Lesson Zero: How To Find Your Perfect Mistress
There are three ways to contact a dominatrix. The first is through email or social media. The second is on incognito mode chat boards, and the third I imagine consists of a back alley dungeon fronting as a pizzeria. Let’s give number one a fair shot. I send my copypasta inquiry to seven deadly dominatrixes in the greater-Philadelphia area. Their specialities included ball busting, foot worship, pet play, and voice humming (ask me what it is later). Certainly, I’d pick up some new skills on this saga.
Hello Mistress (INSERT NAME),
I am currently working on a piece focusing on sex and sexuality in Philadelphia for Xfic: The Journal of Experimental Non-Fiction at UPenn. As an ace-identifying individual and because of other circumstantial causes, I have limited experience with my sexuality. Not only do I have no identifiable kinks, but I rarely experience sexual attraction unless under hyper-specific circumstances. The piece, then, will focus on my attempt to explore my lack of sexual attraction in both a professional and personal setting. I was curious if for the next few months you’d be open to taking me under your wing and training me as a dominatrix. BDSM (specifically non-men in the dominant role) is intriguing to me, and while I myself am a virgin, I am sex-positive. If you are open to the idea of training me, please get back to me so we can further discuss and work out a schedule.
Entranced,
(INSERT PERSONAL NAME)
I deliver the inquiries on Saturday afternoon. 48 hours later two of the seven dommes message back with their apprentice packages.
Dominatrixes are fucking expensive. $3,000 for three months with Madame Inferno or pay $75 every 30 minutes with Miss Mayhem. And keep in mind, this is with the student discount. It makes sense, though. Even with no experience, I figure cock and ball torture equipment breaks all the time, and latex polish is ever flowing. Begging was out of the question when that’s exactly what people pay them for. Maybe I could crowdsource funding from the Gender & Sexuality department, but I’m not sure their research is so hands-on. I could set up my own at home clinic with rope, tape, and a dash of hydrogen peroxide, but that would put me closer to Jeffrey Dahmer than any jezebel. Is the choice either to sell my organs to afford these lessons, or get them stolen anyways in a DIY session gone awry?
It’s admirable that these dommes can demand so much. They are professionals who want to uphold the integrity of their craft, not simply bang for a buck. I respect their bargain. The only problem is I lack a steady income to show such appreciation.
After striking out twice, third time’s the charm. Her name is Cash Vamp, the self-proclaimed “Hot Vampire in Your Area.” According to Twitter, she enjoys black lingerie, monetary adoration from her submissives (subs), and the Twilight Saga. With fangs to prove it, it’s obvious she’s team Edward. With eloquence, the message follows:
Hey there. I appreciate your well thought out message, and fully support your goals to explore your sexuality and learn. I am happy to provide any guidance into the kink community, any of my knowledge, and access to my skillset, which is mostly comprised of emotional sadomasochism and psychological domination. I do feel as though I have enough in person experience in SW [Sex Work], as I have been a pro Domme for the past almost, two years? Though I have done online work for eight, and have sugared since I was 19. (I am currently 26.) I feel as though sexuality and sex work are not explored in accurate and accessible ways in both academia and published media, as often as they should be.
I do not feel as though I have enough in person experience in SW to provide guidance on hard skills* (needle/ sharps play, mummification, single tail impact play)
I do have experience with impact play, and of course, all of the kinks and fetishes listed on my website. I would appreciate if you could lay out some expectations of how often you would like to meet, if you would like to meet in person, virtually, or both, and when you would like to start. I would also like to know if you would be taking this training for the intent of beginning work as a proDomme, or for the purposes of your research, or both.
I read the message over and over again, trying to comprehend what half the words mean. A Google deep dive leads me to a Japanese website that defines mummification as the practice of wrapping someone head-to-toe in materials like duct-tape, Saran Wrap, or plaster bandages until they are fully immobilized. I’m more than okay that this skill is failing to make our lectures.
We agree our first introductions will be at Green Line cafe on Baltimore Avenue. At 2 PM sharp, I’m strapped and ready to find my own true Mistress. As the seconds tick by my stomach turns, fearing Cash Vamp has planned an elaborate first lesson in public humiliation. If so, I respect that level of commitment to the bit. The extra time gives me a moment to reconsider what exactly I’m getting myself into. I’ve never even had my first kiss, so what makes me think skipping a few steps and jumping straight to BDSM is a good idea? It’s really happening: my date with a dominatrix. She didn’t need to plant pins in my body; the spine chill was already present. What frightens me the most is the unknown. What affair with atrocity would I encounter through the Cash Vamp? Not only of what lay ahead, but fear of what could possibly be inside me. After a long session of spanking, spitting, and stomping, would I look into a mirror and see sexy Satan herself?
Cash Vamp arrives five minutes late following a drive from the Pine Barrens of New Jersey.
I’ve never seen her face before as all the photos on her Twitter cut off at the fangs. What clues me in that this is the Hottest Vampire in my area are her long black acrylic nails and sharp eyebrows like the blades of a knife play scene. She towers over me in thick black boots, exuding the intimidation her customers so desperately crave. And as her name suggests, Cash Vamp pays for her latte in crisp dollar bills.
Cash Vamp begins by explaining her origins on the internet. She began finding clients through the virtual reality site IMVU. When e-lap dances no longer sufficed, she ventured into physical world opportunities. While her in-person career was put on hold by the pandemic, she now works with clients across Philadelphia, finding that the demand for consensual choking drops outside urban centers.
There is no 9-5 after a long night of spanking for Cash Vamp. She works as a full time sex worker (SW), venturing into professional domination (prodomme), financial domination (findomme), and “full service” work. Suffering from acute-shopaholic tendencies, Cash Vamp’s favorite activity is consensually squeezing every last dollar out of her pay pigs. Want to help mommy afford a new riding crop? That’ll be $50 from a very slutty boy. She’s even found ways to monetize the more mundane facets of her life. For building a minecraft castle, a sub awarded her $150.
