Once every six months, with the change of New York City seasons, four independent, professional dominatrices meet downtown at a Chelsea café for lunch. I usually send out the calling, as I like to come out of my hermetic shell once in a while to catch up on girl-talk. My lunching ladies are three women who, like myself, have forged successful careers in the BDSM industry, are well-known and respected in the community, and have never turned our whips, literal or verbal, on one another.

I am one of the rare breeds of punctual New Yorkers. This time, I already had my Atlantic open, ordered a cup of hot tea, and was prepared for the wait. The late time for late New Yorkers goes up exponentially when those New Yorkers are (a) wearing high heels, (b) toting children, and (c) my friends. I was close to the last page of my magazine and already browsing the ads for travels adventures to Peru when Mistress T arrived.

With her ponytail swinging, T trotted in wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and Converse sneakers, pushing a stroller that sat her two-year-old daughter, Carla. I was delighted to see the little girl. I had thrown their baby shower at my studio. We had hid all the dungeon equipment and hung pastel balloons and streamers from the steel suspension unit. To this day, I still find bits of glittery confetti in the corners of the Dojo (my studio) that say “Welcome Baby.” It’s a nice reminder that everything in life is versatile.

T took off Carla’s spring coat to reveal a punk rock outfit of striped tights, hot pink shorts, and a black, fitted Ramones T-shirt. She is clearly the coolest little kid I know. Most kids I know wear Osh Kosh or nonsensically cute outfits inspired by the Lollipop kids of Oz. I am not around children very often, so I am still fascinated by their tiny hands and shoes. My curiosity dissipates quickly though, once they start shrieking, which I find ironic since I listen to grown men shriek on a daily basis. But I know what to do with the latter—latch a gag in their mouth. (I can’t help but smirk whenever I see a mother pop a rubber pacifier into their child’s open wail.)

T and I chatted about hair dye and marriage. T has a phenomenal, kinky marriage to a sexy, budding rock star. He is currently on tour across the country, leaving T to rough it as a single mother for a few months, a single mother with a full time, emotionally exhausting career.

“I’m not seeing new clients right now,” she confided in me as she peels stickers for Carla to stick on the table and plates. “I just don’t have the energy to give to needy slaves while I am the only one taking care of this one. I can’t even have a business conversation on the phone with Carla around. I have to leave the room. Even when she was younger and didn’t understand a word yet, I couldn’t separate my attention to talk the ‘tie-me-beat-me’ talk. I mean, if she starts wailing while I’m on the phone, what am I supposed to do—put the guy on hold while he is revealing his fantasy of being spanked by a Catholic school girl? ‘Hold it there with the pleated skirt and paddle, sir, I’ve got to change a diaper.’ Yeah right, Catholic school girl dissolved and replaced by visions of lactating mom in house slippers.” She laughed and tried to peel a firmly-placed Elmo sticker off her water glass.

Mistress F arrived next, wearing Chanel heels and holding a Burberry bag in one hand and her four-year-old daughter, Krissy, in another. F owns a sophisticated, three-playroom dungeon in midtown that she rents out to other independent dominas. As well as being an elegant domina, she is a keen businesswoman. When I returned to New York City in 2000, I rented from her studio and we began a mutual admiration for one another’s business integrity. Professionalism in the professional dominatrix industry is exceptional.

If you scan the popular BDSM internet-advertisement sections—Eros Guide and Max Fisch—you will find over 100 independent Dominas and over 20 “houses” with 10-30 women on staff. My guess is that only about 50 women are able to support themselves completely by their BDSM career. Many of the amateur dominatrices are uneducated in the craft and, many times, unsafe and unsound. They cater to clients who are looking for a quick fix of toe-sucking or face-slapping. I call this level of the business “Fast Food Domination.” I see the need for this echelon of the industry and I am truly glad that it exists. Out there, beyond my Dojo.

I do want to make a distinction between novice doms or “baby-doms”—a term I used to describe myself when I was learning the ropes at a house of BDSM—and amateur doms. Novices are sincere about wanting to learn the art of SM. They take classes and apprenticeships and generally have a healthy dose of humility.

F set Krissy down next to Carla and told her in Spanish to play with the younger girl. “She is already in training to be a diva and devil,” F told us. “I got her a little rhinestone tiara for her birthday and she wore it for a month. And last week, she took $300 from my wallet. I looked everywhere and couldn’t find it, questioned my husband, my son. Finally, days later, I see that she has it in her little toy purse and when I asked her why she took the money she just said, ‘I deserve it.’” F rolled her eyes, but with a grin. Krissy flashed her big blue eyes and the same grin as she instructed Carla on where to place the stickers.

