In Which Our Heroine Talks To the Dom
Sep. 2nd, 2012 05:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraShould be doing Useful Work but my mind is just skittering and scattering.
The Quaff-orama™ was loads o’ fun. I’m going to have to create a special filter if I write in depth about it, though, on account of I spent most of my time interviewing a real live Dom about his sex life, his former job as an emergency room MD, and his tastes in science fiction! For many, this will fall under the heading of TMI.
Suffice it to say, I liked the Dom a lot. He had an air of cozy familiarity about him. Realized afterwards this was because we’re both Jewish, and so share the great lingua franca of sarcasm. When he asked me for my phone number though, I demurred. It’s a little too intimidating to go out with a Dom. As he cheerfully admits, he’s a dog. Once he got done humping my leg, I doubt he’d stick around long enough to sniff my ass and do all the other things dogs do when they really want to get to know you.
One of the things I liked about the Dom is that while he was perfectly aware that he was a nexus for various women’s projections, he didn’t seem to take any of it particularly seriously. There was nothing sinister about him. One got the sense that he was rather bemused by it.
“How did you get started in the Dom racket anyway?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Well, I’m a doctor. From a physiological perspective, I know what it takes to turn a woman on. More to the point, I know what a woman looks like when she gets turned on. So, I’m not buying it if she only pretends to cum. Most men do.”
“So it’s a combination of being pleasured and being busted that predisposes women to want to be dominated by you?”
The Dom laughed. “What can I say? I’m a lucky guy. Women like it. And I discovered I had a talent for it. Naturally, I like it too since I’m in the catbird seat. But, you know, it’s just a continuation of the power dynamics that exist in every relationship.”
His two live-in girlfriends were there too, the immensely charming Jane (who is not really named Jane), the hoydenish Annette (who is not named Annette.) When I call Jane “immensely charming,” I mean just that. She has that gift of settling her attention upon you as if you were the most important person on the planet so that when she finally withdraws that attention, it’s a small heartbreak.
Underneath that charming, cultivated veneer, Jane’s a Maenad. She lives to cum. She’s a woman around my own age, cultivated, educated, dresses much better than I do (okay, okay – that’s not saying much.) Has money. Could easily be married to a Democratic Congressional candidate. And she’s a complete slut. She’ll do anything. She particularly likes cumming in front of groups of people.
Jane seems very happy and very well-adjusted. So does Annette. There’s nothing desperate or crazed or cracked in her affect. It’s kind of like some women take up landscape painting in their late middle age, and Jane took up having orgasms.
In other news, I’m almost finished with Charles Shields’ biography of Kurt Vonnegut, And So It Goes. It’s fascinating the degree to which Vonnegut’s biography reads like one of his novels. For example:
• His mother chooses Mother’s Day on which to kill herself.
• His career at Sports Illustrated lasted exactly one morning: He was assigned a story about a runaway racehorse, spent three hours staring at a blank piece of paper rolled into his typewriter, finally typed, The horse jumped over the fucking fence, picked up his hat and left.
Also Ben called.
After we finished chatting about the Kid and Rutger’s continuing absence, there was a longish pause. I asked Ben gaily, “Read any good books lately?”
“No,” he said. “I had to give up reading. I just can’t concentrate anymore. I forget what I’m reading in the middle of a paragraph.”
“Is that psychological?” I asked carefully.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Of course, it’s not. One of the classic symptoms of hepatic failure, in fact, is forgetfulness and confusion, secondary to circulating toxins that the liver can no longer filter. I wasn't going to tell him if he didn't already know.
I felt so sad for him then. I mean, Ben was so smart and I always enjoyed talking to him, watching the way his mind processed ideas, turned them into new inventions. Such a loss if that’s gone forever – and then I remembered Mark telling me what it was like when your mind began to go. Mark had MS. Died of it eventually. But before that spent a year in bed in a fetal posisiton. And because I can never think of Mark without crying, I began to cry.
Fortunately, the phone chimed again seconds later, and this time it was Jeanna, in the midst of yet another spectacularly baaaaaaad romance, and in five minutes, I was laughing so hard I’d already forgotten about Mark and Ben.
