You all know the scene. (Literally.)

You and your significant other have just finished off a particularly heavy round for whatever it is in your chosen lifestyle, you’re both enjoying a bit of the usual aftercare afterglow, transitioning out of your respective head-spaces …

… and silently thinking: ‘Oh, fuck.’

Ah, now you get me. At first, you’re reflecting, ‘That’s a pretty typical scene, yeah,’ until it hits you. Oh. We’re talking about that kind of scene. The one where it got a little too intense, and you stumbled upon a little much truth, and now you’re quietly hoping your partner’s forgotten all about it — even though you haven’t.

Maybe, you said something that wasn’t true, and you’re regretting it. Or, perhaps, you said something that was true, and you really wish you hadn’t. Either way, the bag is definitely void of cats, and you’re driving yourself mad over whether or not you’re the only one aware of this fact.

First of all — relax. We’ve all reached a particular point, or been provoked to a certain level, where we went for defensive shock value, or, perhaps a bit worse, the equally unnerving truth. Since D/s is all about pushing envelopes, some are bound to be shoved around sometime. (Otherwise, you may not be doing it right.) Just be mindful that you and your lover are both in an extremely vulnerable spot during a particularly heavy scene — regardless of who’s topping and who’s bottoming. Some subs can be surprisingly provocative, leading their dom/me to play the truth game a little too seriously. In short, when — and if — the inevitable something slips, there’s a plan of action that should be undertaken to ensure that things don’t turn messy quickly.

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Take two people: one, a young whip-wielding dominatrix clad in glistening black latex, so tight that it appears her second-skin; lips the colour of blood and eyes so thickly lined in black kohl so that you can’t help but notice them from miles away. She snarls, snapping the whip inches before you, her voice risen to gravelly tones, sharp, and booming. It commands your attention.

The other, a modest gentleman, mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, average height, to just a bit short, decent shape, but far from muscle-bound. He wears a simple suit, appearing like just another cog in the American corporate machine. His voice is steady, but not particularly noteworthy. He stands before you, asking you a simple question, or making an equally simple statement.

Now.

Of the two of them, who has the power? You may say this is an unfair comparison, and most unscientific — one is a man, the other a woman. Apples and oranges. Still, the whip-wielding dominatrix is more quickly linked to ‘power’ in most people’s minds than the older, average-appearing gentleman.

Is that what you think, too? If so, you’d be wrong.

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First off, a word about ‘alpha females‘; before diving into a subject, you need to know the vernacular.

I see this one a lot: on various websites of professional dommes — as well as Animal Planet. It seems like a strong means of advertising. It’s when they claim that it’s actuality — a component of their everyday existence — that I find myself … less than accepting.

So, I ask myself: how many of these ‘alpha females’ are actually dominant women? Plenty — and I mean, plenty — of pro-dommes are submissive in their personal life. (Why? Because there’s money in femdom for those enterprising beautiful people who are savvy enough to play a role 24/7 and not lose themselves.) Knowing this simple fact, however, I find myself always just a bit suspicious of those websites which tout such a thing to be the way it actually is.

One reason I love to get to know pro-dommes; I get to see beneath the veneer, and meet the actual woman. Sometimes, it’s a match. But most of the time — they’re just regular gals with an atypical job. They laugh, cry, fret over whether a guy they’re into will ever call them back, wonder and worry if they said something stupid to a girl-friend, bitch about their periods, and spend hours on the phone.

Because we’re women. Not automatons. Not weapons of feminine destruction. (For the most part.) And if you are, well, you didn’t get there through being a pro-domme. That’s just smoke-and-mirrors. That is the wizardress, my friends. Go take a peek behind the curtain and then let me know what you find.

I’m not saying alpha females aren’t in existence — there are a number of them; some of which I know personally. There are plenty of queenly women, too — who believe the world should bow down to them; that they shouldn’t have to work, to earn her achievements. That everything should be offered on a silver platter. Yeah. I know a few of those, too. (Though, I tend not to associate with them).

And, yeah, they tend to be beautiful. They tend to be from lots of money, have men falling at their feet, being given everything without asking for it, and taught to believe this is really the way it’s supposed to be. I know, because that’s how my mother was brought up — by my narcissistic beauty-queen grandmother who had celebrity boyfriends through most of her youth.

