Chapter 4
Lesson Two: Kinks & Fetishes; Alter Egos and Branding; and Self-Care
There are many skills already under my belt from my first encounters with Cash Vamp. How to beat someone with a riding crop, how to evade prudish law enforcement officers, and, of course, the myriad of ways to say yes and no. Telling my friends I’m becoming a dominatrix would be a hands-on learning experience.
My first target is Iordanis, a lanky computer scientist I met freshman year through a friend of a friend. He’s a Greek with a fear of feta and enjoys robotics, orthodox Christianity, and the Billboard Hot 100. For over a year, we’ve made a weekly habit out of getting dinner. For this ritual, we’re often mistaken for a couple. Everytime my mother asks if we’ve finally gotten together, I remind her he’s still gay. But we embrace our fanfiction shipping status with Iordanis going as far as planning on buying me flowers for Valentine’s Day. Only a last minute conflict prevented me from accepting the gesture.
Tonight, we find ourselves in a local campus eatery that serves inauthentic stir-frys with the vague promise of sustainability. As lo-mein slurps down my esophagus, I ponder the best way to reveal my most recent bit of commitment. Like any good punchline, I decide a blunt and straightforward strategy will serve me best.
“Guess what I’m becoming?”
“You got a job as a teaching assistant?”
“Close, A dominatrix…What do you think?” Iordanis’s eyes widen and he gasps with his full body, then collects himself to answer.
“I’m not sure where this came from, but it’s exciting!”
After an elevator pitch explaining how this decision could be a great learning experience, I decide it’s better to show, not just tell. I tell Iordanis that Cash Vamp has sent me an online quiz for my first exam, and he’d be the perfect partner. My left hand shoves overpriced noodles down my throat as my right navigates through the wall of links and tweets Cash Vamp has messaged me over the previous days. My target lies between faux leather thongs and the full text of The Art of Seduction by Robert Greene. Cash Vamp writes that the quiz is a light primer for our next lesson.
“This will be a little different from your usual computer science exams,” I tell Iordanis.
The Kinklist shrouds our faces in a rainbow display. Unlike the moody BDSM test of my youth, this website places substance over style. A harsh white background is covered by a sea of over one hundred questions. Test-takers are instructed to use a color-coded system to express their interest in a certain kink. Blue means favorite, yellow indifferent, and red limited. Answers are also subdivided in the giving and receiving categories. Kinky sex really loses its edge when it’s turned into a spreadsheet, yet I have no idea where to begin.
There are three levels: classic, detailed, and please don’t. Out of curiosity we skip to the final level. Now, our screens are flooded with hundreds more options to define our sexualities. I clutch my chest at the sight of ‘breast growth’ under the category of ‘General Surrealism.’ The constant swelling was already bad enough during puberty; what pleasure could be derived from doing it all over again? Through fluids and torture and oral, there’s even an entire section dedicated to vore, something the website defines as “the act of physically consuming another character.” Neither Iordanis or I can stomach the idea, so we recede back to novice.
Instead, we warm up with some more vanilla questions. What does your ideal partner look like? How many bodies present takes a scene from company to overcrowded? Are there any toys you prefer to do the heavy lifting? So far I’m yellow for almost most categories. Asexuals come in every flavor of fuckery, and I happen to be one who takes a passive attitude towards sex. I’m as open to being spread eagle on a bed as I am to jumping out of a plane. Soon enough I’ll get around to trying both and seeing which I prefer.
For an allegedly amateur set of questions, there are many options that leave Iordanis and me dumbfounded. Apparently furriers and electro stimulation and necrophilia are all for beginners.
“Would you say you’re more open or adverse to forced orgasms?” I ask Iordanis.
“I don’t think I even know what that means.”
“So I’ll mark you down as indifferent.”
But there is only one category that fully catches me off guard: romance/affection. Between the rimming and teasing I forget there’s room for loving. Who am I to say you can’t be head over heels with the person denying your orgasm? I decide to mark this category as yellow. Although my yearning is constant, how can something be my favorite if I’ve never experienced it before?
Iordanis tells me he’s too overwhelmed to continue answering questions. Somehow I find it hard to believe that the virgin in this pair had less trouble with the exam.
For dessert, we indulge in a favorite pastime: convincing his roommates we’re hooking up. Iordanis never bothered to come out, so the entire house believes he’s getting lucky tonight.