The Quaff-orama™ was loads o’ fun. I’m going to have to create a special filter if I write in depth about it, though, on account of I spent most of my time interviewing a real live Dom about his sex life, his former job as an emergency room MD, and his tastes in science fiction! For many, this will fall under the heading of TMI.
Suffice it to say, I liked the Dom a lot. He had an air of cozy familiarity about him. Realized afterwards this was because we’re both Jewish, and so share the great lingua franca of sarcasm. When he asked me for my phone number though, I demurred. It’s a little too intimidating to go out with a Dom. As he cheerfully admits, he’s a dog. Once he got done humping my leg, I doubt he’d stick around long enough to sniff my ass and do all the other things dogs do when they really want to get to know you.
One of the things I liked about the Dom is that while he was perfectly aware that he was a nexus for various women’s projections, he didn’t seem to take any of it particularly seriously. There was nothing sinister about him. One got the sense that he was rather bemused by it.
“How did you get started in the Dom racket anyway?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Well, I’m a doctor. From a physiological perspective, I know what it takes to turn a woman on. More to the point, I know what a woman looks like when she gets turned on. So, I’m not buying it if she only pretends to cum. Most men do.”
“So it’s a combination of being pleasured and being busted that predisposes women to want to be dominated by you?”
The Dom laughed. “What can I say? I’m a lucky guy. Women like it. And I discovered I had a talent for it. Naturally, I like it too since I’m in the catbird seat. But, you know, it’s just a continuation of the power dynamics that exist in every relationship.”
His two live-in girlfriends were there too, the immensely charming Jane (who is not really named Jane), the hoydenish Annette (who is not named Annette.) When I call Jane “immensely charming,” I mean just that. She has that gift of settling her attention upon you as if you were the most important person on the planet so that when she finally withdraws that attention, it’s a small heartbreak.
Underneath that charming, cultivated veneer, Jane’s a Maenad. She lives to cum. She’s a woman around my own age, cultivated, educated, dresses much better than I do (okay, okay – that’s not saying much.) Has money. Could easily be married to a Democratic Congressional candidate. And she’s a complete slut. She’ll do anything. She particularly likes cumming in front of groups of people.
Jane seems very happy and very well-adjusted. So does Annette. There’s nothing desperate or crazed or cracked in her affect. It’s kind of like some women take up landscape painting in their late middle age, and Jane took up having orgasms.
In other news, I’m almost finished with Charles Shields’ biography of Kurt Vonnegut, And So It Goes. It’s fascinating the degree to which Vonnegut’s biography reads like one of his novels. For example:
• His mother chooses Mother’s Day on which to kill herself.
• His career at Sports Illustrated lasted exactly one morning: He was assigned a story about a runaway racehorse, spent three hours staring at a blank piece of paper rolled into his typewriter, finally typed, The horse jumped over the fucking fence, picked up his hat and left.
Also Ben called.
After we finished chatting about the Kid and Rutger’s continuing absence, there was a longish pause. I asked Ben gaily, “Read any good books lately?”
“No,” he said. “I had to give up reading. I just can’t concentrate anymore. I forget what I’m reading in the middle of a paragraph.”
“Is that psychological?” I asked carefully.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Of course, it’s not. One of the classic symptoms of hepatic failure, in fact, is forgetfulness and confusion, secondary to circulating toxins that the liver can no longer filter. I wasn't going to tell him if he didn't already know.
I felt so sad for him then. I mean, Ben was so smart and I always enjoyed talking to him, watching the way his mind processed ideas, turned them into new inventions. Such a loss if that’s gone forever – and then I remembered Mark telling me what it was like when your mind began to go. Mark had MS. Died of it eventually. But before that spent a year in bed in a fetal posisiton. And because I can never think of Mark without crying, I began to cry.
Fortunately, the phone chimed again seconds later, and this time it was Jeanna, in the midst of yet another spectacularly baaaaaaad romance, and in five minutes, I was laughing so hard I’d already forgotten about Mark and Ben.
