Stranger in a Strange Land
(with apologies to Barry Manilow)
Her name was Dina,
She was into femdom
with a leather scrunchie in her hair
and a secret dungeon lair.
She would kick ass
and do the cha-cha,
and while she dreamed of fancy cars
she liked to stomp men’s balls so hard
in that basement room,
where they all howled to her tune.
A dominatrix, not a whore—
Good Christ! They wanted more!
Yes, I confess—I know more about Barry Manilow than I do about the dominatrix scene. I thought BDSM was some type of deli sandwich. I believed a black sheet party was something that occurred at Sears. But when asked to visit the local dominatrix and give an outsider’s perspective on what happened, I said, “Sure! I’ve seen porn before. This should be a piece of cake.”
Yes, I confess—I am completely naïve at times. Stunningly so.
A friend of a friend knew Mistress Dina, so before I knew it, I was driving across town, ready to enter the world of BDSM. Perhaps it should’ve come with some type of Surgeon General’s warning. But then again, as Barry once said, “It’s unbearable what we’ve seen—and it’s not done yet.” Sure, he wasn’t probably talking about BDSM, but with those Hollywood music types, you never know!
Her name was Dina,
She was into femdom
with a leather scrunchie in her hair
and a secret dungeon lair.
She would kick ass
and do the cha-cha,
and while she dreamed of fancy cars
she liked to stomp men’s balls so hard
in that basement room,
where they all howled to her tune.
A dominatrix, not a whore—
Good Christ! They wanted more!
Yes, I confess—I know more about Barry Manilow than I do about the dominatrix scene. I thought BDSM was some type of deli sandwich. I believed a black sheet party was something that occurred at Sears. But when asked to visit the local dominatrix and give an outsider’s perspective on what happened, I said, “Sure! I’ve seen porn before. This should be a piece of cake.”
Yes, I confess—I am completely naïve at times. Stunningly so.
A friend of a friend knew Mistress Dina, so before I knew it, I was driving across town, ready to enter the world of BDSM. Perhaps it should’ve come with some type of Surgeon General’s warning. But then again, as Barry once said, “It’s unbearable what we’ve seen—and it’s not done yet.” Sure, he wasn’t probably talking about BDSM, but with those Hollywood music types, you never know!
DAY ONE
We sat in the rubber-walled basement of her two-story bungalow, Mistress Dina in a velvety chair straight out of some King Arthur movie set, me on a hard metal one that had hooks for handcuffs and ropes. Her 5’4 frame was encased in a blue latex sheath and black pothole stockings—her “dominatrix stereotype outfit” she admitted to me. She had her mile-high stiletto boots resting on the back of a naked man whose bare back was crisscrossed with welts from her now-coiled whip. The smile on her porcelain doll face never left, even as she zapped him again (CRACK) and again (CRACK), that whip snaking out like a bolt of lightning that sizzled his skin with angry red lines.
He whimpered but didn’t cry out. I cringed every time.
What the hell am I doing here? I kept asking myself, wishing I’d taken the assignment to write the “Smurfette: Slut, Super Slut, or Just Plain Stupid?” article instead of something about $300/hour dominatrixes who, quite frankly, scared me. I thought I was a rough love type of guy who knew a thing or three about power sex and fetish play and taking control of the bedroom activities.
Humming “Mandy” to myself in a futile effort to not be overwhelmed by the violent chaos I was witnessing, I was wrong.
Mistress Dina smelled my fear, but I managed to flip open my notebook and mumble my first question despite wishing to run like a little screaming girl from that cold, dark room.
Me: How did you get to become a dominatrix?
Dina: My mother was (CRACK) one.
Me: You’re shitting me.
Dina: Yeah, (CRACK) I am. I actually got started from an online article. (CRACK)
Me: What appealed to you about the life of a dominatrix?
Dina: (CRACK) $300 an hour. (CRACK) Better pay than a dental hygienist.