In this economy, Cash Vamp turns to consensual exploitation to support her basic necessities. To her, the fantasies of blissful sugar-babyhood may be met by a crushing reality that without offering kink or full service work it’s difficult to make a stable income.
“Some people want to be empowered. I’m just trying to pay my bills.”
As the seconds tick by my stomach turns, fearing Cash Vamp has planned an elaborate first lesson in public humiliation. If so, I respect that level of commitment to the bit. The extra time gives me a moment to reconsider what exactly I’m getting myself into. I’ve never even had my first kiss, so what makes me think skipping a few steps and jumping straight to BDSM is a good idea? It’s really happening: my date with a dominatrix.
My Mistress is observant and notices our similar outfits: tight black top and light washed jeans. There’s one thing I already have in common with a sex worker. We are mirror images, sipping our identical matcha lattes. It unfolds that we are both from New Jersey (her south, me north), previously or currently attend a university in Philadelphia (her Moore, me UPenn), and most importantly, adore memes. I push for more about her creations. Her humorous posts are subliminal ad campaigns for her brand. She shows me her sticker promotional video: it’s the business card scene from American Psycho. Rather than show Paul Allen’s information, the card instead displays CASHVAMP in holographics.
To prepare for this encounter, I cleaned my Twitter presence to be more domme-friendly, erasing any trace of my career as a meme account admin. That meant un-retweeting reaction videos and replacing my Patrick Bateman profile picture with an enigmatic mirror selfie. It’s fun to be an idiot online until you remember perception. How could this mystifying deity take me seriously after finding out about my own secret life online? From first impression, though, it seems like my social media revamp for the Vamp was pointless.
Comedy is not something I can turn off, even to fulfill a career in debauchery. I frequently indulge in ill-timed laughter only exacerbated by nerves. One uncomfortable dungeon dilemma, and I’ll be the one on my knees in a fit of mirth. This typically works well in a job measured by the level of self-induced choking over chortle caused by meme masterpieces. No need for breath play here. If forced to choose, though, I would never capitulate my quips for whips.
But what am I saying? Half of internet culture is just smutty shit posting. I live in a world where expressing admiration for MILF mommy-milkers through Breaking Bad templates is just another day on the job. Commence copulation through Spongebob GIFs and fruit emojis. Anyone can write their own digital Kama Sutra on WattPad through the art of fanfiction. The internet even has its very own Rule 34: if something exists, someone has already made porn about it. For every thought of desire there is an equal or greater reaction to impotence. We scream “get some bitches”’ until we are blue in the face (or balls) to cuck our critics. The involuntary celibate (incel) community continues to flourish on the depths of 4chan, those who seek community in blaming “Chads” and feminism for what they consider is personal sexual inferiority. I’ve experienced their degradation first-hand for simply being a woman online. All in a day’s work. For the good, the bad, and the horny, the internet provides me insight into what sex-drives this world’s naughtiest inhabitants to carnal gluttony.
It’s time to reverse the role, so I flash Cash Vamp a close-up of my tits, a photo I took in the late spring as part of my own exploration of my sexuality—coming out as a virgin, and exposing my body in the process.
The photo is a part of my post entitled Virgin (Bottom Text) Bathing in a University of Pennsylvania Dormitory Bathroom (May 10, 2022). There I am, lying in my dingy dorm bathtub, wearing a white bikini and a soaking wet t-shirt with the words VIRGIN/BOTTOM TEXT sandwiching my breasts. The idea came to me in simple pretenses: I want to be the hottest prude. College is not the ideal place to be an adult virgin. Thin walls and hallway condoms are reminders of your failure to succeed at hookup culture. Body count is the most important statistic, and straight As will never compare to the glory of a low Rice Purity score. My passiveness towards sex doesn’t make me immune to self-conciousness. If I feel like the butt of a joke for my virginal status, then why not turn myself into a meme?
Instagram is no stranger to the bikini. Millions of bums baring it all on beaches, boardwalks, and of course completely staged photoshoots fill your feed. And yet, this was my first time ever being photographed in an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, completely white string bikini. I believe my body is not meant for bathing suits. It’s either my breasts flopping out or waist gaps in a one-piece. Unless I wear a compactor 3000, an unintentional skinny dip scenario via nip-slip is bound to occur. But worse is the two piece, which does a wonderful job at heightening my body-dysmorphia à la stomach. Wearing a bikini feels like rubbing peanut butter all over your body. It’s an uncomfortable stickiness that only attracts the hungriest of bitches. What I fear will bite back are remarks pertaining to my size. I’ve always loved how in running a meme page there’s no requirement to have a body. Remaining anonymous is part of the culture. But how long can I run away from the body that’s right here?
So I strapped on my mask, turned on the faucet, and got absolutely soaking wet. It was my unholy baptism into sluttdom without giving up my v-card. My friend and collaborator Joseph came with protection: plastic bags shielding his camera from the splash zone. After finishing, we reflected on the inevitable provocative stir to follow hitting post. Being a queen of controversy is mentally tasking, so I consulted my favorite professor. The post single-handedly turned my logic for working in comedy upside down. I enjoy saying funny things to distract from how I look. Now, I was putting the spotlight directly on my breasts. After professionally analyzing my tasteful half-nudes, he imparted wisdom from his wife: the words hardest to say are the ones we should speak the loudest.
With a few deep breaths and some hype music in the form of blistering hardcore 90s hip-hop, I press posted—then swiftly deleted Instagram. All was calm until my phone started blowing up with concerned texts from friends asking why I removed the post. Turns out the photos were flagged and reported as sexual content. Two appeals later and it was back up. My heart was pounding. Head was spinning. But this meant I succeeded: I produced OnlyFans-worthy material—without the sex.
