“I could fall in love with a chair.” That is a real thing that I said to the guy I was sleeping with last week. His face fell as if I’d wounded him deeply and unexpectedly. I tried to explain myself but my words fell flat. How can I expect anyone to understand such an absurd statement? It’s something I’ve said before. I’ve no problem with honesty or vulnerability. I’ve never been afraid to tell someone the truth, even at the risk of making an absolute fool out of myself. But what is the truth in that statement? I’m not saying that I am fickle enough to love just anything or anyone, or that I have a sexual preference for inanimate objects. What I’m referring to is the openness of my heart and how my personal life has always been a bit of a minefield. One explosion after the other. I couldn’t fall in love with every chair, but if a chair had that certain, special, enigmatic something…I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning.
After nearly a decade of melodrama and heartbreak crescendoed by the disaster that was/is my sudden and extremely short-lived marriage, I decided that something serious had to be done. I still can’t even process, let alone talk about, my failed marriage. What a disaster. I’m still in recovery. Feel free to speculate as to why I seem to have a never-ending parade of boyfriends, fiances, wannabe slaves/submissives, lovers and now an estranged husband. I know myself and my life better than anyone else ever could no matter how much I spill. I have my own theories.
It isn’t because I’m a beauty queen. I’m not. It isn’t because I’m out night after night, hitting the pavement on the hunt for fresh meat. I don’t. I spend most of my free time alone. I have an all-consuming, self-managed career (or three). I don’t have time for that shit. It isn’t because I am actively trying to fill a void (i.e. the classic “daddy issues” assessment). I’ve worked through and continue to work on those issues in proactive, relentlessly honest and healthy ways. I am very close with the family that I do have and it’s a closeness that I’ve fought for. My stepfather is the most incredible man I’ve ever known. I’m good in that department nowadays. And yet I seem to possess some mysterious charm that specifically attracts these very intense romantic figures to me like moths to a flame. It is a part of me that existed long before I became a Dominatrix and long before I was this public about my sexual desires and interests. It’s exhausting. I needed a break. I wanted to focus completely on my work and on myself.
So on the first new moon of this year, I set a chain of events in motion intended to free me of the debilitating romanticism that once threatened to be the death of me. I performed a ritual that was meant to bound me to the aspects of The Chariot (tarot key). I set my intentions very clearly. I wanted time off from romantic obsession and all-consuming love bullshit. The goal was not to become celibate or heartless, but to challenge myself to develop my mind and my will to move beyond the entrapments of lust and love in order to pursue a more rewarding life. Basically, I cast a shadow around my heart. Anyone who dared to come close would be cloaked in confusion and darkness. They would run, or be forced out. Despite careful consideration before going through with this energetic decision and being 100% certain that this was what I needed to do; I failed to prepare myself for the repercussions of placing this invisible barrier around my heart. The result has been a succession of jewels dangled before my eyes and then ripped away without any rational explanation. One year. This was my doing.
I was sort of “set up” with him by a mutual friend. It seemed that we had a lot in common and she thought we would hit it off, as friends or otherwise. He made contact with me initially, citing our mutual friend as a reference and telling me how she had described me as something of a magical Domme-witch masterpiece. I was flattered (by my friend’s words, thanks girl) and intrigued. The conversation was immediately stimulating as I found him to be rather thoughtful and intelligent. He’s half Danish. Have you ever met a Danish man? Well, I want to specify in order to avoid making a sweeping generalization about an entire culture. The Danish guys I’ve met who are within my age and peer group share a few distinct qualities. They have a certain way of speaking. Their words cut sharp and are incredibly precise and yet they tend to retain this air of purity, like a child who is perhaps too forthright only because they’ve not yet developed social graces and boundaries. Another thing is the eye contact. They hold it long and hard. Some people might find these things to be uncomfortable, even aggressive. I find it to be irresistibly charming and sexy. The other half of his heritage is Italian. Stern intellect tempered with searing hot, unbridled passion. I was fucked from the start. You understand.
So we talked and talked for days on end. He’d left Denmark to travel around the United States and see what kind of a life he might be able to find here. After visiting the Kink headquarters in San Francisco, he had been considering the pursuit of a career in fetish porn and wondered at whether or not I might be interested in working as his “manager”. We began exchanging photos and talking pretty explicitly about sex. He implied that he wanted me to train him sexually because he was unsure of whether or not he was a good lover anymore (or ever had been) due to a string of supposedly submissive and uninspiring partners. Blah blah blah, I fell for it. This guy is young, beautiful, intelligent & so charming that it is actually a bit frightening and at times, manipulative. I was hooked. I mentioned casually that I was about to spend a week in NYC after tour wrapped and that he should come. I literally just said, “Come.” And then he bought a plane ticket. He’d had plans to come to LA anyway, hence my friend suggesting that we get to know each other, but I wanted to test my powers of attraction and persuasion. He wanted me to Domme him, after all.
