The Young Dominatrix in an Open Relationship

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Once a week, Daily Intel looks behind doors left slightly ajar. This week: The Young Dominatrix in an Open Relationship: female, 22, Lower East Side, “straight-ish.”

DAY ONE
10:15 a.m.: Last full day in St. Barthelemy with a man we’ll call U.K. He is the heir to a fashion company. He’s also a drinking, gambling, whoring man. He proposed to his third fiancée at a dog race. He has a baby mama, a Chelsea football tattoo, and repeatedly refers to Asian people as “Orientals.” I like him. He’s the first person I’ve met who’s as awful as me.
10:30 a.m.: I blow him while we’re on the terrace of our villa, in full view of the yachtsmen and beachcombers. I guess British girls don’t swallow.
2:30 p.m.: Sunbathing topless. I notice a man staring at my tits. He thinks his sunglasses obscure his gaze, but his wife notices, and promptly removes her own top, allowing her pendulous breasts to fall from the bikini's cups. I smile inwardly.
10:10 p.m.: Dinner with U.K. He says, “You’ll never meet anyone who treats you as well as I do,” not unkindly. It scares the shit out of me, because he might be right.

DAY TWO
4:45 p.m.: Alone on a JetBlue flight full of drunken, horny Jimmy Buffett fans. On line for the lavatory, the man last seen staring at my tits on the beach stands up and begins massaging my back. I’m too high on Valium to say something vicious
8:12 p.m.: “Hey, baby!” N.Y., my live-in boyfriend, beams as soon as I emerge from customs at JFK. “Hello, dahling!” I say, catching myself slipping into the faux-English accent I develop after too long with U.K. N.Y.’s an academic who composes music for porn. Our relationship has been explicitly open from the beginning, and though I continually encourage him to see other girls, he never seems to have the inclination.

DAY THREE
7:10 a.m.: Wake N.Y. by going down on him. He sings: “The best part of wakin’ up, is your dick in some ho’s mouth!” Touching.
9:32 a.m.: My friend’s wife and I have been planning on having hot lezzie sex for months now, but our timing is always off because she’s busy with a real job, and I’m a fair-weather dyke. I send a text to see if she’s interested in hooking up this week. Alas, she’s out of town until next Wednesday.
1:45 p.m.: Solo lunch. The sexy hipster boys never even look at me. I was designed for a different demographic: the mid-to-late thirties man who used to be painfully dorky and could only dream of that quietly pretty, smart, dry-humored girl in class. I am salve to their old wounds.
6:20 p.m.: Appointment with regular client, B, at the Mandarin Oriental.
6:30 p.m.: B, the CEO of a bank, likes for me to kick him repeatedly in the testicles. I threaten him with my two pink dildos, Fat Man and Little Boy. Sometimes I’m disturbed by the ease with which I perform acts of such egregious violence. He calls what we do “making love.” $800.
9:27 p.m.: Sex with N.Y., in the shower. Would have been better if our plumbing wasn’t shit and the pipes didn’t shoot sporadic geysers of freezing water against our genitals.
9:32 p.m.: I warm him up by peeing on his chest.

DAY FOUR
9:04 a.m.: N.Y. kisses me before leaving. I pretend to sleep as he strokes my hair.
10:17 a.m.: E-mail from UK, who is already planning our next tropical mini-break. Mexico? Mustique? Brazil? God, my life is fabulous.
9:42 p.m.: At Schiller’s with a female friend, Z. Wearing a sweater that works voodoo magic on my jubblies. Witness multiple instances of jealous-boy-shank-eyeing as various guys compete for our attention.
10:45 p.m.: Z has joined me on a few sessions. She never participates, but provides a fully clothed audience for certain clients who desire that extra soupçon of humiliation. But she could never do it. She lacks my ability to compartmentalize emotions.
10:51 p.m.: Randomly meet and start chatting with Finance Guy, who says, apropros of nothing, “Yeah, I dated this girl and she was actually an escort. Guys would pay her to go out to dinner and events with them, but there was never any sex.” “I hate to break it to you,” I said, “but you dated a prozzie.”
10:55 p.m.: Explain to FG that I was in a wonderful, and then horrible, ménage à trois relationship a few years ago. The other girl funded our trips to Atlantic City by working as a $1,000-an-hour call girl. By that logic, I, too, have slept with a prostitute.
11:03 p.m.: FG asks for my info. I give him my working name and e-mail address.

