The Love of Another.

And it was then, lying there in the dark, clutching my own chest the way a lover would, that I realized how the love of another got made up, in a moment, in a touch, how easy it could be done, if you only let it run itself. And how difficult it could be if you had begun to examine the cracks in things and seeing one, began to see them all…

Older professional dominatrices speak of a time long gone, a time of folklore and fable, a time that may never have been, when slaves were true and servitude really meant something. To me, in its most basic form, pro-domination only reveals the falsehood of forms of devotion paid for in cash. And after all, you’re not even special in your role, for you are so rarely the first (or the last) woman to be fawned upon in a professional way. Indeed, the first email you get from a client details an account of the other Mistresses they’ve served. It’s as though you’re already reading about their failed relationships: not exactly something you would do on, say, a first date. So, from the very beginning, it’s all right there in front for you to see.

But maybe it says as much about me that I was unwilling to believe that devotion existed, really. For myself, I knew from the beginning: I was not an attractive child. I was not worshipped by anyone for my beauty or my grace. It’s not modesty that makes me say that, because I feel as though even then, I had a strong grasp on what was real and what wasn’t, regarding beauty and love: in some ways, too strong a grasp. White knuckle tight. The blistering hurt right there on the surface.

It’s inevitable that when you deal professionally in the construction of obsession and need, as a professional dominatrix does, that you start to doubt the validity of beauty and love. See, I have this one particular moment I am thinking of. It’s when I stand tall in 4+ inch platforms above a client, all decked out in feathers and lace, and he stammers to me how beautiful I look, all sort of emotion and desire behind the brightness in his eyes, that I begin to wonder: what does he want from me, for being beautiful? Will I ever be able to be beautiful, just be so in the world, or will it always be attached to the needs of another?

And then the slippage begins, the circling spiral into unsafe thoughts. What makes this any different than when I go on a date? What if I dress up to go out? No one pays me to do those things. But there is a payoff. And I wait for the payoff, as I’ve waited for a scene to end, to trot off with cash in hand. So what is my beauty, then? And what love or devotion does it produce? Does that mean that I am only useful if I can please someone else? Could I be beautiful, and no one would be pleased by it? Would that even mean anything at all?

It’s ironic that in order to have something better, something that feels more whole, one has to go back to a place that is purer, more virginal in its make up. Less wrought with uncertainty and confusion. It’s hard to explain, the climb out of a jaded hole you’ve dug yourself. You have to hear less noise in your head about other’s intentions and schemes and find those people whose intent is true and visible. Otherwise, you are likely to drown in a world of liars and cheats: a world of your own choosing. In some ways, one must abandon one’s supposedly worldly natures and approach things more directly – see the world as it is. No better, no worse. It starts within, it’s a conscious decision to invite only the noble and good from the world. This is ironic because it seems impossible to do when one is, in fact, pure or virginal; that’s too soon in the game. It can only be done after a walk through the fire.

For this, I cannot regret what I have seen, but it is no easy task to return from it. As time goes on, though, it seems it may have been the only way to go.