That’s why I laugh at a lot of pro-domme sites, and, often-times until I get to know them, the pro-domme they represent. Really? Do they really believe that shit? It’s like having an actor arrive for an audition fully-in and not at all breaking character — for even a second. You get lost after awhile — wondering if this is just them — their actual persona, or if they’re putting it on for the purpose of the audition. And the very good ones can fool you quite well.

Most pro-dommes are that: actresses. They know it, I know it. What gets me is that the men who so desperately want to believe — with a conviction more passionate than that of Fox Mulder — somehow can’t. But, hey, we believe what we want to. And in their case — they want to believe that these bitches really are the fucking rulers of the known universe … in their own minds, at least.

Sigh.

Ah, but all is not lost.

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… Okay, so maybe not. But it would’ve been a lot more interesting that way. Not to mention more topical in an age where boys could finally wear eye-liner and not be considered ‘weird’.

But rather than randomly throw lyrics to Thompson Twin hits at you, I’m here to continue my fledgling little SotW series, (that’s ‘Spin of the Wheel’, for the currently uninitiated; here’s a dime — buy a clue) ‘Dimestore Dominatrix’. Those of you that get it — bravo. But for the rest that don’t, here’s a brief history of, well, me.

Since I can legally market myself as a therapist but not a psychologist (even though that‘s where all of my bloody formal education and training has been) I feel I have some right in getting angry with those who are uninformed spouting advice; better known as the ‘dime-store psychologist’. (Look it up. It’s a fuckbuddy of the ‘armchair warrior — but where they do the deed, I have no idea. Some metaphors die half-way in, others live to see the final punctuation. Jury’s still out on that one.) Now that I have you in the right mood, dime-store psychs aren’t all bad. Hardly. Most of them happen to be in professions where they’re basically practising their trade and counseling people — the last part being for free. (You ever stop to think about all the shit you tell your stylist? Your manicurist? Your … Blackjack dealer? Buy those bitches a machiatto, please.) And, being that most of what being a therapist is about is just learning and listening to people, it’s not that big of a shocker that some who are actually formally educated in something besides clinical psychology have some pretty sage advice for you.

And then … there’s the rest.

The know-it-alls that think fucking watching Oprah makes them an expert on the human condition. (Though one would be surprised what they learn from listening to years of Howard Stern. Strange, perhaps — but valid.) If they confined it to lesser-travelled corners of the Internet, I’d be fine, but most of these people have huge audiences. And they don’t know the first thing about what it is they’re masquerading. You can fake just about anything these days, but take heed: those who are experts and professionals in the field in which you’re pretending will know.

And you will annoy the fucking shit out of them.

That being said — dime-store shrinkism. (‘Shrinkology’ sounds fun, but since an ‘-ology’ is the study of, we’re not studying shrinks, so an ‘-ism’ works best.) In homage to my hatred of fakers spewing bad advice, I have ironically labeled my own series ‘Dimestore Dominatrix’ — which will feature bits and pieces of random advice and experiences from a formally educated and trained therapist in the field of clinical psychology, but who has chosen not to be a clinician, and doesn’t like the boxed-in feeling of certification and licensing. A lot of it is common fucking sense, but backed up with hard evidence from various disciplines in which I have experience.

It’s also free, assholes. You’re welcome. Oh, but if you do seek to thank me for my valuable service — that ‘Donate’ button ain’t gonna hit itself. Just sayin’.

That being said … on with the first of many!

‘Fuck Me / Fuck You‘:

Fuck. Whatta word. Ain’t it just astounding how we use identical vernacular with such broad, contradictory expression? One thing remains the same about it, though: it’s always passionate. Whether it’s, ‘Fuck you, asshole!’ or, ‘Oh, fuck me, baby,’ it’s got intensity. There are other words for conveying a sense of mild frustration, ennui, or partial conviction. Oh, no — when we f-bomb, we’re fucking serious about that shit. (See?)

It’s no wonder then, why we somehow think it’s okay to fight and then fuck.

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