DAY FIVE
10:27 a.m.: I come across an article online about open relationships. The comments are filled with wives and girlfriends up in arms about how their men are THEIRS and THEIR OWN and how any non-monogamous woman has been TRICKED or lacks SELF-RESPECT. While I certainly think open relationships aren’t right for everyone, I can’t help but also think that the aforementioned commenters are a bunch of miserable, dried-up, anorgasmic cows.
Noon: My boss calls. She has booked me with a new client who wants me to be a little submissive. I’ve worked with her for over two years, and have learned she’s the Grand Empress of Understatement. Normally I don’t do sub, but tuition payments and rent are due. I make a note to only pack the whips and toys I’d be willing to have used on me.
7 p.m.: The session ends up being no big deal. The client slaps me until my eyes water. After he finishes himself off, we watch Access Hollywood. And he invites me to the most terrifying place in any working girl’s world: his PRIVATE ISLAND, a.k.a. Dead Hooker Cove. $500.
8:45 p.m.: Pay N.Y. half the rent. He doesn’t need the money, but I like to assert my independence. I’m more capitalist than feminist.
9:51 p.m.: There’s a party at the new shop opening downstairs from my apartment. I decide to eat a cheeseburger and masturbate instead.

DAY SIX
9:44 a.m.: Wake up horny. Immediately open my laptop and begin a porn hunt. Amateur Aussie lesbians finger-banging on a futon? That’ll do me nicely.
5 p.m.: I tell N.Y. I’ll be going out with Finance Guy for drinks. “I’m not surprised,” he says, a bit too snappy for my taste. “Is that okay?” I ask. He shrugs. Communication: truly the cornerstone of any healthy relationship.
9:10 p.m.: Drinks with Finance Guy at the Bowery Hotel, followed by dinner at Double Crown. Obviously.
11:10 p.m.: FG orders a $400 bottle of Champagne. He reasons that if it costs that much, it must be really, really good.
11:31 p.m.: I describe my lingerie to him: “Insouciant little Kiki de Montparnasse knickers with French lace.” This is a lie. Right now I’m sporting cotton Hanes and a 75 percent saturated Kotex.
1:09 a.m.: We make out in the back of a taxi. FG is a surprisingly good kisser, and I’m thoroughly enjoying myself until he pulls away, brushes a lock of hair from my eyes, and whispers, “You taste like sea bass.“
1:20 a.m.: I return home, stumbling drunk. “Let's fuck!” I say to N.Y. I tear off his trousers and lick all his favorite spots, yet he remains flaccid. Aside from severe cases of whiskey dick, this has never happened. He apologizes, but I take it personally.

DAY SEVEN
6:59 a.m.: Dream about getting screwed by Jeff Garlin. What a giant, gaping window into my psyche.
9:55 a.m.: Mother calls. I mention U.K. will be flying me back to London in two weeks. It’ll be my third visit since June. “Are you just going to abandon New York completely?” she asks.
11:48 a.m.: The homeless men in wheelchairs loitering on Rivington and Eldridge are my biggest fans.
Noon: My father is in town on business. Though we don’t discuss details, it is acknowledged that we both work in fields of varying degrees of legality. He asks how work is going, and how both of my boyfriends are. I can’t help but be chuffed when he says he’s proud of me.
9:02 p.m.: N.Y. takes me out for sushi. At home, I blow him while South Park is paused on the DVR.
3:36 a.m.: N.Y. is asleep beside me. He will be flying out in a few hours to attend a family event. I feel very safe and content with him, and consider waking him up to say something nice, but decide against it.
3:37 a.m.: I fear if I ever actually utter the phrase “I love you,” my throat will swell up and asphyxiate me like a bad allergic reaction to tree nuts.

TOTALS: Two acts of masturbation; one drunken make-out session; three acts of fellatio; one act of intercourse; two hour-long work sessions, one of extreme domination and one of light submission, totaling $1,300; one sex dream involving the husky sidekick from Curb Your Enthusiasm.