We make sure to bang on the floor enough to avoid giving false impressions on Iordanis’s stamina. Then onto the main event. One of our favorite pastimes is swiping on each other’s dating apps. We lie on his floor and trade phones, preparing to find one another someone who will help us end this charade. Iordanis redownloads Grindr to show me the hairy chests and love handles attempting to seduce my friend with the prospect of one night of fun. Good thing he says he prefers twinks.
He shows me his ex’s profile, then warns me that under no circumstances may I message him. He’s just another headless torso who describes himself as “muscular, verse, and HIV-negative.” I met the face who identifies this body back when they dated freshman year, but now his profile simply serves Iordanis as a tool to ensure that his ex is never too close for comfort: the app displays how many meters separate them at all times. Before I do anything stupid, he deletes the app.
Meanwhile Iordanis gets to make the first move on my Bumble profile. He looks at my previous matches for inspiration. They’re a selection of basement show drummers, wannabe stand-up comedians, and nice Jewish boys from across Philadelphia. What I look for most is the ability to have a decent conversation, but this doesn’t mean I only care about personality. I can think a person is attractive, but it doesn’t mean I want to have sex with them. It’s quite simple. A big cheesy grin and deep-set eyes are the first two aspects that come to mind when I define my physical attraction. But admittedly, sometimes I’ll swipe right solely because someone is conventionally attractive for the confidence boost. If a stunner thinks I’m pretty, they must be right. None of this matters when the conversations rarely go beyond an initial match. I extract the dopamine hit from a match and ghost.
What surprises Iordanis most are the women in my feed. This is a decision I constantly go back and forth on. To be with women or not to be, that is the question. It’s difficult enough figuring out where I stand sexually; I’ll unpack everything else later. The crushes of my youth were always boys. Safe ones I’d never have a chance. Always too gay. Too far away. Too deeply in love with their girlfriends. Those were the ones I could fantasize about without risk of a relationship
It never really mattered if I found them attractive, only that they could never find me so.
Setting my profile to everyone could simply be my way to feel queer enough. Within the LGBT community I feel Tagsa need to conform for others’ approval. Being with a woman is far more tangible than a lack of sexual attraction. If I fail, could I have just been straight this whole time? I fear asexuality is a label I reward myself to feel special. But would that be worth all the times I’ve felt so unloveable for using the word? Maybe it’s time to throw the terminology away.
By the end of the night, Iordanis has found some suitors. They’re preppier than my usual taste, but it might be good to try something new. I appreciate his genuine excitement that maybe, just maybe, one of these poor souls could become my boyfriend.
Although I only live a block away, Iordanis offers to walk me home. Silence fills the living room as squeaky stairs indicate our presence to the rest of the house. Only the sound of the reality TV show Dance Moms fills the room as smirks attempt to suppress laughter. In response, Iordanis and I crack our backs, stretch our arms, and say “we just had awesome, steamy, hot heterosexual intercourse!” At least I can hold onto this facade of a boyfriend.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
The day prior to our next meeting, Cash Vamp informs me of some news.
Hey fuck I forgot to message you. So someone in my house died yesterday
Omg I’m so sorry
Could we meet virtually tomorrow? I am feeling under the weather as well.
Are you holding up okay?
Yeah it’s rough but I’m alright
Cash Vamp then suggests that we use Discord. She says it’s her preferred platform. Here she is known as Newsie, a nickname I can assume stems from her apparent fondness for the 1992 Disney classic about tap-dancing child laborers. Her profile picture depicts a raven-haired witch robed in a deep v-cut rouge dress. Over a boiling cauldron she casts skull-shaped pills and purple potions into the mixture, forming green bubbles. Pretty accurate to reality. Her “About Me” reads:
Financial Dominatrix ✨ professional mean girl
let me fit my tight 5 in your humiliation session
I have no idea what the second part means. The conclusion I draw has to do with the five digits on her hand and all the places they can poke and prod. The cracks and crevices of the human body most people would be appalled to explore. But I’m in search of the whole truth, not some lame personal attempt at understanding. I find the courage to ask for a clarification.
A tight five is like a standup term for a comedy routine that’s cut short. No fat, no frills, just bits
I’m embarrassed that “humiliation session” is the part I did understand. And yet, this only affirms my education is in proper hands.