We talked about business but in a sort of code that keeps the little girls from absorbing shop talk. I inquired about the pricing of tribute, the fee we charge per hour. Everyone has been raising their fees an extra $50 over the payment I ask. I wanted to know how it has affected their businesses and began to consider my own hike. We exchanged information on pesky and potentially dangerous clients. “Francis has been calling around again—the guy with the collapsed nasal voice who wants to lick armpits.” We discuss the latest BDSM bust–all of us groaning and taking a swig of iced tea. Every so often a scandalous Dominatrix story makes the front cover of the Post and the industry gets a little shook up with fear and anxiety. In the media, BDSM is usually linked to serial killers or politicians. I’m not sure which association I resent more.

The last to arrive was Mistress M. She strode in wearing platform stilettos and a waist-corset over tight, satin jeans. She carried a Prada purse in one hand and her Gucci glasses in the other. Blond, busty, and glamorous, M looks like how one would imagine a dominatrix. (A girl at my last reading told me that I look like an investment banker. How upsetting is that!?) M sat down, ordered a glass of Pinot, and smiled at the children. She then leaned forward and began talking porn.

M has started producing a series of BDSM and fetish pornography for online and DVD sales. “I’ve found all these young, hot models to fill in the roles. I just give them a script and ‘Action!’—they follow along. Actors are the ultimate slaves!”

M has a two-story apartment in my neighborhood. She is one of the few dominas who manage a live/work lifestyle. She lives with her dog in the upstairs portion of her apartment that looks like a Pottery Barn catalog. Down a black-iron, spiral staircase is her dungeon and porn office. Often between or after sessions, we meet up for coffee at the local bookshop. This past Valentine’s Day, both of us had been freshly made single and I had bought her a copy of Calvin Trillan’s About Alice (the most romantic love story). She bought me The Diva’s Handbook of Style. Clearly the message was addressed to the old, worn combat boots that I still wear. I save the Gucci’s and Louboutains for parties and sessions, and even then, I slip out of my heels once the slave is blindfolded. I love wearing stilettos, but when I am rigging hard-core bondage and/or pounding a heavy, leather flogger against my slave’s body, I want my feet on the ground.

M told us about the “Behind the Scenes” of porn making. She eyed the little girls and stated that she felt maternal towards the young, female porn stars who want to grow up to be dominatrices. She explained that it is incredibly hard to find male-slave actors who will show their faces on camera and asked us if we know any willing participants. The rest of us shook our heads. Discretion is an honored element in the BDSM industry. I can’t imagine even my Hollywood actor/client wanting credits on a porn flick. M’s descriptions of the behind-the-scenes spoofs of porn shoots have me imagining a BDSM circus of bright camera spot-lights and loud, animal-like noises contrived to sound like painful moans. “Yeah, it’s bizarre, but it’s fun. I like being a producer and director. I not only tell one person what to do, I tell numerous people what to do.”

F described her life in the suburbs with her husband and kids. Her lifestyle is split into two compartments: her conservative home life and her kinky business. When she went into the difficulties of switching nannies, I must have stared at her blankly. But then she talked about the difficulties of socializing with the neighbors. “I can’t validate my success when I am at a regular dinner party or family gathering. Of course I must keep my business away from the little ones but it’s the housewives who are so nosy.” I understood completely. Neighbors in New York City respect and demand privacy. It’s the superintendents who raise their eyebrows.

T doted on Carla and told us about all the glowing achievements of childhood. “Carla’s first this, Carla’s first that.” I appreciated it all, especially since I’ve known T for a long time and have seen her evolve from a party-girl who co-hosted New York’s infamous Motherfucker parties to a sober but spunky, responsible mother. She overrode her earlier complaint regarding clients to praise a few devoted slaves who have been with her for years. “Oh yeah, Pussy-Power (her slave’s appointed name) is fantastic. Whenever I session with him, he picks up diapers for me. He’s a fairy-god-slave.”

I talked about my own behind-the-scenes details. In my personal life, I was cramming for the GRE’s, letting go of a wildfire marriage, and athletically training on my racing bike. I also talked about behavior modification techniques I use on my contracted slaves. The ladies nodded in understanding. At this table, we are completely accepted. It’s a unique life we live, a hard career to create, and we have to keep our individual courage intact to do it every day. Our work is misinterpreted, underappreciated, taboo, and taken for granted. It is good to come together.

The luncheon wound down. Little Carla abandoned sticker play and began rummaging through T’s purse/diaper bag. She pulled out a box of tampons and began tossing them around like party favors. “Oh good,” I said, catching one of the pink, cellophane-wrapped cylinders. “I need one.”

M looked around with one in her hand also. “Oh god, are we all on the same cycle?!” she asked, and it was obvious; it was implicit in all that we share.

Up Next: The slaves of my life. They take my whip, lick my shoes, and pay my bills. But I ask for so much more—I ask them to trust me and to be proud of themselves. An intimate look into BDSM connections from the bottom up.


Tags: BDSM, bondage, dominatrix, Mistress Y