me. Lay and listen to it for a few minute. Hit the snooze bar.

6:20 am: Alarm clock screams at me. Kitty purring politely butts her head to get under the covers with me.

6:45 am: I turn off the alarm. Kitty doing tap dances on my head. I contemplate getting up, then roll over onto my back in the exact center of my expensive, memory-foam, Queen-size bed. Overtaken by luxury, I close my eyes.

6:50 am: Swim up from half-sleep. Contemplate putting feet onto floor and kettle onto stove. Decide to wait until 7am.

7:00 am (precisely): Houseboy rings bell. I climb out of bed, pad downstairs in bare feet and pyjamas to let him in. Set him to work cleaning the bathroom. Put on the kettle and feed the cat.

7:30 am: After much stumbling around with frequent stops in to supervise houseboy, manage to get breakfast on table.

7:45 am: Houseboy tells me he is done with the bathroom. I tell him to wash the dishes in the sink. Write my morning pages, work on my interminable fourth step.

8:00 am: Houseboy finishes the dishes. I tell him to clear the table and wash up the breakfast dishes. Go get dressed. Choose the plaid skirt and brown tights that go so well with the high brown boots.

8:15 am: Hand houseboy my boots and tell him to go kneel in the living room. Wash my face and brush my hair in my sparkling clean bathroom.

8:20 am: Pull houseboy over my knees and give him the spanking of his life. Tell him it turns me on when I hurt him. Hand him my boots and have him put them on while I read him some poetry. He runs his hand up my calf before zipping them up, clearly not by accident.

“Are they clean enough?” I ask.
“No, ma’am.”
“Then clean them.”

This is the first time he’s licked my boots. He does an excellent job. It’s the best boot-licking I’ve had in years. Did you know that your boots actually do shine when someone licks them thoroughly and well? It’s better than polish. I walk around him to give him the best angle on all sides. The only thing that would make it sexier is if he were totally naked and on all fours under me. I pull my skirt aside to watch him. When he licks my instep, I feel that old familiar thrill, dulled through the shoe leather.

I have him get on his back, put the sole of my boot across his face. Press it against his solar plexus, tell him that if I bore down on him with all my weight I would probably break his ribs. Rub the sole of my boot across his hard-on. Lean over and spit on his face — with terrible aim, most of it ends up on the floor. Drink a glass of water and try again. Pull up his t-shirt and pinch his nipples, hard. Spit on his face some more, rub it in, slap him around a bit. Grab him by his hair and pull him to his knees, pressing his face into my belly.

Step away and tell him to get dressed.

I was supposed to drop him off at the T, but he gladly walks. I pack my lunch, send a few emails, and leave for work.

I’ve been having trouble getting out of bed on time. What a little gift of the universe to help me out of bed on a Friday.

Plus, shiny bathroom floor.

March 7, 2008 at 8:09 pm 6 comments

Sum total of my kink experiences to date, or why you should never hire me as a prodom

Age 3: I am the Queen of the Boys in preschool. We play Star Wars. I am Princess Leia, of course. They lock me in the tricycle shed and then duel with their lightsabers. Luke Skywalker defeats Darth Vader, but forgets that I’m still locked in the tricycle shed. I get myself out.

Age 7: I smother Jeffie, my second-grade boyfriend, with kisses. He never stops me.

Age 14: People ask me if I have a nickname. I tell them they should call me Dominique, because I like the name. Someone jokes that I should be Mistress Dominique, mimes the sound of a whip cracking. I laugh along with the rest of them.

Age 15: I’m at an arts camp. I’m making out with my boyfriend in his dorm room and he tells me that he likes… I think the word he uses is “dominance.” I’m freaked out almost immediately. It’s not whips and chains or anything, he tells me. I just like to be told what to do in bed. I run away as soon as possible. We never talk about it. Years later, I realize he knew me better than I knew myself.

Age 19: I’m in my sophomore year at a college that is very sexually open. My boyfriend and I experiment with bondage, with anal sex. I don’t enjoy either very much. We split up in April.

That summer, I realize I like girls and get my heart broken. A few months later, I meet an older man who seduces me with cooking and a foot rub. He is a wonderful lover, considerate, sweet, experienced, communicative. He loves to go down on me. Once in passing, he mentions that he and someone else used to tie their friend to the radiator in San Francisco. I’m intrigued but don’t ask further. He spanks me a bit, and I like it. When I like something, I tend to be vocal about it. Once his roommates tease me because they could hear the sound through the vents. I’m embarrassed.