But that feeling dissipated when I discovered the campus-wide body shaming playing out on an anonymous platform. For 48 hours, I resisted looking. Advice columns about online hate told me to “drown out the comments.” They said, “find your inner peace and nothing will ever go wrong.” Inevitably, I coerced a friend to send me screenshots. What I find is my body drawn, quartered, and told to put a shirt on by hundreds of my peers.
“Other schools have funny meme accounts, we have tits”
“Why did i just innocently open my instagram feed only for my eyes to be assaulted by the penn memes girl in one of those vile bathtubs?”
“Same I just wanted to show my mom a good spirited Pennmemes post”
“I’m glad I unfollowed when I could”
Those were the tamer comments—reading any more is too painful. Clearly, I’ll never find verbal humiliation sexy on the receiving end. What first struck me about the hate was that I thought none of it was funny, at least creatively speaking. Where were the jokes? If you’re going to body-shame me for wearing a white bikini, at least call me a slutty stay-puft marshmallow. It infuriates me when unfunny people tell me how to do my job in the most boring ways. But I’m learning to respect the decision of people who unfollow me. There is nothing wrong with looking away from what makes you uncomfortable. But if you don’t take a proper look, how can you judge?
I rationalized to stay sane. I felt like I was drowning in my bathtub of self-pity. My whole body ached thinking about what was being said about it. Was this a self-imposed slaughter? I deserve this fate. My ideas are stupid and perverted. I’m a useless fuck who can’t even fuck. No one will love me, not even like me. I deserve worse. I should be punished for my sins. I deserve this. I deserve the worst. To my surprise, my friend then showed me the strangers coming to my defense.
“not to rain on y’alls parade, but penn memes is a human being too. you may not think she’s funny but that doesn’t give you an excuse to be dicks to her and say awful things on here. Idc if y’all downvote this just consider how you make people feel”
“it’s a meme page calm down”
“and behind the meme page is a person running it. i’m calm just saying some of u are being mean to someone who did nothing but “post cringe.” there’s a difference between hating on the posts/account and body shaming”
I fully broke down as I watched two strangers fight over my very existence. One remembered I’m just a person. Sure, I’m a little annoyed that my art is reduced to “cringe,” but one man’s masterpiece is another’s cringe compilation. Yet they understood I’m more than memes. They cared. I thank those strangers for saving my life.
I thought about those comments most during most mental breakdowns. I wanted to be an optimist who saw the bottle of lube I hid in my shower half full.
In an unhinged way, I found this situation extremely funny. Just another prank I pulled on the student body. Surprise, you just got punked by my breasts! Hundreds of people opened up the Instagram app to find a weird half-naked girl in a vile bathtub. This was pure comedy. But when the comments faded and my 15 minutes of infamy was up, who was this joke really on?
From here, I spiral.
Without fail, every time I looked in a mirror I sobbed. This reflection wasn’t ugly: it was inherently wrong. I stared at the embodiment of failure. Who could ever love such a depraved thing? Evidence suggests I’m deformed and worthy of judgment. For the way I dress I deserve this harassment. I was asking for it. Isn’t that what they tell every slut?
In therapy, I worked to feel body-neutral. My therapist Patricia told me to look at myself naked and say three nice things about my body. I forced myself to gaze at the mirror naked until I broke down. I let myself get enraged at those unknown voices who humiliated me. I was desperate for revenge. I wanted them to feel my pain. They deserved the tragedy of losing control over their bodies too. Then, I was angry at myself for letting the voices win.
Bikini season pushed me to feel okay. Two months after the incident, I wore a bathing-suit in public for the first time. At the beach, no one flinched at the sight of my white two-piece. If anything, the lack of g-string shoved up my ass was the real shocker.
Today, I walk among people who body-shamed me. Any stranger on this campus could have taken verbal arms against me last semester. The peer who asks to borrow a pen. The barista who compliments my pants. The man who attempts to grope me at a party. We don’t know each other, but I must fear them.
My only revenge is to strut forward. This body is still all mine. When I look in a mirror now, I see strength. If it can survive a mass-body shaming campaign, then what more can this carcass of mine achieve?
I want to know someone so comfortable in their body they can monetize it. Someone who understands that every inch of her figure is worth pure gold. You can gawk and stare, but touching comes at a hefty price tag. Cash Vamp’s body is everything. Her feet in ten-inch heels strike fear and eroticism in the eager men waiting to get their balls stepped on. Many, many titty pics with only an arm or tissue covering the goods fill her Twitter. And she doesn’t forget to celebrate the backdoor too, wearing thongs that leave little to the imagination of her assets. Her body is something to worship. It deserves cult-level devotion with the occasional human sacrifice. Every curve represents power. Every aspect of her is valuable. Just ask her clientele.
Her body is even a canvas for memes. She uses the Adam Levine “That Body of Yours is Absurd” template to point out how her curvature forms a perfect Fibonacci spiral. Another meme is inspired by her own recent body-shaming incident. Being called a “delusional fat-bitch” by a client she turned down becomes prime content to demand breakfast money from a sub as reward for being his favorite “delusional fat-bitch.” Cash Vamp knows that no matter how bad the hate gets, she can always wipe away her tears with her Benjamins.
This is a mistress who truly puts the “work” in “sex worker.” She creates all her scenes, bargains with every client, and even finds the time for weekly photoshoots. She is well-read on the philosophy behind the craft, and her knowledge impresses my unkinked ears. She tells me about a developing theory in the kink community by someone named Monica Millions. Instead of framing scenes as “dom” and “sub” or “top” and “bottom,” the vernacular of “actor” and “subject” can expand what it means to play. The actor performs for the subject, who receives the benefit of the action. This dynamic accounts for the existence of service doms and subs. For her clients, Cash Vamp becomes the Merryl Streep of bondage to bring fantasies to life.
Conversation flows for over an hour. I learn of men who enjoy playing watersports (different liquid from the slip and slides of my childhood) and ones who like being shoved between Mistress’s thighs and called an idiot sandwich. Cash Vamp understands her career is humorous in nature. This epiphany came while harnessing herself up. She burst out laughing, thinking how ridiculous she looked strapped up in a sexy straitjacket.
