I Was a Teenaged Heterosexual Dominatrix!

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 21:03:49 -0400

Almost from the time I knew I liked girls I knew I’d also like dressing like one. While other boys were looking at astronauts and center fielders and soldiers of fortune and thinking, “That’s me!” I was looking with like intent at a photograph of a man dressed as a woman in one of the textbooks from the abnormal psychology course my uncle had taken during his abortive college career.
I saw Elia Kazan’s Splendor in the Grass shortly thereafter. So sexy did I find the scene in which Bud Stamper’s (Warren Beatty, in his screen debut) drunken sister outrages Bud and their dad by flaunting herself in front of a group of men that I thanked God no one yelled, “Fire!” I’d never have been able to run in my condition. The question was: which did I want to be more — one of the men being titillated, or Ginny Stamper?
The first record I ever bought myself was David Rose’s “The Stripper.” When my parents and younger brother were out, and likely to remain so for a few hours, I’d borrow some of Mom’s intimate apparel, put on the record, and flaunt myself in front of an imaginary audience of fellow strippers or horrible leering fat men with cigars.
I wasn’t, to use the favored adjective of the time, queer. The girls in my junior high school drove me mad with desire. But there could be no denying that I wasn’t exactly the cover of Boys’ Life. I was deeply ashamed of myself, of course, but oh, did that which generated the shame get the old juices flowing.
My dad kept under the sink in the bathroom a small cache of stockings my mother had discarded. When he bathed, he’d tie a knot in one and put it over his head to keep his hair smooth. One of the highlights of bath time for me came to be untying the knot, putting the stocking on, and reveling in how it felt on my leg.
My red-blooded heterosexual lust didn’t find an outlet until I was 17, when I somehow worked up the nerve to ask out the prettiest girl in my English class. She and I would kiss and fondle one another for hours in the back seat of the little VW 1600 Variant I’d borrowed from my dad. I was deeply reassured to note how much I enjoyed doing so.
I buckled down and cooled it through my college years, until one night when I came back from the laundromat to discover a pair of silky panties in the pillowcase into which I’d emptied the dryer. I wrestled with myself at considerable length before yielding to my yearning to put them on. I felt spectacularly sexy.
In my early twenties, I was in a first-generation glam rock band that, as was stylish at the time, affected androgyny. We played a gig at which we opened for a power trio that affected it a lot more convincingly. We wore a bit of eyeliner and a few sequins. They wore dangly rhinestone earrings, feather-trimmed see-through negligees, garter belts, stockings, and the sort of absurdly high platform shoes so fashionable among the sort of girl I liked, and looked like foxy young women.
How I longed to be in their group, rather than my own.
I tried to try on my first major girlfriend’s shoes a few times, and had a secret cache of stockings I’d slip on every once in a while, but generally kept that part of myself suppressed throughout our relationship. My second major girlfriend, a lapsed cosmetologist, said she thought I’d be stunning as a woman, and wanted to do my makeup, but I was afraid the experience might get me excited, and that grievous embarrassment might result, so I did the seemingly manly thing and scoffed at the idea, even while wishing desperately I could figure out a way to say yes, please!
In the glorious early days with the girlfriend who would become my first wife, she with whom I hoped, at that time, to spend the rest of my days, each agreed to reveal to the other something about himself that no one else knew. I thought she got the far spicier secret. She revealed she’d had two guys at once. I revealed I cross-dressed. She didn’t run screaming from the relationship, which in fact endured for six years, but wasn’t terribly turned on either, so I did it in private without telling her. On the night our marriage ended, ultra-acrimoniously, I stopped at a drugstore to buy myself some makeup before finding a motel. Getting slutted out somehow eased the pain — that and the vodka.