We are supposed to meet the next day at 4:00 PM sharp, only I’m late to this virtual session. Unfortunately the temptation of an on-campus free food event lured me in, so I stuff my face, and then hurry back (with an extra PB & J jammed in my pocket) to my apartment. Halfway there, on the campus bridge, my phone vibrates. A purple Discord monster appears. Will this be a reprimand from Cash Vamp I don’t even have to pay for?
About to call in a minute!
Something about the exclamation point penetrates my soul. Here she is, looking forward to our private session, and I’m about to disappoint someone who makes her living off of people pleasers. Cash Vamp already knows I have problems sexually, she can’t add truancy to the list.
Good cardio is important for any developing dominatrix. Nothing compares to chasing a client in a corset and platform heels. So hopefully she will forgive my five minutes of tardiness in the name of passing the physical exam of BDSM bootcamp.
But then I end up stuck on the bridge because I run into my friend Marsha while I’m trying to catch my breath. Marsha is fully aware of my domme-hood as she was present when I conceived this idea, but her friend is someone I would do anything to prevent from knowing. He’s someone that lingers, who’s never taken full control over my heart but who a part of me hopes to have a chance with romantically. With an orthodox Jewish upbringing, I doubt he’s looking to introduce his parents to his girlfriend, the dominatrix.
“Where are you in such a rush to?” Marsha says.
“Oh just my weekly meeting for class…it’s like an interview,” I respond between heavy hoarse breaths, my words muffled from peanut butter filling the crevices of my cheeks. He’s going to think I don’t exercise. That’s so unattractive. But there’s no time to worry, so I Irish Exit and continue my race.
Once hitting my apartment I scramble to find my keys and gain composure. She’s still sitting on that server in solitude, so I finally warn her it’ll take a few more minutes.
Sorry my bladder is about to explode will be on in two
tyt
On the video call, I’m welcomed by Cash Vamp, seated in a room bathed in purple. The light reflects off black walls with white trimming and makes her pale skin glow. It shines on art supplies piled onto an unpainted wooden triangle shelf and an electric guitar whose neck pops into frame. Off the tchotchkes aligning her desk and on a poster which reads The Cocaine Fiends. But once my eyes spot the nightstand full of dildos, they remain permanently glued. There’s one lavender toy of the most reasonable size. Then a cow printed gadget. And finally, a giant black dildo standing like a gleaming pillar of intercourse, balls and all.
“I don’t think I can get through this interview without acknowledging the elephant in the room: how large is that dildo on your table?”
“Oh you mean Normand? He’s a foot long.”
Cash Vamp explains that Normand is a gift from one of her financial submissives (finsub) that costs $87. Currently, he only serves as decoration. She’s still figuring out what to do with him. We spitball off each other for various unexpected uses and conclude Normand would work great as a display for silly hats, a door stopper, or a melee weapon for intruders.
Before beginning the lesson I ask about her housemate. Dave was a friend of her dad’s close enough to be considered her cool uncle. When speaking about his death, Cash Vamp only says Dave’s fiancé found him in their bedroom, blue in the face and unconscious. She doesn’t mention an upcoming funeral, but the sudden nature of the death leads me to conclude there hasn’t been a moment to plan one yet. In fear of being insensitive, I decide to refrain from further questions and offer my condolences instead. She doesn’t cry, but I can hear the pain in her tone. Her answers are interrupted by sniffles, a mixture of sickness and sadness.
Dominatrixes mourn and cry and feel like shit too. Inflicting pain does not prevent it.
Talking to me over this zoom is clearly a distraction, an example of her self-admitted “fuck it we ball” attitude. We continue by resuming the lessons on her master-document. The first update is the title: CashVamp’s Declassified Domme Survival Guide.
Today we begin with kinks & fetishes. What I first learn is that there’s a difference between these two terms. To explain, Cash Vamp uses a metaphor: in this hypothetical sundae, fetish is the ice cream and kink is the cherry on top. You’d be fine eating a bowl of cherries, but unsatisfied. The ice cream is what really makes you ravenous. Some people can’t even have dessert without it.
Now take all that and apply it to BDSM, or sex in general. Most people have fetishes without even realizing it. The ass men and thigh guys of the world all have a fetish for a body part, no different from the foot fiends who often become the butt of an internet joke. These fetishes often develop through societal standards, while others come from personal experiences. But what I think this metaphor reveals most is that both Cash Vamp and I have a sweet tooth.
Cash Vamp then sends me a chart with over 500 different fetishes and kinks created by her friend, Mira the Kitten. Anal fisting is listed first. My ass cheeks clench. This will likely go as well as the first exam.
