I have often wondered whether or not to publish a “Frequently Asked Questions” page about what I do for a living, as there are assumptions made with alarming regularity by those in the vanilla world. And why shouldn’t they, of course? They saw “Band of Gold” in the mid-nineties, and how different can it be to what I do, right? There was someone with a whip in it wasn’t there? Ha! Easy money then, surely?
I’ve decided, therefore, to write a transcript of a conversation I had recently outside a pub with a middle-class rugby type of about thirty who had just been informed about my career by a mutual friend. This will serve as the most thorough FAQ I could ever give.
Boy: So you whip people for money?
Me: It’s a bit more complicated than that.
Boy: Yeah, what, so you fuck them as well?
Me: Christ, no! Actually there’s very little physical contact at all. Fetish is a much more cerebral thing. It’s about manipulating that spot in someone’s mind that makes the pulse race and the electrical signals crackle across the brain like a violent thunderstorm. Fetish is that rollercoaster thrill that’s about far more than sex.
Boy: Huh? So what do you have to do for them?
Me: I don’t HAVE to do anything. EVER. I’m in charge. I find it so much fun to pick apart exactly what excites and terrifies them, and why, and then I often intensify this with hypnosis. Depending on what makes the person tick, I may bring in a bit of torture, humiliation, or any number of other factors. It all depends on the individual and what I think will make the adrenaline flow and the skin begin to tingle. This sort of arousal happens a lot higher up than the cock. I do brain porn.
Boy: But you’re a prozzie, right?
Me: No. You’re drunk, you daft bugger. I can see. You’re swaying. And you’ve lit the wrong end of that cigarette.
Boy: Huh?
Me: I’m no more a prostitute than anyone in any industry. In the past I’ve worked in sales, and in customer services, and in a whole bunch of other jobs where I’ve had to smile through gritted teeth, wear clothes I don’t like, and do what I’m told by people who aren’t worth the oxygen, and for a wage that isn’t worth waking up for. I’m not someone who likes to work for others, and for me to do so in any job would make me a prostitute as far as I’m concerned. By the way, do you want me to light that for you? It appears to be melting.*
Boy: So you’re not a prozzie?
Me: No. I’m not. I admire people who go on the game through their own choice, but I just couldn’t do it myself. It’d be too much like all the other jobs I’d had in shops, in pubs, and in offices, and I’m too stubborn to go back to pleasing others for money. I work for myself now, and the customer is only right when I tell them that they’re right. As long as my clients need me more than I need them, the balance of power is exactly where it should be.
Boy: Oh bollocks! I’ve lit the wrong end of my ciggie!
Me: Yes. You have.
Boy: Shit, shit, shit! Dave, can I have another fag?
(For those across the pond, “fags” are English slang for “cigarettes”. In the past, this has led to some entertaining misunderstandings, but that’s at least one story for another day. At this point, the boy’s fellow drunken rugger bugger emerged from the doorway.)
Other Boy: What?
Boy: Gimme a fag.
Other Boy: Who’s this?
Boy: She whips people for money.
Me: Well actually, it’s a lot more complicated than-
Other Boy: How much for a handjob?
Me: Oh fuck off Dave.
(Ms Slide exits stage left)
*2014 edit – I know that many sex workers have control over what they do and who they do it with, and that some dommes do have sex with clients, but I didn’t make it clear in this post. Careless writing. Apologies and retrospective self-callout.
