Dominatrix Next Door

I’m late.

I hate to be late, and I fidget the whole way downtown on the train to Bryant Park. It’s always when you’re in a hurry that your Metrocard turns out to be expired, and some homeless guy tries to sell you $12 on a card he found in the trash, and then you end up missing your train. I stare at Dr. Zizmor ads and try to channel my inner zen. Fidgeting seems not terribly dominant.

I have arranged to meet a boy today; let us call him the Artist. I am not in the habit of meeting boys for dates, let alone strange boys from the Internet. But meeting a boy off a dating site has been on my to-try list for a while, rather like picking up someone off Craigslist Casual Encounters and stripping in an actual club and eating a slice of genuine Ray’s pizza.

At fourteen minutes after the hour I arrive in a huff and he is there. He is just as attractive as his photos. Lean, fit, handsome in a fetchingly androgynous way. I, on the other hand, look a bit unkempt. My hair is neither properly curly nor straight, and I am breaking out in zits. I look twelve. I’m sure the argyle sweater doesn’t help.

He mentions a child almost immediately. I ask a couple of questions, and then we drop the subject. I guess I should ask if he’s married, but he’s clearly separated, non-custodial, and dating. Marital status is rather like an STD; if you need to ask, you can’t believe the answer. I decide that the apparent motility of his sperm doesn’t matter to me.

We skate for a while and it’s great fun. I grill him for gay sex work stories to the point where, if I were him, I’d smack myself and order me to lay off the homoerotic fantasies. He doesn’t. When I can’t feel my fingers and blisters have begun to form on the sides of my feet, we wobble off the ice.

I propose food and he accepts, of course. I have a margarita. We eat. I have another margarita.

Eventually he suggests that I hit him with things. (I don’t know why I declined; we were both still fairly sober, and clearly interested in the same thing.) We end up at a bar down the street instead. We have both switched to whisky. He buys, since I have spent all my cash on dinner and Metrocard.

Predictably, my oh-so-firm resolve is soluble with alcohol. Soon our knees make friends with each other on the couch. The Artist, it turns out, is skilled in several martial arts. He puts my hands and arms in a series of interesting/painful holds (I suspect the whiskey was having an effect on him as well) and as he manhandles me, I gasp and laugh. Perversely, knowing that he could kill me seven ways from Sunday gets me weak in the knees, and not for once because I want him to try it. You’re going to submit to me because you like it.

It’s late. Too late. I should be getting home.

“You live alone, you said?” I ask him, tipping back the rest of my second drink.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Fuck. I am in so much trouble.

I am straddling his thighs, alternately choking him and slapping him in the face. His cock stays hard. He keeps calling me ma’am. He is passive but never ostentatious; I only notice his obedience in jolts, when I go to pin his arms or bite a new body part, and realize he hasn’t moved. Maybe this is what I’ve been missing the whole time. How would I have even known to miss it? I am not this good as a submissive. I never was.

I hate the dark. At the moment, I cannot imagine why anyone has had sex in the dark ever in the history of mankind. I am thankful that the lattice of scabs on my breasts is not visible, but not thankful enough. It’s fucking torture, not being able to see him.

When we leave, I cannot find my undershirt anywhere, and sidle out into the biting cold wind with nipples roaming around under my argyle. He gets off the train one stop before me. I drop into a seat stupefied. I am dizzy, thirsty, my contacts are still in. It is an hour of morning I had ceased to believe existed.

What the hell is this? When did I move to New York City? Am I really legal to drink? Did I really meet a man online? An incredibly hot, bisexual, submissive man? Am I supposed to meet someone in an hour to go explore the Bronx?

I need more coffee.

Posted in submission (or the lack thereof), sex work, nyc, bisexuality, dominance, STDs, dating, face slapping, the artist