I was flabbergasted. “You guys were doing it? How many times did you do it?”
“Twice, but once in the butt.”
“You did? I can’t believe you fell for getting the old butt-fuck!” A giggle fell out of my mouth.
“Shut up, Emma. I liked it and I want you to do it to me.”
“Fuck you in the butt? Whatever you want baby, I’m down. I got a two-hour shower rule when there is asshole play involved, just so you know.”
“I’m clean,” she defended.
“I’m just saying,” I clarified.
As the holidays approached, the complexities of my relationships with Doug, Patty, and Zelda overlapped, which drove me deeper into the bottle. My typical “two drinks and a water” tab was a distant memory. My average drink request became two double shots of tequila before I hit the dance floor with a Long Island iced tea in tow.
I was on the edge of alcoholism when I reported to military school the day of my ninth anniversary with Doug.
CHAPTER 12
The National Guard wanted me to become a computer geek, and the school where I would train was in Georgia. Housing was billets designated for those who were retraining. The building was a twenty-minute walk to the barracks for soldiers fresh from basic training. A huge football field with a track around the perimeter separated the two areas of lodging. Faintly, if you listened hard enough, you could hear soldiers repeating a cadence of the drill sergeants from the back door where I used to smoke.
The computer geek material was a little too deep for my technically retarded brain to grasp. Switches and networking is the ultimate bore, but it would pay my bills.
Although my responsibilities and obligations led me to Georgia, my priorities remained focused on the world of sexual discovery. The first thing I did when I found out we were released for weekends was locate the nearest gay bar. Determined to take advantage of freedom from the trio back home, I kept limited communication with them. My weak cell phone signal aided as the reason not to call every day.
Being alone in a new place didn’t bother me. My extroverted personality helped me make quick friends. My first weekend out, I met a lesbian soldier who drove me back to post after the club announced last call. She was nearly six feet tall with a medium build and curly jet-black hair.
My standards for accepting meaningless sex were as follows: You like? I like. Let’s poke. So, that is how we had our sexual fling in an apartment that was not hers. Days later, I waited for her to pick me up for an official date while on a phone call with a fellow student. In anticipation of her arrival, I watched her park and get out of a clunky, rusted mid-size sedan from my fourth-floor window.
“Peter, oh my God, she’s here. What the fuck is she wearing? Holy shit, I’m going on a date with the Matrix! Have you seen that movie? This bitch has a black leather jacket down to her ankles, black leather boots, black sunglasses, and her hair is slicked back into a ponytail with…holy shit, Peter, the back of her hair is gone, like the bottom three inches is shaved off! Well, not completely, it’s like an inch long under the ponytail. What a twat!”
Peter mocked and pieced random quotes together from the movie. “Are you ready for the truth Neo; the green pill or the red one?”
Loud noises cut my laughter off. “I gotta go. I can hear her clod-hopping boots stomping up the stairs.”
When Matrix knocked on my door, I tried to wipe the disappointed look from my face and open it with a genuine smile. She was respectfully greeted as I tried to think of the best way to mention her apparel. “Wow, I didn’t know where we’re going and it seems that I am underdressed.” I pointed to my graphic t-shirt and jeans.
She grabbed me in true butch form to pull me into her leather-covered arms. In an instant, the stink of cheap cologne swamped my senses. “Do not worry. This is the nicest jacket I have because I wanted to take you to a nice restaurant.”
“Oh, do I need to change?” I looked down at my outfit. “I thought this would be casual, and I didn’t bring dressy stuff here to training.”
“It is inside the mall. We can go shopping afterward.”
In my head, the four-year-old version of me threw a temper tantrum. What nice restaurant could possibly be inside a mall, and how could I act my way out of being embarrassed? The prospect of a free meal and possibly more sex made me seem gracious as I grabbed my jacket and bit my lip.
Politely, she escorted me to the car with utmost respect and made sure I was seated comfortably before she gently closed my door. She played music at the opposite ends of the spectrum to be accommodating. Other than the Queen of the Dammed wardrobe, she was doing everything right.
We pulled into the mall with bass so loud it shook the rearview mirror. If that wasn’t enough to grab common-folk interest, her stereotypical vampire attire most certainly pulled them in. To fuel the stares from other patrons, she was overwhelmingly polite. She opened every door, guided me through them, ensured I walked first, and pulled my chair out. She was the perfect respectable gentleman.
The way she carried herself was reminiscent of proper wealthy kinsmen of the 1800s, always one step ahead of her fair lady’s needs. Her control was intimidating with an undeniable sensitivity. In her long leather jacket, she seemed to glide across the mall tiles as if she was, in fact, undead. Her humanity became evident when she removed the jacket to expose a thick rainbow bracelet that tugged at the sleeve. It matched a colorful handcrafted necklace and one gaudy earring.
That is when I noticed her fingers were adorned with oversized gothic metal rings, which shimmered as she handed me an opened menu. She was irrefutably visually interesting to look at and embarrassing to be associated with. I deeply questioned whether a free steak and sex was worth all of the appalled looks.
To her credit, it was a decent restaurant; low lights, a water feature, good music playing overhead. Just as I began to relax and enjoy myself, things took a twisted turn when she suddenly divulged that she moonlit as a dominatrix for two faithful customers. This may or may not be winning first date conversation, but she used big words so the impression I got was that of an intelligent, independent, albeit slightly socially inept woman. Matrix was definitely unique. There were a million questions to ask, but she was very patient. The first one, of course, was about sex. “No, I do not have sex with them. They are into humiliation. I verbally disrespect them, make them lick my boots, and step on their testicles. The usual.”
“I did that to a guy at the strip club! He paid me forty bucks for six minutes. It’s nuts. Ha! Get it?” I laughed, but she smiled graciously.
“Yes, it is crazy. I think you would make a fantastic dominatrix. I can see you doing very well within the subculture.”
“I don’t think I could do it for a living. I mean, I dated this girl once and really laced into her. She said her jaw was tight for two days. But that was because I loved her. I couldn’t do that with anyone I didn’t love, respect, and trust. I mean, I swear to you that she had an emotional orgasm if that makes any sense. She cried a deep, pleasurable, transcending cry, you know? I’ve never heard anything like that before.”
“Perfect sense. That is what I do. Sadomasochism is not solely about physical pain. I knew you were a ‘Dom’ when I met you. You are a strong woman.” Matrix smiled.
I must admit, the conversation boosted my self-confidence and got me thinking about the possibilities of opening many sexual doors. No wonder men paid her to break them down. She somehow allowed them to rebuild themselves in a different kind of way. This is the power of the dominatrix, not the leather. Lesson learned.