Issues of Dominance

How I have been daydreaming today, all about little Antonio and his bondage fetishes. So amusing, when he confessed to me darkly of his problem, after ever so many years of friendship, and started pulling suitcases full of ropes from under the bed--I thought, 'how sweet! Darling Antonio collects rope!'

Such a naive girl I was then.

It was my good fortune, I suppose, that A. was a submissive bondage fetishist. However tedious our subsequent bedroom marathons became, at least they weren't personally uncomfortable for me. My job, as I came to understand it, was to assist my lover in tying, belting, roping, buckling and chaining himself to the bed or wall in all manner of creative, but symmetrical, ways. (Symmetry, as I came to understand it, was key. Sexual creativity does not extend to unbalanced poses.) Then I had to torture him. Nothing terribly outré. Candle wax, whips, testicle pinching, et cetera. Very boring for me, particularly the endless blowjobs. I used to wonder why dear Antonio could not simply imagine himself buckled to the wall; the mind is, after all, nature's most versatile and powerful erotic organ.

I was too young then, my dears, to have understood the nature of sexual dominance versus submission. I had swallowed the political party line about sexual equality much too literally. Egalitarianism is all very well in the boardroom; in the bedroom it is death.

Viscerally, of course, I knew this already. When Antonio was grovelling and flinching as I dropped hot candle wax on his chest hair, I was conscious, not of a frisson of illicit arousal, but of vague contempt. I dropped the wax merely out of willingness and friendship, not out of a deep inner desire to do so. Ultimately this caused the demise of our relationship, and quite properly so.

Girls, when embarking upon any sort of adventure with a young man, it is vitally important to understand one thing about yourselves; are you sexually dominant, or submissive? If the former, you can look forward to a long and lucrative career of walking on the buttocks of CEOs while wearing four-inch stilettos. The type of performance that Antonio expected for free, forty hours a week, is a skill with which you can put yourself through college, if only you have the temperament.

However--if, like myself, you get your jollies reading the last chapters of Georgette Heyer novels, where the saturnine Marquis pins the impertinent heiress to the wall and kisses her senseless, you would do well to stay away from flinching bondage addicts. They will depress you. A man may wash the dishes; he may write poetry, meditate, save whales and cuddle babies, without losing one iota of his scintillating masculinity. But if, behind closed doors, he cowers when you want him to rain molten kisses upon your yielding bosom, you will eventually come to hate him.