Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy (25 page)

“Really? You’re going to work in the fetish sex trade? That’s what you moved to New York City to do?” he scolded. “What is wrong with you?”

He had a point. I didn’t get into stand-up comedy to perform at a fetish club, and it was a little extreme to resort to a job in the sex trade after struggling for only a couple of months. Training as a dominatrix was a deep detour from headlining at the Chuckle Hut. I was so taken by that striking couple. Mistress Amy was good. I almost took her up on her offer just because I wanted to please her.

I’D LONG LOST
her business card, but I could still go out and try it on my own—right? The timing was ideal. It could be my last chance to do something eyebrow-raising in the sex arena. I could tie up some loose ends, end the debate as to whether or not this was my secret calling as a natural control freak with an edgy bob, and gather a few extra tricks for down the road when sex with Jonathan needed to be freshened up. So I wrote the editor that I’d like to train as a dominatrix and then go to an event or party to try out my new skills.

As soon as I hit
Send
I second-guessed myself. My pitch was so
not
a fit for this glossy magazine’s audience. I pictured an office where young manicured girls with fixed noses sat in pastel-colored cubicles, sipping soy chai lattes. They’d want more of a “How I Got Pregnant on a Pilates Reformer” article, or “Why Men Don’t Make Passes at Girls with No Asses.” But to my surprise and chagrin, I received a reply almost instantly from the editor saying she
loved
—with fifteen exclamation points—the idea and would arrange for a clothing budget.

I was slightly concerned about Jonathan’s reaction to the feat at hand. The poor guy deserved to have a nice girlfriend, but instead he
got me. First he had to deal with the ups and downs that came with dating a performer, and now I was asking his consent to check out the world of sadomasochism. You could say I kept him on his toes.

When I told him about the stunt piece, his first question was, “How much are they going to pay you?” This was a testament to where we were at in our relationship. If I’d told him about this on date two, he would have wanted to kill any guy I laid my hands on or been curious and aroused as to what his fringe benefits might be. Now it was all about what expensive dinner we could treat ourselves to at the end of the exercise.

I walked into Trash and Vaudeville on St. Marks Place and bought a black vinyl tank top with gigantic metal safety pins up the front, and a black pencil skirt with zippers up the front and back and latches covering the sides. I already owned fishnets and black patent stilettos. What girl doesn’t? There was a latex dress I had my eye on, but it was vanity, not prudishness, that stopped me from purchasing it. Seeing your body draped in rubber is like seeing your face in HD. Until I’d completed ten weeks with a trainer and undergone a body cleanse, that outfit would dominate
me
.

When I got home I modeled the ensemble for Jonathan. He laughed, claiming that somehow I’d purchased the most sophisticated domme get-up out there.

Next I googled workshops and events, and enrolled in a class called “Intro to Scene Etiquette for Novices.” It sounded very New School. The workshop took place in a room that resembled a rundown dance rehearsal studio. The other attendees looked like the
same people I’d meet at a book launch or wine tasting: girls with dyed black hair and black cat-eye glasses, men with full arm tattoos wearing sixty-dollar distressed T-shirts, a couple of bearded guys smelling of Asperger’s, and one frazzled woman struggling with her nylons, who clearly rushed there straight from work.

It started much like an improv class would: We placed chairs in a circle and went around stating our names and identifying whether we were a dominant, a submissive, or weren’t sure. There was no way I could use my own name, so I went with “Jane” for the harshest contrast. A woman in a powder-blue button-down shirt chose to pass. Sizing her up, I was pretty sure she was also a journalist—a better one, as it never occurred to me to pass.

After a flogging demonstration, where the instructor hit the back of a chair with a cat o’ nine tail and told us we would be “blown away” by the amount of people who flail inaccurately, we were given an explanation of the rules and safe words, told why service slaves are superior to wives, and asked to restack our chairs and sign the mailing list on our way out. I left with the sense that I didn’t understand what I was getting into and that I should get Jonathan a service slave for his birthday.

I picked Saturday night to try out my skills, since the article was due on Monday and dungeons are closed on Sundays in observance of god knows what. Back on Google, I whittled down my choices to two events: “Slave to Lust” or “OTK Spanking Party.” “Slave to Lust” sounded like a Prince album, so I was naturally drawn to it. The description was also hard to beat: “twenty-five hundred square feet of intimate play space with the only private roof deck overlooking the New York City skyline.”