There is a special someone in Cash Vamp’s life: a partner she refers simply to as “The Man.” Without fail, they dedicate every Tuesday to each other. Unlike so many of her previous partners, the Man never makes Cash Vamp choose between her career and love life. He understands that there is a separation between her work and pleasure.
My most pertinent question: do Mommy and Daddy know that their darling daughter is a dominatrix? Mr. and Mrs. Vamp are under the impression that graphic design is her passion. If they find out, chaos will be unleashed—not the sexy kind she can profit off of, but disownment. However, she finds a sense of parental support from her roommate, Dave. He’s a consistent figure in her life who entered during childhood while working with her father. During Cash Vamp’s nightly escapades, Dave’s the one who checks in to make sure he won’t find her in a body bag the next morning. It’s this support that gives her comfort, and puts telling her folks on the back burner.
This answer confirms my understanding. When you decide to adopt an alter-ego online, inevitably you must decide who will learn the truth as it takes over your life. All Cash Vamp’s friends know she’s a professional dominatrix. If anyone has a problem, they’re excommunicated. I respect Cash Vamp’s decision to hide her career from her parents. She is the child of divorce and doesn’t want to give them anything more to fight over. It must be easier being a Mistress of the Night knowing your parents don’t lie awake with fear and disappointment.
It’s my turn to decide if my parents will be made aware of my ass-first descent into the wild world of BDSM. When I first told them about my first meme account, they were clueless what “meme” even meant. Then, after some explanation, they called it a waste of time. Four years, two accounts, and hundreds of memes later, they’re learning to appreciate my work. I love watching the likes flood in from my dad’s bi-monthly catch-up on my posts. Sometimes my mom will pitch meme ideas to the best of her understanding. My parents expect my eccentricity, but getting them to support professional torture is a new record for my insanity. Aren’t they the ones who taught me compassion, though? I love thy neighbor, even one with a sex-dungeon in their basement. For every question I’d prepare a rebuttal, reassuring them that I’ll remain tied up most in my studies. It’s settled: I’ll come out to Mom and Dad as a dominatrix—who’s never had sex.
Before parting ways, Cash Vamp shares one last detail: her name. With this final piece of knowledge, I see the person before me. Though she’s a tantalizing torturer who fills the erotic nightmares of pledglings, there is a person underneath working to enflame the fantasy. She reassures me that Cash Vamp doesn’t dominate her personality. She is a dominatrix, a sex worker, but most importantly, a human being. Like anyone else, she puts on her strap-on one leg at a time.
From then on, we agree to meet once a week as master and pupil in this provocative apprenticeship. The roleplay was about to begin, and I was fucking terrified.
A Certain Kind of Homecoming
I learned what it meant to give a blowjob at 13. At sleepovers we waited until parents were unconscious to trade our juiciest pieces of gossip. Straying from the typical news of love triangles and break-ups over snapchat, Hannah explained that at summer camp, her 15 year old counselor told her about a new trick: you treat a man’s private part like a popsicle. Why was still unclear, but he said it feels good, and then you felt good because you have a boyfriend. My first response was disgust. So many germs. So many limbs. And wouldn’t it be at best an uncomfortable position to at worst self-asphyxiation?
During orchestra class Hannah spread news that I was an asexual. I heard her whisper my name with the term to the second violins, not sure exactly what it meant. Didn’t Mrs Marino call those amoebas we examined under microscopes in biology asexual? The cellos were looking at me weird. What did I do wrong?
On the car ride home from school I sobbed to my mom.
“I’m not asexual! I’m normal!”
I found out female masturbation was common at 17. It was on a car ride to the annual performing arts banquet. For some reason my twin’s then-boyfriend was talking about his own extra-curriculars in wanking.
“Everyone does it,” he said.
“I don’t,” was my hesitant response from the backseat. I didn’t realize this was so controversial until I hear him let out a scoff. That night, I thought about how I must be the only person in my high school’s performing arts community that doesn’t pluck their own strings or toot their own horn. Why hasn’t it clicked yet? What’s wrong with me?
Less than a year away from adulthood, and I had no clue how to masturbate. For what little experience I had I made up for in knowledge. Aced anatomy exams during sex-ed meant I could find the clit better than a boyfriend. But I knew intercourse wasn’t purely biological. A decent chunk of my Netflix consumption was erotic foreign film. I’ve seen Germans jizz on pizza and authentic French ménage à trois. Curiosity lead me from tasteful cinematic sex scenes to graphic porn. Quickly I realized I don’t care about doggy-style or missionary, and the fake orgasms made me sad. I skipped through the same four recycled positions to bad acting and horrible dialogue. Or I’d watch the strangest fetish videos with absolute fascination. I’m too stunned by what sacrilegious fantasies come from the human mind to be horny. What turns me off from most porn is its lovelessness. When the entire orgy is in love, though, I can see something beautiful in the pile of bodies. Maybe someday I’d want someone to find me mysteriously trapped in a washing machine, but I was just grateful for now I had no step-siblings.
I decided it was time I explore deep into the trenches of my punani. Education started with a Wikihow article on masturbation followed by PornHub Jill-Off tutorials. The twelve steps to unlocking my inner sex goddess seemed like an impossible journey. Put on your sexiest underwear. Dim the lights. Find a goddamn scented candle. Maybe pop an aphrodisiac. One of my best friends was a self-proclaimed Master-bater with a record 27 orgasms in an hour, so I asked her for tips. She suggested the showerhead method, but it felt like vaginal waterboarding. I was too cheap to get a toy, and too lazy to change my pillowcase after a rodeo-ride reverse cowgirl style. One day I’d work up the balls to stick UFOs up my vagina, I was content the only hole an electric toothbrush would prod was my mouth.