What I didn’t realize before making my clever power play is that he and my friend had had a slight romantic and/or sexual tryst of their own that ended with him essentially rejecting her with no explanation. She then had to accept his wayward ways in order to preserve some kind of limp friendship and avoid inner-circle drama. That’s my perception of the situation, at least. On top of that, he had already been keeping tabs on me (less stalkerish phrasing evades me) for months after another one of these Danish freaks told him about meeting me (“I met a Dominatrix in LA.”) and had become a fan of both my writing and my music.
When his flight landed in NYC, he came directly to me. Carrying a huge army bag on his back up six flights of stairs to my friend’s East Village apartment in the suffocating July heat left him drenched in sweat and out of breath. My first thought upon seeing him was, “This is what he must look like after sex.” Despite his exhaustion he was radiant, smiling and dripping with pheromones that immediately sent my body into a frenzy. We hugged. His scent enveloped me and made me feel at ease. It was a mixture of blood, sweat, semen and leather. I could sense him reacting to me in a similar way. We were in mutual awe of each other. An easy match. Everything felt easy. We made our way out into the city together in a sweaty haze with no real plan or care aside from getting his gigantic bag dropped off somewhere. I was in New York to take a few meetings and work on projects with my friend and main co-conspirator but aside from that, I intended to spend my time however/wherever with this strange new creature.
Our first night together was very intense. We went on a long walk down to the water. “If I died right now, what would you do?” I like to pose these strange little questions. It helps me get a handle on whoever it is that I’ve chosen to spend my time with. “Honestly? I’d probably fuck you.” We burst into laughter. What an insane thing to say. Some casual necrophilic humor to break the ice.
After several hours of twisted jokes, intense eye contact, comfortable silences followed by thoughtful discussions that managed to penetrate the thick fog of sexual tension between us, our faces finally managed to lock while drinking in a TriBeCa firemen’s bar. It was one of “those” kisses. The weak in the knees type. Deep, passionate, hands on, time stood still, etc. etc. Drake was playing on the jukebox. He didn’t know much about Drake, but of course I do and thought it was perfect. (“I got my eyes on you/You’re everything that I see/I want your high love and emotion/Endlessly”)
I know he must’ve found me to be a bit silly in that moment, heavily identifying with basic pop culture and wiggling around in my bar stool. He made a few off-putting comments that night which, in hindsight, were the first signs of the great divide that would inevitably come between us. While making out heavily against a wall outside, he abruptly said, “I’m not going to fuck you tonight.” What an annoying way to kill the mood. I didn’t particularly care whether or not we had actual intercourse and I surely did not care whether or not he got to shoot a load in/on me. (Sidenote: male ejaculation means absolutely nothing to me. The less you cum, the better.) I was just enjoying the intimacy and the fact that I’d imported him on command. I’d been traveling extensively for months without any privacy, let alone intimacy. My last slave-turned-lover had disappointed me. I felt light. The tension was melting away from my body. I was amused. Too light and too amused to be bothered with the weird power games that he was foolishly trying to play with me. My feeling at the time was this: Whatever. I know a thing or two about power. I can handle him.
We were up until 5 AM that night. At war in my friend’s living room. He, doing everything in his power to not have sex with me. Me, very much enjoying the fact that I was making it incredibly difficult for him. When I’m sufficiently turned on my pussy can soak through a cement floor. As he discovered this for the first time, he let out a soft cry of surprise followed by a deep moan filled with desire. I laughed. Even this sexual mindfuck became charming and light-hearted after I got over the initial frustration I was experiencing. (See below:)
In the morning he was gone but his giant bag was still there. I didn’t particularly care. I spent the afternoon chatting and working with my friend Zohra who was gracious enough to host this debauchery in her living room because I was tracking some vocals for her forthcoming album. Upon meeting up with Mr. Purebred again later that day, he told me that he’d gone to lunch with a former lover in order to cut romantic ties with her so that he might free himself up for me. I found this to be a bit melodramatic and unnecessary but endearing nonetheless, and we kissed hard in the rain that had begun to fall. “There’s a storm coming,” I said, motioning toward the sky.