There are two principal reasons why it’s a bad idea to have a line of coke before you interview a dominatrix.
The first is connected with the cocaine and has nothing to do with the dominatrix. Namely, that you’ll probably end up doing all the talking yourself, despite the fact it’s you who’s supposed to be interviewing.
The second is connected with the dominatrix but accentuated by the cocaine: that you run a high risk of getting horny; which makes me think of Adrian Buckingham – an old university friend who claims he spent 36 hours masturbating in a coke fueled wankathon. Obviously he wasn’t tugging for 36 hours… but watching porn and intermittently tugging.
The source of the cocaine winks at me from the other side of the bar. Armando.
Armando is everything a barman from Cuba should be: tall, handsome, well built and with a conspiratorial look in his eye. Or maybe that’s just because he’s offered me drugs (and he has a friend who’s a dominatrix.) Anyway, he is the owner of the establishment – one of those small, dark bars so common to the Gothic quarter of Barcelona. I quickly look up at the door to see if the new arrival is my interviewee. It’s not. I take a table in the corner and continue debating.
The problem with the inevitable increase in sex drive is that I know in a part of my mind that I’m out to seduce said dominatrix. I say ‘in a part of my mind’ because I have two of them. Minds, that is. One is female, one is male. One is good. The other is bad….
…Very bad.
The badness is fascinated with seducing the dominatrix for no other reason than it would be one hell of a conquest. In fact, it is the conquest to end all conquests. Firstly, she prefers girls, secondly, she’s a sex worker, and thirdly, she’s a dominatrix.
I contemplate that ridiculous but compelling notion of converting a lesbian. The idea of being so attractive you can ‘turn’ a lesbian has a strange power over penis owners, and is related to the idea you’re so attractive you’ll not only get a sex worker to give you sex for free, but that you’ll break through their armor and be the man who touches her soul. And why did I like the dominatrix angle? I don’t know… I think it was the idea of dominating a dominatrix… I don’t mean literally… but simply having her beneath me in a state of desire.
All of the above are bad thoughts. They are bad on a number of different levels. They are cliched, they are morally questionable, they are fucking dumb. Fortunately, though, men and women are not to be judged by their thoughts… but by their thoughts about thoughts. I was raised as a male in an all male school… taught to win, taught to conquer, taught to disdain weakness – so I can’t help think like a fucking asshole… but the important thing is that I check those thoughts. I acknowledge they are stupid.
But that’s the whole problem… I know that if I take that line of coke… all checks will be eliminated.
Armando shouts over, “Hey Felix… come to the kitchen and check out my new dish.”
Armando’s new dish is spread along a gleaming metal work surface: a bottle of tequila and a small mound of powder. The debate was over. 20 seconds later, my head shot up from the metal surface as I sniffed back the coke and stared at the ceiling, allowing the chemical to slide down my nasal passages. When my head came back down… she was at the door of the kitchen…
Mistress Dara.
“Jesus, you didn’t tell me he was a degenerate…”
Dara is in her late twenties. She’s dressed in jeans and a vest, and down her left arm snakes a long tattoo. It literally ‘snakes’ because it is a snake. She reminds me of an oasis. She looks vaguely Arabian and has big, dark eyes with the gravitational pull of two black holes. It did not bode well that she was attractive. On the other hand it boded very well indeed, depending on which part of my mind was in control.
“Dara, great to see you… this is Felix,” said Armando.
As I walked towards her my brain felt like it just had a Windows update. Suddenly, all dualism, all fuzz, all questioning had gone.. replaced by a laser beam of…of…of
…masculinity.
“That is a fantastic ouborros you have on your arm,” I complement her.
“What the fuck is an ouborros?” asks Armando…
“It’s Greek for tail devouring snake,” I inform him, and kiss Dara on each cheek.
2.02 AM Barcelona – Gothic Quarter: Armando’s bar.
The work surface was empty. Empty of tequila, empty of powder.
“So what happened to the interview?” asked Dara.
“Oh Jesus, yeah…. That’s your fucking fault, Armando.”
“Well, no problem… anyway, what light can I shed on it? If you want to understand the phenomena of the sissy fetish… better you see it yourself.”
For a brief moment the words ‘understand the phenomena’ gives me a WXLYUP flashback: it is the phenomena of the thing in itself which, combined with the adjunct fetish,” Oh god, the drugs must be wearing off.
“How’s that gonna work?”
“Easy. You come to my work tomorrow.”
“That might be a little close up on the observation front for me.” I imagine the smell of latex and lubricant and feel nauseous.
“It’s not so close… you can watch in the adjoining room.”
“Sorry?”
“Double sided mirror. We have it for the security guy so he can check what’s going on… just in case things get nasty.”
About 700 thoughts suddenly compete for processing. Did people who visit such places know there was someone watching? And how would I hear? Was their a microphone in the room? But the most dominant thought was the security guy. What the fuck did it do to his brain to watch men being trampled on and spat on and sissified, all day? When he got back to his wife and she asked ‘How was work?’ What did he say?… ‘The usual… two asphyxiations, couple of golden showers and some electric shock bondage… you should have seen the guy’s nuts… they started smoking. Can I have a bacon sarnie, love?”
“But… but… isn’t that… wouldn’t that be unethical?”
For some reason Armando and Dara find this hilarious.
“It’s no problem. My 2 ‘o clock will get off on the idea of someone watching… I’ll tell him. I can probably make him suck you if you like.”
Armando and Dara explode in another round of mirth.
“It’s a date, …but the sucking won’t be necessary,” I respond, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “Then again…”
Part 3 – a sexological interlude – is now published. Part 4 – The Double Sided Mirror – is coming soon. Join us on facebook or tumblr.
