Desperate

There were many men out there. All expressing a desperate desire to serve me in some way. All different. All professing to be sincere. Yes, the mood for them all came off as desperate. Some seemed more so than others. I can't say why they seemed desperate or even what it was that made them come off that way. Maybe it was because it was online, they could be freer about the immediacy of their needs. Maybe they felt the desperate tone would appeal to a dominant woman. Maybe they sensed the huge number of other men vying for the same attention from the same woman. Or maybe it was the kink/desire/fetish/fantasy in their head that they were about to unload on me. The knowledge that it would probably produce a horribly negative response with a very slim chance their wish would be granted. But they felt a need to strike while the iron was hot, jump in blindly and take the risk before they changed their mind, a once in a lifetime opportunity to live out something they couldn't escape in their minds.

There was the business man who struck up a conversation with me by first telling me about a foreign country where men paid to be castrated by women. From what I gathered, it was some secret society where some women had tons of money and power for doing this. He went into some detail about it. Then he asked me if I thought I could do something like that. Of course he would sign a waiver and pay me extremely well. If he had that kind of money, why didn't he just go to that country and have it done, I asked. He replied that the waiting list was a year and a half long. He didn't want to wait. This was amusing. I had absolutely no intention of doing anything of the kind and I never agreed to, but I continued to chat with him because it fascinated me. I couldn't really tell if he was real or serious or even if his story was anywhere near true. And actually, that didn't matter. I was along for the ride. The more I could learn about people (men in particular), the better. So I listened and I asked questions. His ultimate fantasy was to lay at my feet castrated by me and bleeding, have me laugh at his predicament, quickly grab a signed blank check he left on the table and go buy myself a new Mercedes. Where does this come from? I never met the man and I'm not a therapist. What I do know is, that man got exactly what he wanted from me. To play out his fantasy safely.

Getting Around the Next Corner

I can't begin to tell you how many sessions I don't remember. I would put on that second skin and do what needed to be done. Trying to second guess some stranger in front of me who's paid to see me be the domme of his dreams. It's a tall order. Impossible in many cases. If you let it, it can get you down. That and the times I would pass an entire week without a session booked. I would begin to question myself, my ability, my need to continue, my success. As any of the regulars on one discussion board can tell you, it takes about two years to become established in the eyes of the pro domme client community. After that, you're considered “real”; someone worthy of a submissive's time and money. I managed to hang in quite a bit longer than that. And things did even out and become more real and more stable for me after the initial two years. I had quite a few regulars I saw who gave me confidence and support in many ways, emotional, financial, physical. They told me I was special, sexy, beautiful, intelligent and great with rope! They paid for my trips, took me to dinner and gave me gifts. Some even came and helped me with home projects. Best of all, they helped me hone my skills.

What started out as a curiosity ended up a way of life for nearly eight years. Time passed slowly at first, when I was grasping for answers; trying desperately to relate what I was learning to what I already knew. It was chaotic, confusing, exciting, lonely and scary. There were times I was sure I was going to have to step back into the “vanilla” world and leave the dark, kinky stuff alone, not because I was barely making ends meet, but because I was not seeing the value in the investment I was making. Where was it all going? Where would I eventually end up? How did it shape my future? What impact would it have on my life long term? I couldn't answer those questions. I didn't know what the next 24 hours would bring me. Maybe that was part of the allure. I needed to get around the next corner before I made a decision to leave all this craziness behind. I don't think I ever got around that corner. I just met one interesting person after another, all with their own stories, life experiences and kink.

Domme or Fake?

I met many other pro dommes along the way. Some were professional, some not so much. There were a few who were believable as true bdsm players. Amazingly, the men almost never saw through the fakes even when to me, it seemed just too obvious. I didn't burst any bubbles. I just took notes. It seemed there were just as many men who cried fake even in the face of honest to goodness dominant goddesses. It just all depended on an individual's idea of what made a REAL dominant woman. The definition changed from person to person and even from day to day. It was like chasing rainbows. But, it was more a matter of finding the partner who fit your fantasy best, not who actually could be dominant to all. There is no such woman. If she fit your definition in session, she was real.

If I had let all the bashing and questioning and creepiness of some of the requests get to me, I'd have given up long before I finished the first box of condoms. But, there was something so compelling about opening this Pandora's box. It took a lot of pushing forward and seeing literally hundreds of clients before I felt comfortable going into a session. I was terribly grateful for the regulars I saw. They were a chance to explore deeper with a trusted partner. Months and months passed with ups and downs in scheduling. I averaged about three sessions a week. I turned down many. I spent a lot of time alone or online in chats and on discussion boards for business. I didn't see a reason to increase the number of sessions. I could get by on what I was doing just fine and besides, increasing meant more strangers, more risk both in terms of bodily harm and legal ramifications. Not to mention increasing the number of times I dressed, planned the session, prepped the “dungeon” and waited for a no show. Everyone hated no shows. It's understandable when a guy doesn't show up. He probably says to himself, “What the hell am I doing?” But it was the ultimate sin to a pro domme. The mental preparedness you need to just walk into a session is huge, absolutely huge. Then there's the dressing (no easy feat), planning what you're going to do and having the play space ready with everything you think you might possibly need for someone you've probably never met.