Undercover Dominatrix

contributed by Xia Vox

Subject: How to Tell Your Parents You’re a Prostitute

It was three years ago that I received an email with this subject line from my partner’s septugenarian dad. I had been retired from professional domination for over four years, slipping through the looking glass and back into the vanilla world. But here it was again, my mysterious and never-explained past rearing its prickly head. In addition to an article link, the missive contained two non-committal sentences, the words jarring in their insinuation:

This came up when I touched something on my screen.  It may interest you, if not delete it.

I gulped and stared at my computer, half hoping that this was some spam virus and not a real message from my de facto father-in-law. I knew such a thought was ridiculous. This was no ad for erectile dysfunction drugs or some phishing lure. I called my partner, heartbeat ratcheting as I explained the situation. He let out a  nervous laugh and talked me down, though not before volleying a gentle reproach, “Babe, all those years you worked as a domme, you would always get tongue-tied whenever someone asked what you did.”

“I guess I’m not very good at lying,” I retorted.

When I got off the phone, I could feel the shame and anger welling up inside me, burning my chest like a scarlet letter. I took deep breaths, willing myself to forget about it. I tucked the burr of scary-messy emotions away in one of my neat little compartments, created for just such a contingency. After that, I did not think of it. Not until this moment. 

In my last post, I declared that my secret life – as both a dominatrix and a swinger –  was an open book. I meant this in the sense that I did not bother to concoct some elaborate cover story, for better or worse. From the start, being in the closet about my lifestyle filled me with an ambivalence that engendered rebelliousness in me, such that it became quite obvious that there was more to the story than my straight-laced presentation. I suppose I was trying to have it both ways, proud of the unique choices I had made while protective of my right to privacy, away from prying and prurient eyes.

In my own mind, my undercover life was akin to being a kickass spy, an agent of intrigue. What I did not anticipate was how others, ill-informed of the details of my dalliances, would fill in the blanks with their own overexcited imaginations. And it was not just family members who looked at me askance.

For years, ripples of rumors ran through my social circles. I used to be a dedicated nightlife denizen in the Electronic Dance Music scene, grooving and hanging out with other fans of DJ beats and disco balls. Despite the ample ecstasy and all-night revelry to be found among these cliques, I often found them to be surprisingly narrow-minded when it came to sexual matters. I recall a longtime acquaintance club owner, red-faced with liquor, sidling up to me with a knowing leer, then slurring something about my hustle, intimating that I was for sale. Or this other fellow whose idea of flirting was to suggest that I give him a lap dance. They just really didn’t have a clue what a dominatrix did. It was ghastly at times, in a laughable way.

Had I been completely out about being Mistress Xia, would encounters like these have gone differently? I had an inkling it could go either way, as I knew any facts would be viewed through the lens of predispositions and stereotypes. It may have been inevitable that my vocation would be interpreted by most as a sordid affair.  The part of me that had been trained as a young girl to be dainty and lady-like  chafed at these thoughts; that same girl who remembered the lurid machismo gaze of strange men on the street who seemed to accuse me with their eyes, as if to say it was my own fault for turning them on, my normal teenage-girl outfit suddenly feeling lurid on my body, the message delivered that some innate part of me was soiled and impure. With all of this coming up for me as I pondered my secret life as a pro domme, I took my chances being vague and kept skirting around the issue.

When I told Colette what I planned on covering for this post, sending over the link to the “how to tell your parents you’re a prostitute” article, she probed diplomatically. Was this a judgment against escorts? Because there will be escorts writing on Pervette. Well no, I wasn’t trying to say: God forbid people should think I’m a dirty whore! Ah, how tricky these things become. To be clear, this is about the reality of my reaction, not an evaluation of the merits of any particular profession. Indeed, as a veteran “gun-for-hire,” I feel a degree of kinship with all sex workers. To this day, I find it hard to relate to women who have not partaken in this hidden world.

Yet I would be remiss if I did not state that the no-sex boundary was important for my own well-being as a professional dominant (strap-on does equal sex by some definitions, but let’s not quibble here – a discussion for a future post). Setting that standard, staying on the near side of that line in the sand turned out to be the most suitable choice for me. Granted, I would only receive confirmation of this fact through experimentation. So really, no judgment there.

As I read back on what I’ve written, part of me is saying, “tsk, tsk.” I mean, shouldn’t Xia be an all-knowing mistress, able to maintain a perfect state of equanimity about these things? But come on, no one is all knowing. To pretend otherwise, a stance I tended to take on in my previous blogging as Xia, strikes me as disingenuous. I suppose I felt it was called for by the role, the constant commercial demands to hold the reins, to rule with every breath I take.

It seems obvious to me now, all that trumpeting about female superiority an overcompensation, a ruse to disguise feelings of inadequacy, though not necessarily born from being a woman or what have you. The inferiority complex is a tragic sentiment that seems universal in modern humanity, no matter our gender or other external identifiers, programmed as we are to disbelieve in our inherent worth.

In this society we find ourselves in, we are urged to hit the ground running and never slacken the pace in our pursuit of worthiness. We treat ourselves like products, according value based on monetary concerns and tweaking our appearance to maintain that shiny, just-bought glow. We run just to stand still, fighting inflation and cost of living and the horrors of an impending old age, one we are told will be a time of decay and uselessness.

Is it any wonder we scramble for power to assuage us? The power of a domina over her submissive. The power of a client over his service provider. The sway of a performer over her audience, or the pronouncements of a critic over a work of art. All the ways big and small we seek to paper over the tiny tears in our self image.

In wrestling with these nagging feelings of self-doubt and self-rejection, I have since learned that this issue can only truly be addressed by facing it head on with love, compassion and acceptance, rather than avoidance, repression or denial. Hence, a slightly different tone here than my last blogging incarnation. Colette noticed it right away, and I happily affirm it.

I have some work to do in processing my emotions and understanding with regards to my years as a dominatrix. There are blind spots I hope to uncover, paved-over dilemmas I wish to resolve. Even more, I want to reconnect with that source of infinite inspiration which drew me into this game in the first place.

Time itself has not helped make sense of it all. Not when the memories of those years have remained in the dark recesses of my mind. Now what has been so amazing is the shift I have felt since Colette brought me into her magical creative zone. Colette is an extraordinary woman  who is supreme at manifesting. I marvel at her ability to frame and reframe her reality in alignment with her power and values.  In the short time I have met with her in our circle of alpha femmes, there has been such a beautiful flowering of co-creation as well as the consummation of personal milestones for each of us. Yes, sisterhood is powerful. 

And so I’ve come to see that writing as Xia once again is liberating me, by allowing me to examine this chapter of my life within the supportive community of Pervette. Thank you, dear Colette. Onward we go!

 

photo: Mistress Xia Vox

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