While I don’t really know if I have any of my own, I tell Cash Vamp how it feels to be a fetish.
For way too long I’ve felt betrayed by my body when it comes to public safety. My breasts have been my defining physical characteristic since seventh grade when I traded training bras for DDs. What I loved most about my new boobs then were the stretch marks that looked like suns. To see them rise and set with each breath in a mirror, naked. This was womanhood.
All it takes is one greasy old man. Maybe he’ll whistle or just stare, but sometimes he gets creative, squeezing his own chest while making direct eye contact. That’s enough to consider a breast reduction. But I want to change this world, not my body. For now, I’ll throw on a loose t-shirt and accept looking like a circus tent. Sometimes when I need a quick fix to improve my body image, I’ll free the nipple and march around braless. All for the satisfaction of seeing other people look at me. I created this slutty illusion, and with only a sweatshirt can I take it back. But then the back pain from walking around without support sets in and leaves you thinking, “Am I really just a pair of nice tits?”
No one understands better than a professional fetish provider. Big boobs bring in the big bucks, so Cash Vamp’s not afraid to utilize her assets in branding. She also admits that when it comes to her own insecurities, knowing there are clients who will pay to fuck her over their skinny wives does boost her confidence.
When it comes to the specifics of what she offers, there are some activities that remain off limits. This includes standard community “no go’s” that usually deal with parties that cannot consent (bestiality, necrophilia, etc.), and play styles that feel marginalizing (ageplay, raceplay). There are also many fetishes Cash Vamp provides even though she’s personally uninterested. Take Adult Baby Diaper Lovers (ABDL). Those who enjoy dressing up in onesies, sucking on binkies, and shitting themselves knowing mommy will help them. Since it doesn’t hurt anyone, she views the kink as no big deal. I’m open to how people could use this to heal their childhood trauma, but struggle to understand what differentiates it from ageplay once sex is introduced.
“I try not to kinkshame but rather kink-ask-why.”
That’s how Cash Vamp remains open to more unconventional requests. Her knowledge is vast, but this doesn’t mean she can fully comprehend why something would be a turn on. All she can do is listen to clients, and when comfortable, help them make fantasy reality.
When it comes to Cash Vamp’s personal kinks, her answer leaves me shocked. The Man she spends every Tuesday with is her owner. They first met when The Man reached out to her for a virtual girlfriend experience. The relationship began as purely professional. On principle, Cash Vamp never intended on forming a romantic connection with a client let alone a relationship like this with a man, but the heart is stronger. He lives in Seattle, so they’ve only met in person a handful of times. She says the first time in person they nearly ripped each other’s clothes off.
The rules of their relationship are defined contractually in a document renewed every three years. Each week, The Man provides Cash Vamp with an assortment of tasks to complete. They include household chores, self-care assignments, and exercises she refers to as “government mandated walks.” Complete the tasks and receive the award of a slap in the bedroom. Fail, and the punishment will be something really tortuous, like extra cleaning.
She sends me a presentation he assigned her to make entitled “The Three Kink Classes I Took This Month & What I Think They Can Do For Us.” Each slide is accompanied with a digital self-portrait and descriptions of class vibes, what she learned, and how she can apply the knowledge back to her owner. “Emotionally Charged Play with Mistress Mia Action” was by far her favorite class. With a radiating blonde streak of hair and descriptions of intentional communication, this is what it means to reach enlightenment.
The best part of The Man is that he never makes Cash Vamp choose between him and her work. Many partners in her past have created conditions for an ultimatum, but with The Man she can feel completely whole. She dreams of a day when they’ll live together in a Victorian fixer upper, playing hosts to kink socials. All that’s missing is a white picket fence.
A dominatrix who belongs to someone: an idea I’ve certainly never considered. Maybe this helps her relate better to her clients. A taste of her own medicine. Part of me is crushed at this discovery, I have to confess. My mentor chooses to be an object? At this moment I kink-ask-why this professional mean-girl would ever let someone order her around for free. Is that not the ultimate act of domination, though: to advocate for yourself? Is this what it means to find true pleasure? And who am I to judge? My own online virtual flings never amounted to relationships, just the frustration of kissy-face emojis never actualized. Can’t be too jealous when I have no intention of being owned.