Age 21: April and I are the Big Dykes on Campus. At the annual “gay” dance, a BDSM student group from a neighboring college creates a dungeon in a side room. They cover three walls with black plastic sheets and set up a sort of whipping post with ropes that dangle from the wall. They don’t actually tie people into the ropes — people just hold them while they stand belly up to the wall. They have informational packets about safety and ways to save money on floggers, whips, etc. I’m wearing a long, form-fitting dress that zips up the back. The group members very gently guide me to the ropes, unzip my dress, expose my shoulders and back. A lovely woman in a leather miniskirt whips me with a crop. She checks with me over and over again, rubbing in the marks with her hands. Before she uses the flogger, she warns me against the dangers of wrapping, especially to the sides of a woman’s breasts. People are watching. Afterward, I’m not prepared for the rush, but the group members are. I step away from the wall, feel dizzy, they guide me gently to a chair, offer me water. A beautiful woman with coffee-colored skin comes up to me as I sit there in the post-whipping rush. “Did that feel good?” she asks me. “You have no idea,” I answer.

I do some reading. A few months later, I start telling a friend of mine to shut up, over and over again, while we’re hanging out with other people. He calls me later and tells me that he got turned on when I did that. “I know,” I say. I don’t know how I know, but I know. I tell him I’d always been curious about being a dominatrix. Dominatrixing, in my mind, is something you get paid for. He’s also particularly unattractive, and I am living with April–we have a quasi-open relationship, one that’s never really negotiated or processed. He runs a soup kitchen, so we work out an arrangement.

Every week or so, he brings us a bag of groceries, washes our dishes (we are complete slobs and let them pile up to the ceiling), and cooks us dinner. Afterward, I put on my best business suit and sexiest shoes, make him strip to his underwear, kneel him on the living room floor, and beat him with the various implements he brings me. I especially like the riding crop. I spank him, call him names, pull his hair, put my feet up on him, read him dirty stories. Once, I make him lick my shoes. He does it so eagerly, and the feel of his tongue on the suede, so close to my feet, arouses me. I can’t deal with the idea that this ugly little man might make me feel anything but contempt and a rush of power. I never let him lick my shoes again.

During these sessions I first experience top drop — the complete exhaustion that can happen when I direct all of my energies into a beating. I don’t know what to do with this either. Topping is a lonely, exhausting business. April is jealous.

Once during lovemaking, April says “you’re treating me like a common whore!” I apologize immediately. “No,” she says. “You’re treating me like a common whore!” I slap her face, too hard, and she recoils. I apologize immediately, cringing at my ineptitude. I kiss her, make love to her, then loop my belt around her neck and make her walk on her hands and knees around the kitchen.

Eventually, April leaves me for a man even less attractive than my sub. My sub is the one who helps me pack up the U-Haul. I move to another state, and he visits me there. He buys me an electric wok as a housewarming gift. I tell him it’s a terrible gift, and I can tell that this hurts his feelings. I never give him a proper goodbye. I look back on the scene with April with regret.

Age 24: I have a brief, violent affair with Pura. At one point while she’s fucking me with a strap-on, I ask her to treat me like a bitch. She slaps me across the face so hard it jars me. Another time, she’s fucking me with her hands and I tell her it’s hurting me. “Take it for me,” she says. And I do. Pura has been to jail twice for assault; I call the police once when she punches me in the nose.

Age 28: I spend some time at a place in Arizona that specializes in childhood trauma recovery. They draw up a treatment plan for me. In it, they say I have a sexual disorder, NOS (Not Otherwise Specified), because I have “experimented with sado-masochism.” I protest, but not enough to have it removed from the chart.

Age 29: Badger uses a collection of silk neckties his mother sent him to tie me to the posts of his cheap, aluminum bed. I almost always escape, usually while he’s fucking me, because I want to touch him. Once, he takes my face in his hands and kisses my eyes, my cheeks, everywhere except my mouth until I am begging, begging him to kiss me on the mouth. He refuses. It is one of the hottest experiences I’ve ever had.

Age 31: Kristen and I (just friends) go for a walk in the woods. She won’t stop bleating about all the disastrous dates she’s been on in the past few months. I wish she would shut up so I can hear the sound of a stream, so I can hear the quiet of the woods. In a high, scrubby place, I look at her and say, “This is a magical spot. We have to tell each other a secret here.” She tells me that she put herself through school as a professional dominatrix. That I can’t ever tell anyone else about it. I’m incredibly curious. I tell her about my dishwashing sub.

I’m self-employed at the time, struggling financially, and learning about Kristen’s former avocation makes me consider seriously going pro. I have no idea what I’m doing. I post to Craigslist with a sort of Victorian theme. I meet two potential clients at restaurants but never go through with it. I realize something important: I never want to do sex work. I enjoy sex too much; getting paid for it would be like getting a job at my favorite restaurant. Plus, I don’t like the idea of being financially dependent on anyone, especially not the kind of man that visits prostitutes.