Hours I spent locked in my bedroom closet trying to feel something. Top. Bottom. Upside Down. My hands traveled around my body pseudo-sensually until I was self-conscious. Legs spread eagle and fingers desperate to find the g-spot. All I felt was boredom. Where is the big-O Cosmo promised? I fell on the floor to fetal position. The only secretions I expended were snot and tears. How could any God create such a broken creature? How could anyone love someone so deformed like me?
The worst part is I know my private parts work. Sometimes I feel the bubbling warmth that accompanies my menstrual cycle like a cat in heat. When I’m frustrated or my jeans are too tight I become angry-horny. But I have little desire to do anything about these instances. And even rarer having someone to direct the feelings onto. Aesthetic attraction is something I understand and fully experience. Your eyes may mesmerize and smile fill my heart with giddy, but that doesn’t mean I want to smash private parts together.
I’ve always wanted to fall deeply in love. It’s something I obsess over far more than I enjoy admitting. My only wet dreams are of passionate rain-soaked embraces straight from rom-coms. This love will be passionate and deep, something to celebrate. I want to fall in love a million times, and still find more beautiful words to say. Show me your every nook and cranny, my eyes are right here. Let me feel your mind and take pleasure in your words. Stimulate me intellectually, but nothing further is required. The love we make doesn’t need to be sexual.
My love is not childish, but idealistic. What I envision feels impossible. Who would be willing to put a hold on sex until I’m ready, if ever? The asexual community is growing, but only dating inside of it greatly diminishes my dating pool. I’d be open to coupling up with an allosexual, but only one with patience. I will not burden your sexual appetite only if you don’t forcefully stimulate mine.
My conviction is that I am not designed for love. I anticipate the moment when my coming out will ruin any hopes past the talking stage. Sometimes it feels so hopeless that I’ll ever get the chance to be a romantic. One day, one day at a time. The right person will come out of nowhere. True love means patience. All we have is time. My desire for love will persist until it is quenched.
But if there’s one person who wants me to be in love the most, it’s my mom.
That woman is my best friend and most cherished confidant. My love for her is unconditional, no matter how many times she nags me to “put yourself out there more” or equates the amount of pimples on my face to my ability to attract a mate. Anxiety-disorder leaves her in a perpetual state of worry, often directed towards me. What she fears most is that I’ll be left alone when, inevitably, we part ways permanently. I want to comfort her with the knowledge that someone will hold me when she no longer can. Everytime I return home she hopes I’ll announce my first love, preferably one who’s Jewish. Stories of cute dates and hand-holding until my palms get clammy and we just go back to talking. Everything that encapsulates a successful committed-romantic conquest. These are words I’ve never had reason to say. Words that must come soon as my parents are older (qualify for medicare-level-old). My biological clock is catalyzed. The sand pours down quickly.
My mother almost gave up on the dream of seeing me in white the first time I came out. It was freshman year over FaceTime. My twin served as backup. For months I considered the decision through obsessive research and spiraling thoughts. Coming out didn’t feel right or even fully true. It still doesn’t. But it felt necessary. The monologue I’ve dreaded begins. Three lines into my shpiel when I bursted out sobbing in anticipation of her response.
“How do you know if you’ve never tried?”
A year later I came out to my father. In an already vulnerable state, I came out the night of the body shaming incident. He found me bundled in a depressive cocoon of blankets, protecting my body from sight. Maybe he’d understand why I put my body on the line if it meant standing up for my community. The words slipped from my mouth, slurred together to form a vaguely coherent coming out.
“How do you know if you’ve never tried?”
For the first time in history parents beg their child to have sex. Hearing their retorts hurt, but I know they had a point. The closest I’d ever been to a ride on the love rollercoaster was one shitty date and pervy come-ons in frat houses, clubs, and elevators. But being ace doesn’t make me an apathetic amoeba floating in the abyss. All it means is a general lack of sexual attraction. There is no one right way to be asexual.
As @acedadadvice on Instagram wisely said: “Asexuality is about patterns, not checklists.”
Asexuality isn’t an invisible chastity belt. It’s who I am. And the decision to have sex doesn’t make someone any less ace. Maybe one day I’ll want to fuck you; I need a reason first.
My second attempt at coming out would be a two-for-one deal: first as ace, then as a dominatrix. When I come out, I want to look into my parents’ eyes and feel no shame. They can see me at my most vulnerable, and judge from there. Fall break provides me the opportunity to sit down and be honest. Yom Kippur marks my homecoming. Repentance for my failure to be fruitful and multiply crosses my mind that day. Or instead, should I seek God’s forgiveness for the whore I’m planning on becoming.
The following day I attend therapy and receive advice from Patricia before letting the bomb drop. She tells me to be honest: first with myself. There is no person I must be to ace the labels litmus test. Asexual is the label I’m most comfortable with because it accounts for the times I googled “what does sexual attraction feel like?” and “are you asexual quiz.” Those nights where loneliness feels like a death sentence for a lack of attraction. It’s also not a word tattooed to my ass cheek either. Whatever feels correct is who I will be, even if that leaves me in a labelless existential state of dread. Patricia puts me at ease. There is no person I can be but me.
Asexuality isn’t an invisible chasity belt. It’s who I am. And the decision to have sex doesn’t make someone any less ace. Maybe one day I’ll want to fuck you; I need a reason first.
Two more hours are spent in the kitchen preparing dinner. The chicken is simmering. Couscous is steaming. Pita is rising. Hopefully they’ll be too distracted by the unfamiliar flavors of bitter orange to think about what exactly I’m saying.
No praise kink will ever compare to parental approval. The point of success is to put your folks at ease, and then maybe to find a sliver of joy later. With every decision I want them to feel that they raised me right, even if there were wrongs along the way. This is the product.
In Parenting for Dummies there is no chapter on “your child gets mercilessly body-shamed by an anonymous internet campaign.” You can only say “people will move on” so many times until the words feel pointless.
My mother was most affected by the person I became after the incident. She quelled my screams induced by nightmares of reliving the body-shaming. She tells me I’m beautiful when it’s impossible to say. But that follows warnings against ever pulling a stunt like that again.