While speaking, she put down the whip and jammed (with nary a drop of KY, Astroglide, or Sliquid Swirl) a gigantic brown dildo up the poor man’s ass. I mean complete immersion of its 12-inch length into his puckered little hole. Just BLOOP, it was gone.
And he’s paying $300 and hour for this, I reminded myself, wondering how the physics of an unlubed insertion worked. Maybe I missed the quick slather. Or perhaps she was pre-lubed. Who knew?
What really got me was that his hard-on went from large to jumbo. Seeing someone get off on this type of agony reminded me of that great exchange between Tom Hanks and the kid playing his son in “Sleepless in Seattle”:
Jonah Baldwin: In the movies, women are always scratching up the men’s backs and screaming and stuff when they’re having sex.
Sam Baldwin: How do you know all this?
Jonah Baldwin: Jed’s got cable.
This was more than cable. I had no remote and couldn’t change the channel. Equally horrified and fascinated, I watched as Mistress Dina removed the plastic ball gag from the man’s mouth and brought out another dildo. If the other was modeled after John Holmes, this one was King Kong’s massive schlong. I mean WOW.
Dina: Open wide, bitch!
Man: MMmpmmphh.
Dina: Yeah. MMMMMmmmm. Perfect.
Me: (silently) Holy christ!
Twenty minutes later, I excused myself and hurried home. I locked myself in the office and watched Buffy on DVD for six hours straight. I couldn’t stop shaking.
“Screw the hundred-fifty bucks,” I said, thinking about Sarah Michelle Gellar and how sleek she’d look in a Britney Spears cat suit. MeeeeOWWWW! “I’m not going back.”
He whimpered but didn’t cry out. I cringed every time.
What the hell am I doing here? I kept asking myself, wishing I’d taken the assignment to write the “Smurfette: Slut, Super Slut, or Just Plain Stupid?” article instead of something about $300/hour dominatrixes who, quite frankly, scared me. I thought I was a rough love type of guy who knew a thing or three about power sex and fetish play and taking control of the bedroom activities.
Humming “Mandy” to myself in a futile effort to not be overwhelmed by the violent chaos I was witnessing, I was wrong.
Mistress Dina smelled my fear, but I managed to flip open my notebook and mumble my first question despite wishing to run like a little screaming girl from that cold, dark room.
Me: How did you get to become a dominatrix?
Dina: My mother was (CRACK) one.
Me: You’re shitting me.
Dina: Yeah, (CRACK) I am. I actually got started from an online article. (CRACK)
Me: What appealed to you about the life of a dominatrix?
Dina: (CRACK) $300 an hour. (CRACK) Better pay than a dental hygienist.
While speaking, she put down the whip and jammed (with nary a drop of KY, Astroglide, or Sliquid Swirl) a gigantic brown dildo up the poor man’s ass. I mean complete immersion of its 12-inch length into his puckered little hole. Just BLOOP, it was gone.
And he’s paying $300 and hour for this, I reminded myself, wondering how the physics of an unlubed insertion worked. Maybe I missed the quick slather. Or perhaps she was pre-lubed. Who knew?
What really got me was that his hard-on went from large to jumbo. Seeing someone get off on this type of agony reminded me of that great exchange between Tom Hanks and the kid playing his son in “Sleepless in Seattle”:
Jonah Baldwin: In the movies, women are always scratching up the men’s backs and screaming and stuff when they’re having sex.
Sam Baldwin: How do you know all this?
Jonah Baldwin: Jed’s got cable.
This was more than cable. I had no remote and couldn’t change the channel. Equally horrified and fascinated, I watched as Mistress Dina removed the plastic ball gag from the man’s mouth and brought out another dildo. If the other was modeled after John Holmes, this one was King Kong’s massive schlong. I mean WOW.
Dina: Open wide, bitch!
Man: MMmpmmphh.
Dina: Yeah. MMMMMmmmm. Perfect.
Me: (silently) Holy christ!
Twenty minutes later, I excused myself and hurried home. I locked myself in the office and watched Buffy on DVD for six hours straight. I couldn’t stop shaking.
