In theory, a submissive client bows his head sheepishly, hands me the contents of his wallet and checking account, licks my shoes, and calls me ‘Mistress.’
In practice, a submissive client is a cheap man-baby who is really just a dom in a diaper.
I’m a stripper, not a professional dominatrix. I get paid by the hour or song, and what happens during that time is an intricate balance of hullabaloo, lap dancing, and stalling. I relish in the idea that a man just wants me to whip him with his own belt, but I don’t buy it. Not anymore.
I had a shitty sub once. Via Skype, I dominated him for six exhausting hours. During that time, I extracted $600, some cheap Zappos shoes, and a pepperoni pizza (Being Top Bitch makes a woman HUNGRY). A few minutes after our session, I received a PayPal notification that 400 of those dollars were retracted. Fuming, I huffed and puffed to the nearest bar, and got crunk by myself on shandys. After some choice words about ‘Trust’ and ‘Respect,’ my alleged sub re-deposited the hard-earned money into my account. Still, I felt cheated. Not in charge.
Years later, the same client hit me up again. When I told him “My Goddess Sessions start at $200 to reserve My time,” he responded with, “I’m surprised you’ve become so greedy.”
A sub never calls his Mistress ‘greedy.’
This shit-fucker is not a real sub. I was the sub.
This is still embarrassing because I thought I was smarter than what happened. But I’m not. Sex work is self-aggrandizing just as much as it is humbling.
Last week, I sauntered up to a man with saggy eyelids and nice cufflinks, and was like, “Hey.”
I had just taken an Adderall so I had this LASER SHARP FOCUS. I stared straight into this man’s eyes, and didn’t feel like saying much because LOCK JAW, and I guess it scared the poor man into submission because his next words were,
“I’m always the boss.”
NOTE TO ASPIRING DOMMES EVERYWHERE: THIS IS THE PHRASE THAT GRANTS YOU THE GREEN LIGHT TO ABUSE AND EXPLOIT THE SHIT OUT OF SOMEONE. (Just have a GD safe word.)
If he is telling me he’s ‘always the boss,’ it means he’s tired of ALWAYS BEING THE BOSS and wants to be the little bitch.
I frequently wonder how much money Bruce Springsteen keeps on reserve to escape being The Boss.
I order Cufflinks to hold my drink, and to follow me.
He cowers his head like an embarrassed bulldog, coos ‘Yes, Mistress,’ and follows me to a private room.
“Sit down you stupid dog.”
“NOT THERE. Sit in the corner.”
Cufflinks shuffles to the corner.
Sometimes I’m afraid it’s all going to go pear-shaped if I take it too far. Because I’m a stripper, and where I work is not a dungeon, is this guy going to freak out and leave without paying?
I love all the fun spoils of being a Mistress. Feet and shoe licking? HELL YES. It’s hilarious AND erotic. But nothing kills my lady boner more than not getting paid.
So my little bulldog massages my feet, kisses my rings (SERIOUSLY TRY THIS IT IS SO FUN) feeds me my drinks, and by the 59 minute mark, tells me he’s embarrassed.
“For being my little bitch?” I ask, attempting to arch my eyebrow (I have neanderthal eyebrows. They only arch when I draw them on that way. And when I draw them on that way my wife says I look like a retired Russian tennis player.)
“Yes,” he says, bowing his head and rubbing his knees.
“YES WHAT?” I bellow.
“No need to be embarrassed,” I pat him on his bald spot, take a drag from my vodka soda, and assure him with a whisper, “It’ll be our little secret.”
I feel like I faked it pretty good. He tipped me, and didn’t ask for his money back! Maybe it was the Adderall? Or perhaps this is me just getting older, bitchier, and demanding more respect.
The truth is, I don’t know how to spot a sub. If they look like ashamed dogs, then you’re probably on the right track. But when they’re not pissing on things or humping my leg, most men tend to look like I just smacked their nose with a rolled-up newspaper, anyway.
Adderall makes me a Boss Bitch
You can’t issue a refund if they can’t find you (CASH IS KING)
Men are dogs