“Don’t do this to yourself if you know what’s going to happen, sweetie.”
My work can’t be to her detriment. My primary job is to make her anxiety disorder easier, not cause both of us to spiral.
And I won’t pull the same stunt again for fatuous shock value. You see my tits enough and eventually must accept that they’re not going anywhere. What I refuse to change are my motivations. Creation that challenges my most vulnerable self is what I desire. It was my decision to be the girl in a bikini sprawled out in a disgusting bathtub, but I chose how I live with that. Tell me I’m an unfunny slut who’s fallen off the deep end. That’s in your right. I get to say those are compliments.
Dinner is served to the enthusiasm of my parents. They can’t get over how everything is homemade. Good, at least they see a career for me in fry cookery if this experiment turns into a real shit show (although it optimally won’t as I have no desire to engage in coprophilia, aka poopy play). With many resounding “deliciouses” from my dad, the show is ready to begin.
Re-coming out goes relatively well. My parents make the same “what if” remarks, but this time they are more understanding after I explain being ace doesn’t necessarily condemn me to eternal solitude. Finding love will be more difficult, but asexuality could be the cure of eliminating time-wasters. It doesn’t mean I’m against the idea of having sex. Surprise: I actually am interested in trying it for the experience. If the opportunity comes I better as well, but for now I’m never horny enough to make it a priority. Then the news that would choke them out:
“Mom, Dad, I’m becoming a Dominatrix. It’s for a class.”
My dad bursts out laughing while my mom sits there in shock. Letting my dad do all the talking makes things easier. With every question I feel a need to justify this project. I promise I’ll only do what feels comfortable. No, I won’t go into some stranger’s apartment to spank them for a good story. Please, this is important to me. What’s funnier than a dominatrix that’s never had sex?
Whether it’s as a prude or slut, I’m afraid to disappoint them. Dad clearly thought it was hilarious his daughter was becoming a dominatrix because he couldn’t stop himself from making every pun in the client-book.
“You’re certainly bound and determined. Hope you don’t get too tied up in your work. Some people just get so chained up to their desks!”
Mom sits there playing with her food as a distraction. The stewed zucchini and carrots squish beneath her fork. Dad carries on scarfing down the chicken, letting bits of it fall into his
stubble as he goes on about what a surprise this is to hear as my father. His words begin to fade as panic sets in. The straw of my seat punctures my ass. I feel the overhead lights burning my skin. Have they always been this hot?
I try to look my mom in the eyes. Face down she keeps repeating:
“Are you going to be safe? Are you going to be okay?”
What Mom doesn’t understand is that 4+ years of working on the internet prepare me for this moment. Talking to strangers online doesn’t have to be met with catfishery and identity theft. Cash Vamp wouldn’t risk her entire career for some random plucky college student. If anything, she should be worried about who I could be. At every corner of her career there is risk of non-consensual exploitation. For all she knows, I could be a monster of mockery in a very unsexy way. Besides, Tinder hookups with strangers are far riskier than discussing work with a professional over coffee.
They weren’t sold on the whole “my daughter is a dominatrix” bit yet, but in due time I pray they’ll come around.
“Mom, Dad, I’m becoming a Dominatrix. It’s for a class.”
Lesson One: Consent and Safety
I return to Philly the following day and meet Cash Vamp at two unsteady orange chairs at Clark Park. This time she wears all black from corset top and leather pants down to her thick black boots. She’s 30 minutes late from I-95 traffic, so her first task is a bathroom break. We stop at a 24 Hour CVS. While Cash Vamp is performing golden showers, I admire the $0.99 drinks and twelve types of dish soap. From the self-checkout I watch her strut down the aisles like they are her catwalk. She knows her dominance, her sex appeal, and her unlimited power, that is, until one of her nails goes flying. There she is scrambling on the floor of CVS searching for the sharp black bit formally known as her left pinky.
We’ll get along just fine.
Our next mission is to find a refuge for our first lecture. As we pass a local church, a voice protrudes through its garden wall. A “Hey ladies” oozing with sleazy intent is thrust in our direction. Without interruption, Cash Vamp continues explaining how professors are far kinkier than doctors based on her anecdotal evidence.
“But wouldn’t doctors be far more comfortable around naked bodies?”
“You know I am,” cat-calls the gardener, but this momentary peeping tom fails to thwart our speed-walk. It takes me another block to comprehend his voyeuristic utterances, but Cash Vamp laughs it off as desperation she’s familiar with. There is something beautiful about a virgin and a dominatrix getting catcalled together. On the street, we’re all whores.
Edging Penn’s campus, we begin the topic of discussion: consent and safety. Cash Vamp pulls up a document of notes she’s created specially for me. It’s a well organized compilation of resources, general information, and her thoughts. The first link takes me to an Instagram post. It’s a graphic displaying the “YES-TO-NO SPECTRUM.”
No doesn’t always sound like “no” when many people have trouble saying that word. It can look like backtracking, overexplaining, and completely deferring to their partner’s judgment. There is also space for curiosity and boundary-pushing in the bedroom, but one that must be freed from pressure and non-consensual guilt tripping. It’s a matter of what feels right rather than fulfilling the expectations of your play partner. The document follows:
It is important to honor what feels safe to you, inform your client of the risks of certain kinks/ fetishes, and step away from situations that feel unsafe. SOME ASKS ARE BUFFOONERY.
Here, CashVamp links an extreme example: a video of a sex worker explaining a prospective client’s inquiry on death through face-sitting. One satisfied customer is not worth 25 years-to-life in prison. There is no weakness in saying no.
But if “no” is too hard to say, there are other means to communicate this message. The classic concept of a safe word is always an easy option to communicate when a scene is over. If saying “jolly roger” is what it takes to make sure everyone is safe, then do whatever floats your boat. Another method is the Stoplight System: a trio of questions which must be established before a session. Green means be good to go. Yellow is the signal to slow down, take a breather, and switch to something easier. Red is the scene ender. The system broadens the say that play partners have in scenes to change pace rather than completely untie the knots. But if desired, that’s only a red-light away.