I moved into an apartment of my own and ordered a pair of black lace opera gloves and black patent pumps with five-inch heels, among other necessities. I was spending more on my drag stuff than stuff I could wear in public. The gloves were different only in length from ones that Prince was often glimpsed in at the time. I had a brief romance with an avidly bisexual, avidly masochistic department store window dresser. Driven wild by marihuana, I tied her to a chair and gagged her one night. When I strutted back in feminized 15 minutes later, she was beside herself with excitement. We might have grown old, or at least a bit older, together, I in black stockings and my patent leather pumps, she in a ball gag and the welts she begged me to inflict, but for the fact that she enjoyed lesbian predation even more than my lurid strutting.
I pressed my luck, exposing my feminized self almost immediately to my next girlfriend. She seemed to find it ever so sexy, and I was in heaven. But just as ordinary coitus ceases to be thrilling the more you do it with the same person, so does cross-dressing. Other aspects of kink I was pretty sure would greatly enhance my being in drag — dominance and submission, for instance — were anathema to her.
Something remarkable had happened about three-quarters of the way through our long relationship, though — the Internet. There were countless dozens just like me out there, and they all seemed defiantly unashamed. Times had changed.
My mother had slashed my dad to ribbons verbally every day of my childhood. The idea of exploiting some of the unfortunate skills I’d learned at home appealed to me. I made up a dominatrix alter ego and began corresponding with a succession of submissive men whose idea of great fun was being vilified in much the same way my dad had been, raked over the coals, told they were stupid and worthless and unclean. I seemed to have a real knack for it, and soon discovered that many of my correspondents could be bullied fairly easily into sending expensive fetishwear — one guy spent $350 on a pair of custom platform shoes with 14-inch heels — which my girlfriend declined to wear because she thought I’d acquired it deceptively. Well, of course I had, I acknowledged, wasn’t I giving these guys exactly what they wanted? The most potent sexual organ is the one between one’s ears, I argued, not legs, and wasn’t Goddess A giving her correspondents’ a good workout? Just as it appeared as though I’d convinced her, she revealed that felt that it wasn’t her I’d come to be turned by, but that which I was able to persuade her to wear. I’d heard that one, and would hear it again, and would always hate hearing it. Our screen went black and we moved on.
I got married again, to a woman I’d met via our mutual interest in a kink-related Website. Like my first wife, she didn’t condemn me for cross-dressing, but it didn’t get her wet either. I did it for my own pleasure when she went out.
By the fifth year of our marriage, we’d pretty much stopped having sex. She felt objectified when I asked her to wear the sorts of things that enflamed me, and spontaneous non-costumed roll-in-the-hay-style sex didn’t interest me very much at all. I’d come to be unable to take any more of New York, where she had a good career going. I moved alone to the West Coast, and my career as a transvestite dominatrix began.
I posted a Man-Seeking-Woman advertisement on craigslist with the headline Want to try something a little different? and a photo of me in drag. No women responded, but a guy did, a real Joe Sixpack type, with a belly, a baseball cap, and a cold brewski in hand. He said he wished his girlfriend had legs as gorgeous as mine. I was surprised to realize that, even though I wanted to interact sexually with this guy about as much as I did with the gas meters in front of the building in which I’d sublet a condominium, I considerably enjoyed being lusted after. During my second marriage, understand, I’d reached A Certain Age. There’d been a time when, stopped beside at me at intersections, women would scrawl their phone numbers in lipstick backwards on the insides of their side windows for me. As I got older, though, I began to experience the awful invisibility of middle age; women stopped beside me at intersections wouldn’t have been able to the police who’d been driving my car.
I ran more Craigslist ads, in adjacent cities, once again describing myself as in the market for a woman with a taste for novelty. Once again I heard from no women, but several men, an alarming percentage of whom transmitted JPEGs of their uniformly unremarkable dicks, and all of whom seemed to think me quite hot stuff. It occurred to me to exhume my dominatarix alter ego, and to stipulate that one couldn’t reasonably expect to enjoy the Goddess’s attention without first demonstrating his obedience by…buying me something! As expected, a large percentage of my admirers vanished instantly. But one who didn’t eagerly spent $120 on the wig that changed my life.
