On Your Knees, Scum

What working as a Pro Domme taught me about sex, men, and power

Sex work is work.

But let’s be clear, working as a professional dominatrix either as an independent or for an established dungeon, is not easy money.

I earned that $70 an hour and clients understood that tribute was expected on top of the hourly rate of $140 an hour. I never struck out on my own and was fortunate enough to work at a place with bouncers (that I never needed I should add).

When I started out in the biz, shortly after moving to New York City in 2000, I didn’t do very well. I would have done very well except that I was never going to win the “beauty pageant”. When clients came in we’d all line up and they’d pick, what else?, big hair and bigger breasts. And young. Maybe some of those young lovelies could throw a single tail or reduce a man to quivering jelly with a look but mostly they flailed about and called the clients names. But then it’s not as if the clients knew any better.

Men who frequent commercial BDSM (Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, Masochism) spaces are usually on the down low as well as often being completely clueless about the compulsion that brings them to these places. Anyone with half a clue can easily find their particular kink in New York which boasts thriving and diverse BDSM communities. And now that the gods have given us the internet anyone can find their local crew of kinky people to hang out with.

So the men who showed up at The Downtown Dungeon ready to plunk down $140+ usually had to be gently coaxed into revealing what it was they were after.

Taking over phones on Sunday nights when none of the young lovelies wanted to be bothered gave me my in. I’d earn $10 an hour for answering phones and any sessions I booked were mine. Our humble little dungeon was off to the side of one of those slightly dodgy stripper joints that don’t serve alcohol because, as long as no alcohol is served, the entertainers are allowed to dance completely naked. It also meant that anything besides dancing going on didn’t draw much official attention. I’d start at 10pm and close the place up at 2am unless I got a late session.

For nearly two years that was how I spent my Sunday nights.

The manager of the establishment insisted that I wear a wig since in those days I had my hair buzzed off in a short crew cut. She was concerned that clients would be put off by a “Chelsea dyke”. So I’d study my Italian, answer phones and occasionally book a session. I learned quickly how to shut down calls when some cheapskate started asking detailed questions in order to get what amounted to phone sex. But I’d generally book one or two actual sessions on a good Sunday night.

When that happened I’d put the answering machine on, let the bouncers know I was taking a client back to one of the two play rooms, lock the office and go to work. The first thing I’d do after closing the door would be to pull off that stupid wig and clients loved that. In fact, one client having second thoughts about the session was ready to leave until I pulled the wig off.

Men who are drawn to being dominated but don’t have a clue about what that means need some hand holding so the first ten to fifteen minutes of most sessions involved drawing them out a little. I was psycho-therapist to start the session and then shifted into actress playing out whatever curious scenarios my client dreamed up. And we had some doozies.

Occasionally I would get a client who knew what he wanted and it usually meant straying into the darker gray area between legal role-playing and illegal sex work. It was a bit of a dance that I got better at over time.

Our little establishment offered sub sessions in addition to domme sessions and I actually preferred doing those for a couple of reasons. One, clients paid more to dominate me and, two, they usually were quite content to flop a flogger around ineffectually and call me names. That was much easier money, friends. But, make no mistake, at the end of the session I still demanded tribute.

In the weeks after the 9/11 catastrophe I noticed something curious. I was booking many more sub sessions than ever. Suddenly even the most timid and submissive men wanted to hit somebody. I feel like I was providing a much needed and completely unacknowledged public service.

Referring back to that gray area I mentioned earlier; while it is completely legal to engage in BDSM role-play for money in New York sex is the line which must not be crossed. And here we ponder the age old question: What Is Sex?

Every successful session ended with my client cumming. Sometimes I’d force a client to satisfy himself with me watching and sometimes I’d apply some… assistance. Was that sex? The lack of penetration to my mind doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t sex but the law says No Penetration and that was my law, too. I also established our boundaries and limits up front so whatever was done with and to a client’s person did not happen to mine when I was topping or dominating. There were some slightly adjusted boundaries and limits in place when I bottomed or submitted. Regardless, dominating someone to make them cum and taking money for providing that service is sex work. And sex work should be legal. As one of my favorite writers, Pat Califia, has said: We aren’t selling our bodies. We’re selling our time.

Now let’s talk power.

I learned how to dominate a man and how to hurt him to make him cum in an early highly dysfunctional and abusive relationship. That person topped from the bottom forcing me to do dangerous things to his body because that’s what got him going. I was young and unsure of myself and far from home ensuring that I’d be a prime target for this sexual predator. It took years for me to extricate myself from that relationship and more years to recover from it. But I became an alchemist by the time I was 43 and living in New York City and turned those years of dross into a living income.

When I closed the door, tossed the wig into the corner and faced my client there was never any doubt who was topping. I understood topping from the bottom and shut that down fast. Yes, the client was paying for this experience but I was running the show and never let a client forget that.

I have read that there are more professional dommes per capita in Washington, DC than in the rest of the country. Maybe so, maybe not, but it makes sense.

Before they can talk little male people are being groomed to dominate and the whole cultural engine is geared to that end. Don’t be a sissy! Stop crying! No, you can’t wear that! Be. A. MAN! Every man I’ve ever known struggles with the unspoken and bone-deep need to let someone else run the show once in awhile. In the early aughts in a dingy little plywood-walled “dungeon” in lower Manhattan I was ready to take over and give some of those men a break.

Now. Ask to lick my shoe and remember you can’t cum until I give permission.

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