Screw Everyone

by Ophira Eisenberg

  “Oh, sorry—I didn’t know. I thought that was fine.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. I love you. It was just a stupid list for a strip.”

  Even though I’d taught him the word sorry, it still felt meaningful to hear it.

  “And for what it’s worth, I never want to update that list,” he said very softly.

  Fuck. I wasn’t moving to LA.

  Slowly, I began to consider the idea that maybe I was wrong, or at least blew things way out of proportion. Maybe I wasn’t blind to who Jonathan was. It was a little ridiculous to assume that he was some sort of psychological mastermind who could hide who he truly was from me for over a year. I stewed, crouched on the corner of the air mattress, trying to let my anger deflate, and finally permitted Jonathan to hug me. Then, much to my surprise, we had sex. Even though it was air mattress sex, it was some of the best sex we’d ever had, top-ten-list kind of sex. Take that, number twenty-two.

  Jonathan read over his own list the next day and really didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but we agreed to drop the conversation. On the flight home it crossed my mind that I should be happy there were fifty-four girls. Imagine if I were one of four. Chilling. It was time to stop wasting energy waiting for the other shoe to drop and have a little faith in what we had. I pulled out my phone and deleted a couple of numbers.

  CHAPTER 19

  VANILLA MISTRESS

  I was experiencing all kinds of unfamiliar sensations, like waking up and thinking, Is it possible that I love this guy more than I did yesterday? It was a gigantic step up from, “Where the hell is my other boot?” Don’t get too excited—my feelings of accelerating adoration for Jonathan would then plateau for a solid week—but still, I didn’t know that I could feel like that at all. When I asked Jonathan about seeing my scar every day, he said, “You know what? I don’t even see it anymore. I just see you.” Still, my neurosis could not be subdued. I was plagued by a brand-new variety of inner turmoil: that I’d never have another wild adventure again. There was no denying that I was where I wanted to be. If only it didn’t feel so itchy and prickly on my skin. I missed throwing myself into the night, open to whatever basement it would take me to. But I’m not an idiot; I knew sabotaging a good thing for the sake of chasing a thrill wasn’t the answer. I needed to jam that into my head—everything comes with a trade-off.

  Now I was headlining at a few clubs, performing in a new storytelling scene, and doing some readings. After one of these shows, where I told the tale of losing my virginity and a bet on the same night, I received an e-mail from an editor at a glossy woman’s magazine aimed at twenty-five- to thirty-five-year-olds, a demographic I was on the cusp of leaving. This editor enjoyed my comedy and thought I’d be a great fit for their audience. She wanted to know if I had an idea for a stunt piece. It was exactly what I was looking for to fill the adventure void. Finally, I could justify some ridiculous, bizarre thing I’d always wanted to do with the perfect excuse: It was a job. I would be like Hunter S. Thompson, a Gonzo journalist, a writer in the field. I would actually use my anthropology degree! My entire life made sense in that one moment.

  Then I reread her e-mail.

  She wasn’t looking for any stunt piece; she wanted a sex stunt piece.

  What does that even mean? After intercourse you stick your landing?

  My chin receded into my head as I digested the premises of past articles she sent as examples: a woman who’d used a make-a-dildo-of-your-boyfriend’s-penis kit, another who’d won an orgasm contest, a third who’d worn a remote-control vibrator in her underwear for a day.

  The dick-molding kit seemed too arts-and-craftsy for my taste; the remote-control vibrator sounded plain annoying—who’d want to endure an entire day shifting around, stifling gasps, and silently screaming, “Slower and slightly to the left, goddammit!”; and the orgasm contest was beyond my scope of understanding. I couldn’t think of anything less titillating than masturbating for the sake of sport in front of a bunch of random people drinking boxed wine out of dirty glasses.

  Then I remembered Mistress Amy.

  When I first moved to New York, the majority of my gigs were free shows at little bars where the people in the crowd didn’t know a comedy show was about to ruin their evening, a process I called “terrorist stand-up.” One night after a seven-minute set at some Irish pub, I was told that a couple was waiting to speak to me. I was immediately filled with delusional hope. They must be casting directors! They recognize my potential and want to polish me into a star. It was more likely they were from Immigration and Naturalization Services, there to drag me back up north.