I’d heretofore been making do originally with a spiky black fright wig, supposedly inspired by the Tina Turner of the “What’s Love Got to Do With It” era, that made me look like one of Motley Crue, circa 1983, and later with a long curly blonde number in which I was just another in-shape dude in a long curly blonde wig. The new $120 wig — huge, bouffant, auburn — transformed me. I looked really good in it; it somehow had the effect of making my very bulbous nose look small.
The missus came for a short visit, and brought with her the feather-trimmed see-through black robe I’d frequently enjoyed trying on myself during her long evenings out with friends. It and the new wig made a formidable combination. When I attached photographs of myself wearing both to my craigslist postings, the response was such that I had to devote all day to answering my email.
Where other boys had been good at knots or baseball or something else traditionally masculine, I’d excelled at grammar. Subliteracy was characteristic of nearly all the respondents to craigslist postings. I don’t think one guy in 10 knew the difference between your and you’re, which was one more than seemed to know that I want to kneel before you, Goddess needs a comma and a space before Goddess. But my speculating that their apparent stupidity owed to the sight of me having made the blood rush from their brains to their groins seemed only to delight most of them.
I went to a club as my male self and tried to lower the boom on an attractive, obviously unaccompanied young woman. She was aghast that one of my advanced years (a gentleman doesn’t ask a transvestite for the exact) would in a million years imagine she might be interested, and actually turned her back on me in revulsion. I hurried back to my parallel universe, in which all I heard was how remarkably hot I am.
A local moron, another Joe Sixpack, found me on line one afternoon, in Yahoo! Messenger, and said he’d pay $50 for half an hour with Mistress Latvia. He wasn’t exactly Michelle Pfeiffer in Batman Returns to me in terms of attractiveness, but this was an adventure I’d never had, so I told him to come over, and met him at my front door in character. I enjoyed his trembling as I made him disrobe and get down on his knees. I thought what the hell and stuck my semi-tumescent cock in his mouth. I enjoyed the power part; the actual fellatial part honestly didn’t do a thing for me. I made him lie down on the floor and used his face as a footrest. After 10 minutes, tired of being unable to catch his breath around so gorgeous and intimidating a creature as Mistress Latvia, he beat a hasty retreat back into the real world. Easiest $50 I ever earned.
A very pretty Japanese megasissy, the sort who dresses in a seven-year-old Victorian girl’s frilly petticoats and so on, told Mistress Latvia about her fantasy of being a terrified little girl kidnapped by the Yakuza and sold into sexual servitude. Come on up! I said, with genuine enthusiasm; she really was very pretty. We’d agreed earlier there would be no anal penetration; I find the idea repulsive, though I don’t condemn those who think it the most glorious fun two men can have together. Hers was the second male mouth I’ve ever been in, but again only semi-tumescently; I was preoccupied with the breakdown of negotiations with my first West Coast girlfriend. The best part of her visit was having remote control of the vibrator she’d shoved up herself.
The third male face into which I (very) briefly plunged belonged to an autistic-seeming local software mogul built like an offensive lineman, with calves as big around as a basketball. He wanted to be addressed as Cyndi, to be made to put on knee-hi lace stockings and a lace camisole he stretched into unrecognizability, and then to pretend to be a dancer in a topless/bottomless bar. I added a couple of wrinkles of my own, first writing I’m a Dirty Little Slut on his chest with lipstick, and then telling him how I was going to make Cyndi walk the streets for me, conferring blowjobs for money. I made him get down on his knees and close his eyes and then flung spoonfuls of sour cream at him, ordering him to imagine a group of men ejaculating all over him. His shyness or Asperger Syndrome precluded his being very demonstrative otherwise, but his rigidity suggested he very much enjoyed that. Finally, I had him lie down on the floor and get himself off while licking the thigh-high boots I’d made him buy me.