With two more lessons to plow through, we move onto branding. Anyone can be a plain-old dominatrix, so it comes down to specific offerings to entice a certain clientele. This goes beyond simply choosing a label like humilatrix or femme-domme. For this, begin with a mission statement. Cash Vamp provides her own as an example:
Cash Vamp is a luxurious, comedic Domme with a penchant for humiliation and findom. She expresses this through memes on social media, showing her latest tributes, and captioning her promo photos with musings of potential interactions that show off her personality.
Later I’ll complete a 16-question online quiz she provides to help determine my brand type. An hour spent crafting well thought out answers wasted after discovering my results are hidden behind a pay-wall. Guess I’ll have to discover my aesthetic on my own. For now, we focus on every dirty detail that can take me from a general vixen to a hyper-specific whore.
“Your name, color scheme, wardrobe, etc., should all in some way reflect your values as a Domme, with a spark of authenticity.”
Each element of Cash Vamp’s online presence is carefully tailored to create her persona. She’s drawn clear lines to her influences of infamous vixens like Elvir and both Eartha Kitt and Michelle Pfieffer’s Catwoman, real strippers and even their more questionable movie portrayals like Elizabeth Berkely in the cult classic Showgirls, and ‘90s Mugler runway models through her skimpy all black ensembles and slicked back black hair. Nods to her queer identity are present in the pink and blue lighting of her photoshoots. She’s even put careful consideration into her move away from the font “London Fog” to “Geizer.” Attached is an article explaining the psychology of typography I’d expect to find in a Wharton marketing class (priced, of course, at a far higher rate).
But most importantly, it’s all in the name. Cash Vamp epitomizes her brand: a bloodthirsty vampire ready to suck your wallet dry.
“Listen dawg, I can’t tell you what to name yourself. There are a million different prefixes and honorifics I’ve seen. Mistress, Goddess, Mxtrx, Miss, Master, Princess, Empress, Queen, Daddy, Mommy, and the list goes on. I’m an oddball for not choosing an honorific as a part of my branding. I feel like I wear many different silly hats during sessions while keeping the central theme of my brand as one of greed/old aristocracy. As far as your actual name is concerned, keep it memorable. Cash Vamp is easy, tells you who and what I am, gives you a vibe. Princess Margot Du Berry Von Ballslap is strong but fuck that is a lot to remember.”
Currently, I have absolutely no idea what my persona will become. All I know is I’m a virgin with a dirty sense of humor. For the suckers who like irony, that’s a start. Cash Vamp probably can tell I’m overwhelmed by all this information, so her last piece of advice is quite simple: Authority comes easier when you have something authentic behind it.
Total shock best describes my feelings towards this living, breathing sex work encyclopedia I’ve been graced with from the heavens. Lucifer truly is a fallen angel. To inquire more how she became this expert, I remember how she mentioned getting her start on the virtual reality website IMVU and bring it up.
At 18 Cash Vamp made her debut at a digital club called Krave. During highschool, IMVU was a hobby. Although at university she was living her dream of attending an art school in the city, she was isolated and broke. That’s when she began taking virtual reality more seriously as a way to make money and find people of similar interests. She felt that her identity was safe because people wouldn’t even know what it meant to be an IMVU stripper.
At Krave she met fellow workers Cass and Cristina, the latter of whom she’d eventually start dating. Wanting more control, the trio moved on to form a club called Deja Vu. She remembers the exact date Deja opened because it was one of the employees’ birthdays. April 16, 2016: Deja Day, D-Day if you will. The club was revolutionary— the first themed strip club on the platform. It was tropical and beachy, the perfect escape from reality. A year in, Cash Vamp found herself running the club by herself without any of the credit. At this point, her relationship with Cristina was over. Her ex now had a fiancée and a child in the physical world. Cash Vamp understood that jobs and kids and other responsibilities came first, but became disgruntled as the club fell apart. She recalls how Deja became stuck between Halloween and Christmas because no one was updating the room textures. You either get a spooktacular strip tease or naughty Christmas cheer. No in between. When she told Cristina she needed to leave and form her own thing, she was pissed, but understood. Cash Vamp knew that leaving would be the death of Deja. Most people thought Deja died because of Cristina and Cash Vamp’s breakup, but really it was only that Cash Vamp found her own ambition, to find bigger, better things.
