My last post got this blog more than three times my usual number of visits, thanks to its re-posting on an adults-only site called Domme Dose at http://dommedose dot com, which deals with such “mind-fuckery” as erotic financial domination–which was the topic of my piece. I was glad to share “Teases & Temptations of the Twitterdommes” there and get the word out about my various jottings whether on this blog or in my erotica ebooks like Learning to Be Cruel, Toes Are For Sucking, and Spell of Dominance–all of which can be readily found when you visit my page on Amazon here. At Domme Dose, I also got some interesting comments from dommes and subs alike about what I said; and since all writers crave feedback on their public musings, this was especially welcome.
The subject of financial domination got me thinking back to the ways in which both mistresses and strippers have manipulated me into spending money over extended periods of time. Without boring you with lengthy and mundane anecdotal details, let me sum up by saying that I’ve realized explicitly in the last few hours that my most skillful “fantasy facilitators” picked up on a very important thing about me: I don’t like to spend money for women’s company, I’m actually ashamed of it, but I view it as a necessary evil in order to interact with the females I am most drawn to.
That's me...wanting something I can only pay to have.
These “commercial” women I’ve known, whether strippers or dommes or call girls–all facilitators one way or the other of my fantasy life–are generally out of my league because of my lack of confidence, savoir faire, wealth, hair, muscles, and youth, and also because of my full supply of bookishness, shyness, and general introversion. I’m not a bad guy, and in fact I am not shy with people I know and am comfortable with–but I have always had trouble clicking with the ladies I most desired, even when I was young and hairier. Ergo–strip clubs and dungeons and incall brothels have been my haunts for a long time.
What the most insightful or clever of my paid distaff companions did was make me feel that I was “more” than a customer, not quite a friend perhaps (because they sensed I was too cynical to fall for that) but something more valuable than just some joe who gave them enough money every couple of weeks to pay their utilities bill.
This feeling of wanting to connect with women who don’t want to connect with me is so deep and primal in my personality than even though I would always consciously remind myself that these “relationships” were not relationships, were shallow acquaintanceships and financial interactions, I stuck around until inevitably they simply played themselves out. I would have a good time and not feel I had wasted my money (well, maybe a little), but there would always be the lingering question, “Why can’t I just find this without paying for it?” Well, I knew the answer: because I didn’t want to. Maybe because I wanted, as the old saying goes, to pay them not for lapdances or roleplay or actual sex, but to leave.
Pulp art not only expressed men's anxieties about gals who sell erotic dreams, but fulfilled those dreams a little too.
Remember the fellas who used to ride behind the victorious Roman generals in triumphal marches, holding the laurel wreath above their heads? Those guys used to whisper in the generals’ ears: “Remember, thou art only a man” in order to remind them not to think of themselves as anything more than that. Even if you conquered friggin’ Gaul with its berserk axe-wielding dudes in pigtails, you were not a god. Similarly, I would have a little guy sitting on my shoulder reminding me, even when I had great times with strippers or dommes or hookers: “Remember, thou art only a customer.” Although sometimes I would make it sound more harsh and say, “Remember, bub, thou art only a trick.”
In a way, the mind games make it impossible for the stripper, domme, or callgirl to ever entirely leave the customer’s head until the “relationship” is ended. I know that the lingering hope that I might get to hang out with a stripper or a domme in the “real world,” like going out together for dinner, kept me entangled with her.
Scoop me in your arms and rock me like a baby...
If, as F. Scott Fitzgerald said, the proof of a first-rate mind is the ability to hold two ideas in it simultaneously, then my mind is razor sharp. True, the women I spent the most money on did seem to like me to some small degree, even if only in the confines of the club or dungeon. But in my mind I both knew the ladies were manipulating me into believing there was a possibility of more, yet I was able to see the interactions for how limited and hopeless they really were. Perhaps that’s where the body comes into play, the male body with its urges and testosterone; pushing aside the fussy warnings of the observant brain in the quest for yet a few more sensual thrills.