Who's in Charge?

So, during my multi-state fucking spree with John the Con, I got to learn a little bit about his world. It is true – on occasion, we talked.

Quit laughing.

I admit that it was difficult, at times, to have a conversation with John, who careens through life with ADHD on speed. My neighbor called him the “Antichrist-savant.”

No, really. Stop laughing. It’s unseemly.

I learned that the best way to converse with him was to similarly pack my nose full of shit and enjoy the ride. If I couldn’t keep track of his thought processes, at least I could hold his pace. I learned that it ain’t easy being a 1% these days. There are images to upkeep, bills to pay, sentences to serve…

One day, John asked if I might like to work for his particular organization... as a Dominatrix. Initially, I was somewhat flattered, as I imagined that Dominatrices (?) are somewhat up the scale from strippers, whores, and sex slaves in a club where there are no female members, just “known associates.”

Whilst giving me the pitch, he showed me a nicely-appointed dungeon I could use (rent-free!) to ply my trade. There was even a barred cell installed in this room complete with ceiling and floor hooks, which I thought odd. After many years behind real bars, what nutter would build fake ones in his own home?

There was an impressive array of sexual props and toys – a serious and envy-worthy collection. Ticklers and clamps and crops, oh my! I could have had fun all by myself in there for ages – who needs clients? He assured me that I would not have to have sex with clients, because apparently he wanted me to only have sex with him.

So, he pitched, took a breath, leaned back, and offered me the opportunity to think it over. I mulled over my decision for about 3 long seconds before politely declining.

In what parallel universe am I going to make my living off of the voluntary submission of others only to be forced to turn right around and submit myself? There was no mention of what my cut of the proceeds would be, and if my business was to be anything like what I saw with the girls who were stripping for the club, that percentage was sure to be negligible. I said “no” as nicely as I could (what happened to the _last_ Dominatrix?!) and offered to just continue fucking him. No charge.


One of the traditional (and often self-flagellating) exercises Americans tend to do at the end of a calendar year is to engage in some self-reflection, a bit of introspection. We take stock of how the year went, generally kick ourselves in the asses for what we did that was wrong/stupid/fucked up, and give ourselves nominal pats on the back for the good things we have done, somberly and resolutely pledge to do better this year, wallow in loads of diabetic-coma-producing sweeties or chemicals to assuage our inevitable depression about our past follies, pass out, wake up, join a gym.

Since I already belong to a gym (having proactively joined one at the onset of the holiday and pie season) I got to skip the last step in the sequence this year – lucky me!

This time, I thought mostly about who is in charge of my life? More often than I’m comfortable with, it’s not me. Although I avoid resolutions as I think they are an invitation to future disappointment, it is my intent to take great steps toward regaining personal control over my personal life. Wish me luck; it promises to be quite a ride. I’m reminded of the Chinese proverb (or maybe it’s a curse?): May you live interesting times.