Nelson
I’m sitting here in the District Attorney’s office waiting to find out why I’m here and they give me ginger tea. I’m shocked they have it. Usually, you come into any office and they give you chamomile, English breakfast, some kind of bland mild leaf collection that needs all the lemon and honey in the break room. But ginger? Impressive. And given how I did them the last time, I’m thinking this might be like a last meal.
But first they send the investigators in and right away I’m starting all over again with what I do for a living and how. These clowns don’t get it because they didn’t take the time to do the homework beyond the case, if they even looked at it beyond social media. These two, like the others, aren’t as worldly and intuitive as the job requires because they think I’m really spacious in the head. I always find the best way to handle these moments is to let them think that.
“So you saw the entire thing?” the woman says.
“Yes, as I said before,” I say. “I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Not enough to be traumatized, but enough to know what happened. I saw him do it.”
“And why couldn’t you do anything to help out?”
“Because I was instructed not to move or speak for the duration of the event.”
“Because you are a submissive,” the guy says. “This sounds like bullshit. Is this really a thing dude?”
Typical.
I was bored out of my mind, wondering why they were here interviewing me in the DA’s office versus at their station or something, where this kind of basic shit normally gets done. How unoriginal to not believe a truth you don’t understand. Nowhere during the pandemic did this loaf of nothing figure out that he should maybe be curious about the things and follow up with a sensible Google search. And then there is the obvious part; he should be able to infer from his context clues that if I’m a submissive, I’m probably submitting to some lack of agency that would restrict me from acting on my own accord. You know, as part of the gig.
“It’s real, man,” I said. “I am a submissive and my job is to follow the orders to the best of my abilities, which are substantial.”
The stare I gave punked him a little and he backed back.
Sure, it’s hard to wrap a mind around, I know, I know.
But even in submission, there are the rules, boundaries. I don’t do animals or knives for example. Also, anything that sends me to the hospital gets to be covered in full by the client, although I have my own insurance. I make motherfuckers sign agreements to this end, and if they’re not willing to, they’re not serious. This is not something I do for the money only.
Name calling, verbal abuse, spit, pee, cuffs, stockade all of it is included in the price. It’s painful at times but I manage well. When my client allows me to wear pants, I duct tape a little cotton pad on my knees just in case I’m there a long time. But it’s never unbearable. I mean, this all started because I was in a method class, which my acting friends warned me not to do. The teacher assigned us an exercise that involved me following me scene partner’s lead to the nth. It required a level of subservience, of yielding so-to-speak. I never experienced that before. And when it was time for us to switch, I had a harder time being the master. Yes, it was a master/slave setup of course, and even though my black self had a hard time with the verbiage, I enjoyed being the slave far more.
The seeds were there mind you. My biological mother was making an unprotected left turn and didn’t see the woman in the crosswalk until it was too late. Everyone hesitated except the driver of the car coming through the intersection. I’m told the woman in the crosswalk rode in the ambulance, held me and prayed that my mother made it through alive.
She didn’t.
When the good Samaritan realized I didn’t have a bunch of family to take over, she decided the least she could do was raise me.
“Your job is to continue to bring me joy,” she used to tell me. “I’m not going to ever get past this tragedy so you have to help me survive it.”
And I was fine with that. The family was good. I never felt displaced or anything. So I was, you know, joyous, helping everybody in the household in every way I could. When I was a kid, I was always being yelled instructions from my mother, helping take care of my younger siblings and it made me feel like a slave and I don’t think I was crazy about it then. But this acting exercise years later made me feel the shift for the first time, get into a different place with it. I know this is going to sound cliché as fuck but I felt empowered finally. And I liked the zen space of it. I wish I had been able to find some zen in taking care of my siblings too, especially since one of them is on the spectrum.
Anyway, I gave up on the acting because I couldn’t with all the lines and memorization. Too much anxiety. But the submission, that was good therapy for me.
That turned into what I call “small gigs.” One day it was drinking a gallon of water and pissing my clothes all day, since my master wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom. Then it was me moving someone into their apartment while naked, which was something for the residents of [some place] to watch. I had one guy make me file all of his paperwork, which doesn’t seem strange until you add the ball gag and handcuffs.
The gigs got larger, longer. My invoices got larger, longer. I had to start adding things to the menu. Devices, toys, eventually an LLC because now I was making money.
Then it happened. I had a client that I left in the dust. He was newer to the whole game and was doing pretty good at the start. Tall, dark, beefcake of a man who looked way too good for his age. What was he, sixty? Usually if you were around for the Cuban missile crisis, you’re more conservative, but this guy was for the okey doke at first. When I was visiting my folks and pushed back on flying in from Ohio to see him, he was firm.