Six months later, Kristen and I become lovers. I can tell that she’s reluctant to experiment with kink–working as a dominatrix has ruined it for her. I’m so very relieved when she agrees to do some bondage. She says I’m what she’s always been looking for: a femme top. And I realize that’s what I am. I like to be the one doing. It’s hard sometimes for me to allow someone to touch me. The power, the control, I can’t always give it up. It was like this with April sometimes, too. I can make love to her, revel in the sounds and the smells and the taste of her orgasm, but I can’t always submit to her caresses. I can’t–it’s too much for me. I need to be in control. I can’t always let myself go. She complains about this, about the gradual reduction in our sex life. She complains about a lot of things. I realize she’s not happy unless she’s complaining.

Age 33: Kristen and I split up in January. I resolve to stay celibate for a year, but then springtime comes. I post an ad (vanilla, W4M) to the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist and am immediately overwhelmed by responses. I go on a lot of first dates and am rudely re-introduced to the horrors of dating men (especially the kind of man who trolls the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist). Dating is a rough sport, but I’m a tough girl. My friends and I laugh about the man who texted me to tell me that he wanted to fuck me in the ass.

Eventually, I meet a nice man who tells me, upon examination of my photograph, that any man should be happy to spank me. I meet him at a coffee shop, take him home. When he kisses me, he sounds like a man enjoying a very good meal. In the aftermath, I ask him to tell me a story, and he tells me about performing with Women of Sodom as their slave. I’m thrilled.

The next time he comes over, I tie him to the bed with scarves, break out the riding crop that has been sitting in the back of my closet since R and Z mailed it to me from DC. I flick his erect penis with my fingernail and he gasps. I put him in a ball gag. I use my nails and my teeth on him. At one point, I say to him in wonder, “you like it when I hurt you.” It’s as though I’ve discovered something that’s been missing my whole life, something I didn’t even know I should be looking for. I fuck him in the ass with my hands, just as I used to with Kristen. Once, he makes me come by rubbing his chin against my shoulder. He’s less than dependable, prone to disappearing for weeks at a time then phoning me out of the blue. I don’t really mind.

Around the same time, I am bellyaching to a good friend that I can’t afford to pay a maid. I hate cleaning the house–it seems like such a waste of time! He half-jokingly suggests that I advertise on Craigslist for a houseboy. I remember my dishwashing sub. I receive at least ten serious inquiries to my post, along with a number of emails from men who think I should come over, wash their dishes, and give them blow jobs. At least five people tell me that I am an unnatural pervert. The ad gets flagged fairly quickly, although Craigslist is full of advertisements from men looking for women who like to be spanked and humiliated.

I meet a man who likes to dress as a sissy maid. He tells me that he’s looking for the whole package, a relationship both BDSM and vanilla. I’m not interested in a relationship with him, only in service. He comes a couple of times to clean, I talk sternly to him, order him around, beat him once with the crop when he doesn’t do something fast enough. But I find the cross-dressing unsettling and am exhausted with supervising him. He meets someone at a kink event and stops coming.

The second houseboy candidate I meet turns out to be one of the potential clients I met when I was considering going pro. I don’t find him attractive, but he is very eager to please and very good at housework. I beat him with the crop, spank him with my hands, make him soap my back once when I am in the tub. I bind his arms and legs, drop candle wax on his back. Once, when I’m rubbing lotion into his poor, abused shoulders, I find myself admiring his powerful muscles. He faithfully expresses his gratitude at being able to serve me and once, when I don’t email him in a timely manner, begs me not to discard him. Over the Christmas season, I stop hearing from him and send him a plaintive email in return.

Just after Christmas, Ace contacts me via OKCupid. We have similar politics, similar interests. He’s fun to chat with and to talk to. I am attracted to him. It’s clear from some hints in his profile that he is submissive. He’s not really ready for anything approaching a relationship, and I’m not sure if I am or not. The first time we kiss, I scratch his neck with my nails, bite him, and from the noises he makes I can tell he likes it. It’s hot for me because it’s hot for him. He tells me about BDSM dating sites, points me to the good porn. We talk about Bitchy Jones’s diary. We talk about what we’d like to do, what we haven’t done, how we can do things better. Sex with him is like exploring a magical garden, always with new paths to walk down and discover.

I talk about my adventures in kink with friends. Some of them are freaked out, many of them don’t know the first thing about it. The important ones assure me that there’s nothing wrong me, I’m not sick, I don’t need therapy. The next time I meet with my houseboy, I drop the roles, talk to him like one human being to another. “I’ve been ashamed of my kink,” I tell him.

“That’s surprising to hear, since it comes so naturally to you,” he replies.

It does. And I have so much left to learn.

February 5, 2008 at 5:22 pm 8 comments


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