“I want you to come.”
Of all the requests that I get at my Secret Job, this is the one that bothers me the most.
Not the requests for footjobs or traditional sexual services (that is slightly annoying, but I actually can’t blame a guy for trying, as long as he asks in a straightforward and polite manner and doesn’t pout or turn hostile when I gracefully decline). Not the requests for my real name, or where I was born, or what I studied in school. Not the requests for full nudity. Not even the requests for my phone number, or that we go out on a “real date.” I can cope with all of these and even continue to hold the man in high esteem, depending on how he acts when I tell him “no.”
The request (and sometimes it’s not even a request, but an expectation–something taken for granted, even, like an entitlement) that I have an orgasm in session, or even masturbate, is the one that I find truly offensive.
It really bothers me, too. It sticks in my craw. It angers me. I find myself thinking about the request, and the man who made it, long after the session has ended, and I start to fume.
The request almost always comes from male doms, natch. All 8 of the male subs who are reading this can give yourselves an affectionate pat on the head (or a kick in the ass, if that’s more satisfying for you, ha ha). Male subs sometimes have boundaries issues, but this is not one of them. Even if they fantasize about it and wish that I would, they know better than to ask.
(Which isn’t to say that I don’t get turned on sometimes when I’m the domme in a session. That does happen from time to time. A really good sub–usually a masochist–that I have chemistry with is like a good dance ballroom dance partner: he can bring out the best in me and make me look a hell of a lot better than I normally would.)
It’s the male doms who want me to get off.
I understand the fantasy from their point of view–really, I do. To have that power (as they perceive it, anyway) over my body. The desire to see me vulnerable. The control. The validation of their ego and masculinity. Even–if they’re the more sensitive, generous-natured types–the earnest desire to give me pleasure and joy.
I still hate it.
I am here for them. They are paying for a service. Now, it’s a very intimate service…and I give as much, emotionally, to my clients as I think I can safely allow. Because this isn’t an act to me. This really is an expression of my sexuality and personality. I did not end up in this job by accident.
But there are boundaries. There are limitations. These male doms who want to see me come…I want to ask them (and one day, before I retire, I WILL ask one of them): Did it ever occur to you that I am a complex emotional creature who might be unwilling or unable to achieve personal sexual gratification with a total stranger I met 30 minutes ago…?
Of course it didn’t occur to you! You’re a dude!
You are not my boyfriend, dude. I just met you. You hired me for an hour. I take this job seriously and I want to give you the experience you want to have…but that’s what it is: a service. You do not get an all-access VIP backstage pass to my private sexuality. You do not get to give me an orgasm. Frankly, I am very fucking offended that you presume to do so. I can understand the desire to do so, but to actually presume to implement it…?
Some men see sex workers, and their entire concept of boundaries and good manners and perspective goes right out the window. Sometimes, I think it’s because they don’t respect us whatsoever and therefore don’t feel obligated to treat us like “normal” women. More often, I think it’s because these particular men have too much entitlement and an empathy deficit, and they don’t even bother to give a thought to how the woman perceives the situation. I think they think they think something like: I’m turned on and this is a sexy situation for me, so she must be turned on, too!
If you’ve stayed with me this far, gentle reader, you may be wondering: So, how does she handle it…? What does she tell these guys…?
Well, I don’t tell them, but I will tell you: I fake it.
Fake it, fake it, fake it till you make it, fake it to the bank and back.
I almost never fake it in my private life. I come very easily with my boyfriends. On rare occassions, when I was sick or chafed, or when I’d had too much to drink and knew that it just wasn’t going to happen, I’d fake it to make the man more excited and get it over with. Rare, like I said.
With these male dom clients, though…? Fake, fake, fake.
(There are a few exceptions–clients who have cultivated a relationship, and my trust, over the course of many months. Fortinbras is one such man, so is Mr. Wolf. They get more of me.)
It’s sort of funny, their conceit, and the way they eat it up–they really believe it. But at the same time, it’s insulting to even have to fake it. Yes, it’s a job, and yes, I’m being well-compensated, and I believe that the wage for labor is equitable, and that is why I’m doing it.
Yet there is something degrading about the entire charade. It makes me feel very hostile.
And look…I’ve written this huge blog post, and I have no idea how to end it. Oh well. I’m not submitting it for a grade.
“I want you to come.”