  But realistically, not even the INS could have found this show.

  I peered outside and saw this odd couple loitering near a wrought-iron banister—odd in the sense that they were both so intensely good-looking. We shook hands awkwardly. I couldn’t stop examining their faces, trying to find a flaw. She was a classic, stunning blonde with a cultivated dark edge, like a delicate flower that slices your nose when you sniff it. Her boyfriend sported a rough-and-tumble biker look, contrasted by a gentleness in his eyes that said, “I love kitties.” They didn’t immediately praise my performance, but did insist on taking me for a drink.

  Without giving it a second thought, I accepted. For one, it was the polite thing to do. For another, I didn’t have enough money to buy myself a drink and really wanted one. I followed them to a nondescript bar, one of those places that changes its name and management so often that people refer to it as “Grand Opening.”

  Within minutes of sipping my Shiraz, I spilled my soul to these strangers. I whined about my struggle to get situated in the city and how the only job I could find was in phone sales. I was so beaten down by people’s rudeness, I’d begun engaging in something I termed “reverse telemarketing.” I’d call someone, and after they said “Hello,” I’d yell, “Not interested! Go fuck yourself,” and hang up. I’d barely started the game and was already losing. The couple nodded and smiled patiently.

  As it turns out, there’s no such thing as a free Shiraz.

  The blonde, Amy, complimented my stage presence. It made her think that maybe I’d consider dabbling in her line of work. They were currently hiring.

  Great, another sales job, I thought. What would it be this time? A fancy jewelry store? A catering outfit? Receptionist at her modeling agency?

  No. She worked at a private club. As a dominatrix.

  Of course she did.

  My face blanched. The whole thing had to be a joke. I wasn’t the type. I was more the girl-next-door’s even nicer friend who’d just moved here from Canada. My entire life had been spent happily agreeing to take care of neighbors’ cats or water their African violets. Sure, occasionally they’d return to new cats and different plants, but they never had to question what I was up to in their basement.

  Still, the offer gave me a bit of perspective. A performance has to be a certain kind of painful if someone offers you an S&M–related job after seeing it. But she was referring to my control of the audience, so that was something. And it wasn’t the first time someone assumed that with my dark hair, bangs, red lipstick, and desire to work in various male-dominated fields, I must be into punishment on some level, and unconventional in the sack. I’d tried, but so far I was still kinkless.

  However, dollar signs challenged me to think differently. The more Mistress Amy talked about her job, the more it sounded safe, relatively easy, and perfectly reasonable, which showed how desperate I was to rationalize it. It involved a lot more psychological punishment and role-playing than anything approximating actual sex. She was always fully clothed, the guys weren’t allowed to touch her, and when I asked her if they ever finish during the session, she casually nodded, but added that you can make them clean it up—they’ll do anything to please you. For all this she made between four and seven thousand dollars a month, depending on the season. Christmas must be nuts. Those numbers certainly impressed me.
She even offered to show me the ropes—and whips and chains and straps—herself.

  Another Shiraz arrived.

  Mistress Amy and her biker boy-toy whispered to each other about my body type and pointed at my torso. Without warning she approached like a doctor and cupped her hands around my chest. She squished my boobs together and glanced at her boyfriend. “They’re small,” she noted, “but with the right corset, I think it could work.”

  Embarrassed and slightly titillated, I thought, This is what a submissive must feel like. There was something undeniably hot about a gorgeous woman and her manly boyfriend suggesting you might be in their club. In “the right corset,” that is.

  Flashdance sequences swirled through my head. Next I’ll be telling a Ralph Fiennes look-alike that he’s a piece of shit, whipping a Wall Street executive in a light-gray suit, and then counting hundred dollar bills.

