by Heather Pickford
05.15.98

The great job that had lured me from New Orleans had fallen through, and I had been scrambling for the last three months to pay rent and overdue bills. After my six-year-old son and I finished our dinner of macaroni-and-cheese and tuna, I put him to bed and picked up the paper.

I needed serious cash, so I followed a friend's advice and turned to the Adult Classified section. Stripping and escorting were out of the question, so I immediately zeroed in on the fetish section. I had worked in club called The Dungeon, which had an S&M flair. I'd even gotten tipped extra for smacking the patrons.

I'd heard women could make a lot more money by hitting men just a little harder—with implements. I even felt there might have been some twisted justice to it.

I took a deep breath and grabbed the phone from beside the bed, knocking over an ashtray with the effort. The polite woman who answered informed me that Jay would call me back. When he did, Jay sounded professional, interviewing me as if I was applying for a bank teller position. I told him I had never worked as a dominatrix before, and we set an interview appointment for the next day.

The address was unremarkable from the street, although I had to be buzzed through the locked door. The brunette receptionist wore a tweed suit and gave me a friendly smile as she asked me to fill out an application. I blanched at the fact that I had to leave behind evidence, but filled it out anyway and then glanced at the surroundings.

The stark room had the feel of a telemarketing office with everyone out to lunch. The walls were white, the carpeting grey, four or five desks were lined up against the wall, and there were the inevitable generic pictures on the wall. I chose a copy of Rolling Stone and leaned back into the splitting leatherette and chrome chair to await my interview.

Getting to Know the Boss

hen Jay stepped out to call me into his office, I didn't see the greasy, three-piece-suited fellow I'd expected. He was probably in his late thirties, tall with a slight paunch, but he reminded me of a grown high-school stoner dressed for senior pictures—a Rush fan. His hair needed trimming and his beige shirt was tucked haphazardly into black pants.

His eyes, however, didn't have the vague look to match the image. They were intelligent and probing. I felt uneasy, not because of the position I was applying for, but because I could feel his eyes shoring me up—registering my body language, calculating the build hidden under my jacket, and screening for insecurities. He asked why I felt I could be a dominatrix. I offered a lame answer about my submissive boyfriends, and how I'd enjoyed smacking guys over the bar in New Orleans. I could tell he wasn't convinced that it was a "lifestyle," so I nervously laid out the truth: I really needed the money, had a strong personality, and theatre background. Besides, I said, I looked good in polyurethane.

Jay began telling me a bit about his business. He and his fianceé were partners and co-owners of a number of dungeons in New York, as well as a few in Japan and Australia.

He wanted it to be clear that he was serious about his business, and that he ran it as he would any other enterprise. He leaned towards me and sternly stated that he ran a "clean" business: no prostitution of any kind would be tolerated, and I would be immediately fired if I were nude or if skin-to-genital contact took place.

He then showed me how he'd find out if I ever tried to break his rules. Jay turned the monitor on his desk to face me, and I observed what seemed to be an X-rated version of a torture chamber tableau straight from a wax museum. Although the picture was grainy, I made out a scantily-clad woman hanging upside down from the ceiling, with a bar forcing her legs apart and her ankles in shackles. Next to her towered an imposing femme fatale in thigh-high boots and a bustier, adjusting the shackles. In a corner was the blurred image of a man, hunched over. Jay then quickly turned the monitor back around to face him.

He told me that I also needed to understand that most clients ejaculated at the end of the session, because they were there for sexual gratification, albeit fantasized.

I was wondering what I had gotten myself into—until he started talking about the money. Jay told me that if I had five "sessions" a day, five days a week, for a year, I'd make $50,000 before taxes. After two months, full health benefits kicked in, and the hours were basically nine to five, with most weekends off.

Pathetic as this may sound, the dollar signs made the scene I'd just witnessed seem less like a torture chamber, and more like a challenging, somewhat aerobic acting role. At the time, I was working four part-time jobs, all at weird hours of the day, and trying to raise my child in between. Even so, I still owed more than $30,000 in college loans, and was facing either the welfare line or the humiliation of moving back to my parents' house in my tiny hometown. The thought of being able to pay off my bills and even save enough to start my own business was enough to make me think I could act my way through anything for a couple of years.

I asked a few more questions, including whether the events being monitored were also videotaped. Jay laughed and assured me that there would be no incriminating evidence if I ever became rich and famous. I also asked if any other role-playing would be required, as I refused to play a "daddy's little girl" scenario. He told me that this was more of a submissive role, and so I wouldn't play it if I were hired, and that employees were never required to take a session they were uncomfortable with.

I felt I'd already consumed enough information for the day, and didn't ask for more details, although I already knew I'd certainly decline sessions which required diaper changing. Jay wrapped up the interview by telling me that he'd be glad to have me as an employee, but that I should take an evening to think about it. He asked me to call the next day if I'd like to come in and observe as a preface to training.

Leaving Jay's office, I passed a beautiful young black woman who grinned at me shyly and offered a soft "hello." She moved past through a cracked door, behind which I caught a glimpse of a couch, the corner of a mirror, and a jumble of clothing. The woman behind the desk asked if I was coming to work with them. I told her that I honestly didn't know.

As I stepped out the door into the sunshine, I lit a Winston, took a chest-tightening drag, and walked to my car.

Scoping Out the Scene

spoke to several girlfriends that evening over the phone, marveling at the $50,000 and health benefits, and laughing at the thought of my being a professional dominatrix. I imagined people's reactions when I told them what I did for a living—I was sure to spice up my class reunion.

Afterwards, despite some apprehension, I decided to go ahead and monitor a few sessions. What was the harm? I figured if I didn't find it erotic, I'd at least find some humor in it.