“Screw the hundred-fifty bucks,” I said, thinking about Sarah Michelle Gellar and how sleek she’d look in a Britney Spears cat suit. MeeeeOWWWW! “I’m not going back.”
DAY TWO
Despite feeling guilty for wanting to bail on an assignment I had agreed to do, I still nearly didn’t go for Day Two of my three-day excursion into the life of a dominatrix. There was a “Bonanza” marathon on cable and that seemed a hell of a lot sexier and safer, all things considered. But when Mistress Dina phoned the night before to say she had a special event planned the next afternoon—a WWF-style mud wrestling extravaganza—I stopped her and said in “Jerry Maguire” fashion: “You had me at Hulk Hogan.”
I felt overdressed in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, but really, what the hell do you wear as a voyeur to some guy’s mud wrestling fantasy? There are no manuals for this kind of thing, though maybe Tim Gunn could whip up something appropriate out of leather, computer cables, and some sheet metal.
Here’s the thing. It wasn’t a guy’s fantasy. It was a girl’s!
Oh me, oh my.
Now THIS was a program I could get behind. “Jennifer” looked a lot like my third grade teacher, Mrs. Andrews, who had a lazy eye and a cheese wheel ass. But slathered up in that giant plastic kiddy pool full of mud that Dina must’ve dragged downstairs from the backyard, Kathy Bates would’ve had my full attention. I’ve got to admit, this type of fun brought together two of my big childhood loves: professional wrestling and Slip ‘n Slides (those wonderful stretches of plastic where you inevitably zinged past the length of it and tore up the lawn with your ass; hence the mud connection). If only Andre the Giant or Ravishing Rick Rude were there in Spandex and some shiny knee-high boots, I’d have probably keeled over dead from unadulterated excitement tempered by nostalgia.
But even without those 1980s Adonises, there was plenty to admire.
There was spanking.
There were multiple costume changes. (Sequins! Straps! Cowboy-style buckles!)
There was cinematic background music.
There was a series of insertions that would’ve qualified for a XXX-version of David Letterman’s “Stupid Human Tricks” in how they seemed to defy physics.
There were tears (mostly mine at witnessing such a hot and sexy sludge-fest—this was primo stuff!).
“Any chance there’s room for one more?” I asked, not even trying to conceal my totem pole hard-on. FYI—Khaki pants are not equipped to disguise world-class erections.
Dina’s look was all venom and daggers, which reminded me of her whip (CRACK) and how her hard, thick muscles knew more about violence than I ever wanted to. She’d warned me when we agreed to this three-day investigation that there were limits. Clearly I’d Slip ‘n Slided right past that line of acceptable voyeuristic behavior.
$50 just didn’t buy you much these days, apparently.
“Pardon me,” I said, and backed from the room, still hearing Vince McMahon’s voice thundering in my mind, “You’re fired!” (which he was doing LONG before D. Trump started in with that catchphrase).
Hooking Up with Your Own Dominatrix—(helpful tips for friends and family!)
1) Learn the lingo. If you don’t know what “bdsm” or “munch” means, spend some time at a site like www.collarncuffs.com or do some of your own searching online. You’re going to want to be damn sure you know what you’re saying “Yes!” to if someone offers you CBT, caviar, or klismaphilia.
2) Know where to look. Good places to start looking for a dominatrix include Craigslist, backpage, www.femdomstuff.com, www.domme.com, and www.eros-guide.com. Another way is to google “BDSM” or “Dominatrix” and the nearest major city. And as every student in American knows, “There’s always Wikipedia!”
3) Make a list of your likes and dislikes BEFORE you contact a Dominatrix. Role-playing, whipping, handcuffs, clothespins, bubble wrap. Be honest with yourself. If you like dressing up like Richard Nixon and getting bludgeoned in the stomach with a hard salami, or you get off by having someone Rocky Balboa speed-bagging your ball sack, then add that to the list. This isn’t the time to lie or pretend.
