I’ve realized something: the more Dominatrix work I do, i.e. the more I get paid to emasculate men, the more sexually submissive I want to be in my “real life”. Basically, the more I whip people, the more I want to get whipped. Why is that? I see a similar desire in other people too, for example these powerful banker guys who get paid to boss people around all day, who then show up at the dungeon in the evenings and want to be forced into a leopard print thong and told to lick the floor. It seems that in sex, we’re constantly searching for the other extreme.
I’ve always been pretty dominant in bed. Not consciously–it’s just that my entire life I’ve been attracted to these young, skinny, meek boys, so it made sense for me to be the one to take control. To be honest, if I’d waited for them to make the first move, nine times out of ten the sex probably wouldn’t have happened.
With my boyfriend Hamilton the sex is pretty evenly balanced. More often than not I initiate it (I have no patience), but there are no real defined power roles, and I’ve always been OK with that. But now suddenly, every time we fuck I secretly just want him to beat the shit out of me. Like, you know how they say our taste buds change every seven years? Well it seems my sexual tastes are changing, suddenly and dramatically. I think that’s why I’ve been so into anal recently–I like the power dynamic of it, and the fact that during it I feel, like, helpless or whatever. That might sound cheesy and over-dramatic, but writing about sex is inherently pretty cheesy and over-dramatic, so deal with it.
But the thing is, since I’ve never actively wanted my bf to hit me or choke me or any of that before, now that I do, the only way to let him know is to tell him to do it. But it’s kind of a catch-22, because telling someone to spank you isn’t exactly a submissive act, is it? You’re still the one in command. How does one work around this?
“I was thinking…” I said to him a recent evening, “that maybe next time we fuck we could role-play, like, a rape scene or something.”
“We don’t have to role-play; you rape me all the time.”
“No, I mean like you rape me.”
“Oh…” He stood there knobby-kneed, his lanky legs like two toothpicks protruding from the bottom of his red boxer shorts. His upper body was draped in a white Oxford shirt which, even though it was purchased in the boys’ department, was clearly over-sized. He looked like the adult version of the kid who got beat up at recess.
“Like maybe,” I continued, “we could get some rope and you could tie me up and hit me a bit, and then force me to suck your dick or something.”
“I don’t know… I’m not really into all that to be honest.”
“But why?” I whined. “You’re always bossing me around in “real life.” Why can’t you translate that attitude into a sexual situation?”
“Please stop making false accusations regarding my behavior.”
“Oh whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes for dramatic affect.
“What, so you’re angry now?”
“I just want you to hit me and I don’t understand why you won’t!”
“BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO!”
“Whoa,” I said, taking a a step back. “I’ve never heard you yell like that before. It was kind of… hot.”
He let out a long exhale of seeming defeat, then flopped down onto the bed behind him. The way he was hunched over, his body looked broken, under-inflated. After a long pause he said, “Are you going to blog about this conversation?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“I just don’t understand why you insist on sharing everything with the entire world.”
“The easiest kind of relationship for me is with 10,000 people, the hardest is with one.”
He frowns. “I’m sorry, I take that back. I respect your blog. I just wish you’d portray me more as a benevolent scholar and less as an anal rapist.”
“That anal rape post was hot! I think my blog is helping to advance your image as an indie sex symbol.”
“I don’t need your help on that front, thank you,” he says, adjusting his perpetually crooked, wire frame glasses. Then, “What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t take you seriously when you’re not wearing pants.”
“I can’t take you seriously ever because you’re a woman and therefore intrinsically irrational,” he says, fighting an obvious smile.
“I hate you,” I say.