Preamble: The following is one of many accounts of dating from June 2010, when I broke up with my girlfriend of four years, to March 2011, when I met my new girlfriend. For most of this time I had no soul, abused various substances, and only sought sex. OKCupid conversations will be included with the stories, when available.
Though it hadn’t occurred to me during the relationship, at some point I realized I was sexually repressed. Sure, I had had many partners already — mostly because I had channeled high school frustrations into a never-ending search for validation — but I hadn’t really done that much sexually. I knew about stuff — I had the internet — but knowing isn’t doing.
The girl wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she posted very suggestive pictures, and responded to my message. She was a dominatrix. I had never tried being dominated. I guess it couldn’t hurt.
I called her one Saturday night around 11 and asked to meet. When she agreed, I figured the deal was done. It was a booty call, right?
NEXT STORY: How I Learned to Stop Being a Hater and Love OKCupid
We were to meet at 2:00 a.m. on Ditmars in Astoria. She walked from her apartment, I from mine; we would meet halfway. There were very few people out except for bar hoppers and a homeless woman rooting through garbage.
“Evan?” The homeless woman said to me.
Oh.
“Jody?” I said. I took a closer look at her. She was overweight, more so than her pictures led me to believe (standard OKCupid etiquette), Indian (I could have sworn she was a Latina by the pictures), wearing taut jeans and a T-shirt with “PORN” written across her breasts. She displayed a sundress.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Is it from the garbage?”
“It’s free!”
“It’s garbage.”
In Jody’s defense, this particular garbage bag was filled only with old clothes. However, this was not the most auspicious start.
Strange formalities ensued. She hadn’t realized I was her OKCupid date. She thought I was there to sell her drugs. Apparently, the drug dealer was named Evan as well. She sent some texts and made some calls, deliberating until I eventually convinced her to hang out with em. After all, there we were.
“Sorry, I’m on Ambien,” she apologized.
Jerry Maguire flashed through my head. You had me at “I’m on Ambien.”
I took her back to my apartment. We drank. She turned out to be quite, clever, fun, and grew more attractive to me as the minutes passed. At some point, she broached the unspoken.
“So, you’re the kid who wanted to try domination.”
I stammered like Hugh Grant before confirming it. I had just suggested it to get her attention. I wasn’t against it, but it wasn’t like being dominated was a life’s dream of mine. She took it in stride, the got down to business.
“I know it’s your first time. Most of my clients like it when —”
“Clients? You’re like a professional dominatrix?” This had not been explicit online. Many women say they are dominatrices. Doesn’t mean they have fucking clients. What kind of date did she think this was?
“You said you wanted to try it.”
“Not for money! I wasn’t trying to hire you. I just wanted to hang out. Like a date. Like OKCupid.”
She was silent for a second, obviously caught off guard. It was as if I had told her I was high on Ambien.
“Well, I have a boyfriend,” she said. I wanted to slap my forehead. “You’re pretty cute, though, so I’ll do it for free.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering how her boyfriend would end up killing me.
She said she would keep it light. Start off by calling me names. Pig. Dog. Stuff like that. I was already smiling, finding the whole situation ridiculous. Degrading names couldn’t hold a candle to my own (lack of) self-worth.
She told me to take of my shirt. She pinched my nipples for a little bit, and slapped me. I can now say with certainty I do not derive sexual pleasure from having my nipples pinched.
“Maybe I’ll step on your chest,” she said.
“Okay,” I said, keeping my perpetual smirk.
As she started, I tried to prepare myself for death. She wasn’t too overweight, hovering around one hundred and sixty pounds. Still, every time she took a step on my chest all I could think about was how easy it would be for my ribs to give way, break, and puncture my heart, killing me instantly. Instead of killing me, however, she interrogated me.
“What do you want?” she barked at me.
Interesting. People don’t usually ask me that question, as people very rarely care about what I want. So I didn’t know what to tell her, except that I didn’t know.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you want?” I could tell she was looking for an answer, but I wasn’t sure what it was, so I told her the truth.
“To fuck you?”
It wasn’t what she was looking for and it took the wind from her sails. She sighed heavily and stepped off of me.
Thinking back to it, I’m pretty sure the right answer would have been “More, Mistress. I want more.” Or, conversely, an okay answer would have been “Stop, Mistress. I want you to stop.” Either way, it was something she could have worked with. She stepped off me.
“I could hit you with your belt.”
“Uh,” I said while still laying shirtless on my back, “why don’t we call it quits and just hang out for a little bit.”
We actually had some good conversation after that. Most guys who liked domination were men who in regular life always had power over women. This is probably why I didn’t like domination. I don’t think there’s a woman alive who doesn’t have power over me. Be cute and I’ll murder for you.
Jody and I agreed to hang out again. And hey, if I ever wanted drugs, I could buy them from her.
Of course, I never saw her again.
The biggest lesson I took from this is one that I will carry to my grave: A dominatrix doesn’t have sex with you.
SEE MORE:
• Even Stand-up Comics Hate Stand-up Comics
Evan Jacobs is a 31-year-old schlub who used to do stand-up comedy, excel academically and slay the ladies. These days, between the time he spends trying to publish his novel and teaching at a for-profit Manhattan college, he complains incessantly about nearly everything.
Reprinted from Hypervocal
Evan Jacobs 