I loved the idea of a fetish party with a view. The mere vision of a leather-hooded man opening his mouth zipper to say, “Look, Mistress! It’s the Chrysler Building!” would be worth every penny. However, it cost sixty dollars for single males, but was free for single females, which meant I’d be the only woman there. Then I noticed the address was in Long Island. No thanks.

The OTK Spanking Party at Paddles cost thirty-five dollars for men and five dollars for women. It was nice that they were letting the ladies chip in a little. OTK stood for “Over The Knee.” Delightful! The club was described as a “five-thousand-square-foot, state-of-the-art location with twenty years of safe, clean, S&M fun.” Spanking, paddling, hairbrushes, rulers, wooden spoons, straps, and canes were encouraged, but it was noted that patrons should check whips, chains, and gags at the door until 10:00
PM
.

Maybe I should get there at noon.

What was with the square-footage obsession in the ads? Was there a bondage Olympics that I was unaware of, with the 200-meter breast-clamp stroke and 500-meter dog-leash walk? Actually, that sounded perfectly plausible.

I decided to check out OTK, which also included a preparty “munch.” It sounded vaguely lesbianesque, but
munch
is a term used to describe an outing where a bunch of S&M and bondage enthusiasts meet at a vanilla place, in this case, a diner. I stuffed the outfit in my bag, along with a bottle of Purell, and pulled out the fliers for my upcoming comedy shows.

The group wasn’t hard to spot. For one, they were sitting in the
very back of the restaurant, beyond the dessert carousel and a dusty Christmas tree. Second, they were too mismatched to be a group of friends. They looked like a basket of single socks. I gave them the name Lindsay—I was done with Jane—and the group warmly welcomed me. I sipped screw-top chardonnay and watched them eat Denver omelets. Half the attendees had recently returned from a spanking convention, appropriately called “Smack,” held at a Hilton Garden Inn in Arizona. Harold, who looked like a sleazy version of Einstein with crazy, frizzy white hair and a faded Planet Hollywood sweatshirt, said that being there for three days was like a dream come true.

I was a tad distracted, scanning the table for the young hot guys. Where were they? These people seemed nice enough, but I was not into doing anything kinky with them. It’d be like crashing your parents’ friend’s key party.

A distinguished-looking lawyer-type sat down beside me after pushing in the chair of his Asian girlfriend. He introduced himself as Kenneth and his girlfriend as Tanya. For some reason, I thought these were the people I could joke around with, so I leaned in and said, “Pretty crazy group, right?”

Instead of responding with a smirk and a nod, Kenneth looked at me in a way that triggered creepy tingles down my spine.

“Are you a top or a bottom? A domme or a sub?”

That was when it hit me: S&M is not funny. It’s serious.

“Um
. . . domme?” I’d never felt more sub.

Ken seemed unfazed by my tentative answer and continued with his interview. “Have you ever topped a woman before?”

“Uh
, yeah, sure—who hasn’t?” What the fuck was coming out of my mouth?

“Good. Because I could use some help with her later.” Tanya giggled childishly behind an invisible fan of stereotypical servitude.

I turned my attention to Dorothy, a fifty-year-old woman who reminded me of my elementary school lunch-lady. Trying to get my article back on track, I asked,
“Um
, does everyone change out of their street clothes before we head to the club?”

“Oh no, dear, most people wear what they already have on.”

Even the Planet Hollywood sweatshirt? I was expecting eye candy: Girls dressed up in velvet gowns and nurse’s outfits, guys resembling Roman gladiators or mad scientists. Instead, it was a bunch of middle-aged folks dressed by Target. Dorothy pointed to a large man who looked like he worked at
The Sopranos
theme park. “Except for him. Wait until you see what he changes into!”

We were about to walk to the club when my friend David texted that he was at a nearby bar. I was starving to talk to someone who knew my real name. I asked Dorothy if she could give me the address of the club, and I’d catch up with them a little later. There was no real address. I was told to look for a door painted black at one end of a parking lot on 27th Street. The Nancy Drew in me smiled.