There was already anticipation built around Cash Vamp’s next project. The majority of workers left Deja with her, and her friend Honey even said she’d come back to the club scene just for the opening. In the physical world, she had a new girlfriend, Destiny, and she moved from New Jersey to Texas to be with her. This new relationship gave her an outlet of someone offline she could talk to about her digital dreams. Her inspiration for the new design was Greek and Roman mythology. For the next eight months, she crafted every last detail of the club. She painted the pictures in each room by hand. Meshed and textured the entire building. Put together a website. Made a Discord. Skills that would ultimately become part of her current career.
Arcadia opened on August 15, 2018. She originally aimed for the Ides of March because in her words that would be “iconic,” but instead she settled for a more practical ides. The virtual club lasted until 2021, gaining traction during COVID but declined once restrictions on the physical world began lifting. This was coupled with her own relationship problems. Destiny eventually pressured Cash Vamp to stop working because she felt Cash Vamp wasn’t giving her enough attention. The two broke up, leading Cash Vamp to leave Texas and return to Jersey. Needing money, Cash Vamp stayed with Arcadia until she was forced to seek other ventures.
“You haven’t seen Arcadia yet, have you?” Cash Vamp asks as a link appears in our chat. It takes me to the Wix website Cash Vamp created to promote Arcadia. I’m welcomed to a video encrusted with blue, pink, and yellow gems. Pressing play begins a tour of the club, the soundtrack a 2010s beat clearly plucked from tumblr, but that I’ve never heard. With gold-lined black couches and a sun mosaic centered between two grand staircases, the club looks like Versace threw up all over it in the best way possible. There’s a bed with a dozen throw pillows marked with a neon sign saying “Do It For the Gram” and a now deactivated “follows us” QR code underneath. On the second floor is a dressing room, equipped with ring lights, a makeup table, more throw pillows, and a black tapestry that reads:
Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo
“If I cannot bend the heavens, then I shall move the powers of hell”
Listed under the “girls” tab, are employee bios with their avatar’s pictures. May looks like an anime character with doe eyes and pink hair. Saint is a shirtless nun who must have forgotten her bra at the Abbey. Baiko, Fen, and Nessa are all generally goth, clad in black lingerie and jeweled references to the Devil. Newsie now has curvaceous hips, a severe widow’s peak, and two different colored eyes, one red, one white. All have unnaturally perfect bodies and very few items of clothing. These girls prove that sex doesn’t stop selling in the virtual realm.
We reach the final lesson of the day: self-care. Not every morning can you wake up to birds chirping and a breakfast-in-bed covered by a finsub. A Day in the life of Cash Vamp is typically determined by what kind of work takes priority. She follows three standard models of routine.
For in-person sessions, she’s already prepared by booking a hotel room in Philly, reserving a dinner, and buying all the proper implements. Tactical thought is also put into her appearance these days. Her undergarments are hidden under thick plaid pants and t-shirts, tucking her more conspicuous items away with extra stockings and thongs. Hair and makeup is kept relatively natural to avoid suspicion at upscale hotels. Around noon, she’s off to her destination, giving herself enough time to check in, set up, and chill. Once the client arrives, the four-hour marathon begins, always remembering to take breaks when a scene becomes too intense. She ends her evening with an upscale dinner catered by her client, and will often take advantage of the hotel before heading back to Jersey in the following days.
Content days are spent clicking and editing with virtual sessions to fill in the gaps. Her morning starts with emails and session confirmations. Then begin the photoshoots, where she can execute her vision by cleaning her space and throwing together some combination of black lingerie. Once blemishes are covered, she emphasizes that heels are the final step. HEELS LAST. After the photos are taken, there’s a designated slot at 2:30 to say lewd things to some dude in between bites of veggie wrap and sips of coffee. The rest of the day is dedicated to perfecting her shots on photoshop and initiating a targeted social media ad campaign.
For what she calls “lazy days,” Cash Vamp catches up on cleaning, self-care, and making sure she spends some time in nature. Since much of her work involves a screen, touching grass gives her a moment to breathe. These activities give her a general sense of productivity, especially during the periods when demand for her services declines. No matter what her days look like, she places emphasis on self-care to maintain some form of stability.
“It’s important to ‘Self Domme’ yourself. There will be stupid men, stupid people, sometimes even other sex workers, out there negging you on. It’s not your burden to bear if idiots write stupid things on the internet. When you post photos, you are there to make money and get out.”
Cash Vamp describes the real comments that flood her online presence. The man who believes women actually have more power because they can use their sexuality to make money and get what they want. The woman who considers sex work against the Lord’s nature for women, but strangely does not consider it ungodly to be so obnoxious about her religion. The mouth breather who works at Walgreens who thinks fat women shouldn’t exist.
