Reader Mailbag: Professional Dominatrices

25 Feb

(REDACTED) writes:

I’d like to see an entry on professional dominatrices.

~A.

I mean, look– doesn’t that whole thing feel a bit fucking quaint?  What you picture, when you picture a professional dominatrix, is a tall chick with Elvira hair with a skin tight black latex outfit on and you know, high boots with big impractical heels and a cat-o-nine tails, and some middle aged businessman on all fours saying “yes, mistress.”  Both parties showing a Midwestern dinner theatre level of acting skill.  The whole thing feels so milquetoast now that I bet ACCORDING TO JIM had an episode where Jim’s wife walked in on Jim being spanked by a professional dominatrix, in some zany misunderstanding.

Plus, all of “BDSM” feels like the Nerf version of rough sex.  If hot, rough, dangerous, borderline nonconsensual sex is slaying a dragon, stuff like professional dominatrices and the “BDSM Community™” at large are LARPing. Just like the “Swinger Community™” is the Nerf version of cheating and the “Poly Community™” is the Nerf version of David Koresh putting down his Fleetwood Mac Custom Ovation for a few minutes to tear up his third hot teenage virgin of the day. Organized “communities” with tons of rules, and jargon, and extreme touchiness about being judged and nit-picking concern for participants’ safety and well being are about as sexy as the Rotary Club.  You are going to end up in a smelly room full of fat old people who describe themselves as “sex positive,” which is as sexy as hearing that someone is “HIV positive.” This kind of thing is what happens when sex is controlled by damaged women.

Or maybe not.  I’ve never visited a professional dominatrix. So, maybe it’s great. I myself was not molested, so my sexuality is pretty vanilla.  I mostly jerk off to my OKC dates and occasionally throw my neighbor’s underage daughter in there for some spice.  I do not want to be beaten, humiliated, or farted on, and any beatings, humiliation or farting that I inflict on others is an unintended side effect.

And frankly the whole power reversal of BDSM, and of shit like rape fantasies and girls asking you to beat and choke them, is a creepy turnoff.  It’s always the sub, the masochist, the fake rape victim who actually has power in the situation; it’s always their weird damaged demands that are being meticulously catered to, and always the poor fake rapist who has to keep himself in check lest he go to far. Your sex becomes a therapy session where a graduate of the McMasters School is working through her issues by reclaiming her molestation experience except this time she’s in control, and meanwhile you’re thinking isn’t it weird that people who got molested get extremely turned on by things that remind them of their molestation? Am I gross for even being a party to this? Am I actually helping this person or am I only further cementing some fucked up sex circuit in their brain that the gym teacher broke? I haven’t hit her in a while, do I need to hit her again?  Have I hit her enough that she can get off? If I hit her I’m going to have to put all my weight on my other elbow for a second, is that gonna make me fall over and my dick is gonna fall out and I’m going to have to awkwardly re-insert myself right after hitting her? Is that going to stop her pre-orgasmic momentum and all my previous carefully timed blows to the face will have been wasted?

And all the safety and consent and release forms signed in triplicate and the whole quasi-therapeutic aspect just… that’s not a fetish.  That’s playacting.  A fetish is Chuck Berry videotaping underage girls on the toilet in his catfish restaurant.  Chuck had millions and could have payed a professional scatinatrix to roleplay with him; he walks in on her in the toilet and then she pisses all over him while they fuck. But he needed to voyeuristically violate young girls against their will.  That’s hot.

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