I’ve been wanting to write about this for the longest time. Now I’ve decided it’s time. I know a lot of men who would argue that prostitutes like what they’re doing. I’ve heard and read about a lot of men and women who seem to think the same goes for pro dommes. And as I happen to have had a friend who used to be both, I really feel I can say something about it.
I used to have a friend. That’s where the story starts. I’m not saying it all ended because she got carried away by the sex industry, but I’m also not even trying to say that it didn’t have anything to do with the eventual break up. I really loved her, so I get to say this. But she was just hurting herself all over again.
Let’s call her Angie.
She was the first person ever with whom I spoke about bondage. It was terribly cowardly masked in a veil of worry and intellectual intrigue, but as one quite intelligent author once said: The subconsious doesn’t work through negation. What he meant, and later explained, was that there’s always a real meaning behind something we bring to the table. It’s never just for laughs, or for the sake of argument. It has roots. Deep in the ground. It won’t go unrecognized.
Angie took a defensive stand on the bondage question. She was deeply hurt when I suggested that people who do bondage are probably more in tune with each others’ emotions than other people who do normal stuff. (I was still in high school, so I didn’t have a lot to say about the normal stuff, either.) We had this on going fight about consensuality, and I guess it was just too obvious for her that I was gonna smash her with the bondage card next. That you can do even seemingly bad things, if you have mutual consent.
You see, Angie had consented on being a prostitute, on selling herself. And she couldn’t handle it. She had hurt herself, and she wished that there had been someone to stop her from thinking that it was just a choice she could make. That there were no feelings involved. She had thought she could just turn herself off, and on again, and everything would be like it used to. It didn’t. It wouldn’t. She never could face her demons. I say this because of what happened a few years later.
I discovered she was working in a den, doing foot worship parties, and playing along as a professional dominatrix. This came as a huge shock for me. I had held her hand when she had no one else. I had listened to her hurt. I had tried to mend her heart. And now she said plainly that she was fucking doing the same thing all over again.
She was very precise, very picturesque. I learned about a lot of things I was in no way prepared or ready to know of. It all felt too much like actual hurting to me. Maybe it was because it was her speaking, telling the stories. Maybe it was just me and my own insecurities, my own secrets still unopened. But still. It made my stomach turn.
While I was not even ready to hear of the things, she was actually doing them. To other people. She had flogged a man to a bloody pulp. A man she didn’t know. A man she didn’t love or even like. For money.
The worst part for me was that she had heard their stories. Their hurt. It was too much. How they had been abused, neglected, just like she had been. And she had no empathy for them. If they’re stupid enough to come to me, then I’m sure as hell gonna take advantage of it. I deserve it. I’m sure she meant the money… But I also felt that she was taking her revenge. She was punishing them for what she had had to suffer. It was so fucked up that I couldn’t handle being with her anymore. I stopped contacting her.
I had already tried to save her once. I just couldn’t understand why she would do it again. And her reaction was, yeah, you know it. It’s not sex. It’s got nothing to do with sex. It’s just a play I play to pay the bills.
But it was a play that I didn’t want any part in. It all seemed so foreign then. So sinister. I didn’t even have a name for it. I couldn’t understand that this was the same as the bondage we’d talked about years and years before. Because there was no love. No communication. No feelings and no trust. It was prostitution, plain as pie.
I don’t even want to go to her personal life more than necessary, but it was, had been, and continued to be, full of abuse. She had no one in the world she could trust. Except for me. And I left her.
I got nothing left to say.