My Date with a Dominatrix From Hinge
How curiosity almost became the dominatrix’s cat
“Don’t say a word! I’m timing three minutes while you sit in silence,” said Kay beaming down at me, in the middle of a restaurant, on our first – and only! – date.
It started with a simple message on Hinge, the dating app, in response to a prompt on her profile. The prompt and content of that message have, sadly, faded from memory. I recall the message being playful and suggestive enough to avoid triteness, but not too suggestive to offend. That last sentence is debatable and probably wishful thinking.
Her profile was blunt but evenly mannered: “I am a sex worker” in all caps above stock-in-trade pictures of her garbed in PVC and leather, leaving no room for interpretation about her particular kink – S&M, with emphasis on the S. At the bottom, it read “I am looking for a LTR [long-term relationship]”.
I’ve never ventured over to the world of serious kinks and fetishes. It was something I had read about from the comfort and safety of the printed word rather than being exposed to in person. I was interested in the type person attracted to this type of sexual play, the psychology of those involved more than the gratification received. That’s not to say I’m a fish pie, missionary sex, and lights out kind of guy, but my sexual mores are in the form of less pain and more pleasure. Now, where’s that fish pie!
We messaged back and forth, eventually migrating over from Hinge to WhatsApp. Kay relished in sending me pictures of her tools and equipment for my inexperienced eyes to wince over. One thing that struck me from our conversations was the marked difference in sensibility from that of other matches I had on Hinge. Her messages crashed into you and shouted like tabloid headlines: “[Dom says] I smashed bloke’s balls with a paddle.” – a little different from the usual response when asking someone how their day has been… but then, what was I expecting?!
We eventually agreed on a date and decided to meet at a bar in Kings Cross, once an underbelly of side-street deals, lushes and hustles now, post-2012 Olympics, shiny, gentrified, and with champagne and truffles. We were seated and ordered some wine for the table. Kay stared at me for a torturous minute, not saying a word, eyes surveying me. I asked her “what?” with a confused look on my face.
“You look older,” she said.
I replied “thanks!” with enough sarcasm to give the impression I wasn’t bothered – I was!
“You look okay, though,” she said.
The blunt put down was a forerunner for how the evening’s “conversation” would unfold: “you’re not that tall. You have crow's feet. You could probably lose a bit of weight.”
By the third put down, I was inured to her comments. One and you’ve got something, something to think about, something to consider, but a slew of them and something else is going on that doesn’t involve you. I gathered this was her shtick that men had paid good money for. I hoped she wasn’t going to charge me. It was a date after all!
I was intent on mining her for information: what services did she provide? what were her clients like? did she have regulars? was it dangerous? what’s the money like? She was forthcoming and didn’t spare details. One particular story, though, had me snapping cocktail sticks and scrunching my toes. She told me she had sent photos to her parents of her mid-act, performing a particular service on a gentleman that was akin to one Dyno-Rod provide on blocked pipes.
“How did they respond?” I asked.
She told me they were a little shocked, asking her not to send pictures of that sort again. I spat back at her, “why would you do that?” Slightly rocked by my questioning, she gave a tiny laugh that stepped in to fill the gap where a response would have been. “Are you not bothered about how it makes them feel? That’s a bit selfish and inconsiderate to send them something like that”, I said, finding myself disliking her.
The silly put-downs I could chalk up to insecurity or an act, but this was altogether different — a shitty thing that shitty people do. And having seen a picture of a sweet, elderly couple she had told me were her parents, and the fragility that comes with age, made me think of my parents and the distress it would have caused them. She paused, taking a minute to give some thought to what I had said. It was clear my reaction wasn’t typical of those she had regaled with her story, which made me wonder how many times it had been met with laughter. And if so, did that make me stranger to her than she to me?
The conversation simmered and cooled, finally settling on our favorite cuisine and other neutral topics less freighted with emotion.
I paid the bill and we left. As we walked, sometimes brushing arms, other moments at arm’s length, unsure of the gaps between our bodies and what they meant, we silently tried to make sense of it, bobbing in and out of each other's orbit to see which ellipses fitted us both best.
After a circuitous route, we arrived at a cocktail bar. I had been there before. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but it had a fun vibe and interesting drinks. Kay hated it. First, it was the wallpaper, then the furniture. And why had I taken her to a place like this?! We had one drink and left. We walked around Pentonville Road, looking for Kay-approved bars, and then found an eatery she liked, one of those high-end burger chains.
We ordered food and she told me about old boyfriends – I did ask – and life back in Germany, her home country. I was getting more of Kay the person than Kay the sex worker and was trying to work out where one ended and the other began — an impossible task. She told me a story of a client, an older, hoary, heavyset man, who kept pushing to extend his session with her. The bolshy bravado with which she had told earlier stories was absent from this one; she explained how, at one point, she didn’t know when it would all end — or how it would end! She told me she was left drained to the point of exhaustion — on the night of the year when children are tucked up in their beds waiting for a very different rosy-cheeked, elderly man to slide down their chimney and deliver presents under the tree.
From the comfort and protection hindsight affords and, perhaps, as a way of reassuring herself, she explained away his behavior as staving off the loneliness that’s so common in people alone at that time of the year, people wanting human contact in any form for human-contact’s sake. Kay showed a level of protection and care for those she had beaten, whipped and abused – all with their tacit murmurs of agreement – a level of which wasn’t to be extended to me…
We had both finished and I was eager to pay the bill and find a bar. I settled up with the waitress and was suggesting places to Kay when she told me to “stop! Sit down!” Perhaps I was exercising too much control, or she felt the need to exert some of her own, either way, I was going into time out. And here we are, as the story began, with me performing my best Trappist-monk impression for three minutes as an iPhone counts me down. I lasted thirty seconds before I broke character and Kay’s sense of control…. The recalcitrant, junkyard dog in me wasn’t for taming and I had endured enough.
I was confused by Kay… I wasn’t a client and we had matched through a dating app, yet she seemed to blur the roles of Dom and dater. Okay, I wasn’t exactly lying prone with a ball gag in my mouth, trying to spit out my safe word, but the domination and control were there, sanitized and with a p.g. sticker for public appearances. Perhaps there was no switching off and being a Dom was a form of sublimation for her, like the surgeon who sates his need to cut people open by performing lifesaving surgery.
We both understood we wouldn’t be Lindy Hopping off into the night together. We said our goodbyes and later messaged to say we had both arrived home safely. In the comfort of my orderless kitchen, I poured some milk into a glass and looked over at the small plate on the side. I gave a brief thought to lapping the milk from the dish, the bell on my kitty-cat collar jingling with satisfaction to each successful lap of my tongue. The thought left me numb. I finished the milk, turned off the kitchen light, and went to bed.
And that’s how curiosity almost became the dominatrix’s cat.
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