Your Heart

Confessions Of The World’s Worst Dominatrix

By February 18, 2016 0

I’ve always been really, really open about sex. Publicly demanding orgasms? Done it. Preaching about birth control and hormones? Yup. Blasting the details of my sex life out to the Internet? Of course!

For me, sex is an awesome, physically pleasurable thing that I love doing. Why shouldn’t I be confident and open about? It’s great and my parents are so, so proud. (lol)

So this Valentine’s Day, when I decided to get my boyfriend what we’ll refer to as “a sexy surprise,” I thought “no problem.”

He and I had plans to go to Montreal for the weekend, and part of our itinerary (really the only part of our itinerary) was to go to “Kama Sutra” — which is apparently (according to my boyfriend and his friends, at least) one of the best and most famous strip clubs in North America. I’m a cool girlfriend, huh?

Not wanting to be outdone by a group of hot Canadian Strippers, I got the idea to put on a little Valentine’s Day strip show of my own.

I spent weeks- and an EMBARRASSING amount of money (like, hundreds of dollars)- planning. I researched which sex toys were best for couples, googled every iteration of “dominatrix techniques” you could possibly imagine, and YouTubed hours worth of clips from “FIFTY SHADES OF GREY” in preparation for the big night. I bought a lacy, black, stripper-looking one piece (complete with cut outs) and a pair of 6-inch platform heels that I will never, ever wear again. I even taught myself a sexy little strip-tease, meant to be performed to “Hands To Myself.” It was going to be AMAZING.

By the time we got to Canada (after 3 extra hours in the car, because I got distracted and forgot to look at the directions — whoops!) I was mentally and physically ready to give him the best Valentine’s Day present he could imagine.

When we got to the strip club, which really was pretty famous, I was unimpressed. The girls weren’t nearly as “perfect” looking as my boyfriend had told me they’d be (which was a relief, even after spending weeks working my ass off my own body into stripper shape) and their dances were fairly subpar (I’ve been to enough strip clubs that I really do know the difference– I told you I’m sexually open and a cool as shit girlfriend).

“I would definitely be a better stripper than them, and look hotter doing it,” I told my boyfriend as we watched a gorgeous Asian woman climb a pole 10 feet from our faces. “Plus, I brought a way better outfit.”

As woman after woman came out on stage, I made argument after argument about all the ways I would kick their asses in a strip-off. I talked myself up for hours, about how I was going to “rock his world,” etc. etc. etc., and by the time we got home he was pretty heated up.

And then… I chickened out and went to sleep instead.

Fast forward to the next night (after a day of getting up at 5am, driving 2 hours, almost skidding out and dying on the road and dog-sledding and skiing in -22 DEGREE weather) and I decided to give it another shot. We were both exhausted, but I had already talked so much game about my stripper act that I had no choice but to go for it.

So after he got in bed — fully with the intention of just passing out — I told him in my sexiest voice to “Wait here; I’m going to get my props.” Lucky him! 

I went into the bathroom to put on my lacy onesie and gather my whips and chains. There was a bit of a hurdle when I tried to put on my slutty 6-inch heels and realized my feet were so swollen from wearing ski boots all day that they wouldn’t fit, but I shoved them in there (they literally started to turn purple, but whatever) and persevered.   There wasn’t much I could do about the fact that I was rocking a mid-February body, both in paleness and doughiness, but I put on some red lipstick and convinced myself I looked just as sexy as the strippers I was talking shit about the night before. I grabbed all $300 worth of my sex toys, trying not to lose my shit in laughter, and in that same weird, whispery stripper voice I called out, “Here I come. I hope you’re ready for me.”

He was not.

I opened the door into the bedroom, standing in a lace body suit and enormous heels with a whip and a pair of handcuffs in one hand and the other up against the doorway like I thought I’d seen strippers do in the movies, and he just kind of… looked at me, confused.

All the lights were on, he was wearing a sweatshirt and there was no semblance of mood music (or mood ANYTHING really) to speak of.

“Wow!” He said. Then, “Can you turn down the lights?”

…. We were not off to a great start.

Nevertheless, I did (and didn’t start crying of embarrassment, like I wanted to), and put on the Spotify “Sex Playlist” I had been curating for months in preparation for this moment.

Somewhere between trying not to laugh at the insanity of the situation and holding back tears, with Selena Gomez playing in the background, I attempted my sexiest stripper dance. It was a disaster. I couldn’t remember any of the moves I had watched and practiced a dozen times, and couldn’t even figure out how to make out to the beat of the song.

I was mortified and could not deal with having to look him in the eyes for the remainder of what was turning out to be a COMPLETE nightmare, so I decided it would be a good time to whip out the blindfold I’d brought. Yes, it meant that he wouldn’t be able to see me in the lingerie I’d so carefully selected, but it also meant I could stop trying to sexy dance.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, I couldn’t figure out how to tie the blindfold in a way that would stay on his face. He was handcuffed (I don’t remember when that happened — probably somewhere between “please make it darker in here” and my weird, off-beat dance moves) so we both just ended up fidgeting around, which didn’t help the already VERY uncomfortable situation at hand.

When we finally had that under control, it seemed like a good time to start using some of the stuff that had come in my “fun sex toys for couples!” kit.

Which, as it turned out, my boyfriend was NOT into. Like, at all.

He pretended he was, which was nice (and he really was so nice about the whole thing! He really is generally the best), but let’s just say there was…. physical evidence that suggested otherwise.

For the next 15 minutes, we fumbled around awkwardly (which was suuuuuuper weird, considering we normally have great sex) until by some grace of GOD it was over.

I went into the bathroom, still somewhere between “holy shit that was hilarious” laughter and “holy shit that was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever experienced” tears, and when I got back to bed he was asleep. This was ABSOLUTELY for the best, because I don’t think either one of us could have bared to look at each other after what had just happened.

The next morning was Valentine’s Day, and we woke up (still on opposite sides of the bed…. not great.) and I still felt… weird. By 2pm, I realized I  had to address what had happened if there was ANY hope of salvaging our last day in -22 Degree Canada. I looked at him through my goggles on the chairlift, apologized earnestly for being the world’s worst dominatrix, (which he assured me, and will continue to assure me long after this piece is published, I was not — let me reiterate, he’s the best.) and the two of us completely lost our shit laughing.

…. I think we’re going to be ok.

I do, however, owe the real strippers an apology. It takes a lot of balls (balls that clearly, I don’t have — even in the privacy of a hotel room alone with my boyfriend) to be confident enough to put yourself out there like that. Dancing naked in front of a room full of people is BRAVE. Seriously – try it, and then tell me you think otherwise.

And also? I blame the exhaustion, cold weather and bad hotel lighting for the horribleness of the situation. I really think I could do better if given another chance.

I brought all my props home with me, just in case.