“People will find whatever shitty reason to insult a dominatrix, especially if they cannot afford one,” she remarks. “No one’s shitty, anonymous, opinion on my body has ever cut me a check.”
But telling yourself that these opinions don’t matter isn’t substantial on its own. This is why she dommes herself into therapy. Fortunately, I’ve had one since 15, but I appreciate her inclusion of a link taking me to a stigma-free support service called Pineapple Support. The organization provides free and low-cost mental health services to sex workers, even taking its name from one of the most common safewords. It’s a network built on understanding that many traditional shrinks are unable to provide.
“It takes a village to raise a whore. That’s a quote by Lola Divina from her book Thriving in Sex Work.”
“It takes a village to raise a whore… it takes a village to raise a whore,” I repeat several times. Cash Vamp continues by providing strategies on how to construct this community.
“Keep people around who do what you do, or at least know you do it. In the community, look for people who’ve been there awhile or at least give you good vibes outside of the context of it being a kink event. You wouldn’t expect every plumber to be the same or every accountant to be the same, there are a million different reasons why people become Dommes or Sex workers. Some have better etiquette than others, so trust your gut. And whenever you work, at least have one person who always always has your location turned on or is there to call you after a session.”
That’s when I remember that she had told me about Dave the first time we had met. The one who always checked on her following a session to make sure she didn’t end up dead, or worse. He was her person. I keep this thought to myself, not wanting to remove her from the escape she’s found in our lesson.
We’ve been talking virtually for over two hours. In between her lectures on advice and soliloquies she’s been hacking and sneezing. If anyone needs self-care, it’s the person on the other end of this call. I wish her well. Not simply so she’s better for our lesson next week. If only I could bring her chicken soup and orange juice. Then I’d tuck her in and read her a bedtime story where the evil stepmother successfully gets revenge. However, a lack of car makes reaching South Jersey impossible right now. This is someone I could see myself going the long run with. Someone I hope sticks around after I complete Domme 101.
I shut my laptop screen and another lesson is complete. A few days ago I told Marsha I’d join her at some show for a college band I don’t care about, but my brain is now fried from a 120 minute video call. All the time I spent on the internet as a teen has left me susceptible to migraines from overuse of technology. A product of my generation.
There’s one takeaway that becomes apparent after our session: there’s absolutely no way I have the time, energy, or capacity to become a dominatrix professionally.
I’m all tied up by just how much goes into this line of work. Right now I just need to leave my apartment and take a government mandated walk.
Two blocks down I stop at the 24 hour CVS. How many dozens of times have I been here since last coming with Cash Vamp? It’s the place I turn to when I need to think or can’t sleep. Strolling through the aisles and letting the LED lights blind me. I find myself in the makeup section. Unlike my mentor, I usually spend approximately five minutes on eyeliner and mascara that will smudge anyways. When was the last time I put on blush or curled my eyelashes or felt like a woman?
Lipsticks catch my attention. Not sure why. I’ve always disliked wearing them since bright colors emphasize my lack of an upper lip. A purple tube draws me in. One of my favorite colors since reading in third grade that Ancient Romans made purple dye out of sea snail mucus. It’s also a color on the asexual flag. The casing is spikey. I can imagine somebody has been tempted to shove this up their ass. This could be the beginning of my branding, so I head to self-checkout and use my loyalty coupon.
What’s in a name comes about while talking to fellow experimental writers. I tell them I’m having writer’s block when it comes to baptizing my domme persona with a proper title. We try out different honorifics. Princess Pain. Queen Karma. The Jokeress. None feel correct.
“It needs to be something that unfortunately pays reference to a meme account name I didn’t choose.” My bete noire.
“Pledge Mistress. Like a Pledge Master but way sexier,” suggests my classmate, Luna.
A nod to the frat brothers who conduct homoerotic torturing sessions of freshmen to prove their loyalties to Sigma Cuck Whatever. Colloquially known as hazing. Cash Vamp later suggests Mistress PM, but I stick with the former to reference my current day job as a college student. Pledge Mistress is a sly yet sultry seductive brain teaser. She doesn’t need any weapons or furry handcuffs to cause pain. Just the power of her own sharp tongue. But what Pledge Mistress feels most is that she’s just drained the thesaurus for any other word for whore.
TO BE CONTINUED