I’d mildly enjoyed making Joe Sixpack and the software mogul tremble, but hadn’t found interacting with them exciting enough to compromise my privacy further by allowing others to come to my home. I prepared this boilerplate response to aspirants to Mistress Latvia’s attention.
Know that I am an exploitive bitch with very little mercy and no patience whatever. She does not interact sexually with her worshippers; what a very distasteful idea!
It was remarkable how few prospects were put off. I came to have a shoe and boot collection nearly to rival my wife’s. I got the hot pink feather-trimmed gown I’d long longed for, and a red one, and a white one, and began making videos, in which I would pout and pose and otherwise cavort in stereotypically effeminate ways. I blew feathers at the camera. I threw stockings at it, girlishly. It greatly amused me to use as soundtracks snippets of the most stereotypically girlie early-60s hits of such bouffant songstresses as Lesley Gore, the Chiffons, and the Connies, Stevens and Francis. Marilyn Monroe’s anthem of pre-feminist submissiveness, “Kiss Me Tiger,” was perfect. I was indeed sending out a crazily mixed message; deal with it!
They loved it. They loved it in Chicago, and they loved it in Australia and Pakistan and Amsterdam. A bank manager loved it, and a physics professor, a firefighter, multiple college students, an athlete whose identity I wasn’t supposed to be able to divine, but did divine, and you’ve heard of him, a high school vice principal, a cab driver, an insurance claims adjuster, a public relations executive who could actually punctuate, but who abruptly lost interest when I said I wouldn’t defecate on him, and a call center supervisor. Mistress Latvia seemed to be especially popular with carpenters and others who worked with wood, like installers of parquet floors. My sublet overflowed with stockings and lace gloves and satin opera-length ones, and wigs, and shoes, and boots, and shoes, and shoes, and shoes.
If only I’d had a gal who enjoyed seeing me in them. But only one gg (that is, genetic girl), and an attractive one at that, responded to any of my postings, and she turned out to be a head case, an alcoholic who wouldn’t stop telling me, even after I expressly forbade it, about her ill-fated romance with a transsexual real estate tycoon in a Midwestern metropolis discretion precludes my identifying.
My worshippers fell into two camps. There were the butch ones, Joe Sixpacks in the main, the sort of guy next to whom you found yourself sitting at the ball game, bowlers and tailgate party types who thrilled to the idea of a sexy woman having a cock they would be made to suck. And there were the sissies, who aspired to grace and allure comparable to Mistress Latvia’s own, and who wanted Goddess to tell them how cute and feminine they were, and how she was going to make them fellate coarse strangers until their jaws ached. Most in both camps adored being spoken to as my mother had spoken to my dad, except even more harshly.
One had an unusual fetish that suited Goddess just fine — he longed to be bankrupted by a cruel, gorgeous TV dominatrix. He worked in a warehouse or something, and didn’t earn much, but insisted that Goddess demand every extra cent. When I played along, he whimpered — as much as one can be said to whimper in Yahoo! Messenger — that he wouldn’t be able even to feed himself, or to put gas in his car. He seemed to adore my telling him in response that he would have to learn somehow to derive sustenance from the thought of Goddess rubbing caviar bought with his hard-earned money into the faces of other slaves while he starved, and that if Goddess ever saw him waiting forlornly in the rain for a bus, she would direct her chauffeur to pull over so she could roll down her window and spit on him.
It began taking over my life, but not unpleasantly. I discovered that I got considerably more pleasure sitting in my home hurling thunderbolts of sarcasm and disdain at delighted submissive men all over the world, being told over and over that I was incomparably attractive and sexy, then trying to figure out if the marginally attractive women within 15 years of own advancing age at the local singles hotspot might respond favorably if I tried to lower the boom on them.
And I enjoyed wearing stockings no less than as a 16-year-old.

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I Was a Teenaged Heterosexual Dominatrix!