4) Be patient. It’s a slow process, so don’t rush it. Finding the right partner is the key to having a good experience. Take the time to interview as many as you need to make the perfect match. Don’t be swayed by a pretty online photo of someone in a great black leather mini. How someone dresses is only one of many important facets of a great dominatrix relationship.
I felt overdressed in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, but really, what the hell do you wear as a voyeur to some guy’s mud wrestling fantasy? There are no manuals for this kind of thing, though maybe Tim Gunn could whip up something appropriate out of leather, computer cables, and some sheet metal.
Here’s the thing. It wasn’t a guy’s fantasy. It was a girl’s!
Oh me, oh my.
Now THIS was a program I could get behind. “Jennifer” looked a lot like my third grade teacher, Mrs. Andrews, who had a lazy eye and a cheese wheel ass. But slathered up in that giant plastic kiddy pool full of mud that Dina must’ve dragged downstairs from the backyard, Kathy Bates would’ve had my full attention. I’ve got to admit, this type of fun brought together two of my big childhood loves: professional wrestling and Slip ‘n Slides (those wonderful stretches of plastic where you inevitably zinged past the length of it and tore up the lawn with your ass; hence the mud connection). If only Andre the Giant or Ravishing Rick Rude were there in Spandex and some shiny knee-high boots, I’d have probably keeled over dead from unadulterated excitement tempered by nostalgia.
But even without those 1980s Adonises, there was plenty to admire.
There was spanking.
There were multiple costume changes. (Sequins! Straps! Cowboy-style buckles!)
There was cinematic background music.
There was a series of insertions that would’ve qualified for a XXX-version of David Letterman’s “Stupid Human Tricks” in how they seemed to defy physics.
There were tears (mostly mine at witnessing such a hot and sexy sludge-fest—this was primo stuff!).
“Any chance there’s room for one more?” I asked, not even trying to conceal my totem pole hard-on. FYI—Khaki pants are not equipped to disguise world-class erections.
Dina’s look was all venom and daggers, which reminded me of her whip (CRACK) and how her hard, thick muscles knew more about violence than I ever wanted to. She’d warned me when we agreed to this three-day investigation that there were limits. Clearly I’d Slip ‘n Slided right past that line of acceptable voyeuristic behavior.
$50 just didn’t buy you much these days, apparently.
“Pardon me,” I said, and backed from the room, still hearing Vince McMahon’s voice thundering in my mind, “You’re fired!” (which he was doing LONG before D. Trump started in with that catchphrase).
DAY THREE
I didn’t think she’d call. I was sure I’d have to just make up the third part of my dominatrix assignment. Or maybe pretend I was supposed to do a two-day visit all along and just puff those parts up. Then Mistress Dina called.
“You paid your fifty bucks, so let’s do this,” she said.
“What’s on the agenda?” I asked, sitting in my underwear on plastic lawn furniture in the basement, drinking a Corona while watching Jennifer Garner pose as a German dominatrix in a Berlin leather bar on the Season Two DVD set I owned. “Midgets? Mummification? Milking?”
Worried that I’d have to make up the Day Three visit, I’d been doing research on my own (thus the “Alias” episode) and had a half-dozen more “M” BDSM words at the ready to prove to her how hip I was.
Yeah, baby, I thought to myself. I gots the 4-1-1 on the femdom world thanks to Wikipedia. I’m a sex god!
Mistress Dina refused to tell me anymore about what was to come, even when I hemmed and hawed and pressed her a little.
“Now or never,” she snapped, then hung up.
I found the address easily enough—this was one of her on-site performances, for which she charged a good bit more. The place was an upscale condominium where I had to pass two grannies wheeling grocery sacks down the hall.
“Afternoon,” I said.
They sneered but did not respond, as if sniffing the unseen pheromones ruining the calm of their building’s over-air-conditioned hallways.
#712 was open so I went inside and found Dina hard at work. Her client? Right there on the ceramic tile floor, probably thirty pounds overweight and furry like an anteater. In a vinyl hood with the eye flaps zippered shut, he lay on his back.
