I have long been a person for whom an inner judgment tract runs deep. It’s taken me years not to scrutinize everyone and everything around me, every moment of every day. It’s not something I’m proud of, no, it’s just the way my mind dances around the vast complexities of life. And often, it can get rather ugly. Or so I thought.
For Ron, it couldn’t have gotten nearly ugly enough.
Ron was into real life humiliation. The really real shit no one would ever say to your face. He was 53 years old, unemployed, a virgin, mentally handicapped, unattractive, and living in his parents’ basement. This was all information he happily proffered to a Dominant woman, mind you. In fact, he wanted you to know it all. He wanted you to know as much as you could so that you’d have ample ammunition to use against him.
I thought after my years of training myself to be a self-righteously critical misanthrope, humiliating someone for things I already would have mocked them for in my mind would be easy.
It wasn’t.
Six sessions into my career as a Domme, I was standing in a room with no music, no equipment, nothing but a chair and a slave. Nothing but my own imagination and verbal skills to fall back on. For someone who normally thought so much of herself, it didn’t seem like nearly enough, all of a sudden.
I took a few shots. I pointed out a few obvious factors in his pathetic nature: his looks, his sexual inadequacy, his status in life. It felt like shooting fish in a barrel. It felt like…I was doing something wrong.
Turns out, I was. Not ten minutes into the scene, the Head Mistress came into the room to correct my faltering. She slapped him hard in the face, spat out nasty words as she spat directly into his mouth. She was a whirlwind of freshly lit Domme fire. And rather than feel an admiration for what she was accomplishing, like I normally did when observing her in a scene, I just felt sick to my stomach. The realness of the scene had gotten into my system and was eating its way back out again.
I realized that when I yelled at Ron, I had to be the whole world for him, every moment of his day. Every time a pretty girl shot him a nasty look. Every time his mother criticized him. Every time he was out in public and was punished, for being what he was. For being who he was. I felt ill at the thought of taking all that hatred into my body and then projecting it outwards. How could I do that to this man? More importantly, how could I do that to myself?
I was forced to face the notion that there were far, far uglier things in this world than my solipsistic little potshots I silently kept to myself every day. I was too young and too lucky to know what kinds of things a man like Ron had seen. He had more to teach me about the world than I could ever teach him.
Years later, I would realize why I myself went searching for the really real shit in life, in all the wrong places: in nasty, painful relationships, drama-filled partners and ugly social mess-making. I wanted to know what the world was really like. I wanted to know just how ugly the world could be. I saw a glimpse of it when I looked at Ron. But the privilege of choosing to see the ugly parts of the world paled in comparison to being forced to live with it. And for that reason, I wish I could have given Ron the release that he needed. Because this humiliation was the one thing he did ask for. The slave in this scene: the only role he had actually asked to play.