“What did I say. Get on the motherfucking plane.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Six hours later I was at his house.
“Put your things over there by the bedroom. Don’t say shit.”
I obeyed. It’s good to not have too many thoughts when you’re in this zone.
“Stand there,” he said. “Don’t move until I tell you to.”
He made dinner, ate, had a phone conversation with his friend[JS1] . I think I heard him say that he had a sub standing totally still over in the corner waiting for him to give more instructions. Two hours later, he said, “Now come get on your knees and suck my dick.”
The standing there was meditative. Deep breaths. I walked over to him.
` “Wait. Grab your ass and pull your cheeks open.”
I put a healthy amount of ass meat in each palm and pulled my cheeks open.
“Turn around, let me see you. Turn around slowly.”
I did the promenade. Then he told me to get on my knees.
“Keep those cheeks open. Slob the knob. Pretend like it’s going in your ass right now.”
I started sucking on the dick.
“More slob. I want my dick wet.”
I sucked more, succeeding. This was getting hotter to me.
“Open your mouth wide and let me fuck that throat.”
Not even a whole minute I pulled open my jaw something happened. There in that openness, with my ass open and my mouth open, I felt him surrender. It was like pushing the button on the surge protector to turn it on; I was engulfed by power.
And my mind went blank. The vision of a little black boy[JS2] in a bright blue shirt running, holding hands with his sister showed up clear as day. She was in a solid red [JS3] shirt, and she was a bit younger. They were having a good old time, sliding down the slide in the park being pushed by their mother on the swings. She was having a hard time with all that energy but the kids were happy.
This was transcendental as fuck and I needed more.
But a bitch was careful. Most of these clients, especially the white ones, were way too liberal with their imagination about what they wanted to command me to do. No, I’m not cutting my tongue up with your toenails. And no, I’m not letting you shove an ice sculpture up my ass. I had to remind these clowns that as is the case with athletes, dancers and martial artists, my body is the commodity. If you didn’t understand that, I couldn’t engage, let alone trust you to explore the next level of my superpowers.
This is the reason I went back to my young baby boomer client.
“Put me in a cage,” I asked him.
“I can’t do it. You’re another black man.”
But the good news is that he was a personal trainer and one of his clients was willing. My baby boomer vouched for him, so I felt safe.
The three days I spent in the cage were epic. I had visions. I started seeing more things that were happening in other places and I would find out later on that they happened when I was seeing them. It was weird and crazy and addictive, but that’s a whole other story. The point is that this new client became my consistent gig. He had more torturous things to ask, one of which was to go to a few sex parties. This was a sophisticated client, or at least his asks were sophisticated. In one scenario, I needed to just sit and eventually be fucked by a random dude in a small sex party. The goal of my assignment was to “perform” my joy so much that it was distracting to everyone in the room. I needed to pull focus.
Ironically, because the space we were in had so much emotional energy, I was cathartic anyway. Fuck a performance; my whole breakdown was real. The room came equipped with a corner area to cry in and an elevated stockade, so that I could be on all fours elevated from the floor while I was getting fucked. No necessity for holding myself up because there was a little ledge on each side for my hips, you see. I threw a few stryofoam pads on there for comfort, black ones I keep in my bag at all times. And the whole thing was cathartic. I mean it really was a spiritual event and I can’t quite place why. The new guy who didn’t even know about this room was so overwhelmed he opened his chest and then sent jizz to my face and I’m sure we were six feet apart.
And because I was there working for the same client and later at a series of other events, some of them not so Pornhubbish at all, the assistant A.D. is looking at me thinking I may have potentially witnessed a crime. All while denying my career. Fuck him. Fuck her too.
“I make more money than you,” I told them. The taste of his irritation was chalky but satisfying nevertheless. Regrettably, the lady jumped in before I could inspire full fisticuffs.
“What did you see?”
“Very little,” I told her. “But from my post out of my periphery I could see where Dade pushed them down.”
“Them? We’re talking about one person here.”
“I’m using the victim’s preferred pronouns. Are you familiar with pronouns at all, parts of speech?”
The dude slammed his hands on the table.
I rolled my eyes.
The woman to the rescue again.
“So Dade pushed them down and left the there.”
“Yes.”
“And when did you exit?”
“I didn’t exit until after they came with the stretcher to pick them up.”
“Would you be willing to testify to that end?”
“Yes, but I need a cup of ginger tea to go,” I said. “And I have a few small favors to ask. Nothing your office can’t handle.”
The idiot had left the room already, but the lady was still around. And Lord knows I would have a list of things for her to help with for sure.