My First Disaster Session as a "Baby Domme"
I had no idea what I was doing, but even if my first paid session was a failure, I was hooked.
I yelled at the man who had just walked through the front door of the dungeon: “Get down on your knees, asshole!” He was there to pay me for a session. I was struck by how surprisingly normal he seemed. He was in his 40s, maybe a little geeky and disheveled like he worked backhouse at a computer repair store. But what did I know about this guy’s private life? I couldn’t even remember the name he’d given me over the phone. Brad, was it?
“Brad” just stood there, staring at me, not obeying my words, so I screeched even louder at him. “Get down on your fucking knees, now bastard!” I added that he should actually get undressed before falling to his knees, punctuating my order with, “fuckhead.”
Sure, I’d heard Mistress A. adopt a much more teasing tone with these guys as if humiliating them actually pleased her. But me? As if I’d learned nothing from hanging around this dungeon every weekend for a month, watching Mistress A. work, I went into full-on bitch mode with my first paying client, screaming at him at the top of my lungs.
I had no idea what I was doing as a dominatrix. I didn’t understand the choreography of a proper BDSM session. So, I tried to compensate for my ignorance and nerves by going apoplectic on my first client.
At least “Brad” was finally doing as I asked, stripping out of his clothing to reveal his pasty body, then dropping to his knees. I began to pace before “Brad,” telling him how worthless he was, how stupid and ugly. “Pathetic,” I seethed, then grabbed a thick, wooden paddle from the wall and, swinging it back, brought it down hard on “Brad’s” saucer-like butt cheeks with a loud thwack.
The session proceeded in such a manner for the next 20 minutes, with me insulting “Brad” with indiscriminate expletives while whacking his butt with different implements: a crop, a cat-’o-nine-tails, a cane. He had paid for an entire hour, but after only a half-hour, I told him it was time to scram. I had no idea what else to do with him, so I thought I might as well end the session.
“Brad” got up from the floor and got dressed again, and as he did, he said, “You know, verbal humiliation isn’t even what I’m into. And I don’t like pain. I’m into feet.”
These guys had different interests? I thought this job was just “bark like a dog,” hit a dude a few times, then tell him to get lost. This was how I learned that submissives had different fetishes and kinks. You couldn’t just treat these guys all the same. And I had to talk to them about their interests before the session started, outlining their likes and dislikes pre-play. That, and we had to decide on a safe word before we began. BDSM is about mutual respect. Consent is its cornerstone. But I didn’t understand any of this at this point.
I’m not trying to excuse my ignorance and lack of skill, claiming how I treated “Brad” was okay. I’ve already been honest about how the way I started domming wasn’t ideal. I had only one practice session under my corset before meeting with my first paying client. Not only that, but this was 1997, before online applications were utilized like they are today. Nobody was contacting you via your website because few dommes had websites. We were still working off ads in New Reality or the The L.A. Xpress.
But I hadn’t asked “Brad” what he was into over the phone either. I hated taking calls from these guys. Mostly, they were time-wasters. They just wanted to hear my voice and get off on it for free, imagining what I was going to do to them in session with no plans of ever coming to meet me. They were freeloaders. They didn’t want to pay me for a session, or they didn’t have the money. So they’d try to get a free session over the phone. As such, I refused to say much to these men when they called. But that meant I didn’t ask them any questions either.
I had no idea how to finesse the phone, how to give a potential client the necessary information without offering too much. I didn’t know how to entice a potential client without giving away so many details that he didn’t have to come to the session as he’d already gotten off on my descriptions.
It had necessitated so much waiting around the dungeon to even get “Brad” to come to meet me. I’d waited a whole freaking month for this. Sure, that was just working on the weekends, but still, hours of my time had gone to waste.
I’ve heard it said that dommes “eat” from their regulars. I didn’t have regulars. Yes, I was new, and “new girl syndrome” is real. Everybody wants to experience the domme they’ve never seen before. She’s fresh meat, to put it bluntly. But I was also inexperienced.
This meant I had to do my time sitting around the dungeon, answering the phones, which I was terrible at. Plus, I hated hanging out there in the dingy little back bedroom while Mistress A. and her cohort lazed about, ordering food or demanding cheap subs bring them donuts (these were men too cheap to pay for an actual session).
One of the dommes on staff, named V—, was always at the dungeon. She was intolerable. Beautiful, but constantly complaining about people at the goth club they all frequented. Mistress A.’s much younger boyfriend was also around all the time, some guy who worked at a stable—ironic. (Equestrian fetish is actually a thing!) Other people from the goth club would filter in throughout the day. I found them distracting; they just wanted a party, smoking and gossiping. I wanted money. I was busy with other things in my life, important shit like working on that documentary. Instead, I was hanging out in a messy room with g-strings and old pizza containers all over the carpet. I’d sit there, the phone ringing constantly with guys who never even planned to show up. I would get so annoyed I’d grind my teeth. I can’t believe I didn’t quit. But I was stubborn. I stuck it out and finally roped in “Brad” (pun intended).
When he called, I could tell he was serious. In the month I’d been answering these phones, I’d developed some intuition about these guys. “Brad” didn’t ask too many questions, just enough. How much and was I available? Stupidly, we didn’t discuss what he was into. I was too much of a novice and too nervous. He didn’t ask if I could do his specific type of session either. He just said he’d come, and he did.
In those days, we had a weird protocol we’d follow with clients we didn’t know. You didn’t tell the guy calling the address of the dungeon, at least not at first. You didn’t want to give out the address to just anyone. First, they had to prove that they were genuine about showing up. They could say they were coming, but then they would flake. So you first gave them directions to a nearby gas station. They were to call you from there when they arrived. Usually, this was calling from a pay phone. (Cell phones weren’t ubiquitous back then like they are now.) Once the guy called from the gas station, you knew he was sincere, so you gave him the address of the dungeon.
So when “Brad” called from the gas station, I knew he was a sure thing. I remember Mistress A. clapping for me, bless her heart, when she heard I was getting my first paid session. Trust me, I don’t want to bash Mistress A. I think she was an excellent domme, but she was childish, chaotic, and disorganized—completely unprofessional. She allowed all her goth acquaintances to hang out at the dungeon and seemed as interested in partying as she was in running a business. Honestly, I think she was more interested in partying. She should have never allowed me to do a session when I didn’t know what I was doing. It looked bad on her, having a domme on staff who was so inexperienced. But she was laid back and let me do the session.
But strangely, her laid-backness was also one of the best things about her: she took me in, trained me as inadequately as she might have, but she also let me just show up and start to do sessions without worrying about her reputation. What I mean to say is that, thanks to Mistress A., I actually learned domming by doing, which was a gift. I don’t think I would have ever mastered how to successfully conduct a session without all this practice. So thank you, Mistress A.
However, in the years since, I’ve tried to approach other pro-dommes the same way, asking candidly if I can just come over and meet them, and maybe do sessions at their dungeons. I’ve mostly been met with “no fucking way.” The scene is very closed these days. Things have changed. The scene has grown and morphed and now anyone can pick up a whip and say they’re a domme. Nobody trusts anybody anymore. So many randos asking you for things, even other dommes. Other women want you to teach them the skills for free. Experienced dommes are sick of it, and the scene has closed up a lot.
And I get it. I totally do. But it also sucks as there was actually something great about how open the scene was back in the day. That era is over though.
But back to the aftermath of my first paid session. Did it occur to me that maybe I wasn’t cut out for this business? No way—because even if my session with “Brad” was a complete failure, I earned $200 (the typical hourly rate back then). Once I had that much-needed cash in my hot little hand I was hooked, for better or worse.