I finally figured out my type when it comes to men. After several years of having no clue what the hell I was doing, I got it. As it turns out, I like a guy who is eager to please me, let’s me boss him around, compliments me frequently, and wants me to sit on his face for a long period of time while expecting nothing in return.
Turns out I have a fetish.
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I never felt like I did, but when something that attracts you requires you to join a “community” of “like-minded individuals,” that’s a big giveaway that you’re in kink territory. I can’t have a meet-cute with a potential lover at the local coffee shop. I mean, maybe I can, but it’s kind of hard to bring up female domination with a guy you’ve just met – especially if he won’t shut up about the third draft of his groundbreaking screenplay.
Female domination, in its simplest definition, is a female-led relationship. I had no idea this is what I wanted until I met someone on Tinder who wanted to be my sex slave. Feel free to use this as a success story in your advertising, Tinder execs.
Before meeting Winston (not his real name), I assumed what most people assume about domination and submission. The female dom, or dominatrix, always wears leather and impossible-to-walk-in high-heels. She carries a whip, then beats and humiliates men into obeying her. This is definitely not wrong. In fact, last year I took a financial domination workshop that did more to reaffirm these beliefs than disprove them. It wasn’t until Winston, however, that I eventually learned there is more to female domination than strictly spanking and ball gags.
Winston (starting to regret calling him this) and I dated for a few weeks before any dom/sub talk happened. I definitely knew something was up, though. I would occasionally ask him to drive me somewhere, and he would do it without complaining. He’d cook meals for me, and massage my feet without my asking. These are things I should have realised were out of the ordinary.
Before Winston, dating was hard work. I struggled to get any sort of genuine affection from my supposed boyfriends, who often disregarded me and never made our relationship a priority. Men never sought after me the way I sought after them, and it made me feel like your standard pile of grade-A shit. When the occasional guy did show normal signs of affection, I took it as him being creepy. Wait, you want to hold my hand? In public? What is wrong with you? Are you a serial killer?
It got to a point where I felt that dating might not be for me. I was done seeking men out, and was devoted to working on myself. Outside of relationships, I was a different person – a lot more confident, and more sure of her self-worth. For a long time I convinced myself that if I got into a relationship, I would lose this person.
In fact, Winston happened on accident. I thought it’d be a good idea for me to stay in the practice of going on dates, which was the main reason I even kept my Tinder account. It was surprising to me that we started dating, and more surprising that I was not taking his adoration as a sign of freakishness.
One night, after drinking an entire bottle of wine together, our conversation somehow tilted toward BDSM. Winston jumped on the opportunity to tell me that he wanted to be dominated. Being drunk gave me the self-confidence required to give this a whirl. We went directly to my bed, and I began berating him. I don’t remember most of what I said, but the gist of it was: “You have a small penis and you’re a garbage person.” Because I have such a wondrous way with words, Winston immediately got a fat boner. I wasn’t sure what else to do, so I figured i’d spank him for “being bad.” It felt uncomfortable for me to say this, because we both knew full well he had done nothing to deserve punishment. If he asked me why he was being punished, I don’t know what I would have said. Uh, for telling me you think Frasier is boring?
I searched around my room for some sort of tool for spanking. My extensive search eventually led me to a sandal. The ” a-ha” moment I had that instant made me feel like some sort of cavewoman discovering that a simple rock makes it easier to crack open a hard-shelled nut. In a certain way, I too was “cracking open a nut.” Nope. Nevermind. I take that back.
The spanking began, and Winston was overjoyed. His fantasy was finally being fulfilled. I, on the other hand, was feeling just OK about it. I didn’t particularly like the forced and extremely corny “you’ve been a bad boy” sort of language. I didn’t even enjoy the physical violence, which really took me by surprise. Truthfully, what did turn me on was that he was turned on. I’ve come to realise that I really enjoy being the person some men have asked to explore their fetishes with. It makes me feel like some sort of fetish whisperer.
Winston and I kept our relationship up for a few months. He bought toys for me to use on him, such as a ball gag, handcuffs, and cock rings. As much as I disdained for this part of our dom/sub dynamic, I told myself it was necessary. I was getting off on making demands, being served, and owning his cock (also known as “cock ownership”). When we were apart, we established that he would have to text me and ask me for permission if he wanted to masturbate. The only time this didn’t turn me on was when he texted me at seven in the morning. Honestly, dude? Could you at least eat some sort of breakfast first?
One night, I got out of bed to use the bathroom, slipped on the ball gag resting on my floor, and fell right on my ass. I’ll admit, this was a hilarious pratfall. It looked like something out of a Three Stooges porn, which I hope to God doesn’t actually exist. However, it was also my breaking point. I spent the next day thinking hard about what I was doing. Am I really being the dom if I’m bending to his will? I wasn’t sure if I was genuinely enjoying this, or if I was yet again putting my significant other’s feelings over my own. I broke up with Winston a few days later.
At this point, I was at a complete loss. If I’m not a dominatrix, what am I? Not knowing whether or not I was into BDSM gave me a legitimate existential crisis. I remember going home one weekend to visit my mom. I watched her yelling at my step-dad for not barbecuing the burgers just right. I thought of my grandmother and how she was with my grandfather. That’s when I thought, Maybe I’m not a dominatrix. Maybe I’m just a Jewish woman finally realising her destiny.
I left it at that for several months. Until a few weeks ago, when I read a message from someone who wanted me to financially dominate him. I had no idea who this person was, but I told him the truth: I wasn’t sure if domination was for me. I explained that I don’t enjoy humiliating subs, and his response was shockingly enthusiastic. He said that he prefers not to be humiliated, and just wants me to have his money and receive gifts from him. Well, in that case…
I briefly gave it a go with financial domination and got a quality juicer, as well as some cute pairs of shoes via Amazon gift cards. I still didn’t know exactly who this guy was. I did know that he didn’t have a lot of money, so I decided to call it quits. As much as he was turned on by giving me stuff, I didn’t want to be responsible for his bankruptcy. This did inspire me to set up a Fetlife account, however. I wrote explicitly in my bio that I wanted to dominate, but not humiliate or engage in physical torture. From there, a slew of messages appeared in my inbox. Several submissive men had responded that they either preferred not to be humiliated, or were fine with doing things on my terms. My terms. Fucking duh.
Now I’ve immersed myself in this world once more, this time with more of an idea of what I’m actually doing, and what I actually want. If it wasn’t for Winston, I would never have delved into domination and submission in the first place. Things didn’t work out between us, but now I know that female domination has nothing to do with following a specific set of rules, and somewhere out there is the perfect sub for me. Both in human form, and in sandwich form.
Follow Alison Stevenson on Twitter.
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