Beating the shit out of your partner does not make you a good domme. It requires listening, caution, and understanding to be on top.
This is a dynamic of mutualism. If I felt uncomfortable, I could step away. That’s in my right, my power, and my role as the actor. I’m relieved to hear that being a domme does not require me to physically pulverize my subs. Just because I hold the whip does not mean it must be cracked.
Leading up to our second encounter, doubt seeps in that a career in domination could ever be my destiny. After some introspection, I’m questioning if I actually want to consensually chain people for a living. I don’t see anything appealing in bruises and scars whether inflicted or received. The people pleaser in me considers how a good spanking could replenish the soul if they ask nicely, but how would I feel knowing the bright red handprints on their ass are mine? Guilty and maybe slightly traumatized.
And there comes that fateful question: “how do you know if you’ve never tried?”
Just as critical as the action is the aftercare. For some clients this looks like cuddling, while others actively avoid attention following a session. For Cash Vamp, it seems like this post-session check-in provides reassurance that no boundary was pushed too far and the customer leaves more than satisfied. She ensures clients it’s okay to leave the fantasy. Aftercare, then, can be smalltalk with the customer as he re-dresses and prepares to face reality.
“What does aftercare look like for the domme?”
“At least for me, I have an after-session tradition of getting an insomnia cookie and taking a bubble bath. A session can be creatively draining, so this is how I take care of myself,” she says.
Many clients seek porn-laced fantasies without much experience. As the practitioner, Cash Vamp simply needs to take a professional role in achieving the fantasy. While Cash Vamp has had majority positive experiences with lifestyle kinksters and clients, there are always some who forget that the job title of “sex worker” does not give all-encomposing consent.
Cash Vamp advises me that community events are a safe place to begin and lists ones we could possibly attend, carefully detailing the pros and cons. Xena’s Playtime Party is the “beeeeest of both worlds,” for watch and play, but its intimate nature can lead to overcrowding. Gluttony is queer-friendly and sex-positive, but its smaller rooms cut down playtime. The G-Spot is a beautiful venue that hosts killer classes and burlesque shows but can be difficult to navigate with basement stairs that are “hard af.” When you’re wearing nine inch spikes, stairs are an important factor in decision making.
When all else fails, take a class
These aren’t just in Rope Play 101 and Introduction to Sado-Masochism. Oftentimes, lectures focus on mindset training and confidence building that applies both inside and outside the dungeon.
Always use protection
For online SWers, this means taking extra steps to ensure one’s internet presence doesn’t lead to any physical world harm. Never use your real name or number. To pay for ads, opt for bitcoin. She shows me secret chat rooms used by dommes to share concerns over clients to protect the sisterhood. You keep safe in numbers.
Watermarking photos is essential to prevent content theft or catfishing. I’m familiar with the technique as it’s used in the meme world to ensure that repost pages give credit. It’s necessary to ensure hard work doesn’t go uncredited, but more importantly, theft can be detrimental to one’s brand and identity.
Information is protection, so screen clients beforehand. An ID, active social media profile, or references are all useful ways to see if a client legitimately wants to be spanked on all fours. Another effective test is a $100 deposit prior to the session. To avoid time wasters, it’s essential to decipher whether a perspective client is fucking around or sincerely looking to get fucked.
If you feel like something is off, it most likely is! Trust your gut instinct.
Rather than fear the rogue client who sets out to tear down her growing empire of sin, she’s more afraid of law enforcement who she refers to as the “Vice Squad.”
“One time this client sent me a photo, and he was clearly wearing a police uniform.” CashVamp tells me. She turned him down—she wasn’t going to fall for an obvious sting. Soon after, she was getting messages on reddit from someone active in the forum r/ProtectandServe. “I’m pretty sure it was the same guy. When I asked some of my SW [sex work] friends what to do, they’d never seen anything like this, so I just blocked and ignored.”
Women online must take these extra precautions. Concerning follower interactions are bound to occur, especially in male dominated communities. It ranges from requests for nudes to full blown parasocial declarations of love.
Many of these boys are overwhelmed with your very existence, claiming they never could imagine a woman like you exists. Through you he wants to feel special. Know that out of thousands of followers he catches your attention. He’ll open up to you since the girls in real life don’t listen. He’ll tell you he’s finally found her: the funny girl. He lusts to see a body that holds brilliance and humor. You become his muse, his fascination, his manic pixie meme girl.
In high school, I took preemptive measures to avoid these encounters. To fulfill any post, livestream, or internet-related obligation that required my upper half, I created a strategy. In my closet there was a section of sweaters I referred to as my “work clothes.” These five pieces hid the shape of my body under solid prints and loose fabrics. My neck was entrapped by collars that shielded any negative attention. One night while working remotely at a friend’s house, I forgot my sweater. Perspiration moistened the tight nylon fabric of my V-Neck crop top as I searched for modesty. My ad sponsor would be furious to be associated with the breast-related comments that inevitably flooded my chat box whenever I livestreamed wearing anything lower than a crew neck.
I covered myself in a friend’s ski team sweatshirt that hadn’t seen the light of a washing machine for several months. The noxious smell from the sweater’s armpits swayed my focus from the task at hand. Only 30 more minutes of being your wittiest self. Focus the attention on your words to avoid any comments about the body being perceived. You are an educational content creator, not the cam girl your friends constantly tease you to be. Only 25 more minutes of this shit. Get a grip.”
Even with every measure of modesty, comments surrounding my body are unavoidable. A meme account admin once told me what he’d he’d fuck the shit out of me in a group chat of 20 people, all of whom but I were men. Another claimed my following was only because of my boobs.
So I stop caring about trying to appease the ravenous. I want my body to stand for something more in its natural form. Then there is no worry if my stomach is too pudgy or breasts too slutty.
