Back in December, I relayed the romantic tale of my first sex slave. My feelings on having a submissive partner were unclear: I didn’t like the whipping and spanking, but I did love being worshiped and having my dishes cleaned for me. After my sex slave and I broke up, I wasn’t sure if it was really possible to be a part of this community if I didn’t want to call men “small-dicked shitheads” and beat them up for not following my orders. I tried dating on Fetlife, but after getting too many messages from gentleman begging me to penetrate them with a dildo or be the star of my very own gang bang, I decided to delete my account. I was closing to giving up until a friend of mine suggested I use OkCupid.
I already had an OkCupid profile—one that hadn’t introduced me to any sex slaves—so I created a second one, using a faceless photo of me posing in front of a mirror that someone had just puked on as my profile picture. I wrote explicitly in my bio that I was looking for a sub who was into the same things I was: praise, worship, cock ownership, and servitude. I made it clear that I wasn’t interested in humiliation or physical violence.
To my genuine surprise, my inbox was flooded within hours. I was getting messages from all kinds of guys. Most disregarded the majority of my profile, and thought I was just looking for sex, which they graciously offered to engage in with me. A few needles did manage to pop out of the oversexed haystack, however. Most of them were guys who claimed to have always been curious about this sort of thing, but never before acted on it.
I amassed about ten phone numbers—something I hadn’t done through the site in over a year. Of course, in the world of online dating, ten phone numbers does not equate to ten real-life dates. Once you exchange numbers, a few days of awkward texting follows. A vague plan to hang out next week-ish is made, and then either they bail or you do. I am ashamed to admit that I have canceled dates last minute, because I simply did not feel like showering or was more invested in Netflix (often both, to be honest).
Eventually, I went on two dates. One guy, Jason, told me he had 11 siblings, and I told him his parents were stupid. We never spoke again. Another guy, Zach, was nice, but there was no real spark.
Of course, spark or not, I was still drunk enough to invite him back to my place and sit on his face. You know, for the hell of it. But after a few minutes, he started having a full-on panic attack. I told him to put his head down between his knees, then brought him a cup of water. Once he calmed down, he apologized profusely, then went home. I spent the rest of the night staring at my vagina, wondering what past trauma it could have reminded him of. Getting lost in a cave? Birth? Eating a spoiled roast beef sandwich? After this incident with Zach, I basically did with my second OkCupid profile what I had done with my first: I gave up hope.
Then, when I checked my inbox two weeks later, I got a message from Andrew.
Andrew was a grad student living in northern California, who at the time of our tryst was visiting his hometown of Los Angeles for a few weeks. He sent me a long message, letting me know that he would love to be at my disposal for as long as he was in town. We met that same night.
He looked like almost every guy I’ve ever had sex with: tall, lanky, dorky. Some cardigan bullshit.
I was into it. He bought me a drink, and right away we got into the specifics. We had to set up guidelines for what each of us wanted, as well as what we would and would not do. It was the most peculiar conversation I’ve had within the initial ten minutes of a first date, but I’m starting to think this should be standard first-date rules, kink-minded or not. I basically reiterated all that was in my profile, and he reiterated that he was only in town for a few weeks. He then added that he had a domme up north who owns him. In fact, he had to ask her for approval to meet with me. She was supposedly fine with it because I did not want to physically harm him. That’s “their thing.”
For those three weeks, Andrew came to my place almost every day to do whatever I wanted.
He cooked for me, and after serving me my meals, he would clean everything up. I often had a list of chores for him to do, such as folding my laundry and getting my groceries for me. He’d drive me anywhere I needed to go and usually waited for me in his parked car until it was time to take me home. We tried letting him bathe me the first few days (his request), but he didn’t scrub my scalp hard enough and used far too much soap. So instead, I’d make him massage me and apply lotion to my body post-shower.
He often requested permission to masturbate after doing so. I’d say yes and just go about my business while he jerked off on my bed. Every time, I could feel him watching me, but I never acknowledged him. I simply continued brushing my hair, or picking out an outfit to wear. It turned him on knowing that I couldn’t care less about his pleasure. He would ask my permission to come, and when it was permitted, he’d have to say “thank you” out loud several times until he was completely finished. I’d make him lie still and wait for me to be done with what I was doing before he could wipe his man-junk off of his stomach and chest.
Only once did we have penetrative sex.
Other than that, our system involved me sitting on his face while he jerked himself off. When he slept over, he would sleep on the floor (again, his request). I slept in my bed and would wake up to him cooking me breakfast. When we were apart, he texted me things such as: “Good morning goddess. I woke up thinking of you. Hoping you’ll allow me to serve you today,” and “Very horny right now thinking of you. Thinking about being on all fours and licking your ass.”
I felt a level of comfort with Andrew I had never felt with anyone before.
I never felt self-conscious around him, or scared to say or do something wrong. He had devoted himself to me for those three weeks in a way no man ever has, and I liked it. As much as he was turned on by serving me, I was turned on by being served. Nothing felt forced. It was my first time being in a romantic partnership where I truly felt like I could be myself.
On our first date, Andrew asked me why I was so against violence and humiliation. I answered at the time that it just didn’t feel right, but I didn’t know why. Now I know why: I don’t desire a submissive man in my life who fetishizes serving a woman because he feels it’s “wrong.” Andrew was able to worship and praise me without needing that element, and I see now that what we had was extremely rare. Our dom/sub dynamic played out on a psychological level more so than a physical one. I don’t know if I can repeat what I had with Andrew with another man, but I sure as hell know now that I want to try.
By Alison Stevenson for Vice