Dominatrixing: Fail

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You Think I’m ‘not really dominant’? You’re right

This is one of those posts where I just whine at you for a thousand words. It doesn’t help or achieve anything. All it does is show you my soft woundable insides. Or, really my soft woundable outsides – seeing as how I don’t wear an outer coating of shiny manmade fibres. Maybe that’s the trouble. I don’t wear the femdom armour. So I get far too battle scarred.

I tried to do that thing. With two chopsticks and two elastic bands over Jack’s tongue. Behind his tongue stud so his tongue was forced out of his mouth. But I was too hand-over-hand clumsy. And he was squawking in pain. It didn’t work. He’s a big man. He has a big tongue. I’d seen so many pretty pictures of this done - but only on women. And when I tried it on myself it worked fine. But failing to do it on him I just felt clumsy, lumpen and slow. No use. With short fat fingers that will never let me be a concert pianist or a brain surgeon.

Or a dominatrix.

I can’t do this. I’m so bad at it. You don’t even know. Anyone can make themselves sound hot and dominant on a blog. Or in fanstasy. God, in my fantasies you should see me, hading out the punishments to the cowering hunks of butch in bruises and chains.

However, in real life, I fucking suck to fuck.

We have this dog bowl from IKEA. Silver shiny with a black rubber base. I tell Jack he’s going to drink everything I put in the bowl. I start by spitting water into the bowl. Then there’s wine. Then salt water. Then vinegar. But I stand in the kitchen tasting the vinegar first. Wondering if it is really possible for him to drink it. It seems too much. Why should he have to do this just because I like to see it?

Who the fuck do I think I am? I can’t find a place where I can express why this should be. Why these events should happen. Why Jack should be kneeling on the floor with his face in the dog bowl waiting for me to fill it with the next vileness.

Why should this event happen? Why am I the conduit for something so unpleasant taking place?

I crumble to dust. And I cut the vinegar with half tap water. I don’t think he even knows that now.

The level of confidence, self-belief and selfishness required to be dominant eludes me. I find it impossible to understand how anyone can elevate their desires (faux-for-money or real) to such importance that they can create these miserable scenes just to service it.,

I think that’s what prodoms are. They are just women with the confidence to do dominance.

I guess there is some overlap between the confident-enough-to-do-it pros and the feeling its. Hence the pros who complain about me. Say, that, hey, I am turned on by it thanks very much so fuck you very much Bitchy ‘bitter’ Jones. I love it! I live my life in a permanent state of labial engorgement 9 to 5. And to them I say, great. Lovely. That’s nice for you. Ever thought about the fact that this might not be about you?

But I know what they want me to say. And I’ll say that too. I’ll say anything. Tell you any truth. No matter how deep it goes. I’ll rip right into the soul of me because what’ the point unless I show you everything

I’m jealous.

Jealous of the pros.

Jealous ’cause you can do it. I can’t. You can do it without your soul withering. I can’t. I’m not enough of an arrogant dick. (Shut up – in real life, I mean).

I can in moments. Here and there. So rare. I bought this belt from Hennes. It was studded with silver metal hearts. It hurts Jack more than anything I’ve done to him. And he’s locked into metal at his ankles and his wrists. I find a space just for a moment where I tell him that there’s nothing he can do. That he really can’t get free. I hardly ever get Jack properly secure. The places where he isn’t able to get free but isn’t actually in too much pain are hard to find with him.

Later I talk about how brutal I was. Revelling. And ask him if it still hurts. He says, of course it does. You beat me with a metal studded belt. He sounds pissed off with me. And it’s like my cunt hears him. Not me. I’m wet and smooshy at his words. But I’m also mortified. I just need him to hold me and tell me it’s okay. I am turned on by his suffering, but also soft and lost.

The only thing that turns me on is something I can barely even fucking do. And there you are - prodoms - doing it like you just don’t care.

I tell Jack I want him to lick washing up liquid up off my tits. He looks at me like I’m insane. I say, okay then, liquid soap?

But I think that was enough reticence on his part for me to feel uncomfortable with what I want.

Am I expressing this right? I don’t know. Basically, seeing as how the stuff I want to do is essentially horrible for everyone involved in it but me – I can’t quite find enough reason for it to exist. Just me. Not enough. I know one answer is the part where the submissive partner actually likes it – but I’ve never understood that enough to believe in it.

And I don’t believe any submissive man would really want submission from me anyway. I’m no breathtaking goddess. I don’t have the stunningness to bring a man to his knees. (Maybe that’s why I like the idea of paying the guy so much.)

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I had ever been pretty. If I could be sitting here writing you sensitive wistful blog posts about the time I was in my early twenties and turned every head. But there never was such a time. Trust me, this happens sometimes. Sometimes women aren’t ever hot. Their whole lives. You might not know this because hot women count. Stories about women are always about hot women. So much so that I think people forget that most women didn’t actually ever have a time in their life where they thought they were super hot and were so confident about how they looked that people stared at them like they could blow smoke rings out of their arseholes.

Would I have become a prodom if I were prettier? More confident about my looks? About myself? Don’t laugh. I do wonder. Are all us lamecore amdoms just women who aren’t pretty enough to get paid for existing if we dressed like the place where slut and clown intersect?

I’m pretty sure that’s waht the pros who complain about me think. They think ugly useless Beej, she’s just jealous of the fact we look good in the clothes she pretend to hate so much.

Perhaps they’re right.

(And everyone knows amdoms are ugly bitches. Just pretending to be dominant so they can get a man who’s totally desperate.)

Because I don’t know. I don’t know that your road isn’t one I would have chosen if I had been able to see the sign.

But a version of me that had that kind of self belief, that kind of securing in her desirability, that kind of confidence… that’s so not me. That’s not a version of me at all. It’s someone else.

Submission is a desire for someone else to take charge. For that confidence. For that safety. I can’t give that. Whatever you might think as you wank off to my words there is no safe place with me. No real dominance. No release into subspace. No knowing you have given control of yourself over to a copilot who is equally competant with the controls.

I hate the surrender. I hate the altered states where he goes away from me. I rip the masks away, take the gag off after moments, can’t bear the silence where I have to listen to my own heart beat.

Don’t leave me here alone with my desires. I am not strong enough to bear it.

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