Despite the warmth, there were goosebumps all over my spine. I guess you could say it was the best domination I had ever had. If I’d been about three feet taller, thirty pounds skinnier, and with roughly the same amount of audacity, I might have even considered modeling for the endorphin rush alone. I was clad only in bright red “fuck me, but not before a drink first” panties and a bra, my breasts lolling obscenely out the front as I lurched my chest out in an exaggerated pin-up girl pose. You know, if pin-up girls had dykey haircuts and a litany of bruises all over their neck.
She smirks at the bruises, and I hold up my coverup. “Let’s keep them,” she says, “They might come in handy.”
She didn’t even touch me, and I felt exposed, in front of the warm light. The Dancer and I may not be sexually compatible, but she knows how to make me feel both comfortable and cold, both in control and violated, which may be why she chose such an extremely apt photo shoot for today—her project is simple. What’s your dream? Control. What’s your dream? Submission. We could go back and forth. Or we could just do both. First, she has me strip naked, clad only in lingerie and a lipstick pout. My hair is tousled and I’m on my hands and knees for an hour, making scared faces, happy faces, aloof faces, sexy faces, in a matter of seconds, adjusting angles, shaking, bending my elbows, fucking the camera with my tongue and gaze—
She puts her thumb close to my lips, quivering to the same frequency as I.
Our eyes lock.
She smears the lipstick and gets back behind the camera, and I am in another world.
The Violent Femmes’ “Why Do Birds Sing?” blasts in the background and now, I am on the other side, ravishing my invisible form, evident in the wrinkles in the tablecloth and the lipstick thumbprints on the table. I place my real hand on my invisible thigh and sneer. I am wearing a fitted suit and red tie, channeling my inner Patrick Bateman and brandishing a rolled-up newspaper. When she renders the photo in the dark later on, it will appear as though I am spanking myself. Two sides. No choice. I do not know which one of myself I am spanking—perhaps the grinning, naughty femme, or the girl in shock? She tells me to sneer and grip the air where my thigh would be, and the photo comes together.
When I get dressed, I am filled with the same brimming euphoria as when I left the Brazilian, the same giddiness as when I kissed the Connection behind the frosted glass front door of my apartment. Stepping into E’s apartment, kissing her on the thighs. I leave with slicked back hair, light-headed and frozen on a memory card in time, torn between getting and taking. She figured me out. And she didn’t even touch me.