Dina waved me in as she rubbed Icy Hot on his exposed scrotum. He writhed. Pain? Pleasure? I grimaced at the thought of that cool, wet burn on my own genitals. Ouch.
I sipped at my Big Gulp. Quite inappropriately, I thought of my friend, Victor, who had a real hankering for mature MILFs. Those blue-hairs in the hall would’ve given him fits, I realized, laughing at the idea of it. I could appreciate a mouth-full-of-ice blowjob, a little tossing of my salad, some wax play. But mature sex? Not my cup of oolong.
“What are you laughing at?” Mistress Dina said, suddenly eyeing me like a cat might a mouse. She ran her tongue slowly across her purple-lipsticked lips.
I choked on the mix of Diet Coke, Sprite, and Razzbery Slurpee.
“Oh shit,” I thought, wiping at the dribble of brownish drink down my CANCEL EASTER—THEY FOUND THE BODY T-shirt. But somehow I didn’t find myself running. I put my Big Gulp down on the kitchen counter and watched Dina lurk closer.
My breathing ran fast and my heart hammered away madly. Still, I stood there. Transfixed.
Perhaps this is the sort of thing, I thought as she closed on me, that one learns to love. Like Barry Manilow songs. The Smurfs. Or John Doggett instead of Fox Mulder.
Perhaps a $50 peek session can buy you more than you ever expected.
“You paid your fifty bucks, so let’s do this,” she said.
“What’s on the agenda?” I asked, sitting in my underwear on plastic lawn furniture in the basement, drinking a Corona while watching Jennifer Garner pose as a German dominatrix in a Berlin leather bar on the Season Two DVD set I owned. “Midgets? Mummification? Milking?”
Worried that I’d have to make up the Day Three visit, I’d been doing research on my own (thus the “Alias” episode) and had a half-dozen more “M” BDSM words at the ready to prove to her how hip I was.
Yeah, baby, I thought to myself. I gots the 4-1-1 on the femdom world thanks to Wikipedia. I’m a sex god!
Mistress Dina refused to tell me anymore about what was to come, even when I hemmed and hawed and pressed her a little.
“Now or never,” she snapped, then hung up.
I found the address easily enough—this was one of her on-site performances, for which she charged a good bit more. The place was an upscale condominium where I had to pass two grannies wheeling grocery sacks down the hall.
“Afternoon,” I said.
They sneered but did not respond, as if sniffing the unseen pheromones ruining the calm of their building’s over-air-conditioned hallways.
#712 was open so I went inside and found Dina hard at work. Her client? Right there on the ceramic tile floor, probably thirty pounds overweight and furry like an anteater. In a vinyl hood with the eye flaps zippered shut, he lay on his back.
Dina waved me in as she rubbed Icy Hot on his exposed scrotum. He writhed. Pain? Pleasure? I grimaced at the thought of that cool, wet burn on my own genitals. Ouch.
I sipped at my Big Gulp. Quite inappropriately, I thought of my friend, Victor, who had a real hankering for mature MILFs. Those blue-hairs in the hall would’ve given him fits, I realized, laughing at the idea of it. I could appreciate a mouth-full-of-ice blowjob, a little tossing of my salad, some wax play. But mature sex? Not my cup of oolong.
“What are you laughing at?” Mistress Dina said, suddenly eyeing me like a cat might a mouse. She ran her tongue slowly across her purple-lipsticked lips.
I choked on the mix of Diet Coke, Sprite, and Razzbery Slurpee.
“Oh shit,” I thought, wiping at the dribble of brownish drink down my CANCEL EASTER—THEY FOUND THE BODY T-shirt. But somehow I didn’t find myself running. I put my Big Gulp down on the kitchen counter and watched Dina lurk closer.
My breathing ran fast and my heart hammered away madly. Still, I stood there. Transfixed.
Perhaps this is the sort of thing, I thought as she closed on me, that one learns to love. Like Barry Manilow songs. The Smurfs. Or John Doggett instead of Fox Mulder.
Perhaps a $50 peek session can buy you more than you ever expected.
It's got some sizzel