Peeling off from the group, I practically sprinted to the gay dive bar where David was drinking, and justified my own presence by thinking,
It’s cool
—
I’m just nervous and could use a couple of drinks to loosen up
. I didn’t want to seem like an irresponsible journalist, so I ordered a double Grey Goose because vodka doesn’t make your breath smell.

Then I ordered another.

And another.

As the liquor took hold, I made the mistake of admitting to David’s friends that I was going to an S&M club later, and my outfit was stashed in my bag. Of course they demanded that I put it on for them.

I was plastered drunk in the cubicle bathroom, literally bouncing off the walls of the stall while pulling on my fishnets. When I finally emerged in my vinyl outfit and high heels, it was like I was hitting a red carpet. Everyone started screaming and catcalling. Cell phone cameras were flashing, strobe lights were flickering, gay guys were touching me . . . I felt like Cher, Christina, and Lady Gaga all at once. My heels were about as high as my blood alcohol level, and I could barely manage either. But it was getting late and I had to get to the club. Noticing my friend David was looking rather dapper in his pinstripe denims, I grabbed him by his red tie and slurred in his ear, “You have no choice. You’re coming to a sex club with me right now!”

He nonchalantly replied, “Ah . . . okay. Let me say ’bye to a few people.”

As we sped downtown in a cab, I took stock of what I was doing. Did I have any boundaries tonight? How much of this was for the article? I made the decision right there and then that, whatever happens in the dungeon stays buried in the dungeon. This was my one night to let loose with abandon and do whatever I wanted. I wouldn’t hold back.

The small painted-black entrance at the far end of the parking lot was easy to spot, although I never would have noticed it otherwise. We opened the unmarked metal door and passed through a
curtain of plastic vinyl strips, like giant hanging flypaper, and started our descent four flights down.

I was getting a contact high of excitement off David as he practically skipped down the stairs with glee. We drew back a heavy maroon curtain, and there we were: midnight on a Saturday in New York City’s premier S&M club! And the place was . . . empty. There were about seven people wandering around bored in leashes. This did not bode well for my one night of freedom. Maybe there was a secret room with a bunch of people somewhere else? I paid for both our cover charges but was too embarrassed to ask for a receipt for my expense report.

The place was massive, like a two-story Sam’s Club, but underground. We walked down a hallway filled with torture equipment: a medical bench, a dog cage, a spanking bench, and lots of other apparatuses that resembled gym equipment, the kind that could be wiped down easily. Finally, I saw something I could relate to: the bar, adorably called the Whips and Licks Café.

Here I discovered something more torturous than the most extreme S&M scene: They didn’t serve alcohol—only soda, water, and coffee. While I couldn’t imagine spending a second there sober, most of the patrons couldn’t imagine using anything that might numb the pain. It wouldn’t be practical or cost effective.

From the corner of my eye I spotted the
Sopranos
guy from the munch. He had definitely changed. He was wearing a turquoise baby-doll dress and white tights, ruffled socks, Mary Janes, and a curly wig. He reminded me of a doll that I had when I was a kid called Tiny Tears. It cried real tears. Tiny Tears had a twin brother called Timmy
Tears. If you dressed Timmy Tears in Tiny Tears’s dress, added forty years and a hundred pounds, you’d get this guy, and I was pretty sure he wanted to cry.

I turned to share my joke with David, but instead almost kicked a middle-aged shirtless man with a shaved head on all fours at my feet. In a loud whisper he said, “I am at your service, Mistress, if you so wish.”

I didn’t know what to say. But I had to say something. I didn’t want to disappoint the man, but I wasn’t ready yet. It was all coming at me too fast.

But he was waiting. With all my inner-domme strength, I responded in a low register, “Not now! Maybe later!”

“Thank you, Mistress,” he mumbled, and scuttled away, leaving me shaking in my stilettos. My inner monologue resumed,
Drink your root beer. You’re going to be great at this
.

David was doing his own exploring and giddily waved to me from the second level, a red-carpeted room with a hangman structure, a star with shackles, and the stocks. David was the type of gay man who loved Renaissance fairs, and he begged me to help him get into the stocks. His giggling and unabashed enthusiasm relaxed me. Why was I taking all of this so seriously? I lifted up the heavy top part so he could get in, then lowered it down. His head and hands dropped out of the wooden holes. He looked ridiculous.