  Back in my disheveled sublet, I dropped my jacket and keys and eyed myself in the mirror. I tried one dangerous-yet-sultry look but saw a goofy-faced brunette wince back at me. Whatever. I just needed practice. I knew I’d be good at it and even suspected that this might be the beginning of something life altering. The dual life, the secret identity, the power, the costuming, the MONEY. It all appealed to me. How would I explain my fat wallet to my family at Passover? They’d never buy that it came from telling jokes. It would be a good problem to have. Everyone wants to be naturally gifted at something; they just need a mentor to point them in the right direction.

  Since my own rational inner voice had laryngitis, I collect-called my recent ex at the time, Henry. He was still my voice of reason. We were hanging on to each other, operating under the false impression that we could break up, weather the crisis of my move, and immediately segue smoothly into friendship. That was the kind of torture with which I was familiar.

  Appropriately, Henry quickly burst my leather-hooded bubble.

  “Really? You’re going to work in the fetish sex trade? That’s what you moved to New York City to do?” he scolded. “What is wrong with you?”

  He had a point. I didn’t get into stand-up comedy to perform at a fetish club, and it was a little extreme to resort to a job in the sex trade after struggling for only a couple of months. Training as a dominatrix was a deep detour from headlining at the Chuckle Hut. I was so taken by that striking couple. Mistress Amy was good. I almost took her up on her offer just because I wanted to please her.

  I’D LONG LOST her business card, but I could still go out and try it on my own—right? The timing was ideal. It could be my last chance to do something eyebrow-raising in the sex arena. I could tie up some loose ends, end the debate as to whether or not this was my secret calling as a natural control freak with an edgy bob, and gather a few extra tricks for down the road when sex with Jonathan needed to be freshened up. So I wrote the editor that I’d like to train as a dominatrix and then go to an event or party to try out my new skills.

  As soon as I hit Send I second-guessed myself. My pitch was so not a fit for this glossy magazine’s audience. I pictured an office where young manicured girls with fixed noses sat in pastel-colored cubicles, sipping soy chai lattes. They’d want more of a “How I Got Pregnant on a Pilates Reformer” article, or “Why Men Don’t Make Passes at Girls with No Asses.” But to my surprise and chagrin, I received a reply almost instantly from the editor saying she loved—with fifteen exclamation points—the idea and would arrange for a clothing budget.

  I was slightly concerned about Jonathan’s reaction to the feat at hand. The poor guy deserved to have a nice girlfriend, but instead he got me. First he had to deal with the ups and downs that came with dating a performer, and now I was asking his consent to check out the world of sadomasochism. You could say I kept him on his toes.

  When I told him about the stunt piece, his first question was, “How much are they going to pay you?” This was a testament to where we were at in our relationship. If I’d told him about this on date two, he would have wanted to kill any guy I laid my hands on or been curious and aroused as to what his fringe benefits might be. Now it was all about what expensive dinner we could treat ourselves to at the end of the exercise.

  I walked into Trash and Vaudeville on St. Marks Place and bought a black vinyl tank top with gigantic metal safety pins up the front, and a black pencil skirt with zippers up the front and back and latches covering the sides. I already owned fishnets and black patent stilettos. What girl doesn’t? There was a latex dress I had my eye on, but it was vanity, not prudishness, that stopped me from purchasing it. Seeing your body draped in rubber is like seeing your face in HD. Until I’d completed ten weeks with a trainer and undergone a body cleanse, that outfit would dominate me.

  When I got home I modeled the ensemble for Jonathan. He laughed, claiming that somehow I’d purchased the most sophisticated domme get-up out there.

  Next I googled workshops and events, and enrolled in a class called “Intro to Scene Etiquette for Novices.” It sounded very New School. The workshop took place in a room that resembled a rundown dance rehearsal studio. The other attendees looked like the same people I’d meet at a book launch or wine tasting: girls with dyed black hair and black cat-eye glasses, men with full arm tattoos wearing sixty-dollar distressed T-shirts, a couple of bearded guys smelling of Asperger’s, and one frazzled woman struggling with her nylons, who clearly rushed there straight from work.

  It started much like an improv class would: We placed chairs in a circle and went around stating our names and identifying whether we were a dominant, a submissive, or weren’t sure. There was no way I could use my own name, so I went with “Jane” for the harshest contrast. A woman in a powder-blue button-down shirt chose to pass. Sizing her up, I was pretty sure she was also a journalist—a better one, as it never occurred to me to pass.

