The Domme On 19th Street

Her ad in Screw Magazine had no picture. Magazine is a misnomer. It was a sleezy, misogynistic rag. But Mr. Goldstein ran ads from dommes. After a time there was a whole section entitled Hells Belles. But her ad ran years before that and was just text and a phone number. I called the number and she answered.

I forget what her ad said or why it drew my attention. Who am I kidding? I called all the ads back then. I was a domme ad whore. I forget what she said or what it was about her manner that drove me to make an appointment. And I don't remember how it was I ended up in the Peter McManus Cafe as I was told. I just as often called, made appointments, and no showed.

It was before I quit drinking, in the gorgeous dirty desperation of late 70's New York. After I fortified myself with a shot or two of Bushmills, I called from the venerable Irish bar which still graces the corner of 19th Street and 7th Avenue. She answered. Come over, I'm right down the block.

I sometimes miss the feeling. Like I was the electricity shaking my body. Nothing else mattered except getting to that door and seeing it open, as if by magic.

I remember her well, though I can't recall her name. She was probably in her late twenties like me. Curvy and fit, dressed in classic black retro lingerie and back seamed stockings. Bullet bra, full panel panties, a waist-cinching garter belt,and nylons ending in skyscraper, patent leather stilletos. She had jet black hair cut in a Louise Brooks fetish bob.

She didn't smile, but had an easy, confident manner. She was smart and articulate. She put leather cuffs on me and attached me to the Saint Andrew's cross that was sunk into the wall of the bedroom in her clean, simple walk-up apartment. She matter-of-factly put nipple clamps on my virgin flesh. She rubbed her black pantied hips against my raging demonstration of desire.

She pulled me and slapped me and beat me. She laid me on my back, took her panties off and squatted over me. Over my mouth. She lashed me hard with her rough hewn riding crop as my tongue involutarily rose, its own mindless erection in full bloom.

"Put that back!" she snapped. "But keep your mouth open," her words a hot hiss, as I hurriedly did what I was told.

She pissed in my mouth and told me to swallow. She did it again. And again. And once more. I coughed and sputtered as taste, stomach and mind struggled with the confusion.

"One more time?", she asked sweetly. "For me?"

For weeks afterwards I tasted her in the oddest of moments. And every time I walk by McManus's Cafe, I think of the domme on 19th Street, and wonder what happened to her and marvel at what riches she showed me.

Diana

I used to slink into the deeply sexual seediness of the old, pre-Disneyland, Times Square to ferret out bdsm porn. I mostly sought out the contact magazines. I felt melded to this secret underbelly of hot bdsm sex. There were days I thought of nothing more. Somehow I managed to graduate, get a job and get sober during the late 70's and early 80's; but all I really truly wanted to do when the need hit was to see prodommes. It was an irresistable impulse. Completely and utterly beyond my control. I felt horrible, racking guilt at my complete lack of control. I was a bad, bad, boy for wanting this. And this was the essence of hot. Being bad - being secret - being a double-life agent sneak - made it all the more forbidden and all the more gut wretchingly, achingly, dick-hardenly hot.

A prodomme friend talked about how she got way too many emails where the guy just put his dick on the table and expected - no demanded - in a language that only remotely resembled English, that she deal with it. I used to do that all the time, whether by letter, phone call, or much, much later by email. I liked to think I was charming and facinating, but I was just a major league, presumptuous pain in the ass.

I exhibited, within the bounds of the comparatively reasonable, the worst attributes of clients. I no-showed, I was a vertible cock spammer when I discovered email, I called and wasted time promising a call back and never coming through. I sessioned twice or three times and then disappeared - I'm sure leaving her to wonder if she'd offended me, done something wrong, and what had happened anyway. I gave bad client.

But when the drive was clean, pure, lust and I connected? When there was a chemistry with a beautiful, experienced domme? The scene was was virally sexual, beautiful and deeply fullfilling.

Diana was one of the those dommes.

It was the early to mid 80's. Houses had not hit the Scene. I was an avid reader of all the Matriarch productions. A tall lithe Russian domme named Sasha had caught my eye and I somehow managed to write to her at a P.O. Box and got a contact number. The process of making the appointment was sex itself. There was just something about being asked over the phone when I'd last sought solo relief and was I rubbing one out while we spoke. Made me boil over with such inexorably driven desire that I just could not ever say no, when the need hit.

Years later, a domme friend said it was like "Cat People". You couldn't help turning into the huge, primal black cat.

Diana's studio at the time was on the south side of 23rd Street between Park and Third. Years later I visited Venus's studio which was in the same building, only a floor below. Diana's place was at the top of a seemingly endless, vertical staircase climb. But I thought I was seeing Sasha. When she met me at the door, she looked a little different than her pictures, but she was hot so who cared. It was definitely going to work.

I saw her pretty regularly for about two years. After the third session she confessed that her name was Diana and Sasha was an entirely different person. Diana really introduced me to small stints of chastity as she preferred I come to her with at least three days of no orgasm. She showed me how much more desperate, submissive, and compliant I became without release. She play pierced me. She teased me mercilessly. I found two picture books in the bins of a dimly lit Times Square smut shop dedicated to only her. I made cut-out montages and brought them to her. I was deeply connected. But not in love.

Then one day when I called for a session, she was gone. I was bereft. I tracked down the real Sasha after many failed attempts. She said Diana had left town but promised she'd get my teary, heartfelt, plea to know where she was to her. I never heard from Diana again.

Maybe it was the first time I truly realized the power of the client/prodomme relationship. I couldn't imagine life without her. And yet I've never heard from her or anything about her. Though there are dommes from my past I wonder about -- she has not become one of them.

Such is the nature of so much secrecy.

But there was something about being tied tightly to her simple bondage chair as I'd watch her pull up her tight, little, black ribbed dress high over her hips. She'd watch me. Stare into my eyes. Look down at my involuntary, iron-risen, reaction. She'd sidle over to touch my face, to whisper in my ear some reeking obscentity. She'd sit on my knee. If she released my hand would I show her, she'd ask? Would I show her how much I wanted what I could never have? Would I present her my honey? Did I want this?

Could I beg?

Could I give a her just a tiny little piece of my heart?

What do you think?