The idea of visiting a dominatrix came to me as I was leaving the funeral of a life-long best friend.
Kurt, Brian and I were best buds all through our years in elementary, junior high and high school. We grew up together, went to college, started careers, got promoted and got fired, married, divorced, moved away from and returned to our hometown in the Midwest over a period of twenty-five years.
Brian is a successful artist, who painted, drew and photographed his way to critical acclaim and commercial success. Brian had also married and divorced three ex-wives and had five children to provide for. So he created art as fast as he could to take care of his moral, familial and legal obligations. He drank a lot because he said it saddened and depressed him to have to create art for money alone.
Kurt was a wonk. He was outwardly passionless except about earning money. At that he excelled. Kurt’s father was the valedictorian of his college graduating class and a certified and proven mathematics prodigy. He was also a total career failure, an adulterous womanizer, and a hopeless alcoholic. Kurt’s mother had to save the family’s chestnuts from the fire by dropping out of college and selling real estate because her husband pissed away every job he managed to get with his libertine style behavior.
Growing up that way influenced Kurt to always be conscious of the need to plan ahead and save for a rainy day, because you never know how things are going to be in the future. Or when your father is going to lose his job for making moves on his department chair’s wife or daughter, or crash the family car into a tree and be arrested for DWI.
So Kurt never worked less than two jobs, and was always on the look out for income producing opportunities. His goal was to see that his wife and kids would be taken care of and lack for nothing they needed no matter what. And they never did either as far as I could tell.
Whenever Brian or I asked him to go with us to bust a few clay pigeons on the trap range, or play a few rounds of golf the answer Kurt inevitably gave was “I can’t go right now but I’ll catch up with you guys later”.
“And when is later gonna be man?” Brian or I would ask Kurt. The answer was always the same:
“When I retire, that’s when”, Kurt would always reply. Kurt had decided for himself that he wasn’t going to die at 47, dead broke and have his widow pay for his burial by borrowing from her parents and taking a second mortgage on the house, which was the exact situation his father had left his mother in.
Kurt’s plan was to retire no later than age 55 with locked-in financial security. So he worked and saved and was always on the hustle looking forward to the day when he could relax and have fun with his family and friends without denying his family anything he thought they needed.
Kurt didn’t end up like his father either. When Kurt died at age 50 his wife and family was left well off indeed. On the day he died Kurt came home after a full day of work and had dinner with his family. He complained of a slight headache and so he lay down on the couch for a short nap before he was to head off for his second job, and in his sleep died of a stroke. Sad, but he did meet his goal. He left his wife a paid-for house, a $500,000 insurance policy death benefit, $48,000 in savings for his kid’s college tuition, and two paid-for cars. I know this because his wife told me when she dropped by the house a few weeks after Kurt’s funeral.
She brought along his barely used fishing tackle, new golf clubs, and his new-in-the-box never fired skeet gun. She asked me if I would sell them for her and remit the money. She said she was trying to get on with her life and neither she nor their daughters had any use for them. She sold his SUV and her mini-van and bought herself a new Mustang convertible. The last time I drove by Kurt’s house I noted a “for sale” sign on the lawn. She was moving on all right.
Brian and I were talking all this over one day not long after Kurt’s burial. Kurt would approve of what his widow has done with the wealth he left for her we decided. But I can’t help but think my old buddy would be disappointed by how all his hopes and dreams of the fun he’d have had some day would never come to be. So much for Aesop’s fable about the Grasshopper and the Ant I decided.
I decided Brian was in the same situation as Kurt. He too is burning the candle at both ends to provide for his ex-wives and his children but unlike Kurt he plays and works equally hard. And like Kurt I decided Brian’s situation would kill him off sooner rather than later. Is this hard and relentless pursuit of money and ever more stuff really worth all the pain and suffering that it causes? Life is short and you never know how long a life you’ll get either. So the Grasshopper fiddles whilst the Ant toils away. Then, just as the first falling leaf of autumn drops from the sky, a guy raking his yard squashes them both. This is what I regard as a proper modern ending for Aesop’s fable.
I’ve always had fantasies about being dominated, whipped, spanked and humiliated by a cruel woman. I don’t know why. So do a lot of other people apparently, because the academic psychology types no longer think sadomasochism to be “perverted” in the same way as they did years ago. Now it is thought of as extended foreplay when done properly by consenting adults. Go figure.
Unlike Kurt if I wanna lick the boots of a cruel woman while she whacks my ass cheeks with a crop and tells me what a slug she thinks I am, then I will, right now, today, while I can still savor and enjoy the experience. I won’t put it off until some day in the future, when my work is done and I have time, because as Kurt would say if he were able to, you don’t know if you even have a future.
I will live out as many of my fantasies and achieve as many of my goals as I possibly can without hurting anyone, or otherwise neglecting any of my moral or familial obligations. That I won’t compromise on. But I will not work myself into an early grave so that my heirs can drink Jack Daniel’s and drive around in shiny new convertibles. Nope, it isn’t going to happen that way if I can help it.
These are the thoughts that go through my mind as I find myself bare-assed naked clad only in a ball-gag harness and handcuffed to the sturdy curtain rods next to the large picture window in the upstairs playroom of Madame Monique. The curtains are open too, giving anyone in her neighbor’s backyard a close-up and personal view of my situation. Which amuses Madam M. to no end. There is though no one there to see me trussed up and gagged, while a beautiful raven-haired women struts about the room hurling taunts and verbal abuse in my direction while occasionally flicking at my butt cheeks with her crop. There is no one to see all this in her neighbor’s backyard but you never know if or when someone will come outside for whatever reason and see a woman dominating this very happy indeed middle-aged man.
Madame Monique picks up the telephone on the dresser right next to me and dials. I hear her say, “Mrs. Boscio this is Monique next door. Could you come out to your backyard for a sec? There is something I want you to see”.
I now have a boner that is harder than any I remember ever having before. In a mystical realm somewhere I know Kurt is smiling.