  After a flogging demonstration, where the instructor hit the back of a chair with a cat o’ nine tail and told us we would be “blown away” by the amount of people who flail inaccurately, we were given an explanation of the rules and safe words, told why service slaves are superior to wives, and asked to restack our chairs and sign the mailing list on our way out. I left with the sense that I didn’t understand what I was getting into and that I should get Jonathan a service slave for his birthday.

  I picked Saturday night to try out my skills, since the article was due on Monday and dungeons are closed on Sundays in observance of god knows what. Back on Google, I whittled down my choices to two events: “Slave to Lust” or “OTK Spanking Party.” “Slave to Lust” sounded like a Prince album, so I was naturally drawn to it. The description was also hard to beat: “twenty-five hundred square feet of intimate play space with the only private roof deck overlooking the New York City skyline.”

  I loved the idea of a fetish party with a view. The mere vision of a leather-hooded man opening his mouth zipper to say, “Look, Mistress! It’s the Chrysler Building!” would be worth every penny. However, it cost sixty dollars for single males, but was free for single females, which meant I’d be the only woman there. Then I noticed the address was in Long Island. No thanks.

  The OTK Spanking Party at Paddles cost thirty-five dollars for men and five dollars for women. It was nice that they were letting the ladies chip in a little. OTK stood for “Over The Knee.” Delightful! The club was described as a “five-thousand-square-foot, state-of-the-art location with twenty years of safe, clean, S&M fun.” Spanking, paddling, hairbrushes, rulers, wooden spoons, straps, and canes were encouraged, but it was noted that patrons should check whips, chains, and gags at the door until 10:00 PM.

  Maybe I should get there at noon.

  What was with the square-footage obsession in the ads? Was there a bondage Olympics that I was unaware of, with the 200-meter breast-clamp stroke and 500-meter dog-leash walk? Actually, that sounded perfectly plausible.

  I decided to check out OTK, which also included a preparty “munch.” It sounded vaguely lesbianesque, but munch is a term used to describe an o
uting where a bunch of S&M and bondage enthusiasts meet at a vanilla place, in this case, a diner. I stuffed the outfit in my bag, along with a bottle of Purell, and pulled out the fliers for my upcoming comedy shows.

  The group wasn’t hard to spot. For one, they were sitting in the very back of the restaurant, beyond the dessert carousel and a dusty Christmas tree. Second, they were too mismatched to be a group of friends. They looked like a basket of single socks. I gave them the name Lindsay—I was done with Jane—and the group warmly welcomed me. I sipped screw-top chardonnay and watched them eat Denver omelets. Half the attendees had recently returned from a spanking convention, appropriately called “Smack,” held at a Hilton Garden Inn in Arizona. Harold, who looked like a sleazy version of Einstein with crazy, frizzy white hair and a faded Planet Hollywood sweatshirt, said that being there for three days was like a dream come true.

  I was a tad distracted, scanning the table for the young hot guys. Where were they? These people seemed nice enough, but I was not into doing anything kinky with them. It’d be like crashing your parents’ friend’s key party.

  A distinguished-looking lawyer-type sat down beside me after pushing in the chair of his Asian girlfriend. He introduced himself as Kenneth and his girlfriend as Tanya. For some reason, I thought these were the people I could joke around with, so I leaned in and said, “Pretty crazy group, right?”

  Instead of responding with a smirk and a nod, Kenneth looked at me in a way that triggered creepy tingles down my spine.

  “Are you a top or a bottom? A domme or a sub?”

  That was when it hit me: S&M is not funny. It’s serious.

  “Um . . . domme?” I’d never felt more sub.

  Ken seemed unfazed by my tentative answer and continued with his interview. “Have you ever topped a woman before?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure—who hasn’t?” What the fuck was coming out of my mouth?

  “Good. Because I could use some help with her later.” Tanya giggled childishly behind an invisible fan of stereotypical servitude.