Jay had told me to come in at 9:00 a.m., so the sun was streaming through the blinds of the front office when I'd arrived. I was a few minutes late because I'd found it difficult to decide what to wear to a new job that entailed watching half-naked women beat up men. I'd settled on a blazer, jeans, and some tough-ass brown leather biker boots.

Jay explained that Tina was going to train me, as she'd been at it for some time, and was quite knowledgeable. I was escorted to the room I'd seen briefly the day before; it was slightly untidy, but had the same generic look as the reception area. The furniture, however, was very seventies lush. There were two overstuffed black leatherette couches, and a huge glass-and-chrome coffee table, strewn with empty food containers. A second table in a far corner offered a neat array of doughnuts and sweets on plate.

As I sat on the couch and waited for Tina, the shy young girl I'd seen the day before came in. We exchanged hellos again, and she curled up on the other couch with a book.

I turned to the reading material Jay had given me to check out-black-and-white publications on bondage and S&M. He had pointed out that they didn't depict the kind of scenes that happened in the dungeon, as most of the women in the books were submissive, but said I'd get the "flavor" of it. Some of them were pretty extreme, but I was disturbingly engrossed by a story when Tina walked into the room.

She was by far the oldest woman I'd seen there—early forties—and was not especially attractive, though by no means homely. She had a trim figure, short blonde hair, perfect makeup, and wore ankle-strapped five-inch stilettos and handcuff earrings with her plain grey dress. She introduced herself in a surprisingly tiny voice, and then asked me if I'd come up with a name yet.

I gave her a blank look which told her that I hadn't, so she explained that each "girl" made up a name, although I could use my own if I wanted. She told me her name was Mistress Fire, and introduced the shy woman as Mistress Rhapsody. The clients were always to call us "Mistress," she said, and were to be punished if they didn't. Often, she confided, they would omit the title on purpose so they would be punished.

Tina sat down beside me on the couch with a black bag about the size of an airplane carry-on. She unzipped it, and told me that inside it were special things that she'd personally bought for the job, but that I could use for a client if I asked. The bag had pouches and pockets of all sizes; the array of items was astounding. She had rubber gloves, clothespins, candles, lighters, Vaseline, nylon cords, leather thongs, and dildos of all colors, shapes, and sizes. Tina then showed me a filing cabinet that held a large collection of devices, including more dildos, riding crops, and ropes. The larger whips were leaning against the wall next to the cabinet.

She escorted me to a closet bursting with spike heels, costumes, and paraphernalia. Tina pulled out two huge pink suitcases and suggested I look through them while she attended to a client in the office. They held plus-sized negligees for cross-dressing clients; Tina said she had scoured many secondhand stores to find them. I reluctantly pulled out each cheap nylon item and stroked them obligingly, feeling as if I were rifling through my grandma's underwear drawer.

Tina returned and commented on how pretty the tattered pink slip I'd pulled from the trunk was. She told me how much the clients enjoyed the costumes, and looked truly happy as she described how much fun I'd have with cross-dressers. She said it was like playing dress-up; they liked to do "girl things" like putting on makeup, having their hair brushed, and gossiping. As she put away the costumes, Tina sighed and said that she would describe her job as a cross between being an actress and working for the Make a Wish Foundation.

She paused with her hands immersed in the ancient dingy fluff of the pink suitcase and confessed that she'd been miserable as an accountant for twenty years until she'd found her calling. She was not only content in her career, but excited by the prospect of sharing it with others. This was made evident by the way she kept repeating "you're going to have so much fun with this," throughout my training.

Next, I followed Tina into a locked room adjacent to Jay's office. It looked like an adolescent girl's bedroom, with a white wicker headboard on the bed, a matching dressing table, and a full-length mirror draped with a collection of necklaces and scarves. She told me that cross-dressing fetishists were usually brought in here, but that the room was also used for other fetishes, such as infantilism.

Tina pulled out a couple of bins that were hidden under the bed, and explained their contents. There were diapers, powders and wipes because, she said, some clients liked to "mess" themselves and have you clean them. I made a mental note reminding myself to refuse these jobs, no matter what the pay was. She pulled out a half-empty jar of baby food with a dark expression, and warned me never to place opened food back into the bin.

Tina looked angrily around the room and peered into a garbage can, and then sharply said that it was important to keep the rooms clean, and someone on the staff was not doing their part. Apparently, each "girl" was supposed to dump the garbage, clean anything used in the session with a chemical in a spray bottle and paper towels, and clean up any mess the client may have made. When she realized the room was also devoid of cleaning supplies, she told me to go back into the lounge and wait while she talked to Jay.

While I waited, I struck up a conversation with Mistress Rhapsody. Despite everyone's promises that no one was forced to take sessions they were uncomfortable with, I was very leery after the introduction to the baby wipes. She said she'd never taken a session like that, but that the ones she hated were the brown and golden showers.

I gawked at her statement and tentatively asked if brown showers were what I thought they were. She grimaced and said yes. Confused, I asked how that was possible if total nudity wasn't allowed. Rhapsody said that, for golden showers, mistresses blindfolded clients before urinating on them, making it (questionably) legal because the client couldn't see them exposed. The brown showers—which involved the client smelling, touching, and even tasting a woman's feces—were legally, if not healthfully, accomplished by the mistresses defecating on a piece of paper in the bathroom, and then presenting it to the client.

I must have looked aghast. I was truly wondering if there were any sessions I was going to be able to handle.

Rhapsody laughed at my expression and told me that sometimes it really was fun. She made her first fifty bucks there very easily off of a foot fetishist. She and another mistress split the one-hundred dollar fee he'd paid to watch as the two of them stomped on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Apparently he got off on watching the goo squish through their toes. I laughingly shared my relief that I'd come across at least one client I thought I could deal with.

Learning to Walk the Walk