Some people will always see tits as the greenlight to harass, no matter how you cover them up, so why even try?
And I won’t lie, I’ve found pleasure in the attention. It amazes me how I can control perception with my body. When I shed my turtleneck, the “mommy” comments begin. They’re in conjunction with “slut” and “whore” remarks, but those are expected. My body is ground-zero to test audience response to the female form, even inspiring me to make memes out of myself. In a post from October 13, 2021, my body became the meme template. There are three pictures in this carousel. In the first two memes, words engulf my body. One is a satirical argument of why I wear corsets not because I’m deeply insecure but of greater pretentious artistic meaning. In the second photo the text becomes a warning against comparison of bodies from admin to viewer, actor to subject. The final photo is an untouched version of the template that displayed my body in its full form. I wore a turtleneck and black corset. My hand gripped my comedy mask as a form of protection covering my stomach. The same day, I deleted Instagram from my phone after posting. The thought of hundreds of people perceiving my body was overwhelming. Two days later, I redownloaded the app and the world carried on. I anticipated the body shaming campaign months before it came, and yet nothing prepared me. Nothing ever could.
I began posting memes because it enabled me to exist online without showing my body. Now I want control over my whole self. Let me learn from someone whose job is to be a body, and a very sexy one indeed.
Cash Vamp and I are both face-in creators. The decision is made for safety, but we’re also still coming to terms with being practitioners of careers shrouded in shame and illegitimacy. Months of confidence-building can be destroyed by one judgemental expression on how we spend our time. And if we want a future, we’re told to keep untraceable online footprints. When I’m insecure, I lie about my work by framing it in vague terms. I’ll call it “online content creation.” Maybe if I’m feeling gutsy, I refer to myself as a humorist. But in laymen terms, Cash Vamp is a sex worker, and I am a meme account admin. It’s not work for anyone but ourselves to understand. It’s what keeps us alive.
Being a dominatrix is all about boundaries. How far do you feel comfortable going with a client? When does play turn from uncomfortable to unsafe? What are the precocious measures you can take to prevent any session from being career-ruining? These were all questions I’d have to answer for myself as I explore my inner persona. There is no correct way to be a domme besides what feels right.
Cash Vamp tells me it’s important for me to have some hands-on experience with the tools of the profession. We find a secluded spot away from public ire, and she whips out her all-black leather duffle bag.
She first combs through the essentials: lip balm, Purell, sex wipes, costume fangs, and a cock ring that fell into the wrong pocket. Then comes the stars of our show: a riding crop and flogger. She triple checks for invisibility and then demonstrates the flogger by lightly hitting my arm. No pain. All I feel is the softness of the nine tails fan against my wrist. Then it’s my turn. The closest I’d ever been to a flogger are catwoman fantasies where my belt becomes a snappy whip. I thump her wrist with careful aim. Not shabby for my first time being shown the ropes.
Cash Vamp tells me about a recent discovery that her equestrian friend owns the same riding crop. I ask if it was more moral to hit a horse or person.
“With a human at least it’s consensual.”
Within the bag, Cash Vamp finds an old written outline of an overnight session that never came to fruition because the client caught pneumonia. What strikes me first is how neatly structured the outline is. The schedule, prep, kinks, and procedure are carefully organized and coded. Through arrows and circles, I easily follow her logic and the creative care she takes preparing for the session. This particular client wants to focus on degradation, specifically his homewrecking kink. Cash Vamp theoretically achieves this through face sitting, nipple clamps, and verbal degradation about his marriage. The client is strict about how he wants to be humiliated: you can shame him for being a terrible husband, but he draws the line at mockery surrounding his parenting skills.
Cash Vamp knows he’s married, but it’s not her job to save relationships. Couples’ counselors are widely available for that service instead. Through her work she can help people explore themselves, but she can’t ensure honesty within a scene leaves the fantasy. She’s looking to make ends meet through a hard day at work, not play moral savior to the ashamed.
“I don’t understand why someone would rather invest the time and money to become a long term customer of a professional dominatrix rather than just tell the person who’s supposed to be the love of their life about their bedroom preferences.”
In Cash Vamp’s position I’d feel guilty, but that’s a luxury. She doesn’t have room to morally vet clients based on how faithful they are to their spouses. She has bills to pay. Financial obligations to meet. However, Cash Vamp finds moral release within the work itself. She incorporates her judgments into corporal punishment.
“At least I get to tell him he’s a shitty husband by coding it in degradation. At least I can tell him the truth in that way.”
Not all of Cash Vamp’s clients are homewreckers and adulterers. One of her favorites is a charming southern gentleman who’s unafraid to be effeminate and enjoys pegging scenes. While Cash Vamp once menacingly circled him with her strap on, she noticed a surprise in the rear end as he undressed.
“That man was maybe 50 and had one of the thickest asses I’ve ever seen. Honestly I was stunned. Baby got back.”
Cash Vamp ends the night with one final gesture: a gift. It’s a holographic pink-and-purple sticker bearing her logo. She lets me keep her agenda with the homewrecker as well. I store both in my journal as keepsakes. As we depart, I feel comfortable in her guidance. There’s a certain professionalism that fills even her goofiest moments. She knows how to crack a whip and a joke. For this, in a stroke of comedic timing I suggest a new activity for our lessons: memes. This is how we will commemorate moving forward.
Later that evening, I find inspiration for my first meme. I overhear friends gossiping about how 46th President of the United States Joseph Robinette Biden was spotted on the Penn Campus. From videos circulating Twitter of him greeting supporters outside the bookstore, I conclude that the Commander-in-Chief served the nation while Cash Vamp and I were flogging each other only a few streets over. My mind immediately goes to the conservative reactionary memes that depict Joe Biden’s America as a liberal hellscape where leather clad women dominate over their white male slaves. Cash Vamp later finds the exact meme template in a findomme reddit forum. At least in Biden’s America, the whore is hard at work.
